“I know it has to be here somewhere,” she said.
“Ma’am, you look nervous,” Matt said. Scared to death actually came closer to it.
“Do I?” she said. “I just can’t—Oh, there it is!” She looked past her wallet into the cavern of the purse itself and pulled out the plastic card. “It must have fallen out.” She dared a flash of eye contact as she handed it over.
Matt looked at it, compared the picture to the face in front of him, and was reassured. It was her, all right. But there was something wrong here. “Give me just a minute, will you?” he said. He stepped away from the truck just far enough that the occupants wouldn’t be able to hear what he was about to say on the radio.
* * *
In the back of the Bronco, Brad seethed. How could he have been so stupid? Jesus, he should have thought of the license. As it was, he was lucky to snatch it away from Nicki in time to dump it in the purse. The kid was one smooth liar, though. Brilliant.
Brad dared a peek over the boy’s seat, out toward the window. What was happening? Why were they still sitting there?
“The cop took her license,” Scotty whispered, making Brad wonder if he’d spoken his thoughts aloud.
Brad touched a finger to his lips.
“It’s not her fault,” Scotty said. “She’s trying, she really is. She’s just not very good at this stuff.”
“Be quiet,” Brad hissed. “And quit looking at me. It doesn’t matter whose fault it is.”
“Brad, you can’t shoot them,” Nicki said.
“You be quiet, too,” he snapped. Brad had no idea what he was he was going to do if things got ugly, but it sure as hell didn’t involve shooting an old woman and a kid. He had to threaten them, though, or else they wouldn’t be frightened into doing what he wanted. And he had to be equally hard on Nicki simply because she didn’t have it in her to be frightening. That left only one effective option: she had to look as frightened as the others. People on edge were pliable. It was a skill he’d learned a long time ago. Intimidation wasn’t about being tough so much as it was about sounding tough.
He liked to call it the Big Bluff. It was how he’d survived on the street. Sure, you had to duke it out a few times to keep it credible, but if you chose your opponents properly, even the fight could be part of the ruse. Pick on the weaker ones and only hit them hard enough to maybe break a nose. He didn’t care what people saw on the movies, a fight always ended once you broke somebody’s nose.
What the hell was taking the cop so long? Brad had been watching the guy. Every other car that approached the roadblock was stopped only for a few seconds—long enough to show their identification—and then they were motioned through. This was trouble for sure.
Brad tried to think of some way that Gramma might have communicated with the cop. Maybe she’d sent him a note, or blinked out an SOS. There were a thousand ways she could have sent a silent signal. After he’d promised to kill the boy, though, if anything went wrong, he didn’t think she’d risk it.
But what else could it be? The cop was taking forever on the radio. The whole damn plan was unraveling right in front of him. There had to be something for him to do. There was always one more option.
Running wasn’t a choice. The act of rushing the driver alone would make the cop draw down, and nobody here needed that kind of madness.
Think, Brad. Think ...
“What’s he doing now?” he whispered to the boy.
“He’s still talking on the radio,” Scotty said. “Oh, no. He’s not anymore. He’s coming back to the window.”
Brad ducked back down, lying faceup on the floor, his weapon ready in his hand.
Killing a cop wasn’t on the agenda, but it looked as if the agenda might be changing. His grip tightened.
* * *
It was a good ruse, Matt thought as he finished his discussion on the radio. He never would have suspected the Bronco, and certainly not the old lady. According to her license, she was June Parker, from one of the off-road neighborhoods in Lincolntown. When he returned to the window, he did so carefully. At least he understood why the woman was acting so crazy.
“You didn’t tell me the truth, did you, ma’am?” Corporal Hayes asked.
There was that terrified look. She seemed to be close to tears.
“I was wondering why you were shaking like that,” the cop went on. “You’ve got two outstanding warrants for speeding on the Interstate, did you know that?”
The news seemed to startle her, and something changed behind her eyes. “Yes, sir, I do.”
“You’ve got over five hundred dollars in outstanding fines. I’m supposed to arrest you and take you in for that kind of money. You’re in very serious trouble.”
“Are you taking me to jail?” she asked.
Matt looked at her and sighed. The answer here should have been a resounding yes. Should have been. “I’ll tell you what. If you promise me right here and now that you’ll bring yourself to the courthouse first thing Monday morning and set this all straight, then I won’t take you in. The weather is miserable, and they don’t arraign on the weekends anyway. With that boy and all, it doesn’t make a lot of sense for you to sit in a cell for forty-eight hours.”
She stared at him, as if she didn’t comprehend.
“You need to say something, ma’am,” Matt prompted.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Yes, of course. Monday morning, first thing.”
Matt leveled his forefinger at her nose. “This is a gift, Ms. Parker. My favor to you in deference to your situation. But don’t think that I won’t be checking up on you. If I hear that you haven’t been by the courthouse by, say, two o’clock on Monday, I’ll come out to your house and cuff you myself. Do we have a deal?”
“Yes, we have a deal,” she said. Again, there was something leaden in her tone.
Matt chalked it up to the fact that her kid had overheard that his grandmother was a criminal. “For what it’s worth,” he said, more for the benefit of the kid than for the driver, “if you can write a check right there at the courthouse, or show proof of some kind of payment plan, they’ll vacate the warrant, and you’ll be able to go on home. I’ll make sure that it’s noted as such in the file. But if you don’t show—”
“I know,” she said. “You’ll cart me off yourself.”
Matt sealed the deal with an abrupt nod. “Done,” he said. “Now, you can be on your way.” He started to turn away, then stopped himself. “Oh, I almost forgot. Keep an eye out for a couple teenage kids, a boy and a girl. They’re wanted for a murder up the road, and we’ve got this checkpoint set up to look for them. If you see any strangers fitting that description, please give us a call.”
“I will,” said the driver. “I’ll be sure to do just that.”
She drove off, and Matt beckoned for the next vehicle in the line.
* * *
“She was just nervous,” Scotty said once they were moving again. “She wasn’t trying to shit on your plan.”
“Scotty!” Gramma hated crude language.
“What? Oh, Jesus.” This language crap was going to kill him.
“Scotty!”
Brad stood as tall as he could in the confines of the truck. “Both of you, be quiet,” he barked. He again climbed over the seat and helped himself to the spot next to the boy. “Scotty, watch your mouth. Gramma—do you mind if I call you Gramma?”
“Fine,” she said.
“Okay, Gramma, I want you just to drive home. You’re going to have some guests for a while.”
“What are you going to do to us?”
“Not a thing if you do exactly what I tell you. You heard what that cop said about me. One murder or three, the penalty’s the same.” He made a deliberate effort not to look at Nicki, who’d stretched out on the floor in the back. “I looked at your driver’s license, so I know where you live. If you don’t drive straight there, I’ll know.”
He settled into his seat and pivoted so he could keep an eye on
both of them.
Chapter Three
When Ben Maestri’s wife opened the front door, Carter wondered whether he should have brought a doctor instead of a cop. She looked to be about seventy years old, and a grayness around her eyes spoke of some imminent health problem. She cracked the door and peered out at her visitors, her hands poised to slam it shut in an instant. She said nothing.
Deputy Sweet did the talking. “Hello,” she said, her tone light. “Is this the Maestri home?”
The woman glared.
Carter gave it a try. “We’re looking for Ben Maestri, owner of the Quik Mart on Shore Road.”
“Who are you?” the woman asked. The question was leveled at Carter.
Carter produced a business card from the pocket of his suit coat. “I’m Carter Janssen. I’m a lawyer from upstate New York, and I was wondering if Mr. Maestri might have a moment to speak with me.”
“Us,” Darla corrected. “Speak with us.”
The woman regarded them both with a look that hovered between contempt and fear. Then she closed the door.
“Well, that was friendly,” Carter said to Darla.
Darla arched her eyebrows. “Do you suppose she’s going to get Ben, or was that our signal to leave?”
Carter took a few steps back to the edge of the porch and craned his neck to catch a peek into a window. Behind them, the rain continued to pour.
They waited a full minute before knocking again. This time, Ben answered. He glared.
Carter decided to go first, extending his hand. “I’m Carter Janssen,” he said. “I’m—”
“I know who you are,” the man said. He displayed Carter’s card, holding it like a cigarette between his first and second fingers. He squinted at Darla. “Deputy. What do you want?”
“Can we come in?” Carter asked.
“No.”
The bluntness of the answer caught Carter off guard. “It’ll only be for a few minutes,” Darla said.
“Just say what you need to say from there.”
Carter scowled. The attitude confused him. A wild thought shot through his brain, and he let it fly. “Are you frightened, Mr. Maestri?”
The question drew a startled glance from Darla, but she didn’t say anything.
“Your clock is ticking, folks. Unless you want to talk to the door, you’d best get on with it.”
“We’re getting soaked,” Carter said.
“And you won’t get any dryer standing there.”
In the car, they’d agreed in deference to his personal stake in this that Carter could take the lead in the questioning. He began, “I know you’ve had a very difficult day, sir. It’s a terrible thing that you went through, and if there were any way for me to—”
“I know everything I need to know about myself, Mr. Janssen. Try talking about you.”
Carter cleared his throat. “Yes, of course. Well, sir, you seem to think that my daughter was involved in that unpleasantness this afternoon.”
“Oh, really?” the man said. “Is that what you call murder up in New York City? Unpleasantness?”
“It’s New York State, sir—”
“I don’t give a goddamn what it is, state, city, or country. Murder is murder. And if your daughter was one of them that killed Chas, then I’m probably gonna feel sorry for you one day. It’d be a shame to have a girl on death row.”
“My daughter didn’t kill that boy,” Carter said. “That’s what I want to talk to you about.”
“I already told them everything I know.” He glared at Darla. “And Deputy, I don’t much appreciate you bringin’ him here. This is not the day for social chats.”
Carter started to speak, but Darla placed a hand on his arm to stop him. “There’s nothing social about this, Ben. You’re upset and I understand that. But I’ve got a murder to investigate, and Mr. Janssen has some pertinent questions to ask.”
Ben shifted his glare to Carter. “Say what’s on your mind.”
“You didn’t see the shooting, is that correct?” Carter asked.
“Never said I did. But I sure as hell saw the kids who did it.” He gingerly touched his bruised eye. “Got the trophy to show for it.”
“But you never saw them shoot,” Carter pressed.
Ben’s eyes narrowed. If he were a younger man, it was a look that would have spelled impending violence. “You are a lawyer, ain’t ya? Always huntin’ for the technicality. Well, let me put it this way for you: if I wake up tomorrow morning and the ground is dry, I’ll assume that it stopped raining even if I never saw it stop.”
“It’s an important distinction, Ben,” Darla added. “Mr. Janssen has a theory that someone else did the shooting, then fled before you stepped out from the back. From what you told me earlier, I don’t see a way to tell him that he’s necessarily wrong.”
“But the sheriff said that that boy was a murderer,” Ben said. His faith in his own assumptions appeared to be weakening.
“He is,” Darla said. “But from another state. Michigan. That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s our man for this.”
“My daughter’s never hurt a soul in her life,” Carter added. “I think that what you saw—I mean what you really saw—were actually two witnesses to the crime whom you caught in the act of trying to help.”
Ben started to close the door again. “I’m calling the sheriff,” he said. “I want to talk to Frank Hines himself on this.”
“He thinks you’re senile.” Carter stopped the closing door with a few inches left in its arc. “You know for a fact that you loaded the security recorders, yet he says that you’re just too old to remember.”
Ben allowed the door to open again, his expression more wary than ever. “What’s y’all’s game, anyway?”
“I have no game, sir. What I have is a crisis. I’m trying to save my daughter from a murder charge, and you’re the only person in the world who can help me.”
“What makes you think I want to?”
“Because the law requires it,” Darla said. “We don’t get many murders around here, Ben. You don’t want to be on the wrong side of this one. At the end of the day, we all want the same thing—justice.” Carter cast her a grateful glance, but she didn’t acknowledge it.
Ben scoffed and tossed a thumb at Carter. “He don’t give a whit about justice. All he wants is to protect his baby girl. I heard what he had to say in the shop this afternoon.”
“Of course I want to protect her,” Carter said, “but only because I know she’s innocent. That means there’s a real killer out on the streets somewhere who needs to be arrested.”
Ben looked to Darla for confirmation.
“It’s complicated, okay, Ben? It’s just really very complicated. Now, are you going to let us in or not?”
* * *
“I’m not supposed to be talking to you,” Ben said as he led them inside. “Either one of you.”
Darla recoiled. “Says who?” Once inside, she removed her Smokey the Bear hat and dangled it by her side. Water dripped onto the floor.
Ben’s tone made it seem obvious. “Sheriff Hines. He doesn’t want you or anyone else messing up my memory. I already told him everything I know, and he said that he doesn’t want me to get confused.”
Darla scowled. “He mentioned me by name?”
“Not you. Him.” Another thumb at Carter. “Once he heard you were a lawyer and the murderer’s father, he predicted you’d come.”
Carter braced at the continued use of the m word. “She’s not a murderer,” he said again, trying to push from his mind the number of times he’d heard the parents of ruthless killers utter the same words.
Ben led the way into the living room, where everything was slipcovered and doilied. The gloom of the day, filtered through heavy blinds, bathed everything in the sepia tones of an old photograph. He gestured to the woman on the couch, whom Carter recognized as the initial gatekeeper. “I believe you’ve already met my wife, Carol,” he said.
Carter smiled. “He
llo again.”
Carol’s frown didn’t loosen a bit. “You’re crazy inviting him in here like this,” she growled. It was as if Darla wasn’t even there. “Sheriff told you not to, but you do it anyway, you’re likely to end up in jail yourself.” For a lady who looked like everybody’s grandmother, with her hair tied into a tight bun and an apron tucked up under her ample breasts, Carol Maestri had a tough edge.
Ben gestured to the chairs. “I ain’t never been much for following orders,” he said. “Have a seat. You’ve got the floor.”
Carter stalled by clearing his throat. The moment of truth had arrived. In order to get Ben Maestri’s cooperation, Carter was going to have to confess to a blizzard of felonies. For starters, there was misprision of a felony—the fallout from his conversation with Nicki—followed by accessory after the fact to murder. God only knew what an aggressive North Carolina prosecutor could dream up to go along with them. Even if he stayed out of jail, he’d probably never be permitted to practice law again.
Actually, that particular prospect didn’t seem so bad.
Carol Maestri used the brief silence as her own invitation to speak. “Chas Delphin was a good boy,” she said. “Fifteen years old, lives just down the road a bit. I used to babysit for him years ago, and every holiday, he used to come by just to say hello.”
Ben looked uncomfortable. “Carol, sweetheart, I don’t think you need to—”
“I do so need to,” she snapped. “I want this fellow to know what a terrible thing has happened. I want him to know why his pain don’t mean nothing to me. Chas was a good boy, Mr. Janssen. He wanted to be a writer. Science fiction. He knew more about nothin’ than any ten boys his age, and now he won’t never become anything because somebody wanted the money in his till.” As she spoke, Carol’s lip started to quiver, but her eyes stayed dry. “It hurts to live in a world where that sort of thing can happen.”
Carter hadn’t prepared himself for this. Through all the machinations of trying to get Nicki back home, he’d never allowed himself to think about the boy who was killed—about the parents who would suffer the unspeakable agony his death. Hearing her talk about Chas’s dreams to be a writer, he thought about the millions of words that would never be written, the stories that would never be told, all because some asshole with a gun took his life with a simple flick of a finger on a trigger. Carol was right. It did hurt to live in such a world.
Time to Die: Part Four Page 3