[Jess Kimball 01.0 - 02.0] Fatal Starts
Page 31
“My flight leaves in three hours, but I’ve got to return the rental, too,” Jess said, subdued, but a bit rushed, too. A long-sleeved shirt covered the bandage on her arm, but she’d only been able to partially conceal the crease along the side of her head with her curly hair. “I finished the article last night and sent it off to my editor. I’ll send you the magazine when it appears, if you want.”
Helen smiled, wagged her head back and forth. “I’m sure you did a fine job on it.”
She would never read Jess’s article. They both knew as much.
They sat for a moment, rocking together, bound together by experiences etched in granite memory. Helen felt Jess’s anticipation across the short divide.
“Where are you going?”
Jess stood and jiggled her keys. “Colorado. A guy there is helping me with Peter. He’s got some new leads.”
“How long are you going to keep looking?” Helen’s tone was gentle. “Peter’s been gone for more than ten years. Even if you find him now, he won’t be your baby anymore.”
“I know. But I can’t give up. I’ll keep looking until I find him.” She hesitated again, still reluctant to say the words that Helen had lived with every day since Eric died. “One way or the other.”
Helen let it go. If Jess was able to avoid the words, maybe she’d be able to avoid the nightmares, too. “It’s not so bad, after a while. You never forget, but you keep going. Bad memories hurt less. You remember more good times.”
Jess nodded. “I’ve been told that before. I’m glad it’s true for you.”
“It will be true for you, too,” Helen said.
Jess nodded again, glanced away, and then looked back with her mouth turned up in a weak smile. “Talked to Mike. He said he was bummed that he wasn’t here during…the fire.”
Helen laughed. “I’ll bet he was.”
Neither of them mentioned that if he’d been in his bed on the ranch, Mike would have died on Christmas Eve along with Prescott and Berger.
And Frank. Helen had asked him to serve in a job—knowing he wouldn’t refuse her request—that had gotten him killed, when he could have rotated off her detail. One more thing she had to live with that was far from easy.
“What about Manson? Have you heard from him?” Helen didn’t expect Manson would allow Taylor’s wrongful execution to fade into obscurity when it was a clear victory for his cause, as well as an unmatchable opportunity for personal publicity. Indeed, as far as Helen could see, Manson was the only one who came out on the positive side of the entire disaster.
“To tell you the truth,” Jess said, her chin jutting forward. “I hate that he was right. He’ll never let me forget it, either. He acts so damn sincere, but he’s a dishonest fraud. I put that in my article, too. I haven’t figured out what else I’m going to do about him, but I won’t let his actions go. Not by a long shot.”
Helen liked the spark of indignation she’d recognized from the first time she’d met Jess. The younger woman was resilient, too, even if she didn’t realize just how much yet.
“I’m not okay with everything,” Jess admitted, subdued. “I said that, too. In the article. Just so you know.”
“I was sure you would,” Helen replied.
“After Peter was taken, I’ve tried to help other parents like me get justice. The system favors the criminals over the victims most of the time, or so it seems to me. I guess in the end the Wards did get some justice, and maybe the Crawfords, too.”
“You can’t blame or applaud the legal system for any of that.”
Jess was always prepared to argue. “But Tommy Taylor shouldn’t have been executed when he was. He didn’t kill Mattie Crawford. That’s the real bottom line.”
“True.”
“I helped to make that happen,” Jess said. She looked at the ground, “And I’m having trouble dealing with it.”
Helen sighed. “Remember what I told you about the American creed. We can’t focus on everything that’s wrong with the world that we can’t fix, everything we failed to do right. You’d be paralyzed with indecision and do nothing worthwhile with your life. That would be a shame, Jess. A waste. The good will outweigh the bad. You have so much yet to accomplish.”
Jess jerked her head up, eyes blazing. “That’s a nice philosophy, Helen, but we killed an innocent man.”
Helen sighed again. Jess seemed world-weary and wise in most respects, but she still had much to learn. Helen put an edge into her voice, too. “Tommy Taylor wasn’t innocent. You said that yourself. The system didn’t fail him, people failed the system. People who didn’t give us a chance, who didn’t trust us to do our jobs. Ben Fleming and Arnold Ward built Tommy’s conviction into an airtight legal box. You and I didn’t do that. And Tommy’s dead. We can’t bring him back.”
She thought about something Mac Green had said to her, too. “If you could bring Tommy Taylor back to life now, would you want to let him loose on the community again?”
Jess considered Helen’s words, perhaps unwilling to concede, but she let the point go. “So what do we do now?”
“We ask God and Tommy’s mother to forgive us. We go on. We learn from our mistakes. We do better next time.” More than words she’d been raised by, these were the words Helen lived by, the only reality she knew or wanted to know.
Silence reigned for a bit before Jess’s impatience took hold again. “What are you going to do?”
“Take care of Oliver. He’s beginning to communicate with me. The doctors say he’ll improve. So I’ll just wait to see what happens.”
Jess said, “Good. I’m glad.”
Helen nodded. “I’ll probably go back to practicing law. I miss the work, fighting the good fight every day, you know? The only way to make the system work is to have dedicated people working within the rules. I can do at least that much.”
Jess nodded this time. “No more politics? Even without the party’s endorsement, I think you’d be elected, hands down. And no one would serve Florida better in the Senate than you.”
“Maybe. I just don’t have the heart for it right now.” She noticed that Jess was about to argue with her, so she said, “I may change my mind one day.”
Jess bent to give Helen a strong hug. “Take care of yourself.”
“You, too,” Helen said, squeezing her back. “Keep in touch. Come back as soon as you can.”
“I’ll call,” Jess promised, as she disappeared around the corner of the house on her way back to the car.
Helen wondered if she’d ever hear from Jess again, but when she could see Jess inside the car in the driveway, she shouted, “Happy New Year!”
Jess waved from the car.
Helen waved back.
Then Jess rolled down the window and shouted, “I’ll bring Peter next time I come. He’ll love it here.”
Get the next book in the series!
FATAL DEMAND
Click Here for Details
Available now on Amazon
~ An excerpt of Fatal Demand appears at the end of this ebook, following the About the Authors section. Keep reading to enjoy this sneak peek of Jess’s next adventure! ~
Join Jess Kimball for more adventures in her thrilling search for her missing son!
The Jess Kimball Thrillers Series:
Fatal Enemy (novella)
Fatal Distraction
Fatal Demand
Fatal Error
Fatal Fall
Fatal Edge (novella)
Fatal Game
Fatal Bond
Fatal Past (novella)
Fatal Dawn
~Keep reading for more from Diane Capri~
MORE FROM DIANE CAPRI
I hope you’ve enjoyed Fatal Starts as much as I’ve enjoyed creating it for you. I hope you’ll recommend my books to your friends who might like them, too. The best way to share your honest review is to post a quick two or three-sentence review telling us what you loved about Fatal Starts at the retailer where you bought this copy and give
the books some stars. Please do that to help me write more of what you want and less of what you don’t want. I promise I won’t forget! And now that we’ve found each other, let’s keep in touch. Readers like you are the reason I write!
For new release notification, free offers, gifts, and general information for members only, please sign up for our Diane Capri mailing list. We don’t want to leave you out!
Join Diane Capri’s Mailing List at:
http://dianecapri.com/get-involved/get-my-newsletter/
Have you read all of Diane Capri’s books? Maybe it’s time to give them a try!
For a complete list of Diane Capri Books visit:
http://dianecapri.com/books/
or Diane’s Amazon Author Page
(Click each title to buy or download a sample)
The Hunt for Jack Reacher Series:
(in publication order with Lee Child source books in parentheses)
Don’t Know Jack • (Killing Floor)
Jack in a Box (novella)
Jack and Kill (novella)
Get Back Jack • (Bad Luck and Trouble)
Jack in the Green (novella)
Jack and Joe • (The Enemy)
Deep Cover Jack (Persuader)
Jack the Reaper • (The Hard Way)
Black Jack • (Running Blind / The Visitor)
Ten Two Jack
The Jess Kimball Thrillers Series:
Fatal Enemy (novella)
Fatal Distraction
Fatal Demand
Fatal Error
Fatal Fall
Fatal Edge (novella)
Fatal Game
Fatal Bond
Fatal Past (novella)
Fatal Dawn
The Hunt for Justice Series:
Due Justice
Twisted Justice
Secret Justice
Wasted Justice
Raw Justice
Mistaken Justice (novella)
Cold Justice (novella)
False Justice (novella)
Fair Justice (novella)
True Justice (novella)
The Heir Hunter Series:
Blood Trails
Trace Evidence
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Diane Capri is an award-winning New York Times, USA Today, and world-wide bestselling author. She writes several series, including the Hunt for Justice, Hunt for Jack Reacher, and Heir Hunter series, and the Jess Kimball Thrillers. She’s a recovering lawyer and snowbird who divides her time between Florida and Michigan. An active member of Mystery Writers of America, Author’s Guild, International Thriller Writers, Alliance of Independent Authors, and Sisters in Crime, she loves to hear from readers and is hard at work on her next novel.
Please connect with Diane online:
http://www.DianeCapri.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/DianeCapri
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/Diane.Capri1
http://www.facebook.com/DianeCapriBooks
Excerpt from
FATAL DEMAND
A JESS KIMBALL THRILLER
DIANE CAPRI
When you have eliminated the impossible,
then whatever remains, however improbable,
must be the truth.
– Sherlock Holmes
I said that. In less words.
– Occam
CAST OF PRIMARY CHARACTERS
Jessica Kimball
Mandy Donovan
Henry Morris
Roger Grantly
Harriet Grantly
Wilson Grantly
Enzo Ficarra
Luigi Ficarra
1
Montreal, Quebec
Sunday, April 20
It’s a good day to commit suicide, the Italian thought as he got off the train at the Bonaventure Metro Station.
Avoiding the Underground City, Enzo Ficarra raised the collar of his supple black leather trench coat with a black-gloved hand and adjusted his fedora before he climbed the stairs up to the sidewalk.
Icy rain pelted his face. Frigid wind matched his mood and further hardened his heart. But it wasn’t enough to cool the molten anger seething inside him. He shouldn’t be here, in this wretched weather, on Sunday, the first day of spring. He should be in Italy. He should be at Mass.
Damn Marek.
Clouds blackened the sky as if he’d entered the city he knew so well at midnight, not mid-morning. He glanced the length of the sidewalk along the rue de la Cathedrale. The deserted street was weakly illuminated by streetlights sensitive to darkness. He watched frozen rain melt when it touched the warm street. As the day progressed and temperatures continued to fall, he expected treacherous black ice to capture the city, halting all traffic. He’d be gone by then, and the weather would grant him reprieve from potential pursuit. Not that he expected pursuit. But he was a careful man.
No one walked along the streets. Citizens foolish or determined enough to venture out on such a wicked morning kept to the routes of the Underground City until they reached their churches, reminding him that his own wife and children were at Mass this morning without him. His lips pressed into a grim line. He rarely missed Sunday Mass. His absence would be conspicuous, noted by everyone. This additional grievance further hardened his resolve.
Head down, walking briskly into the blowing sleet, he made his way along deserted sidewalks toward Les Canard. The last time he’d been here had been a pleasant Saturday night in July. The streets were busy then, alive until the bars closed at 3:00 a.m. Inside the club, a band played hard rock, dancers crowded the floor, the smell of baking bread wafted out of the kitchen, and the bar bustled with locals chatting in French.
His French was excellent and he had blended into the environment easily, avoiding the English pubs nearby. He always enjoyed the cosmopolitan city. The mix of people and languages, French as well as English, made Montreal better for his work than others. He easily avoided detection here. The city had served him well. God was good.
Now, he rolled his shoulders, lifted his coat collar higher, and waited. He glanced left and right. No pedestrians were near and traffic was sparse.
When the light at boulevard Rene-Levesque changed, he stepped off the curb and hustled across the street, walking quickly toward Rue Drummond. Marek knew he was coming, but he detected no sign that he was being followed. Marek was not a cautious man. That was one of the many problems between them.
Had he been wrong about Marek, all these years? All through school, the Italian had been stronger than Marek. His Polish friend was short and wiry, but always the weaker as their wrestling matches invariably ended with Enzo the winner. Marek had thus been consigned to follow Enzo’s commands and he’d executed each one faithfully.
Which made today’s task unpleasant for him.
Resentment fueled Enzo’s resolve. Why had Marek made such a disastrous decision? Was it his American wife? A man should never, ever confide in a woman. Women could not be trusted to keep secrets. Nor could men, for that matter. From personal experience, he’d confirmed many times that three people could keep a secret only if two of them were dead.
Whatever the reason, Marek’s stupidity had endangered them all. The situation could still be reversed; perhaps Marek had reconsidered.
As he walked, the Italian visualized Marek’s club, recalling every detail as sharply as possible. The interior of Les Canard was cool, dark and quiet, due to its thick granite walls and dim lighting. When the club was open, the raucous noise inside was muffled.
He arrived at the front entrance. A small sign boasting French calligraphy and an artistically drawn mallard swung from hooks on an iron arm on the left side of the door, squeaking in the gusty wind. The once soft gray granite façade of the club was now dark with decades of soot and city grime. Deep green shades were pulled over the front windows and the closed sign was posted on the door.
All senses alert, he reached for the pitted brass handle and pulled the door open. It had been unlocked for him. He
moved soundlessly inside and then flipped the lock to prevent interruption. He stood in the interior foyer of the bar, allowing his vision to adjust.
“Come in, come in!” Marek sat in the shadows facing the door. He rose and hurried toward his guest.
The Italian arranged a friendly smile on his face. They hugged briefly in the Gaelic style.
“Enzo my friend, you are frozen,” Marek declared. “Spring, my ass.” He shook his head, shrugged at the incomprehensible weather. “Come in, come in. Coffee?”
Marek walked toward the coffee machine behind the bar as he asked the question.
“A double, please.” Enzo removed his garments, shook the water off and hung them on the pegs by the door. He grasped his gloves in his right hand.
Marek steamed espresso and poured the rich brew into small white cups, carried the cups with two spoons to the table where small pitchers of cream and sugar waited. He gestured toward the seat he’d vacated, allowing his guest to sit with his back to the wall facing the door. An offer meant to show his partner was welcome, safe here. No one threatened.
They lingered over the fragrant coffee for a few moments, sipping while it was still hot enough to scald their tongues. When the Italian replaced his cup on the saucer, Marek spoke. “Thank you for coming on such a terrible day. We have the place to ourselves.”