VC04 - Jury Double
Page 38
Anne shook her head. There was enormous sadness in her eyes. “And then Mickey was caught making dirty phone calls from the cabin. He forced Leon to take the blame by threatening to expose the deal.”
“What a tangle, hey?”
Anne gazed at Cardozo with an uncomplicated desire to understand. “But why did Mickey and Catch have to kill?”
“In Mickey’s case it was fear. He got scared that the calls would be tied to him. He didn’t want to be sent back to Texas.”
“And what was Catch’s reason?”
“Greed plus steroids triggering murderous rage. Sergeant Bailey saw him watching Toby at school. He couldn’t risk her identifying him later. Same thing with your sister. After he forced her to write that note, she was a dead woman.”
Anne was somber. “What about the evidence in the trial?”
“I wouldn’t have too much confidence in it. The BATF tried for a decade to jail Corey Lyle, and they’d stopped caring how. I think they saw their chance two years ago, when Yolanda Lopez phoned to report that Mickey Williams had murdered John Briar. In twenty-four hours, the whiz kids at BATF worked out a scenario to nail Corey. They got Mickey to confess to two murders and claim Corey had put him up to it.”
“But Mickey didn’t kill Amalia.”
Cardozo shook his head. “Amalia died a natural death six hours before her husband. The autopsy was suppressed.”
“Then Yolanda was lying? Those tapes and those phone calls were fakes?”
“Let’s just say someone fiddled with the evidence. Yolanda was doing her job, and it happened to involve a lot of phoning and a fair amount of lying.”
“You believe that?”
Cardozo shrugged. “I’ll lay you odds she doesn’t serve a day in jail.”
“But a federal agency wouldn’t—”
“They might if they thought their budget was about to be cut.”
“If only people didn’t get so scared and greedy.”
“The world would be a better place, and I’d be out of a job.” Cardozo crushed his paper cup and dropped it into the trash basket. “Come on. We should get you back to your father’s.”
As they came out of the hospital, the headlights of early morning traffic were moving thinly down the street.
“Anne!” A solitary figure stood waving on the curb beside a Connecticut state trooper’s car. “Lieutenant!”
Anne squinted. “It’s my father.” She broke into a run.
“Anne.” Leon’s eyes were frightened. “Are you all right?”
“All patched up.”
“Thank God.”
They embraced.
“Lieutenant.” Leon leveled a rueful smile of greeting and held the car door. “Why don’t you come with us and get some sleep? We have two guest rooms.”
“Thanks, but I should be getting back to New York.”
“Lieutenant,” Anne said, “how can I ever thank you?”
“You just did.”
She darted a kiss onto his cheek, then slid into the backseat.
Leon slid in beside her. “You’re sure you’re all right?”
“I’m sure.”
The car moved slowly down the street.
“I’ve said some pretty inexcusable things to you.” Leon placed his hand on hers. “I hope you know I didn’t mean them.”
“I know you didn’t. And I’ve said some inexcusable things myself. Let’s forgive each other and forget it.”
“Agreed.” His hand squeezed hers, then withdrew. “What’s next on your agenda?”
“A little sleep—and then the big job. I have to make a home for Toby.”
“You’ll be a good mother.”
“I hope.”
“But a boy needs a father too.” Leon’s gaze came around slowly. “Mark Wells has been phoning. He’s phoned three times since you went into emergency.”
“Really?”
“Can’t blame him. He’s worried about you. You should call him back.”
She nodded. “I will.”
“You know, Anne, of all the men in your life—”
“Come on, there haven’t been that many.”
“But of them all, I think I’ve always liked Mark the most.”
She was thoughtful. “So have I.”
On Christmas morning fifteen months later, a Maine spruce tree glowed in the living room of a Murray Hill town house. Anne sat on the sofa, peeling the green-and-gold wrapping off a flat package the size of a framed photograph.
She peered at the beautifully penned lettering. “‘Whereas Mr. and Mrs. Mark Wells, hereinafter referred to as the parties of the first part. …’ What in the world is this?”
“It looks like a contract.” Mark slipped on his glasses and studied it. “A five-year-renewal with option to extend.”
“Renewal of what?”
“Of our family.” Toby dropped onto the sofa between them. “To make sure we stay together.” He tipped back his French Culinary Institute baseball cap. “I’ve already signed, see?”
“I’ll sign on.” Mark scrawled a signature above Toby’s and passed his ballpoint to Anne.
“I don’t know.” She smiled. “Shouldn’t I consult a lawyer?”
“Your lawyer,” Mark said, “advises you to grab a good deal while you have the chance.”
Anne signed.
Toby hugged them both, then went back to the tree and began searching among the presents.
“Look at that kid,” Mark said softly. “Who’d ever guess what he lived through a year ago?”
“He’s got guts,” Anne said. “And a lot of sense.”
“And you’ve done a great job.”
“No. We’ve all done a great job.”
“Hey—Aunt Anne—Uncle Mark—look what Lieutenant Cardozo gave me!” Toby came running across the room, waving a small black book with silver lettering: “A police officer’s handbook! And he signed it!”
About the Author
Edward Stewart (1938–1996) grew up in New York City and Cuba. He was educated at Phillips Exeter Academy and at Harvard, where he edited the famed Lampoon humor magazine. He studied music in Paris with Nadia Boulanger, and worked as a composer and arranger before launching his career as a writer. His first novel, Orpheus on Top, was published in 1966. He wrote thirteen more novels, including the bestselling Vince Cardozo thrillers Privileged Lives, Jury Double, Mortal Grace, and Deadly Rich.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1996 by Edward Stewart
Cover design by Kathleen Lynch
978-1-4804-7076-7
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