“No, at least not yet.”
“Good.” Treece had been her friend since grade school, and while she was a good reporter, she was also the best videographer the station had. Andi tossed the parking stub on the dash before unhooking her seat belt. The SUV inched by her car, and she tried to see the driver. Isn’t it against the law for windows to be tinted that dark?
“What’s going on? You’re not meeting this woman inside the garage, are you?”
“No. We’re meeting at the Delta check-in, and don’t be such a worrywart. I need to do this. She promised answers about my sister. How could I say no?” Andi had so many unanswered questions about Steph and her life just before she was killed, and it wasn’t a topic anyone in her family talked about.
“I hope she tells you more than she did the last time you two met.”
“Yeah, me too.” Andi had met Lacey for lunch once before, thinking the woman might share information about Steph, but she’d talked around every question Andi asked.
“Call me as soon as your meeting is over,” Treece said, “and don’t let your overconfidence get you into trouble. Got it?”
“You’re not old enough to be giving me orders.”
“Somebody needs to,” Treece said dryly.
“I’m going in now.”
Andi climbed out of her car, gritting her teeth at the pain in her back. She reached into the car and grabbed a water bottle, then took out a small prescription bottle and shook a pill into her hand. After gulping the pill down, she scanned the cavernous building and shivered.
Underground tombs. That’s what these garages were. Using her phone, she snapped a photo of her parking spot with the Level 4 and Row 7 signs in the background. A few rows over, a woman her age rolled her luggage smartly toward the elevator, and since Andi did not want to be locked in that elevator alone, she hurried after her. At least the woman looked athletic enough to help her climb out in case the elevator stalled between floors. Of course, she could take the stairs.
Uh, no. She’d seen too many suspense movies. And it had only been a month ago that she’d reported on a mugging in the stairwell at the airport. No telling who or what she’d encounter in the two flights of stairs down to the walkover. Wails from a child caught her attention, and she looked to her right, where a young mother balanced a baby in one arm while another child tugged at her skirt as she tried to unlock her car door.
She shifted her gaze back to the woman approaching the elevator. If Andi hurried, she could catch her. The thump of keys hitting concrete pulled her back to the mother, and their eyes connected. Fatigue was etched in the mother’s face and the slump of her shoulders.
The elevator dinged open, and the woman with the suitcase called out, “Would you like me to hold the door?”
“Uh . . .” Get on the elevator. Her feet itched to go, and then she sighed. “No. Appreciate it, though.”
Andi turned to the mother. “I’ll get those keys and unlock the door for you.”
“Thank you so much,” the mother said, shifting the baby to the other arm and smoothing her toddler’s hair.
“No problem.” Andi smiled at the small girl, who wrapped her arms around her mother’s leg. Andi scooped the keys up and minutes later had the family on their way home.
When the elevator ride to the walkover was uneventful, she laughed at her fear. She could face a gang leader but let an enclosed box get to her. She really did need to work on that.
Inside the terminal, the check-in queues were practically empty. Evidently not many people were flying out of Memphis on a rainy Tuesday night. She found a seat where she could watch the doors and waited.
Thirty minutes later she checked her watch. Where was Lacey? She’d been adamant about meeting tonight and that her flight boarded at seven twenty. Andi called her for the second time and left a message, asking where she was.
Forty minutes later, she grabbed her bag and walked out of the airport and back to her car. Lacey was a no-show. It wasn’t like Andi had never been stood up, but she hadn’t expected it from Lacey. Not after the way she’d pressed her to come tonight.
The ringtone for Treece sounded again, and Andi answered. “I haven’t called because she never showed.”
“I bet you’re hungry, then. There’s pizza left. Then we can work on the outline for the cold case documentary.”
“Be home in fifteen.” The documentary on cold case murders and the one on runaways were their tickets to cinching anchor spots at the TV station or even to bigger markets, like Dallas or Atlanta. Then, maybe they’d attract the attention of one of the Big Three. They wouldn’t turn down a cable news network, either.
She glanced in her side mirror as she exited the airport. Halos circled the car lights coming alongside her, and in the foggy mist she saw she was in the wrong lane and almost missed the exit for I-240. She glanced sharply over her shoulder, and when the lane was empty, she shot over. Her breath caught as a dark SUV with tinted windows swept past her under the lights. It looked like the one she’d seen earlier. Was it following her? Or was her vivid imagination kicking in again? No. If she hadn’t abruptly changed lanes, she would have never known the car was behind her.
She kept an eye out for the SUV as she drove to Midtown and was prepared to drive past the older two-story home where she lived if she spotted the vehicle again. Andi checked her rearview mirror and saw that the street was empty. She turned into the drive and pulled behind the 1940s house that had been turned into three apartments.
Mrs. Casey, the older woman who owned the house, occupied the first floor, and Andi and Treece lived in the two upstairs apartments. Instead of taking the outside stairs, Andi went through the back door on the main floor to pick up her mail that Mrs. Casey always placed on the hallway table.
Bill, bill, advertisement. She looked up as Treece peered over the bannister, a grin pasted on her face. “Don’t say ‘I told you so,’” Andi said.
Treece descended the steps, holding a pitcher in one hand. “I was thinking more along the lines that you must have been speeding to get here so quickly. You’re going to get caught one of these days.”
“Nah.” Andi shook her head and climbed the stairs. “But if I do, I’ll get Brad to fix it. Or Will.”
This time Treece laughed out loud, her dark eyes dancing. “You know that’s not happening. They might hover over you like mother hens, but neither of them has ever fixed one of your tickets.”
Andi gave her a sour look. They were mother hens, all right. Had been ever since she was diagnosed with a bad heart valve as a child. Her protectors, they called themselves. Guards, she’d called them, and their attitude hadn’t changed after her surgery, and had lasted even to this day. “What are you doing with the pitcher?”
“Mrs. Casey called from Nashville. She forgot to water her plants and asked if we would do it,” Treece said as she unlocked their landlord’s door. “If you’ll help me, it’ll be quicker.”
“Sure.” Andi followed her friend inside the apartment that was directly under Treece’s, where they found another pitcher and filled it with water. Fifteen minutes later the plants were watered, and she and Treece were climbing the stairs.
“I have the makings for a salad if you’d like it to go with your pizza,” Treece said.
“That sounds good,” Andi said as they topped the stairs and she walked to her door. “I think I’m going to change into something more comfortable. Do I need to bring over anything for the salad?”
“I don’t think so.” Her friend tilted her head. “Why do you think Lacey didn’t show?”
She hesitated with her hand on the door. Maybe she’d eat first, then come home and take a hot shower and go to bed. “I don’t know, but it sure wasn’t any fun driving to the airport.”
“Did you ever figure out who the person was that she mentioned on the phone?”
Lacey had rambled about someone. Andi tried to recall the name. “Do you remember who I said it was?”
Treece shoo
k her head. “No. Only that you said she mentioned a name.”
“It was someone with initials . . .” She shrugged and trailed Treece into her apartment. Whenever they got together, whether it was for work or for social reasons, they always gravitated to Treece’s apartment. Maybe it was because she cooked, or because her apartment was more inviting.
She glanced around Treece’s living room. Their apartment layouts mirrored each other, but that’s where the similarity ended. Other than a couple of paintings, Andi’s walls were bare, and she certainly didn’t have knickknacks sitting around waiting to be dusted. The only pottery she owned was a sculpture her sister had been working on when she was murdered.
Treece, on the other hand, was a decorating maven. Bright paint covered the walls and bold fabric hung on the windows. African pottery, along with pieces from local artists, graced tables and bookcases. Andi really did need to make an effort to spruce things up over on her side.
She set her bag on the counter. “Where’s that pizza? I’m starving.”
Treece pointed to the top of the stove. “Microwave or oven?”
“Not the microwave,” Andi said, turning on the oven.
“While we wait for it to reheat, tell me more about this friend of your sister. You wouldn’t discuss her this morning, but I think you need to. Was she there the night Stephanie . . . ?”
Andi’s stomach curdled. She’d managed all day to push that night out of her mind. She’d been barely thirteen, and two days after the funeral, she’d had surgery to replace a heart valve.
Steph had been eight years older than Andi, and Andi idolized her big sister. Finding out who Steph was as an adult had been the reason for agreeing to meet Lacey at the airport. Not to discuss Stephanie’s death—the man who killed her sat on death row.
Andi turned around and slid the pizza into the oven. “I don’t remember. And I still don’t want to talk about it. Let it go. Okay?”
When she turned back around, her heart sank. Treece had that reporter gleam in her eyes that said she was not dropping the subject. Andi broke off a stalk of celery for her salad. Why did people always think they knew what was best for her? She sliced the celery in the wooden bowl with a rounded Ulu blade. She did not want to discuss Stephanie’s death.
“That celery isn’t your enemy,” Treece said. “What I can’t understand is why you won’t discuss your sister. You never back away from anything, except Stephanie’s death.”
“There’s nothing to discuss. My sister’s ex-boyfriend shot and killed her. My mom and I found Jimmy Shelton sitting by her body with the gun. He confessed, and Sunday night it will finally be over. What else is there to talk about?”
“For one thing, from what I read about the case on the internet, he recanted the confession. Said it was coerced.”
Andi stared at her friend. She’d been researching Jimmy’s trial?
Before she could say anything, Treece continued. “And another thing, he’s Will Kincade’s cousin. How do you handle it with him?”
Will was her brother’s best friend, and lately her heart had been reacting strangely when she was around him. She placed a carrot in the wooden bowl and attacked it with the blade. “We don’t talk about it.”
“Here, let me make your salad before you turn everything into mush.” Treece took the knife away from her. “How do you feel when you think about your sister’s death?”
Andi pinched her mouth together as her friend raked the carrot into a bowl of lettuce and dropped a handful of grape tomatoes on top. “Horrible, Dr. Phil. That’s how I feel. And angry that Jimmy is alive and Stephanie isn’t. Anything else?”
“You haven’t forgiven him.”
Andi narrowed her eyes, ignoring the dart of guilt pricking her conscience. “Forgive him? How do you expect me to forgive him for taking Stephanie’s life? I was ten when she left home for college, thirteen when she died, and I never got the chance to really know her. Satisfied?”
Treece palmed her hands up. “Sorry, didn’t mean to rile you. So how’s it going with Will? And don’t tell me you’re not attracted to him.”
“Give me a break. I haven’t had time for a boyfriend. Besides, I know better than to fall for him—he only sees me like a sister. No way would it ever work out. And how about you?”
“We’re not talking about me.”
Andi wasn’t going to let it go that easily, not if it would shift the conversation to Treece’s boyfriend problems. “Have you called Reggie? Or answered any of his texts?” She raised her eyebrows, waiting. “See, I’m not the only one who doesn’t like to get up close and personal.”
Before Treece could say anything, Andi grabbed her apartment key. “And now I’m going to go across the hall and get my bottle of raspberry vinaigrette.”
Andi fled the apartment, leaving Treece with her mouth gaping. Sometimes she pushed their friendship too far. She worries. Andi pushed the thought away. Living next door to Treece at times was like living at home with her parents.
Andi unlocked her door and frowned. She didn’t remember leaving the living room light on. Had to do better than that if she was going to cut her electric bill.
She was halfway to the refrigerator when the unmistakable click of the door shutting stopped her. The apartment plunged into darkness. Andi froze, her heart pummeling her chest. She turned to run, but rough hands yanked her back in a chokehold. Cold steel pressed against her temple.
“Yell, and your friend dies along with you.”
The raspy whisper raked her senses. Andi’s mind whirled, seeking an escape. As if he read her thoughts, he tightened his grip around her neck, cutting off her air.
“Where are they?”
Black dots swam in her vision. She tried to answer him. “What—”
His arm relaxed slightly, but the gun barrel pressed harder against her head. “I won’t hesitate to kill you,” he said. “Now where are they?”
“What? I don’t know . . .” Her lungs cried for air.
“The diamonds. You have them. They belong to me.”
“I . . . can’t . . . breathe . . .”
2
ALL DAY THE COLD APRIL RAIN had fallen from clouds that belonged more to winter than spring. The dampness seeped through the window into Jimmy’s bones, but he couldn’t pry himself away from the window where halos ringed the overhead lights. Night 5,935 here at Riverbend. His birthday. And it would be his last. Tennessee’s ban on executions had been lifted.
“Shelton, you got mail.”
Reluctantly, Jimmy turned and nodded at the corrections officer who had been here almost as long as he had. Except Walter Simmons went home every morning. “Is it from my lawyer?”
That was meant as a joke—he hadn’t heard from his public defender in years.
Walter grinned. “Looks like a woman’s handwriting, and not your mama’s.”
Jimmy blinked. His mama was dying a slow death from heartache, but she wrote him every week. He’d gotten her birthday card yesterday—one of the few times he’d actually received mail early.
What other woman would be writing to him at Riverbend? Curiosity moved him from the window to the small opening in the door to accept the letter.
“Don’t know why you’re just now getting it. It was sent weeks ago,” the officer said.
He stared at the envelope. Like Walter said, the writing on the envelope bearing his name did indeed appear to be a woman’s handwriting, and the flowery script was nothing like his mother’s.
He slid his finger under the flap and removed the single linen sheet with the name Lacey Wilson embossed at the top. Below it, a March 17th date. Nineteen days ago.
Dear Jimmy,
You may not remember me. I was one of the flight attendants who roomed with Stephanie Hollister.
He remembered Lacey. Petite blonde with brown eyes. She’d been kind to him at a time when he wasn’t the nicest person to be around because of alcohol. He continued reading.
First, I want to apol
ogize for not coming forward sooner. I have no excuse except I was afraid to. Even after I became a Christian three months ago, I couldn’t make myself take responsibility for what I did, really for what I didn’t do. But I want you to know there hasn’t been a night that I haven’t thought about you and your circumstances. When I saw in the paper your date had been set, I knew I had to do something.
I have decided to leave Memphis and go where no one can find me. That’s why I’m writing to ask if I can visit you before I leave. I’ll explain everything when I come, if you’ll allow it. Most of all, I need your forgiveness for not telling you sooner that I have proof you didn’t kill Stephanie.
The rest of the words blurred as his knees buckled, and he stumbled to his bed.
He didn’t kill Stephanie?
Suddenly the dreams that had returned flashed through his mind. Steph on the floor, him with a gun in his hand, blood everywhere, and something else . . . or someone hovering in the shadows. No matter how hard he’d tried, he’d never been able to decipher what was in the shadows.
He stared at the letter, pain ripping him apart. The court-appointed lawyer had entered a plea of not guilty for him even though Jimmy had confessed, stating the unsigned confession was coerced. He’d then fought the conviction, but Jimmy’s heart hadn’t been in it. He had accepted the death sentence because he believed what the police said—that he’d killed the only woman he ever loved.
And now Lacey was saying he hadn’t killed her?
3
WILL KINCADE STEPPED AROUND a fingerprint tech in Lacey Wilson’s living room and noted the suitcase by the back door and absence of clutter in the room, except an empty bottle of wine. Why would someone who was obviously leaving town suddenly decide to drink enough wine to get totally drunk and then sit in her running car with the garage door closed until carbon monoxide killed her?
The case wasn’t his—it was his friend Brad’s—but after four years as a beat cop and seven as an investigator, Will couldn’t keep from doing what he was trained to do. And his gut said Lacey didn’t kill herself.
Justice Delayed Page 2