Death Row

by William Bernhardt

  But she missed Erin. She wasn’t sure she could live without her. Or wanted to.

  She felt responsible.

  She took another swig of the vodka, letting it burn its way down her throat. It hurt, but it hurt good, as they said. She took another drink and started to feel the rosy blanket, the warm sense of . . . fading that came with the onset of drunkenness. It was a good feeling. She wanted more of it. She held the bottle in both hands and drank and drank and . . .

  Did she hear something? Outside? This time of night? Way out here?

  Couldn’t be. She raised the bottle to her lips once more . . .

  And heard it again.

  She walked to the rear of the cabin, pulled back the shades, and peered out into the darkness. She didn’t see anything. But she was certain she heard something. She wasn’t so drunk that she would imagine that—

  Sheila screamed. Someone had jumped out of nowhere and was on the other side of the window staring at her.

  No! she thought as she stared at the all-too-familiar face. That’s impossible!

  She heard the pounding at the door and knew she had to run. Groping to steady herself, peering through blurred eyes, she made her way to the side door. If she could get out, get down to the lake, she could climb in the boat and speed away. There was no way she could be followed, not across Grand Lake.

  But first she had to get there.

  She ran outside, plunging into the darkness. The moon was barely a quarter and there were no electric lights way out here. She knew there was a path leading down to the lake, but where was it? Where the hell was it?

  She heard footsteps close behind her. She did not have much time. Because it didn’t take a vast quantum of imagination to know what would happen if those footsteps caught up to her. The same thing that happened to Erin. And all the others.

  By midnight, Mike and Sergeant Baxter had been sitting in his Trans Am for more than three hours. They had followed Sheila Knight—at a discreet distance, of course, all the way to Grove, then out onto Grand Lake. Sheila parked outside a lakeside cabin, went inside, turned on the lights. She’d been there ever since; no visitors had come to meet her. Mike parked about a hundred feet down the dirt road outside the cabin. It was the perfect vantage point; they could not only see the cabin and Sheila’s car, they could monitor the one-way road that led to the cabin.

  “The night is long,” Mike said, gazing out the car window, “that never finds the day.”

  Baxter grimaced. “Not with the poetry. Is that Wordsworth again?”

  “Shakespeare, actually. From Macbeth.”

  “Puh-lese. If I offer you coffee, will you promise to stop?”

  “Distinctly possible.” After three hours of watching, Mike could feel the lateness of the hour and the stupor born of inactivity. He took the silver thermos from Baxter, filled his mug, and took a sip.

  “Damnation, Baxter. You weren’t kidding about your percolating skills.” Mike held the mug between his hands, watching the steam rise. It felt good, warming his hands, warming his face. “This is excellent coffee.”

  “Well, I try to please. Contrary to rumor.”

  “You succeeded. What is this, some special blend?”

  “Uhhh . . . yeah . . .”

  “I can tell you’re a coffee gourmet. Is it an imported blend? Did you grind the beans yourself?”

  “ . . . possibly . . .”

  “And the flavoring is delicious. What is it? English toffee? French vanilla?”

  “Yes.”

  “Both?”

  “Uhhh.” Her fingers stiffened. “Look. I didn’t make the coffee myself, okay?”

  “Where did it come from?”

  “Where does coffee ever come from? Starbucks, of course.”

  Mike whistled. “Wow. The good stuff.”

  “Well, I wanted—I was—” She puffed out her cheeks in exasperation. “I was trying to make a good impression.”

  “You?”

  “Yeah, I know. Total waste of time.”

  Mike’s head tilted to one side. “To the contrary—I’m honored. Flattered.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. You got any more of this . . . what is it?”

  “White chocolate mocha.”

  “Heavenly. From now on, I’m inviting you to all my stakeouts.”

  Sheila raced out into the darkness, plunging into the thickly treed brush that separated the cabin from the lake. Move, girl, she muttered under her breath. Get to the boat. You haven’t got much time.

  She didn’t have to listen to know the footsteps were right behind her.

  Unfortunately, the ground between the cabin and the lake was not only covered with brush but was also on a sharp slope. A cliff, practically. Normally, she would walk down the gravel road out front about fifty feet to an improvised slope that led down to the pier. But she knew she didn’t have time for that now, and besides, the footsteps were between her and the path.

  If she was going to make it, she was going to have to go straight down.

  She plunged into the brush, straining to spot safe places to run. Nonetheless, not three steps down, a tough piece of vine caught her foot and sent her tumbling forward. With a desperate lunge, she managed to grab a branch from a nearby river birch, stopping herself at the last possible moment.

  Why hadn’t she turned on the back porch light? It might not be brilliant, but it would be better than nothing. The slope was sharp, practically ninety degrees, or so it seemed to Sheila as she tried to get down it much too quickly. The ground was covered with leaves, and thanks to the recent rain, they were slick. She was wearing house shoes, and they constantly slipped out from under her. She took another false step and plunged forward. Once again, a tree branch was all that saved her from falling. She was risking her neck out here, running down the slope so fast.

  Of course, if she stopped running, her neck would be in much worse shape.

  She had to keep going, whatever the risk. She grabbed another tree, trying to lower herself down a particularly steep place. She slowed, gently descending, one foot at a time, and—

  Heard the footsteps. Barely ten feet behind her.

  She was scant seconds ahead. She had to get to the boat. Had to get there fast.

  She let go of the tree and started running all-out down the slope, hell or high water, staying upright as best she could. A few feet later, she lost her balance. Her feet flew out from under her and she fell down hard, the side of her head slamming down against something that knocked her all but unconscious.

  A rock? she wondered groggily. Didn’t know. And didn’t have time to ponder. Exerting all her strength, she pushed herself up on wobbly legs, tasting the blood trickling down the side of her head. She had to keep moving. Keep moving . . .

  It was impossible. Only a few seconds later her feet went out from under her again and this time there was no way to control her fall. She went tumbling down the slope, headfirst. Her legs banged up against the rocks and brush and thorns. Her head hit something new, something just as hard, and once again she thought she would lose consciousness. She managed to keep herself awake, but she had lost all control of her descent.

  She heard a sudden snap, jolting her awake. What was that? she thought, and a moment later, she realized it was her—her leg, to be specific. She had banged it against something and it had snapped. Had she broken it? She couldn’t be sure. She only knew it hurt like hell and she couldn’t stop falling. . . .

  Until she did. She hit the bottom of the slope with a sharp and painful immediacy. But the descent was over. And just across the muddy bank, not ten feet away, was her boat. And another one she didn’t recognize . . .

  If only she could get to it. She tried to push herself to her feet, but her injured leg hurt so badly she couldn’t steady herself. Her head was swimming, barely able to focus. She fell to the ground again, the cold earth knocking her breath away.

  All right then, if she couldn’t walk, she’d crawl. It wasn’t far. She pus
hed up onto her hands and knees. The leg still ached, but crawling like an infant, she narrowed the distance between herself and the boat. Closer, closer, closer . . .

  “That’s about far enough, I think.”

  Sheila felt a foot pressed against her back, shoving her face into the mud.

  Too late.

  “A little dark for a boating excursion, don’t you think?” the voice behind her said. “A girl could get hurt.”

  The white chocolate mocha was gone, but Mike and Baxter were still keeping watch. They hadn’t seen anyone else come near the cabin, but they could see that the lights were still on.

  “If that woman came all the way out here and she’s still up at this hour of the night,” Mike ventured, “there must be a reason.”

  “Like she’s going to meet someone?”

  “Maybe. Or she’s going to do something she doesn’t want anyone to see her doing.”

  “You really think Sheila Knight is the key to this thing?”

  Mike waved his hand in the air. “I don’t think there is a key. I think Erin killed herself. But Sheila was definitely holding something back. I wonder if I could get Bernie to tap her phone?”

  “Look, Morelli, I won’t let you do anything improper or illegal.”

  “You don’t have to be any part of it.”

  “Yeah, but if my partner commits an offense, it could reflect back on me.”

  “Chill, Baxter.”

  “Don’t tell me to chill. I won’t let you screw up my career.”

  “Baxter, relax.”

  “Don’t patronize me. This is serious!”

  “Baxter! Shoosh!” Once she finally quieted, he lowered his voice. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. I wouldn’t do it without a court order. Relax already.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “Sorry. I overreacted.”

  “No joke.”

  “It’s just . . . something I’m sensitive about.”

  Mike slowly turned to look at her. “You had some trouble in Oklahoma City, didn’t you?”

  “You know I did.”

  “I know there’s more to it than what I read in your report.”

  “Which was?”

  “Basically, Kate doesn’t play well with the other children.” He shrugged. “So what? We’re cops, not insurance salesmen. There has to be more.”

  Baxter did not reply.

  “The way they hustled you out of OKC and set you up here with Blackwell and the mayor—someone was pulling some major-league strings. Someone who wanted you out of the OKC PD in a big way.”

  Baxter stared at the floor of the car. She wasn’t taking the bait.

  Mike continued. “Whatever it was, it probably didn’t even directly relate to police work. Otherwise, it would’ve been in your file.”

  “Maybe there’s nothing to put in the file.”

  “There is,” Mike said firmly. “Something they didn’t want to write down. Something you’re not telling me about it.”

  “And how do you know? Is my face making the wrong kind of crinkly lines? Is it because you’re such a damn good cop?”

  “No. It’s because you’re such a damn good cop.”

  Baxter’s eyes rose.

  “Too good to be cut loose so unceremoniously without a compelling reason.”

  Baxter’s eyes were black, like deep inky wells, neither capturing nor reflecting light. “There was a reason.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “And you’re right. It had nothing to do with police work. I was . . .” She paused, breathing in and out deeply, several times. “I was involved with someone.”

  “Another cop.”

  She nodded.

  “Your partner?”

  “Worse. The chief.”

  Mike’s eyes widened. “As in, chief of police? Hardesty? The old man?”

  She pressed her hand against her forehead. “I can’t explain it. It just . . . happened.”

  “What is he, like eighty-five or something?”

  “Just fifty-two, Morelli. And for your information, a very handsome fifty-two.”

  “Jesus!” Mike stared out the car window. “No wonder you got the boot. Isn’t he married?”

  “Separated. Still—it wasn’t a good idea.”

  “No kidding. How did it start?”

  Baxter receded into her bucket seat. “We were working this case together. It was big—that’s why he was personally involved. Corruption in the City Council. Big-time stuff. Late nights. Close quarters. One thing led to another.”

  Mike remained incredulous. “Hardesty?”

  “Look, I’m a human being, okay? Haven’t you ever had a thing with someone at work?”

  “As a matter of fact, no.”

  “Of course not. Not the Great and All-Powerful Major Morelli.”

  Mike fell silent for a moment. “Of course, when I started on the force, I was married. After my wife dumped me, I was more an object of pity around the office than anything else. No one was remotely interested.”

  “She dumped you?”

  “Big time.”

  Baxter inched forward. She was physically closer to him than she had ever been before, not counting the times when they were about to tear out each other’s throat. “Tell me about it.”

  “Not much to tell, really. She didn’t feel that my career—not to mention my income—was accelerating as quickly as it should. So she ran off with some rich guy who was in medical school.”

  “It all came down to money?”

  “Yeah.” He paused. “Well, that’s what I’ve always said. That’s how I’ve explained it away.” Why was he talking about this? He hadn’t even told Ben this. But for some bizarre reason, he felt as if he wanted to tell her. “And there’s an element of truth in it. But the more time passes, the more I realize I use that explanation—because I like that explanation.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it absolves me. Makes it look as if I didn’t do anything wrong. It was all her fault.” His eyes turned outward, toward the cabin. “But I think the truth is, I was a pretty sucky husband. I worked too much and gave her too little. It was my job to make her happy, after all. And I didn’t. That’s why she left. I don’t think it was the money so much as just that . . . she was bored. I bored her. Me and the life I was creating. She didn’t want any part of it.”

  “It’s not possible to make someone happy all the time,” Baxter said. Her voice seemed softer than it had before. “No matter what you do.”

  “Yeah. But I could’ve done better. A lot better.”

  “You will. Next time.”

  “Next time.” Mike laughed, but it was not a happy laugh. “I used to tell myself that. But time keeps on passing, and I become more and more obsessed with my work, and I don’t see much happening in my personal life. Julia has gotten on with hers. She’s been through several doctor boyfriends, got some highfalutin’ nursing job. Even had a kid. A little boy.” He drummed his fingers on the steering column. “I love kids. We always talked about having kids. But we never did.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry. To waste your time with all this soap-opera crap.”

  “Don’t do that.” She reached out and touched him on the shoulder. “If I’m going to be your partner, I have to know . . . who you are. Don’t push me away.”

  Mike looked at the hand still on his shoulder. He could feel heat radiating from it, from her. “I won’t.”

  “And it isn’t crap,” she continued. “It’s your life. My life. Such as they are. We all make mistakes. But we have to push on.”

  “Yeah?” Her head was moving closer to his, there in the darkness and the close quarters of the car. His head seemed to be closing the gap as well.

  “It’s too easy to crawl up in your shell and say forget it. It’s over. That’s not living. You have to take risks. You have to . . . reach out.”

  Their lips were barely an inch apart.

  “Morelli?”


  “Yeah?”

  “What do you think about cops who engage in intimate relationships with their partners?”

  “I think it’s stupid. Unprofessional. Usually a sign of serious mental problems.”

  “Me, too,” she whispered. “So are you going to kiss me or what?”

  Their lips touched.

  And barely an instant later, they heard the shot.

  “What the hell was that?” Baxter said, pulling away from him.

  “That was a gunshot. And it came from inside the cabin. Come on!”

  Mike flew out of the car. He pounded on the front door of the cabin. “Open up! Police!”

  No answer.

  He looked at Baxter. “You wanna do it, or shall I?”

  “Ladies first.” She brought up her heel and kicked the door, right beside the knob. The wooden door splintered. Two more well-placed kicks and the door was open.

  “Come on.” Mike led the way into the front living area, through the kitchen—

  Then stopped. They didn’t have to go any farther.

  Baxter’s hand flew up, covering her mouth. “Oh, my God. Oh, no.”

  Mike stared silently at the grisly—and all-too-familiar—tableau.

  The worst of it was that the walls of the cabin were white, so the blood and brains and tissue now splattered all over them stood out with dramatic intensity. It was like a scene from a madman’s surgical ward, but the only patient present was Sheila Knight, and the only surgical instrument, such as it was, was the small pistol still clutched in her lifeless hand.

  Three

  A Taste of Death

  Chapter

  23

  Ben stared grimly at the courtroom doors. “I don’t think I should even go in there.”

  Christina looked at him with a gaze so intense he could not escape it. “C’mon, Ben—we’ve got a job to do.”

  “You’ve got a job to do. I should take a powder.”

  “Ben, it’s been years since you were at Raven, Tucker & Tubb. You can’t run from Judge Derek forever.”

  “I’m not running. At least not for my own benefit. I have to think of Ray. Derek isn’t going to like what we have to say. Having me in the courtroom will only make it worse.”