by Sandra Brown
“The Bureau doesn’t need his authorization.”
“No…” Headly said with marked hesitancy.
“But what? What’s the upshot?”
“Keeping guards on Amelia and the children isn’t warranted. They plan to withdraw them.”
“They can’t.”
“I asked for forty-eight hours.”
“That’s not enough time to—”
“They gave me twenty-four.” Headly glanced at the wall clock. “Now twenty-three and thirteen minutes.”
Dawson swore under his breath.
Headly said, “The Bureau will pursue Bernie Clarkson, if only to rule out that he’s Carl.”
“Fine. Good. But that still leaves Amelia and the boys vulnerable.”
“Knutz made a suggestion.” Headly looked at Amelia. “But I doubt you’re going to like it.”
Speaking for the first time in several minutes, she asked, “What is it?”
“You could call a press conference and announce that you have good reason to believe that your ex-husband wasn’t murdered, that he’s still alive and stalking you, that possibly he killed your nanny mistakenly, and that he represents a threat to you and your children.”
No one said anything for a moment, then Dawson asked, “What purpose would that serve?”
“Public opinion would likely favor her. Press would be all over it. That could jostle the local authorities into taking some action.”
“I won’t do it,” she said, brooking no argument. She looked toward the living area where Hunter and Grant could be heard laughing. “Can you imagine the effect it’s going to have on our lives when it’s disclosed that Jeremy is alive?”
“That’s an inevitability,” Headly gently reminded her. “Whenever and however it comes about, it’s going to have a dramatic impact.”
“Of course I know that. But I don’t want to be the ringmaster of the media circus when it happens. Eventually my sons will be identified as the children of a murderer, grandchildren of domestic terrorists. I can’t protect them from the truth, or prevent it from becoming public knowledge. But I also can’t conceive of how we’ll cope with the backlash. How will they live with that stigma?”
She looked to both men for an answer, but, of course, none was forthcoming, because there wasn’t one. Dawson held her tortured gaze for several seconds, then turned away. Headly was the first to break the strained silence.
“Okay, we’ll sit on the disclosure for as long as we can. In the meantime let’s try to find the sons of bitches. Did you come up with anything overnight, something you’ve remembered that could be useful? Where Jeremy might be hiding, who could be sheltering him?”
“I made a list of his friends, ones whose names I could remember. But by the time he disappeared, Jeremy had alienated most of them.”
“Where’s the list?”
“Upstairs on my desk.”
“Would you get it, please? Let’s take a look. I know it’s a long shot, but our time is running out. I still believe that as long as Carl and Jeremy don’t know—” Headly broke off when Dawson’s cell phone rang.
He checked the LED. “Harriet.”
Amelia looked to Headly for clarification. “NewsFront’s managing editor. A harpy.”
Dawson answered, but his editor cut him off in midsentence. He listened, then asked tersely, “Did the call come through the switchboard? What time?” He looked at his wristwatch. “What exactly did he want to know?”
She and Headly could tell by the tension in his posture that Harriet was passing on unwelcome news. After a full minute of listening, Dawson said, “Okay, thanks for letting me know. Yeah, yeah, I’m still trying to woo her.” He glanced at Amelia. “Right. She’d be a plum interview for sure. Which is why I gotta run now. Bye.” He clicked off and, after a beat, said, “A man identifying himself as Bernie Clarkson called her to get the skinny on me.”
Headly hissed through his teeth. “Carl knows.”
“At the very least he smells a rat.”
Amelia sat down heavily in the nearest chair. “What did he say specifically?”
Dawson recounted the conversation that his editor had repeated to him. “She said he sounded like a dotty old man. Cautious and suspicious. The last thing he asked was what or who had brought the Jeremy Wesson story to my attention. She told him she didn’t know, and she doesn’t. She believes that my interest was sparked by the Willard, Darlene, Jeremy love triangle and its deadly consequences, partially the result of his PTSD.”
Headly said, “But ‘Bernie’ thought there might be more to your interest, and acted on that hunch.”
“Apparently. He lied about the business card. I didn’t give him one. Which means that he went to the trouble to find out whom to call to check me out.”
“Well, at least she didn’t tell him anything that would arouse more suspicion,” Amelia said. “The opposite, in fact. She only confirmed that you’re a journalist on the trail of a good story.”
“I am that.” He stared thoughtfully into space for several moments, then rapidly punched in a number on his cell phone. “Glenda, love of my life, will you marry me? Okay, how ’bout we just have a hot affair? One-night stand, then. All right, all right, listen. Two things.
“First, Harriet took a call at her desk around nine fifty this morning. I can’t remember the number of her extension, but…Is it any wonder that I love you? Can you get me the number of the caller? God, no, don’t go through her. Go through the main switchboard, and make it casual.
“Second thing,” he paused and took a deep breath. “I need to go to jail without passing go. Can you help me?”
* * *
A female deputy assumed the role of nanny. The boys took to her immediately, especially when she set up a lengthy race track for their many cars. It wound from room to room and even up the staircase. They were enthralled with the makeshift ramps.
Another sheriff’s deputy arrived with groceries to replenish Amelia’s refrigerator and pantry. Having provided for her sons made her feel better about leaving them while she returned to the city with Headly and Dawson.
Headly was interested in seeing what remained of Jeremy’s effects that were still in her possession. “They’re in a strongbox in my apartment,” she told him. “Don’t expect too much. I’ve kept only some things the boys may want when they get older. His marksmanship medals. Things like that.”
Deputies in unmarked cars were in front of and behind her car when they drove off the ferry and made their way through Savannah. To Amelia, the caravan looked obvious, but she supposed the law officers knew what they were doing. Headly was wearing a shoulder holster beneath his jacket, which was both comforting and disconcerting.
The plan was for them to drop Dawson off at the jail visitation center and come back for him after their errand to her apartment.
“I could grease the skids for you,” Headly offered. “Make it more official.”
“Thanks,” Dawson said, “but I want to avoid being ‘official.’ A private citizen is more confidence inspiring.”
“You hope.”
“I hope.” As he got out of the car, he gave Amelia a meaningful look. “Later.”
“Good luck.”
After pausing to make certain that the unmarked cars were still serving as unobtrusive escorts as she drove away, Dawson entered the building where Willard Strong’s lawyer, Mike Gleason, was waiting for him in the lobby, as arranged by Glenda, who had passed herself off as a top-ranking executive at NewsFront. The attorney had fallen for her schmooze, which was as good as any when she set her mind to it.
“I appealed to his vanity, and he fell for it,” she’d told Dawson when she called him back to confirm the appointment.
He’d forgiven her for being unable to obtain more information about Carl Wingert’s telephone call to Harriet. As Dawson had expected, it had come in on a number that was blocked. “Sorry, I couldn’t help you there,” the researcher had said.
“You�
�re still a sweetheart. You got me this meeting, and that’s a coup.”
Now, puffed up with self-importance, the lawyer approached him. “Mr. Scott?”
They shook hands. “Thank you for agreeing to talk to me.”
“With no guarantee of granting you an interview with my client.”
“I hope to convince you that it would be in his best interest.”
“Then you’ve got your work cut out for you.”
Gleason accompanied the snarky comment with a gesture toward a sitting area where they could chat.
He was about the same age as Dawson, nice-looking, and well dressed. But he wasn’t an effective trial lawyer. His cross-examination of Amelia had been disastrous, and he hadn’t recovered much ground by putting his client on the witness stand.
He talked tough, but Dawson guessed that the chest thumping was to compensate for basic insecurity. He was in over his head and he knew it, but he would go down kicking.
“I thought NewsFront had folded.”
It was a mild but intentional gibe. Dawson responded with a bland smile. “We’re hanging in there. One of the few.”
“I was told that you’re covering the trial for the magazine.”
“I’m covering the trial for myself. It’s a compelling story, start to finish.” He didn’t have time to pussyfoot around or spare Gleason’s inflated ego. He laid it out there. “The way things stand now, the story will end with Willard Strong going to death row.”
Gleason took exception, which Dawson had anticipated. He talked over the attorney’s sputtered protests. “Which will be a tragic miscarriage of justice, because your client is innocent.”
That stopped the spate of objections. Dawson raised his eyebrows as though asking permission to continue. Curtly, Gleason bobbed his head.
“Willard was framed for his wife’s murder.”
“What makes you think so, Mr. Scott?”
“I’m not prepared to divulge that.”
Gleason looked disappointed, then put out. “You’re trying to pull a fast one, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Did you try to get an interview with Lem Jackson, too? Did you tell him you think we wasted the state’s money on a trial, that Willard is as guilty as sin and should have gone straight to prison?”
“No.”
“But you’ll admit that an interview with my client would embellish the story you intend to write.”
“Damn straight it will. But by letting me talk to him, you’d be doing him a favor as well as me.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Tell me how it could benefit him.”
“You mean in addition to setting him free instead of condemning him to death?” Dawson didn’t expect a reply, and Gleason didn’t bother to make one. “Your client has a major PR problem. Even if he isn’t a killer, he looks like one. He carried a massive chip on his shoulder into the courtroom each day. Then you put him in the witness box and suddenly he’s earnest, woebegone, pathetic. A man trying to save his life would be expected to have a change of heart and become more humble, but I don’t think the jury bought Willard’s sincerity.”
“You can’t influence the jurors’ perception of him. They won’t have access to anything you write.”
“True.”
“Then—”
“I can possibly change the course of the trial. But first you must let me talk to him. Only then can I help Willard help himself.”
“Helping him is my job.”
“With all due respect, you’re failing.”
Again, the ego reared. “The jury’s not in yet, Mr. Scott.”
“The odds for an acquittal are slim to none. Admit it.”
He admitted nothing, but he said, “Give me another reason why this is a good idea.”
“Unless there’s a major upset, something like a mistrial, he’ll be convicted.”
“I’m not conceding the point. But if he is convicted, I’ll immediately file for an appeal.”
“Your appeal could coincide with a national magazine story slanted in Willard’s favor.”
“You’d do that? You’d write it that way?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I’d stake my career on his innocence.”
“Are you yanking my chain?”
“No.”
That seemed to impress him, but he still wasn’t ready to concede. “I looked you up on the Internet. You’ve written your share of smear stories.”
“About people who deserved to be smeared.”
“So, how do I know that isn’t what you plan for my client?”
“You don’t.”
“How do I know you aren’t bullshitting me when you say you think he’s innocent?”
“You don’t.” After a second, he added, “I know you’re taking a leap of faith here, but it will pay off.”
The lawyer chewed on that, literally. The inside of his cheek was being brutalized by his molars. At last, he said, “Let me sleep on it.”
“Nope. This is a onetime offer.”
“But I need time to—”
“No time. Tell me now. Yes or no?”
“You’re working under a deadline?”
He’d posed the question tongue-in-cheek, but Dawson answered solemnly. “You have no idea.”
Dawson could tell that the attorney’s pride struggled with the concept of surrender and that it got the better of him. “Sorry, Mr. Scott. No soap. At least not until I’ve considered it, consulted my client, and weighed our options.”
Dawson wanted to grab him by his well-tailored lapels and shake him. He didn’t, but he leaned forward and spoke rapidly, aggressively. “What options? What options? You have two. Twelve people are ready, even eager, to have a needle shoved into Willard’s vein. He dies an innocent man and you chalk up a big ugly black mark in your loss column. That’s one option.”
He leaned even closer. “And then there’s me, the town crier on Willard’s behalf. He goes free, you’re hailed a hero, you go on TV to talk about it, and every felon in the South is begging you to be his defender.”
Dawson could tell he liked the sound of that, but still he was wrestling with it. “That all sounds good, but—”
“What?”
“It might not work out that way.”
“It for damn sure won’t if you turn me down.”
“I’m not turning you down flat. But caution is called for here.”
“No time for caution. You’ve got to decide.”
“But—”
“You gotta say yes and say it now.”
“You—”
“I’m the only hope for your client.”
“He—”
“Hasn’t got a prayer and you know it.”
“I—”
“Grant me the goddamn interview.”
Dawson’s imperious shout took him aback, but it also worked. He unfolded his arms. He licked his lips. “It’ll be like a webcam.”
“Fine.”
“I’ll be right there the whole time.”
“Fine.”
“I’ll record the entire interview and have it transcripted afterward.”
“Fine.”
“If you slander him, I’ll sue you and your magazine.”
Dawson stood up. “Deal.”
The short-notice meeting with the prisoner took time to arrange. It seemed interminably long to Dawson, who paced while Gleason dealt with staff who seemed to have nothing but time on their hands. Eventually, they were situated in a room that allowed them a video interview with Willard Strong.
In another part of the jail, Strong was led into a room, manacled and shackled. Radiating hostility, he slumped down into the chair in front of the monitor through which he could communicate. He regarded his lawyer with patent contempt. Then his belligerent gaze shifted to Dawson. “Who the fuck are you?”
Dawson gave him a lazy smile. “Be nice, Willard. I’m the guy who’s here to save your sorry self.
”
* * *
Amelia and Headly were headed back toward the jail. She was driving. Headly was in the passenger seat, talking on his cell phone to Knutz. A minor collision on the expressway had slowed traffic to a crawl. The sheriff’s unmarked cars were having as much difficulty switching lanes as she.
Headly ended his conversation. “Knutz is trying to buy us more time, using that phone call to Dawson’s boss as leverage. Why would little ol’ Bernie phone her in the first place? Why would he lie?”
“Unless he was Carl.”
“Knutz is acting on that. Meanwhile the boat hasn’t given up any clues.”
Nor had the strongbox. Nothing useful was discovered: no map, property deed, lease, or paperwork of any kind.
That having proved fruitless, they’d divided the list of Jeremy’s former friends that she’d compiled, and working on their separate cell phones, the two of them had placed dozens of calls. In preparation for the inevitable question Why are you asking me about Jeremy now? Headly had made up an explanation involving a fictitious tax return with a questionable deduction that was affecting the trust funds set up for Hunter and Grant. He’d advised Amelia on the buzzwords to use.
“Do you think they’ll understand that gibberish?” she asked.
“No. And to avoid any further involvement, no one will ask for clarity. That’s the point.”
Many of the numbers they called were no longer in service. Some had been answered by voice mail, on which they’d left messages asking the individual to call them back on a matter of grave importance.
Of the few people with whom they’d spoken, all were reluctant to talk about Jeremy and were actually ill at ease for having been singled out as a former acquaintance. Most reactions were wary, some downright hostile.
Repeatedly both Headly and Amelia were told that the questions they were putting to them now had already been asked by police more than a year earlier, when Jeremy went missing and was presumed dead. They’d told everything they knew then.
She braked for a pickup truck trying to wedge its way in and looked over at Headly. “Where do we go from here?”
“Maybe Dawson got something out of Willard.” He shifted in his seat and turned slightly toward her. “What do you think of him?”