Bobby ordered a drink but Quinn passed. Unlike the Bobby Jacksons of the world, Quinn had a day job. "Nice of you to buy some more chips so you could let that old guy from Phoenix win back his money," Bobby said as Quinn stood to leave. "Me, I'd have kept his fifteen grand too."
"He looked suicidal," Quinn said. "I don't believe in separating fools from their pensions."
"I've played with him before," Bobby responded. "The guy's almost a billionaire. Made a fortune with those check-cashing places that charge poor people obscene amounts of money to cash payroll checks." He smiled. "For a jury lawyer, you're a lousy judge of character."
"Obviously," said Quinn. "Look who I chose for a card partner."
On his way home, Quinn did some more math. Forty-five thousand would cover the fee for the jury consultant from Annie's trial, part of Rosemarie Mancini's fee, and the cost of the trial transcript. His firm's legal fees could wait, but expert consultants expected to get paid if you wanted them around for a retrial.
After he had raised enough to cover all of the expenses for Annie's retrial, Quinn would go back to old school gambling-no partners, no scams, just solid strategy and a few well-timed bluffs. In the meantime, for Annie's sake, he would park his conscience at the door and work with Bobby Jackson, rationalizing that blowhards like Tex would never miss a few thousand bucks.
21
Saturday morning started bright, beautiful, and early for Catherine O'Rourke. She slept comfortably in her own bed Friday night, tucked away in her duplex on the corner of Holly Road and 34th Street, just a few blocks from the ocean. She had intended to sleep in late but woke at 6 a.m. and couldn't force herself back to sleep.
She gave up at 7:00, threw on some workout clothes, brushed her teeth, and grabbed the morning paper. She drove to Starbucks and took her coffee to her favorite boardwalk bench, where she could enjoy the unseasonably warm sun. Scanning the local news first, she read the satisfying story of her own release from prison. Boyd Gates stoically said he disagreed with the Virginia Supreme Court's ruling but was prepared to abide by it, as if he had any choice. Marc Boland declared it a banner day for a free press.
The coverage included an unflattering picture of Cat as she emerged from jail. She would give them an earful about that later today.
She sipped her Arabian Mocha coffee and turned to the front-page story about the Carver and Milburn kidnappings written by one of Cat's colleagues. Though the kidnappings had a similar MO, the victims were very dissimilar. The Carvers were rich, white, Southern lawyers, Virginia gentry with lots of money. Clarence Milburn and Sherita Johnson were the unmarried parents of three-month-old Rayshad Milburn, who lived with his mother. They had very little money, and the police report indicated that cocaine residue was found in Sherita's car when the police searched it immediately after the kidnapping. Clarence was a convicted felon who had recently dodged a bullet on rape and murder charges when the police botched a search warrant.
The article featured a number of quotes from Dr. Rebecca Ernst, a well-known criminal profiler. Though other experts thought the Avenger of Blood was a man, Ernst raised the possibility that the Avenger might be an athletic woman. In both kidnappings, the Avenger had used a needle with a fast-acting anesthetic, methohexital, to help subdue the person taking care of the infants. In the case of Sherita Johnson, the Avenger had also used a Taser to immobilize Sherita before injecting the drug. In the Carver case, the Avenger had attacked sixty-nine year old Marcia Carver from behind, covering her mouth and putting her in a choke hold until the drug could do its work. Most men, according to Dr. Ernst, probably would have just knocked the victims out using brute force. Dr. Ernst therefore believed the Avenger was quite possibly a woman with some type of medical background.
Ernst refused to comment on whether the police were dealing with a serial criminal who could be expected to strike again. There were too many unknowns, Ernst said, but mothers and fathers everywhere should exercise extreme caution.
None of this was news to Catherine, though she almost dropped her coffee when she looked at the pictures of Clarence Milburn and Sherita Johnson. She recognized Milburn! The broad nose, the flat face, the volcanic eyes. It was the same man Cat had seen in her second vision-she was sure of it.
The woman in her vision had been more in the shadows in the corner of the cell. There were some strong similarities, but she couldn't say for sure if the woman was Sherita Johnson or not. But there could be no mistaking Clarence Milburn.
Cat stared at the picture for a moment, wondering if she might have seen this man sometime before her jailhouse vision. Somehow, her mind must have stored a picture of Milburn and then subconsciously recalled that picture when she had the vision in the prison cell. Or maybe the man in the vision hadn't really looked like Milburn at all. Maybe she was just filling in the vague features from her nightmare by using Milburn's features, the ones filling her mind's eye at this very minute.
Either way it was creepy. This case was freaking her out.
She folded the paper and headed back to her duplex. She had to get Milburn's image out of her mind. She would go home, lace on her Rollerblades, and head to the boardwalk for a workout. The misty breeze from the salt water would clear her head. Her editor, Ed Shaftner, had authorized her to write a brief journal about her two days behind bars, and she knew she needed to get that finished right away. It would run in the Sunday paper with another story about the Carver case. "We're gonna make you a star," Shaftner had promised.
But after what she had just been through, Catherine didn't want to be a star. She didn't particularly want to deal with any more confidential sources either. She just wanted to be a regular reporter. And she wanted the Avenger behind bars.
She needed to work out some pent-up emotions and feel the ocean breeze blowing in her face. What better way than to go rollerblading at breakneck speed, dodging the tourists and elderly couples and surfers and stroller moms who hogged the boardwalk?
Her editor could wait. The boardwalk couldn't.
Catherine returned to her duplex after a thirty-minute workout and noticed a small brown package leaning against her door. She opened it and found a cell phone inside with a typed note. "Speed dial 2. I owe you. 'A law-enforcement source familiar with the investigation.'"
Catherine recognized the last phrase. It was the way she had described Jamarcus Webb in the article that had landed her behind bars.
She took off her Rollerblades, stepped inside her duplex, and dialed the number.
"Good morning," Webb said in his deep baritone.
"Good morning, Jamarcus."
"Are you inside your apartment?"
It wasn't technically an apartment, but she knew what he meant. "Yes. Why?"
"Let's not take any chances. As you talk, walk down toward the ocean. Make sure you're not being followed."
"Okay. Hang on a second."
This cloak-and-dagger stuff was making Catherine nervous. Nonetheless, she took a quick glance around as she grabbed a pair of sandals. Satisfied she wasn't being followed, she headed for the boardwalk.
"You do owe me," she said.
"I know. And I'm grateful." Jamarcus exhaled. He sounded nervous. "How was the prison food?"
"Why'd you call, Jamarcus? And why this elaborate deal with the new cell phone?"
"There are a lot of folks trying to discover your source. We can't be too careful."
She waited, knowing he had more.
"Did you know we've interviewed about a half dozen persons of interest?" Jamarcus asked.
"No." And in a way, Catherine no longer wanted to know the details. She had a newfound respect for the price of that information.