Christina appeared dumbstruck. “Can he do that?”
Ben didn’t respond. He knew the answer all too well. He ran toward the bench. “Your honor, please don’t do this—”
Judge Perry began stacking his papers. “Counsel, it is already done.”
“But your honor,” Ben said. “You’re making a mistake. We did present sufficient evidence—”
“It’s over, Mr. Kincaid.” Judge Perry stood up and started toward the door. “If I’ve erred, then your appeal should be successful. But I very much doubt that, don’t you?”
“Even if I was successful on appeal, they wouldn’t reinstate the jury’s verdict. They’d just give me a new trial. I can’t afford a new trial!”
“Mr. Kincaid, I’m afraid that’s simply not my concern.” Perry passed into chambers, closing the door firmly behind him.
Ben whirled around to find Colby lurking. “Ben, that’s a tough break. This is a hell of a game we play, isn’t it? You have my condolences.”
Ben’s jaw was clenched. “Tell it to the parents.”
“Now, Ben …”
“You knew he’d do this, didn’t you? You knew all along.”
Colby tilted his head to one side. “I felt confident the judge would do the right thing in the end, if it was required, yes. You tried to pull off a sneaky, Ben. You tried to do an end run around the evidence. I knew Judge Perry wouldn’t allow that.”
“And I suppose the fact that the soon-to-retire judge is desperate to get into your firm had nothing to do with it?”
Colby’s smile increased slightly. “I don’t think I’d go so far as to use the word ‘nothing.’“
Ben was desperate to tell Colby how sick he made him, but he knew this wasn’t the time. Reporters were filing into the back of the courtroom; they’d love nothing more than to report how the “sore loser” Kincaid raved like a maniac at the victorious Colby. The best thing he could do right now was get the hell out.
He grabbed his trial notebook and one of the exhibit boxes. “We’re leaving,” he told Christina.
She grabbed some of the rest of their stuff, but by that time all means of egress from the courtroom were solidly blocked. Ben felt a horrible hollowness inside as he realized he couldn’t make it out of the courtroom without talking. But it wasn’t the talk with reporters he dreaded most. That would be a piece of cake compared to …
Cecily was waiting for him. Her face was streaked with tears. Two of the other parents were helping her stand. But she was waiting for him.
THREE
Home Is the Sailor, Home from the Sea
Chapter 43
MAYBE PFIEFFER WASN’t THE physical incarnation of evil after all, Mike mused, as he entered the third day of his stakeout. He had, after all, managed to ramrod through Mike’s expense check so he could leave Tulsa. He could just imagine the reaction when his request passed through the top brass. Morelli wants to take indefinite leave to fly south and hang out around a fishing cabin. Yeah, right—will the good lieutenant be taking his tackle box, too?
Somehow, though, Pfieffer had managed to get this approved. It was funny; since Mike had gotten him involved, since he found the missing sixty million dollars that gave Mike his first real lead, he’d done everything he could to advance Mike’s investigation, as if all at once he’d become a team player. He even asked to come along on this stakeout. Imagine that—Accountant by day; Danger Boy by night.
Not that Mike would mind a little company right about now. Once he’d pried out of Ronald Harris the location of the fishing cabin where Tony Montague died, he’d been determined to stake it out. Everyone involved in this case had been into fishing. Although the corporate records were incomplete, it was clear that at least some of the victims had come here on occasion—maybe all of them. It couldn’t be just a coincidence. Mike felt certain that if he staked out the place long enough, he’d stumble across someone else who was involved in this little escapade. A potential victim—or maybe the killer himself.
The problem was the waiting. In the course of his career, he’d been on a wide variety of stakeouts, of all shapes and sizes, and they all had one thing in common: intense boredom. Sure, once the perp made his move, the pace might pick up a bit. But until then, it was just one long tedious sit. And he hated sitting.
What could you do? Couldn’t listen to your Walkman; someone might get the drop on you. Couldn’t read a book, tempting though it was. His eyes had to stay on the door, and besides, it was dark outside, and the luminescent glow of an itty bitty book light would definitely attract attention. Couldn’t play solitaire, couldn’t recite poetry, couldn’t watch a ball game. All you could do was sit. Sit like a rock until you felt the moss start to creep—
Wait a minute. A shadow moved, down on the other side of the dock. Someone was moving toward the cabin.
Slowly, Mike lifted himself out of his private spot in the shadows of the brush on the opposite end of the dock. Slowly, he reminded himself. God knows he didn’t want to blow it now. Not when he’d come so far.
The silhouetted figure continued toward the cabin at top speed.
Mike crept along the dock as quietly as possible, trying not to attract any attention. His prey did not appear to have heard him; he was much too busy trying to get into the cabin. He was having trouble with the key; nervousness was making his fingers fumble. Which gave Mike just enough time to sneak up behind him.…
“Freeze, buddy.”
The man screamed. He whirled around, his hands flailing in the air. “Don’t kill me. Please! I’m begging you! Don’t kill me!”
Just a hunch, but Mike suspected this man was not the killer. He effortlessly blocked the man’s mostly wild and aimless blows.
“I don’t know anything! I don’t have it!” The man tried to run, but Mike grabbed him by the collar and swung him back by the door.
“Let me go! Someone call the police!”
Mike pulled out his badge. “I am the police, you nitwit. Now put your hands in the air and calm down.” He grabbed the man’s wrists and pinned them behind his back. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
The man peered at Mike’s face. “You’re the guy who’s been quizzing everyone at Blaylock. Morelli, isn’t that it? What’re you doing way out here?”
“I might ask you the same question.” Mike jerked his head toward the door. “Can you open that door?”
“Well … uh … yeah.” His face was red and flushed. “I think so.”
“Do it. Then we can have a nice chat.”
He was so nervous it still took several minutes of fumbling to turn the lock and open the door, but he finally managed it. Mike shoved him inside and turned on the lights.
The interior decor was spartan, to put it mildly. A few rudimentary pieces of furniture, that was it. Everything was covered with a thick layer of dust.
“So what’s your name?” Mike asked as he pushed the man into a wobbly wooden chair.
“Fred Henderson,” the man replied.
“Nice to meet you, Fred. What brings you to the cabin?”
“Me? I—I just came to fish.”
Mike smiled thinly. “Nice try. But I notice you aren’t carrying any fishing gear. And I’ve also been reliably informed that the company no longer lets its employees come here. Apparently they’re trying to sell the place.”
“Really?” Fred said, trying a bit too hard. “I hadn’t heard.”
“Yeah, right. And why should you, since you seem to have your own key.”
Fred thought for a moment. “I … accidentally forgot to return it. Last time I came out here. Come to think of it, I forgot my fishing pole, too.”
Mike grabbed the nearest chair and sat himself down in front of Fred. “Look, Fred—I’m going to make this easy for you. You’re not here for any officially authorized purpose. You’re here to hide. From the killer.”