Murder in the Courthouse. Nancy Grace

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      Todd Adams wouldn’t answer.

      “I said, understood?”

      “Understood, Mother.”

      “Good. You’ll see, sweetheart. And don’t worry about the Cynthia girl. That will have no bearing on this whatsoever. It was just a stupid mistake on your part, really just careless. It was ancient history . . . all the way back to high school. Nobody cares about that. And, truth be told, if you hadn’t been married to someone . . . someone like her . . . you’d have never sought a shoulder to cry on. That’s all it was really, just a shoulder to cry on. This will all turn out just fine. You’ll be out of here in no time and back home where you belong. With your father and me.”

      Todd Adams said nothing.

      Undeterred by her son’s lack of enthusiasm, she went on. “Mark my words, son, we will hold our heads up high in this town again. We will show our faces at church the very first Sunday you are out of this . . . this dungeon, and we will march right up the center aisle and onto the front row. You’ll see.”

      “Mom, if you hate this town so much, why don’t we just move once this is over?”

      The look she gave him should have killed him, but it didn’t. In fact, it seemed to have no impact at all.

      Looking deftly over her shoulder, she plowed forward a little more loudly and a lot more cheerfully. “I’ll bring the pictures of Julie over in the morning. The wedding photo, in particular, will look perfect right over your bed. On second thought, maybe we should go with, I mean, you’d probably want the sonogram.”

      He looked up at his mother blankly. “The what?”

      “The sonogram . . . of the baby . . . from the doctor’s office, you dolt.” The words came out in another hiss that caused the guards to look toward them.

      Tish Adams straightened her spine, smoothed down the pale yellow skirt of her matching Talbots sweater and skirt set, and pulled up the corners of a smile. She methodically gathered together her purse, papers, and a gorgeous set of faux tortoiseshell Chanel sunglasses. She stood up to leave. Brushing past the guards, she smiled brightly. “Hello, gentlemen! How nice to see you this morning! Have a blessed and wonderful day, you two.”

CHAPTER FIVE

      Hailey lowered the window to let the breeze blow onto her face and rush through her hair. It was the exact opposite of the canned, recirculated air on the plane. Leaving the airport exit, grass on either side of the I-95 waved gently in the breeze. A lonely seagull flew just ahead of the Crown Vic, floating on a current against a blue sky.

      The hot afternoon was interrupted when squawks on Fincher’s police radio ripped into a steady stream, the brief jumble of numbers repeatedly followed by an address or a truncated sentence.

      Police spoke in a language of numbers, each one signaling a different police call: car accident, burglary, stolen car, and so on. The numeric talk was so pervasive on the job it became second nature, and they often used it in regular speech.

      “Turn it up, Fincher.”

      “No, little girl, this is none of our business. This isn’t Atlanta.”

      “Come on. Turn it up. I can’t help it. I have to know!”

      “OK. But curiosity killed the cat . . .”

      “And satisfaction brought it back!” She had a comeback ready. Fincher reached his right hand across and turned up the volume on his police radio.

      “Repeat . . . 48-4 . . . 50-48. 48-4 . . . 50-48.” The voice from dispatch sounded urgent.

      “Hailey, that’s a—”

      “I know what it is. Person dead.”

      Dispatch interrupted again. “. . . 3443 Randolph Drive . . . corner Randolph and Armory.”

      “All units in the vicinity, signal 63. Repeat . . . signal 63. Code 3. Repeat signal 63.”

      Hailey felt a shock go down her body and turned quickly to Fincher. “It’s a 63, Fincher.” A sick feeling burned in the pit of her stomach. 63 meant officer down.

      Suddenly, Fincher jerked the wheel to the right, steering the car at the last second across two lanes of speeding cars and up an exit ramp off the interstate.

      “What are you doing, Finch?”

      “I know that street. I know that address. I’ve been there. My army buddy’s off Randolph. We were in Iraq together.”

      “And?” Hailey didn’t need to finish the sentence.

      “And we’re going over there.”

      “Fincher, you just got back from Iraq. Vickie will kill you if she finds out you headed to an active homicide scene you didn’t have to go to. Forget you, she’ll kill me for letting you go!”

      “We have to go. I’m not standing by. It’s a cop down. But I’ll let you out. I don’t want you to be there. You’re not even armed.”

      Hailey unbuckled her seat belt.

      “Hey! I’m doing eighty miles an hour! Put your belt back on!” He shouted it across the three feet between them. Ignoring him, Hailey bent over the front seat and reached into the back of the car, and leaning lower, unzipped her roller board.

      Fincher took a sharp right turn and Hailey slid backward, her head nearly slamming into the back seat. Reaching deep into her bag, between layers of folded clothes, she yanked out a single item. Not bothering to re-zip the bag, she turned face forward and belted herself back into the passenger’s seat. Finch spotted her black Lycra shoulder holster, special-made for Hailey, clenched in her hand.

      “Hailey, you can’t go unarmed. You don’t have a gun for that, do you?”

      “I know you, Fincher. You’re packing hip, shoulder, and ankle. So don’t waste time.”

      Keeping one hand firmly on the wheel, he reached down to his ankle and with one quick snap of Velcro, handed her a .38.

      “You still hate guns, Hailey?”

      “I don’t know what you mean by that.” Hailey tensed, keeping her eyes fixed on the road ahead.

      “Every time you see a gun, you think about Will. Just like in the courtroom. The sight of a gun still makes you sick . . . right? I bet you haven’t dated one guy more than five times up in Manhattan. Have you? I knew moving to New York and getting out of the business wouldn’t change anything. Different place, same Hailey Dean . . .”

      She didn’t answer, raising her window, looking out as the houses passed, watching street signs knowing Randolph would pop up at any minute.

      “This is it. 3443 Randolph.”

      He was right. Hailey clicked the safety belt and, bending forward at the waist, slipped on the holster made especially for her. Adjusting it over СКАЧАТЬ