Thanks to the burst of adrenaline shooting through his body when he sprang up and snapped the first shot, he somehow found himself sprinting through the hot breeze of the parking lot with amazing agility for someone so horribly out of shape. Tall and thin, he never exercised, spending most of his time online, parked in front of his big screen, or closeted away in his darkroom.
But once he was off the toilet, he unfolded long, thin legs and ran like hell.
His Nikes dug into the gravel and he pumped his arms furiously, weaving through hundreds of parked cars to get to his own burgundy Toyota.
Laying the camera on the passenger’s seat, Hadden cranked up, jerked the Camry into reverse, put it in drive, and took off spewing gravel. He burned rubber pulling onto the asphalt, locked the car doors, and belted himself in all while gunning the gas, surreptitiously glancing into his rearview mirror just in time to see C.C. lurch out of the club, a burly bouncer on either side of the Judge.
Damn fool.
Looking back, he could see the Judge and his two goons running through the strip club parking lot, looking for him in the wrong direction.
By now, he knew, Baby was long gone and wondering who had given “her” the two thousand dollars cash. He/she should have known that was way too much for just a Monica. But there was no way a hooker would turn down a cold two thousand dollars, and Frank knew it.
He also knew, after following this jackass for weeks, a judge no less, that there was no way he’d turn Baby down.
What a way to make a living.
His legs had fallen asleep while he’d been crouched on the toilet seat for nearly an hour, and now they felt like fiery daggers were tearing through them.
Hadden snaked through the back streets of Hispanic neighborhoods surrounding the Pink Fuzzy until he made it back to I-85.
Once there, he floored it, going north of the city, keeping one eye on the rearview mirror, just in case.
In minutes, the traffic and streetlights began to fall away. He picked up his cell and dialed the number he had been given.
No one ever answered, but he always got his payments on schedule, like clockwork.
The line was picked up by a machine, identified only by an outgoing beep.
“It’s me, Frank. I got the photos. The ones you wanted and plenty of extras. As soon as I get the last payment, they’re all yours. Negatives included, as promised.”
Another beep came, signaling the end of the allotted recording period.
He hung up the phone and tossed it onto the seat beside him.
Frank finally began to breathe easy. He dropped his speed to fifty-five mph as he continued heading north to his home on a cul-de-sac in one of thousands of nearly identical suburbs surrounding the city of Atlanta.
His neighbors had no idea what he did for a living.
But everybody who was anybody in certain circles knew that he was the best in the Southeast. He got it all-on tape, audio, and video-for people all over the country. Private dicks, the mags, sleazy divorce lawyers, jealous lovers-they all knew where to come.
If they had the money.
But even with business being good, he could always use more fat wallets like this one.
This was a major gig, and that moron Judge Carter made it easy.
Frank had tailed him for seven weeks, and the idiot never even looked in the rearview mirror. Not even once. Oh, wait, there was the one time Carter had actually waved at him.
For the first few days Frank started out with rented cars and elaborate disguises, which of course he billed to the customer, along with the entire stakeout. The bill was never questioned. The disguises didn’t last long, though. No need.
By the end, Frank was parking his Toyota right behind Carter’s car over at his girlfriend’s apartment. No fear of detection whatsoever.
Frank had hated people like Carter his whole life, ever since kindergarten. The ones who had it all, got it all without even trying. The Haves. Carter was so drunk off his own sense of self-entitlement, so used to the world being his oyster, he never looked up from his own front zipper.
Speaking of which, he was probably out in front of the Pink Fuzzy right now still trying to get his zipper up.
If he could find it.
60
New York City
HAILEY FROZE…HER MIND WRESTLING HAND-TO-HAND WITH her vision. She was speechless…staring at the impossible…the illogical. It couldn’t be true… It didn’t make sense.
Her silver Tiffany pen, engraved on the side, given to her by Katrine years ago after a murder trial.
She and Fincher had torn apart the courtroom looking for it…spending hours down on all fours between the pews of the courtroom, where Hailey had wandered during her closing arguments. They’d searched through all the evidence, the trial files and notes, even retracing Hailey’s footsteps back and forth to her office there in the courthouse. Finally, they gave up. Hailey remembered walking to the county parking garage that night feeling a loss, repeatedly touching her neck where the black silk cord normally hung down.
She never saw it again until now…years later in the interrogation room at the NYPD.
“Surprised, Hailey?” Kolker rolled the glinting silver back and forth gently between his thumb and fingers.
She had her back to the wall. The only strategy she had was to play him. Let him do all the talking. He was incredibly pleased with himself, barely able to contain his elation over the pen. Could he hold it in? Was Hailey wrong?
It took about thirty seconds.
“You thought you pulled it off, didn’t you. But you left this little calling card. You were there with Hayden when she died, Hailey, and this proves it. And I want you to know…I picked it up myself.”
He actually turned toward the mirror, his back to her as he went on.
“It didn’t take me long to realize it belonged to none other than the treating psych for both dead women. That’s no coincidence, Counselor. By trial time, believe me, we’ll come up with a way to explain your alibis. Just be glad New York got rid of the death penalty.”
So her pen had turned up after all this time…under Hayden’s body. In a single thoughtless boast, Kolker had given away a major prosecution strategy. Now she knew the strategic significance of the pen, where they’d found it, how they planned to use it against her, and, significantly, exactly who had picked it up. She knew about the hair, the article, the timing of the murders…it was no small amount of evidence…and this was just the beginning of the investigation.
Mustering every ounce of technique left in her body, she managed to keep a stoic mask in place. But now she understood the State’s case, what tied her to Hayden’s murder and, connecting the dots, to Melissa’s as well. Now she had the ammunition she needed to fight back.
But she had no choice. It would mean lying to the police. She wanted desperately to tell the truth but…they’d never believe the truth about the pen disappearing. It was a major gamble because if she were caught lying, she’d look guilty as hell. But tonight, there was no other way out. She reminded herself that Kolker couldn’t possibly know the history behind the pen. She swallowed hard and it hurt her throat.
“Hey…I’ve been looking for that. It’s my favorite. But Kolker, even coming from you, I’m shocked. This can only mean you searched my office without a warrant. I haven’t seen my pen since Hayden’s last visit. She was twisting the cord, wrapping and rewrapping the silk portion between her fingers while she talked. She played with it nearly the entire session. So it was there, in the office, but then…you came by…Kolker…did you take the pen from my office?”
The words were poison to any major investigation, accusing the cops of planting evidence, and they hung, foul-smelling in the close quarters of the interrogation room.