His Runaway Juror. Mallory Kane
on it. We figure it’ll take about three days for the jury to figure out she’s not going to change her vote to guilty. We’ll be there to intercept you and Foshee, and to rearrest Simon. It’s all going smooth as silk.”
“I hope to hell you’re right.”
Brand disconnected and headed back inside. He sat down next to Foshee, who sent him a suspicious look.
“What took you so long?” he whispered.
“Got a call.” In case Foshee had looked out the courthouse door and seen him on the phone, he needed to stick as close to the truth as possible.
“Yeah?”
“Ex-girlfriend. Wants to hook up.”
Foshee grinned. “You could hook me up.”
“That would serve her right,” he muttered.
Foshee scowled at him.
Brand listened to the DA’s monotonous drone. Crap. In typical lawyer fashion, he was telling the jury what he was about to tell them. Then he’d tell them, then he’d tell them what he’d just told them.
After him, the defense attorney, paid for with Castellano’s money, got to put on his own performance.
And Brand was stuck here sitting next to Foshee, with his garlic breath and his bad teeth.
It was going to be a long day.
THREE DAYS LATER, retired police officer Bill Henderson drove his wife’s van toward Beachside Manor Nursing Home. He’d been surprised to hear from Joe Raines’s girl the other night. Lily had sounded frantic, scared to death. He’d tried to calm her down, but she’d begged him to listen to her.
He shook his head, amazed at what Lily had told him and ashamed at how hard he’d tried to weasel out of helping her. Especially now.
Like he’d told Lily, he’d done his twenty-five years on the force. He was looking forward to a lot of years of sitting out on the water in his little boat, fishing and drinking beer and just being happy to be alive.
He’d decided not to take any more private jobs. Most of them were just this side of sleazy. He didn’t like spying on cheating spouses or rounding up deadbeat dads.
His pension was enough, with his wife’s income from teaching, to keep them comfortable.
He turned onto the street that wound back around the bayous to the grounds of Beachside Manor. Funny name for a nursing home that was nowhere near the beach.
Lily had asked him to go to the nursing home on Friday morning and pick up her father for what she’d termed a “day trip.” She said she’d called the nursing home and given her permission. All he had to do was show photo ID.
“Take him somewhere, Bill. Please. I’ll pay you. Take him up to Jackson to a hotel. Just for a few days, until this trial is over. Then I’ll come get him and we’ll be out of your hair. Please. Do it for a fellow officer. You know he’d do it for you.”
As soon as she’d said those words, Bill had known he was sunk. So here he was, about to abduct a buddy of his who didn’t even know his own name. Like he’d promised Lily, he’d lied to his wife—told her he had to be out of town for a few days on a case.
He’d asked Lily what was going on, but she wouldn’t tell him. He had a feeling he knew. Another reason he’d tried his best to refuse. This had something to do with Sack Simon’s murder trial. Therefore it had something to do with Giovanni Castellano. He sure as hell didn’t want to tangle with Castellano.
The idea made Bill very nervous. He ran a finger under his tight collar and checked his weapon, which he’d stuck in a paddle holster at his back. He rarely carried it anymore, even though he had a permit.
The road to Beachside Manor was asphalt, with a narrow shoulder that quickly dropped off into a swamp. He kept his van toward the middle of the road as he rounded a steep curve.
A car was stopped in the middle of the road, and a woman in a tight skirt and a tighter blouse with the top buttons undone waved both arms at him. She looked hot and harried.
Bill slowed down and pulled up beside her. He lowered his passenger window. “Got car trouble, miss?” he asked.
“I don’t know what’s wrong. It just stopped, right here in the middle of the road. I’m supposed to be at the nursing home to pick up my mother.” She gestured behind her with a hand holding a cigarette.
“Hop in and I’ll give you a ride.” Bill pressed the button that unlocked the doors. As soon as he did, the driver’s door jerked open and a hefty guy stuck a gun into the folds of skin at his neck.
“Wha—?”
“Don’t move, Henderson.”
Bill didn’t move. Sweat popped out on his forehead and under his arms. He should have been prepared for this. Twenty-five years on the force had taught him better than to be caught by the oldest trick in the book.
“What do you want? Money?” Stupid question. It wasn’t money. The gunman had called him by name. This was Castellano’s doing.
Icy sweat gathered and trickled down his back and under his arms. His mouth went dry as a bone.
“Come on, man, I’m not hurting anyone. I’m just visiting a buddy.”
“Too bad you won’t get to see him. Did you think we wouldn’t have a bug on his daughter’s phone? She wouldn’t know, but you, Henderson. You’re an ex-cop. You should know better.”
Bill shook his head as sweat dripped down his face. “Don’t, please. I got a wife—”
It was the last thing he ever said.
SEVERAL HOURS LATER, in the confines of the jury room, eleven pairs of eyes stared at Lily in disgust and anger. It was the end of the second day of jury deliberations and they were all hot and tired and sick of each other.
To their surprise, the judge had sequestered them. The trial was too public, he’d said. The media was all over it. He wasn’t going to risk a mistrial.
He’d instructed them that they could either have a family member bring them clothing or go to their home accompanied by a court official to pick up their things.
Lily had been given five minutes to gather her makeup, clothes and toiletries. No mail. No newspaper. No laptop.
The foreman stood at the head of the table, waiting. “Well, Ms. Raines? Did you hear me? We still have eleven guilty votes. I trust that now, after you’ve had several hours to review the evidence, you are prepared to admit that Sack Simon is indeed guilty?” The insurance salesman managed to sound irritable and defeated at the same time.
Lily glanced at her watch. Bill Henderson should have picked up her father hours ago. It was scary as hell not being able to talk with him to be sure everything went as planned.
The slight bulk of her cell phone pressed against her thigh. She’d hidden it in a secret pocket of her handbag, and had stuck it in the pocket of her black suit skirt this morning with the ringer turned off.
She knew she’d be in legal hot water if the bailiff discovered that she had it, but she couldn’t afford to be without some means to contact Bill Henderson. She’d given him her number. Of course, she’d had no time alone to call out or check for incoming calls. Even during the two hours she’d requested to go over the evidence again, stalling for time, a security guard had sat with her.
It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Bill. He was as reliable as they came. He would never let down a fellow officer. Plus, he and her father had been good friends.
By this time he and her father should have arrived in Jackson safe and