Ride the Lightning Page 5

  Max leaned back and folded his hands behind his head.

  "Juliana, can you look closer? Check the trash, especially in the bathroom? You know your shit. I need you to let me be the judge of importance. Ethan, what about this farm you're at?"

  "It belongs to an affiliate of the club. An old guy named Sully. We're camping in barracks that housed cotton pickers about a thousand years ago. There was something today though. Duke was talking to some guy in overalls with a Hawthorne patch on the back."

  I perked up. "That's the chemical plant. It's about twenty minutes east. It seems like half their crew comes to the bar. Why would someone from the plant be meeting up with your guys?"

  Max snapped forward. "Now that's interesting. It's the first connection we have between the bar and the farm. I'll do some digging. Would you recognize him if you saw him again?"

  "Yes. If he comes back, I'll try to snag the license plate."

  "Good job. Both of you hand over your phones."

  Ethan slid his across the table without question. Since I'd been at the bar, I'd traded burners for a no-contract smartphone. I wasn't sure, but I complied. Max's fingers flew over the screens.

  "I've updated both with Uncle Sam's latest tracking app. Keep them charged and turned on so I can find you any time. I'll deploy my flying friends to keep an eye on things as well. I have several civilian models that won't track back to me if they're spotted or crashed."

  "Can I close my bathroom door?" It was snotty, and I wasn't sorry about it. Lawyers aren't big on being under surveillance.

  "You might want to line it with aluminum foil."

  Before I could retort, Ethan changed the subject. "Would you mind giving me some time with Max? Work stuff. I promise it has nothing to do with this situation."

  I was ready to be done with this. "No problem. See you later? The club's closed tomorrow. You can help me search in the morning."

  "I'd like that. Do you want me to walk you back?"

  "I'm good. You guys have your tea party."

  Max pulled a small pistol from one of his pockets. "Here, I'd feel better."

  I tapped the back of my waistband. "I'm good."

  "Yes, you are. Be careful. We'll keep an eye on you."

  "Later."

  I had no idea why I was so foul. Everything I'd learned, which was nothing, whirled around in my head. Something was going on right under my nose, and I didn't like it.

  I was at the gate before I realized I'd left my screwdriver on the table. I cursed the lack of light as I fumbled with the lock using the bottle opener from my pocket tool. I'd had no trouble getting it open, but it refused to lock. A sharp-eyed patrol cop might notice if I left it ajar.

  "You all alone?"

  He was big. Not tall, but wide and heavy, his thick arms bulging from his sides. It was too dark to see his face. His white shirt outlined him. I stumbled backward, and the balky latch chose that moment to click into place.

  "Get the fuck away from me." I reached for my gun, but my shirt tail had snagged on one of the decorative metal spikes and turned into an effective strait jacket.

  His voice was silky as sludge. "Just asking if you're alone. Thought you might've needed help. No need to be getting all mad."

  My choices included screaming and fighting or keeping my cool while I tried to free my weapon.

  "How about you tell me your name?" The blast of liquor and tobacco breath sent me back to Austin with Nesbitt coming at me with that knife in his hand.

  Before he could take another step toward me, a narrow beam of light blasted my peripheral vision. I caught a brief glimpse of a dirty bearded face before my assailant howled, threw his hands over his face, and fell to his knees. The intense light reflecting off his white shirt replaced what remained of my night vision with dancing multi-colored spots.

  A voice came from behind me. "Cover your eyes and step aside." A hint of movement and my shirt was free. The gate squeaked open, and a hollow meaty thud cut off the whimpering.

  "Max?"

  "Take your time and open your eyes nice and slow. Sorry for the lack of warning, but surprise was necessary. Ethan's about ten feet back with our guest in his sights."

  As I blinked, the flashes receded, and I could make out Max standing over the man who'd tried to attack me. A gash across his temple explained what I'd heard.

  "I'm sorry. He must have been next to the water. We didn't pick him up until he was right on top of you." Ethan's nearness startled me. Dressed all in black and moving like a cat, he'd made no sound.

  "Is he dead?" I hated the shakiness in my voice and knees.

  Max pocketed the flashlight. "No, he'll have quite a headache in the morning. We need to stash him under the pier and then get out of here."

  "I need to go." It was little more than a whisper, but they both turned to me.

  Ethan pried the tool out of my right hand and folded it. "You sit on the bench and wait. We won't be long."

  "No. I need to go now." The last word came out sharper than I'd intended. "I'm okay. No one will get the drop on me again."

  "She's right. With our creds, we might be able to talk our way out of this. She's harder to explain. Take this. If a leaf drops, push the button and point." Max's flashlight fit in my hand.

  "Keep it. A cool 800 blinding lumens and a weighted bezel for those times when Hallmark doesn't have a card. All the fashionable cops will be carrying them this year."

  I smiled in spite of myself but I knew it was weak. "I kept trying. I couldn't draw. I was ready to fight. Then it was like Nesbitt."

  Ethan started toward me. Max stopped him.

  "Listen up. You did great. You didn't panic, even when you got hung up on the gate. And since you let the cavalry do its job; we don't have to worry about who might have heard gunshots or screams. You held your shit and your instincts were perfect. Turn around."

  Still shocked, I did as I was told without asking why.

  He lifted my shirt tail and said, "Here's part of the problem. This holster is crap. Even in the clear, you wouldn't have drawn clean. Okay for targets, not so good for combat. That we can fix. Now go. We've got work to do and so do you. You're part of a team now and we've got your back."

  His words stayed with me, even after I was behind locked doors.

  CHAPTER 14

  Tuesday afternoon arrived with gray skies that suited my thunderous mood. Only someone with a death wish would knock on my door today. Handing the party over to Joey during lunch hadn't improved my temper. It wasn't anything specific, only a sense of foreboding. Ethan and I had searched every inch of the club and found nothing except a bag of weed wedged behind a toilet in the men's room. The Sunday afternoon cleaning crew had cleared out every scrap of trash, and all the surfaces gleamed.

  "Come in." It was as much snarl as greeting.

  I caught a glimpse of blonde hair in my peripheral vision, and I waved her to the chair.

  "You're not fired, but you're on my last nerve. Make it quick."

  "Well, that's good to know. I was totally losing sleep over it." The sharp sarcasm in her voice pulled my attention away from the computer monitor.

  Maddie Hyatt didn't only look different; she was different. The hair, usually in a piled-high curly up-do, was restrained in a ponytail. The glittery costume jewelry was now a row of Tiffany bangles. Most of all, it was her posture. The country girl waitress had morphed into a serious woman.

  I didn't say anything. She obviously had something to tell me, and I wasn't about to make it any easier for her. She held up better than I expected, better than most men I've stared down. When she finally broke eye contact, I took the opportunity to get coffee. It wasn't a peace offering. It was more like an opening gambit.

  "Cream and sugar?"

  "Yes, a bit of each." Her voice wasn't quite as nasty as before, but there was still a difference. Her exaggerated honey and syrup accent was gone.

  Silence descended again, interrupted only by the clink of cups on saucers.

/>   She put daggers in her next statement. "I know who you are."

  Now we were getting somewhere. I topped off my coffee and offered more to Maddie. She refused. Her attitude was fraying around the edges.

  "I know about Dallas and your father."

  "Okay, you've proven you can use the internet. Do you truly think you're the first person to say that to me?"

  Actually, she was. Still, I wasn't about to let on.

  Maddie stood and leaned over my desk.

  "I also know exactly who your boyfriend is."

  I'll never be as fast as Ethan, but I had a lot of pent-up anger left over from my failure to protect myself at the pier. My personal weapon, a steel-polymer twin-magazine shotgun nicknamed "The Bolt-Cutter," lives on a mount under my desk. I kicked my chair back and with one motion, she was looking down the 12 gauge barrel.

  "If you really do know me, then you know I'll do it."

  Her hands flew up, and she tripped back into her chair. The bravado melted, but there was no panic.

  "I told my firm everything before I came here. If you kill me, they'll expose his identity."

  Her firm?

  "Nice try. I wouldn't expect you to say anything different."

  "Is it worth the risk? Is he worth it to you?"

  The stand off. I was sure I could get to Ethan first but there was no room for errors. I put the shotgun on my desk where it was accessible. The magazine selector switch was on birdshot, more than enough to spoil her day if she so much as flinched in the wrong direction.

  "Talk. You are taking a risk that's as big as it is stupid. This had better be good."

  "I need your help."

  "You have a dumb ass way of asking for it. What did you mean by firm?"

  "Can I get in my purse?"

  I let her see my hand tighten around the Cutter's grip before I nodded. She put a business card face down on my desk.

  "Stay in your chair."

  The thick card stock felt familiar in my hand, and I had a weird feeling as I turned it over.

  Madeline Hyatt

  Criminal and Family Law

  The Sinclair Law Firm

  Madison Mississippi

  "What's a silk-stocking lawyer doing hustling beer in my club? Are billable hours down?"

  Despite the shade I was throwing, my mouth was dry. There were no innocent explanations for this.

  "I need your help. I'm good, but you're better, and I'm out of my depth here."

  "You already said that. Details, now, or get the fuck out of my bar." I punctuated the last sentence by stretching my finger and putting it over the trigger. It was outside the guard and plenty safe but intended to intimidate. It worked. She swallowed hard, and her hands fluttered in her lap.

  "He's innocent."

  "Who?"

  "Billy Ray Simpson. He's innocent. His family hired us to do the final appeals. I came down here to investigate because we're blocked at every turn. He didn't do it, and time is running out. I need your help."

  "I don't practice law anymore."

  "You're still a lawyer. A great one from what I've read. I need your help to find out what actually happened. It's the only way to stop the execution."

  "What part of this made you think threatening Ethan would make me inclined to help you?"

  "Would you be talking to me otherwise?"

  That threw me and I had to be honest. "No."

  "I wanted to search the club when no one was here. I guilted Sandra into giving me her key card. When you let everybody go early, I thought you were going out. I was stupid and didn't check for your car. I truly did plan to sneak out the side door. Then I overheard the conversation once you two settled down. When information drops in your lap, you use it."

  "What were you searching for?"

  "Anything. Something about Sarah Jean or about the sheriff."

  "The sheriff?"

  "It's my gut feeling that he's involved in this. I can't put my finger on it. There's a bad feeling I get from reading the case documents. All I'm asking is that you look at the file. Please. And then talk about it. Help me any way you can. They're going to kill an innocent man. I'm desperate and don't tell me you're not curious. I heard you and Joey talking about Sarah Jean."

  It was all I could do to bring my coffee cup to my lips and not grimace at the lukewarm swill. I needed to think. Maddie or Madeline, this woman risked a lot coming here. None of this added up. Another emotion nibbled at the edge of my thoughts. Curiosity does more than kill cats. It also drags lawyers into quagmires. I already hated the party. Even with everything else going on, I couldn't resist a look at the file.

  "Question."

  She perked up and nodded. I almost laughed. With her fluffy blonde bangs and pert features; she reminded me of Simon when I called him.

  "Why are you here and not an investigator? A law firm in Madison can afford one."

  "We're a small operation. Very discreet."

  "Maddie, you do know that I'm going to vet you before I agree to anything, right?"

  "You can call the number on the card."

  "That's adorable. By tomorrow morning I'll know what grade you got in Torts."

  She squirmed in her chair and wouldn't meet my eyes.

  It was time to end this. "Spill it. My get the fuck out invitation stands. Know this, if you threaten Ethan again, you won't be able to call anyone because both of your hands will be broken."

  The white knuckles told me that my threat registered.

  "We're a three-lawyer firm. Jo Sinclair inherited the house and the fancy address from her father. We're good, but we're not big. There's not much cash left at the end of the month. The closest thing we have to an investigator is Sasha. She's a combination of forensic geek and hacker. She's the one who confirmed your boyfriend's identity. She found a newsletter article where he won an award back when he was in DC."

  "What about Simpson's family?"

  The pursed lips told me she was trying to decide between a lie and the truth. When her shoulders slumped, I suspected I would get as close to the truth as possible.

  "His sister does my hair. She begged me to help. We can handle the paperwork and filings, but we need a loose thread to grab and pull. Please look at the file before you say no. I have it in my car."

  "Bullshit. There's no way a death penalty case file would fit in your car."

  "It's two boxes. I told you, this case stinks."

  The other thing that kept me from refusing was the possibility that something in that file might give me a clue about what was going on in my club. Not for the first time did I wonder if the MC's arrival and the upcoming execution party was a coincidence.

  "Bring it to me. No promises. Are you going to keep your cover and work your shift tonight?"

  "I want to."

  "Then tell Joey to bring me some fresh coffee. This shit is toxic."

  "Will do. And by the way, the answer is B."

  My expression was question enough.

  "My grade in Torts was a B. Part-time night school. My resume wasn't a lie. I waited tables to keep a roof over my kid's head. I'm not ashamed of it."

  "No reason to be. Look, Maddie, you need to know that if Ethan catches a cold, you'd better be there with a tissue. And if this op goes off the rails because of you, I'll be introducing you to the guy who'll want an explanation. The water is a lot deeper than you realize."

  The jaunty wave as she closed the door didn't hide the apprehension in her eyes.

  CHAPTER 15

  When I got the text reading, stuck in church, will call when I can, I was both concerned and relieved. Church meant a full-on meeting of all members to discuss and vote on club business. The Colonel must be in town. That troubled me more than I wanted to admit. I knew my carefree interlude with Ethan had likely come to an end. I was also ready to have a night to myself to do some lawyering. One thing Maddie got right is that I was curious. Death penalty cases have their own rhythm. The stakes were so high that the proceedings take on a
life of their own. Reading the record was like an intense novel or screenplay.

  Tuesday night is generally slow. I gave the reins to Joey with orders to handle things in the club. If it wasn't on fire, I didn't want to know about it. Earlier that evening, when I'd opened my office door to a knock, there'd been no one there, only a pair of beat-up cardboard file boxes with SIMPSON in black marker on the side.

  I flipped the top off the first box and stared at the jumbled mass of paper, wishing Anthony was here. He'd have this mess organized in record time. With my father in prison, his best friend and lawyer Gerald Loeb had become my surrogate family and legal support system. I'd called his office earlier asking for the info on Hyatt and her firm, and my former assistant answered. For those few minutes, I was back in my Jimmy Choo suede bottines, ready to do battle downtown. Unfortunately, Anthony and his keen mind were in Dallas, and I was on my own in Biloxi. The big conference table and whiteboards in the liquor vault off my office would have to do. I didn't have any staff meetings planned, and I had the only key.

  At the end of two hours or sorting and stacking, I'd separated the meaningless memos and cover sheets from the meat of the file. After dividing the documents into piles roughly corresponding to the timeline of the case, I was ready to dive in. The transcript is always a good place to start. I ordered up dinner and started skimming it, making wing-sauce-stained notes as I went.

  Madeline Hyatt might not be much of a blackmailer, but she had one thing right. This trial had been a joke, and Sheriff Harry Sheldon's hands were all over it. It was one of his deputies who'd found the body, and it was his office that arrested patrolman William Raymond Simpson for first-degree murder.

  Because of a potential conflict of interest with the city cops and detectives, Sheldon himself had conducted the interrogation and extracted the confession. Far too much of the transcript was the sheriff holding forth his own theories of the case and what he believed had happened. Instead of piling up a mound of objections, the defense attorney phoned it in. The judge might as well have been sitting at the prosecutor's table. A good deal of the entire case comprised of Sheldon's pontification, the deputy's testimony, the coroner, and, of course, the defendant's confession. A confession extracted after eighteen hours of tag-team questioning that was conveniently not videotaped or recorded. The cameras didn't come on until Simpson dictated a rambling statement and signed it. It was like the plot of a made-for-TV movie.