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Chapter Twenty

I spent that first night in the Lexus in the empty lot of a large office park.

I also did what that bastard told me to do. I stopped in an Office Max and picked up a couple of disposable phones. I texted the number to Hallie’s phone.

Then I waited. I waited until I couldn’t hold my eyes open anymore.

No reply.

Earlier, I’d found a tool set in the car’s emergency kit and drove around a movie complex until I came across a Honda with Tennessee plates and switched the front plate onto mine. With luck, the owners might not even know it was missing for a while, and even if they did, a stolen, out-of-state plate wasn’t exactly the biggest story of the day with everything else going on. And Lexus SUVs were a dime a dozen on the roads.

I hoped this would buy me some time.

I had my first meal of the day from a Wendy’s take-out window, chomping down the double burger in maybe three large bites along with a box of chicken tenders and a Coke. I normally watched what I ate and would rather die than stuff down a meal like that, but the day’s events had left me empty and ravenous, and, showing up at Ruth’s Chris going, “Table for one, please!” wasn’t exactly an option tonight.

The only plan I had was to assert my innocence and focus on that blue car.

My thoughts drifted back to Hallie and Mike. I tried to think of every possible way he and Martinez might somehow have been connected. Mike was a prominent real estate attorney in town. He would have known police. Then there was the gamecock thing. South Carolina.

But the only real connection between them was me.

I turned on the news, basically just to keep me company, until my eyes finally got heavy and I started drifting off to sleep.

What I heard almost sent my heart through my chest.

“The Jacksonville Murder Spree suspect,” the commentator said. “This is not the first time. He’s done it before.”

Chapter Twenty-One

The news report said that a television station in New England was claiming that as a student at Amherst, I’d been involved in a fraternity hazing accident in which someone had mysteriously drowned.

“No,” I shot up in the car and shouted. “No, no, no, no. . . .”

I pulled out my iPad and clicked on Google news until I found the link. It was from the website of a WNME in Portland, Maine.

How did they know what had happened back then?

The article read, The Palm Beach surgeon wanted in connection with the murders today of a Jacksonville Florida policeman and a successful businessman has apparently done it before.

My eyes almost bugged out of my head.

A college classmate of Dr. Henry Steadman, a person of interest sought in connection with the cold-blooded killings today, claims that while a student at Amherst College in the 1980s, Steadman and a fraternity brother were involved in the unexplained drowning of a fellow student in a fraternity hazing ritual gone tragically wrong.

Thomas E. Boothby of Bangor, Maine, claims he was a member of a student judiciary board at Amherst called to investigate Steadman’s role in the mishap, which occurred at a local swimming hole known as the Quarry.

As Boothby recounted, a freshman pledge at the Chi Psi fraternity, Terrence Gifford, plunged into the lake from a fifty-foot height in the dead of night, struggled in the icy water, with Steadman near him, and drowned. The incident was ultimately deemed to be “accidental,” and while Boothby claims, “No one can be sure what actually happened in the waters that night,” no charges were ever filed.

“This poor freshman from Minnesota was dragged out at night and ordered to jump into the freezing pond,” Boothby, an EPA administrator in Bangor recalled, “which was about fifty feet down. All anyone knew is that three students went up there and only two came back. While there was never any firm evidence to warrant an arrest or expulsion, there was significant drinking going on; other people nearby heard arguing and thrashing in the water.” He recalled that although Steadman was ultimately dismissed from the fraternity, he was not asked to leave school.

I felt the blood rush in anger into my face. Who the hell was this guy? Boothby. I’d never even heard of him. Whoever he was, he’d twisted the entire thing around. The article also provided details about the events in Jacksonville today and how the suspect’s successful and likable veneer and his stature in the medical community seemed at odds with the heinous nature of the crimes.

“I know everyone feels that way,” Boothby went on to say, “but when I heard who it was, it immediately took me back. All I can say is, I always felt something suspicious took place up on those rocks, a lot more than ever came out. So this doesn’t surprise me.”

School officials have not yet commented on the twenty-two-year-old incident.

“Screw you!” I shouted in the darkened SUV, my blood hitting a boil. A cold sweat sprang up all over my back.

The story wasn’t completely made up, at least not technically, but everything else was twisted. Nothing happened up there. Only a tragic accident. The kid fell. He didn’t want to go through with it and he panicked up on the ledge. I was actually the one who told him he didn’t have to go through with it. And “the argument” this asshole was referring to was actually between me and another Chi Psi dude named Luke Chappelle, who kept insisting that if Giffie didn’t jump, he could kiss Chi Psi good-bye. The kid tried to break away from Chappelle and head back down when he tripped and tumbled over the edge. I’m the one who jumped in after him and tried like hell to bring him back up. The incident killed me for a while. I almost left school. But it wasn’t because I was guilty. We never pushed him. This Boothby jerk had it all wrong. It was a frat ritual. We’d all made the jump multiple times.

I knew this was bad. It was only going to throw more hot coals onto the fire of my alleged guilt. Worse, anyone who happened to believe me would now have doubts.

And it would make it even harder for anyone to believe me about the blue car.

I’d never told anyone about it before. Well, maybe I told Liz once, years before. I mean, it all happened twenty-two years ago. It didn’t have any bearing on who I was. And while the event was tragic, I hadn’t done anything wrong.

I lay back and closed my eyes, and I realized how trapped I was. How the person who was doing this to me must be cackling with enjoyment.

I was even burying myself now!

Chapter Twenty-Two

Cars were already streaming into the office lot the next morning as I woke up in the backseat.

I remembered finally falling asleep, still fuming over that Google post, praying I’d wake up in my own bed and that everything in the past twenty-four hours would have been nothing more than a horrifying dream.

No such luck.

I wiped my eyes, reality colliding into me again. Realizing that I was on the run. That my college buddy Mike was dead. That my daughter had been abducted. Kidnapped by a killer who had turned my life into a living hell.

I looked up at the car owner’s evergreen air freshener hanging from the dash. Other than that, everything was just peachy!

Then it hit me. With the sudden clarity that only comes when your mind is completely at rest.

I went over the sequence of events for maybe the hundredth time: how Martinez was writing me out a summons from his car; the blue car pulling up beside him; how I was thinking how the whole barrage of questions had just been some kind of made-up cover; out of nowhere, the two, crisp pops. The blue car lurching away.

But this time I saw it! Coming into focus as if I was once again looking through my side mirror:

ADJ-4.

That was it! The license plate from South Carolina. There were more numbers, of course, but I was sure it began with those. Not ADF or A4N, or whatever I’d come up with the day before.

ADJ-4 . . .

In the panic of all that happened yesterday, I hadn’t been able to fully bring it to mind.

For the first time, I had something to act on. If I could somehow get access to motor-vehicle-department records in South Carolina. I didn’t know whom to call. An attorney might be able to get it done. The police, of course. Fat chance of that! I could call Liz, but I wanted to keep her out of this as much as I could.

Then I suddenly thought of Marv, my business partner in the walk-in clinics. Marv was the ex–VP of Operations in the Lauderdale Hospital system. He knew the world. Police. Government officials. Movers and shakers. When it came to public records on anything, Marv could get it done.

He’d already sent me e-mails, conveying his shock and disbelief at the news reports and begging me to call him.

I picked up one of the disposables and punched in Marv’s number; it rang three times before he picked up.

“Marv Weiss . . .” It sounded like he was on a speakerphone.

“Marv, it’s me!” I said, in a hushed voice. “Are you able to talk?”

“Henry. . . . ! Wait just a minute . . .” I heard him get up, probably to shut the office door. Then I heard the tone come off the speakerphone. “Yes, I can talk. Henry. What the hell’s going on? This is all so crazy! I know you. These charges can’t be true.”

“Of course they’re not true, Marv! And I know it’s all crazy—and I wish I could go into it all right now. But listen: if you want to help me, I need something from you.”

“Of course I want to help. What . . . ?”

“Marv, first, I want to give you my word—we’ve known each other a long time—that I didn’t do one thing they’re accusing me of. Not one thing. I swear!”

“You don’t have to explain that to me. I know you didn’t do it, Henry.”

“Including that last bit of nonsense from college that came out last night. It’s all a crock of shit. But what I have to do is prove it right now, and for that, I need some help.”

“I understand. I just can’t believe you’re in this mess. What line are you calling me on? I didn’t recognize the phone. You have to be careful . . .”

“Don’t even ask, Marv. I’m learning on the run. I think we’re safe. For now . . .”

“I know. I know. I can only imagine . . .” He tried to laugh. “Listen, the local police called here yesterday. They wanted to know if you’d been in touch.”

I hesitated a second. “So what’s the story on that? What are you going to tell them?” After Jennifer, I guess I was running scared of everyone right now. And I also didn’t want to drag Marv into trouble.

He didn’t hesitate. “Like you said, Henry, we’ve known each other a long time. What is it you need?”

Those words were like rain to me in a long drought. The drought of people’s trust in me. “That means the world to me, Marv. You’ve no idea. I’ve got to locate a car. I saw who did this to that cop. Or at least, I saw his car. I just don’t know where to turn.”

“You saw it happen?”

“I was looking through my side mirror. The officer had pulled me over for some kind of a bogus traffic violation. It was a dark blue sedan. I couldn’t tell the make, but I did catch part of the plates. They’re from South Carolina. I couldn’t make them out completely, but I’m positive on the first four characters. ADJ-4 . . . You’ve gotta find that plate for me, Marv. It’s my only way out of this. I know you’ll know someone who can get it done.”

“A-D-J dash four . . . ?” he said, writing it down.

“Yes. I mean, how many plates can possibly begin like that? And registered for a blue sedan?”

“Don’t get your hopes up totally. The car could have been stolen.”

“I know. I know. Believe me . . .” I’d taken two cars myself in the past day. “But it’s a start. It’s all I have as a start, Marv. It has to lead somewhere . . .”

“I’ll try, Henry, I’ll try . . . Listen . . .” He lowered his voice. “I’m sure I’m not the first one to say this to you, but maybe the best course of action is simply to turn yourself in. Let the police pursue this. We’re living in America, Henry, not Syria. If you didn’t do this, the truth will come out.”

“The police up here seem to be shooting first and asking questions later. You ever been shot at, Marv?”

“No,” he said. “I can’t say that I have. Then how about making your way down here. We’ll find you the best representation. Then we can look for your car—”

“Listen, Marv . . .” Hard as it was, I couldn’t find a way to tell him about Hallie; about what had happened to her. “I’m sure if the tables were turned, I’d probably be telling you the very same thing. But I can’t. Something’s happened and I can’t. And I can’t even share it with you. I know that sounds crazy. You just have to trust me. Not to mention that even if I could—two murders, one of them of a cop—with my means and ability to flee, I wouldn’t be getting bail anytime soon. Half the Jacksonville police force saw me in cuffs in the backseat of Martinez’s car. They don’t have any doubts it’s me.”

“Cuffs . . . ?”

“There’s no way to explain it.” And I couldn’t now. No time. I just went through it as fast as I could. Just enough so Marv could feel the nightmare I’d been through. “Which brings me back to that car . . .”

“Okay. Let me go. So how do I get in touch with you?”

“I’m going to give you a safe number. Or text me. On my cell. I’ll call you back.”

“All right, all right. I’ll get on it right now. But, Henry, you have to promise me you’ll stay out of sight until I can get back to you. Then we’ll figure out a way.”

“I’m not exactly a pro at this, but I’m learning fast. You have no idea what this means to me. I knew I could count on you, Marv. And hey, at least there’s one good thing I can think of that’s come out of this mess.”

“What’s that?” Marv replied dubiously.

“You remember a couple of years ago when we were going back and forth about what to name the clinics?”

“Yeah, I remember . . .”

“Now aren’t you glad I convinced you not to put my name over the front door?”

Chapter Twenty-Three

I wasn’t sure what to do while I waited, other than stay out of sight. I snuck into the men’s room at a Wendy’s and washed up. I was gritted out and had no idea how long it would take for Marv to get back to me. Or what the result would be when he did.

Or even what I would do once he found something.

Every time a police car passed by, if they did an electrocardiogram on me my heart rate would be off the paper!

Around 10 A.M., going out of my mind, I finally decided, The hell with it! I did have one other option.

I called the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office and said to the operator, “Carrie Holmes, please.”

Yesterday, I detected the slightest wavering in her voice, and right now my book was pretty empty on whom I could trust. I wasn’t sure what I would say if a secretary answered or if her voice mail came on, but to my relief, Carrie picked up.

“Community Outreach. Carrie Holmes . . .”

“Guess the glory days are over,” I said. “Back to the same ol’ grind . . .” Then I immediately felt foolish for being so glib.

I was met by a lengthy silence on the line. “Who is this?”

“Carrie, please, don’t hang up! Or alert anyone,” I said. “I just need to tell you something, without worrying if you’re tracing this and that I have to hang up. Can we do that, for just a second?”

She still didn’t say anything; just let the call go on in silence. I figured I’d misjudged her.

“Carrie, please, I know what you’re about to do, but I found something that can help prove my innocence. I know you’d be taking a risk, but just hear me out. Just for a second. I don’t have anywhere else to turn . . .”

Still more silence.

Then she said, “Yeah, back to the same ol’ grind . . . Dr. Steadman, you should not be calling me,” which felt like kind of a miracle, momentarily putting my worries at ease.

“Just give me a second!” I said. “So did you do what I asked? Did you try to find that car? The blue sedan I told you about yesterday. With South Carolina plates . . . ?”

“Dr. Steadman, I told you yesterday, I think you have to turn yourself in,” she replied in a lowered, but firm voice. “If you don’t, things are going to go very badly for you. I think you’ve seen that already. And I honestly can’t be talking to you, other than to say—”

“You didn’t, did you?” I interrupted her. “You didn’t look for it?”

She didn’t answer right away. I heard her release a breath. “No.”

I let out one myself. “So are you tracing this?” I suddenly didn’t know why I had thought to put myself in her hands and realized I should end the call immediately. But I didn’t. “Just tell me. If you are. I don’t know why, but I have this sense you’re the only one there I can trust.”

“You’ve got no cause to trust me. I work for the sheriff’s office, Dr. Steadman. I’m not on your private security team . . . And I’m not your confidante.”

“So are you tracing me?” I asked her again. Then I waited. I felt something strangely empathetic in her tone. “Look, I’m gonna put myself in your hands, Carrie. Right or wrong. Maybe I’m stupid. I’m gonna tell you something that can help clear my name. Just please tell me, are you tracing this call?”

She didn’t answer.

But I knew what the answer was. She had to trace it. It was her responsibility. And as I checked the time I figured that gave me maybe about another minute and a half before I had to cut it short and move on.

“So how long do I have,” I asked, “a couple of minutes . . . ? Then just hear me out. Why the hell would I kill those people, Carrie? Why would I kill my own friend? We were going to play golf, for Christ’s sake. I’d known him since college. He was a lawyer! The only reason I even went to his house was to get his help in turning me in. Check—I made two calls to him from my cell phone immediately after Martinez was killed. But he was dead by the time I got there. I realize I took his phone and his car—and how that makes me look. But I needed to get out of there and there was no other way. And my phone was compromised. And who the hell was going to believe me anyway after what happened to Martinez?”

She didn’t reply. The clock was ticking.

“And I told you, yesterday, that I was back in my car when Martinez was shot. He was letting me go; just writing me up a warning . . . You can check that too. What possible reason would I have for shooting someone if they were about to let me go? Not to mention, with what gun? Last I checked, they didn’t let you keep one on you when you traveled by plane. Has anyone given three seconds thought to that?”

“You could have ditched the gun when you say you took off after the car,” Carrie said.

“But I didn’t. And how would I get one? Did I know in advance that Martinez was going to pull me over?”

“So then turn yourself in, Dr. Steadman. To me, since you seem to trust me. I’ll make sure you’re treated fairly. You’ve done wonderful things. In Nicaragua. You built a school there. I saw your daughter’s photos—” She suddenly stopped herself, as if she’d revealed too much.

To me, it was the smallest crack in her armor. “You were on my website, weren’t you?”

“No,” she answered, as if she’d been caught red-handed. “Okay. Yes. I was.”

“Then I’m not wrong, am I? You do have doubts. Carrie, I need you to take this down. Please. I recalled the plate number from yesterday. From that car I mentioned. Not the whole thing, but part of it. It began with the letters A-D-J dash four . . . There were three additional numbers, but I’m sure that’s how it began. There have to be security cameras around. On the lights, or near one of the scenes. The guy headed down Lakeview after he shot Martinez and went onto I-10, heading west. There are always cameras! Please, Carrie, I need you to do this for me. That car is the only chance I have!”

I didn’t know if I had reached her or not, but I knew my time was rapidly coming to an end and that I’d better get on the move. I put the phone on speaker and the car in gear and headed onto the road. I knew that my partner Marv was a long shot, if he even could come up with something. But there was something that made me feel that Carrie Holmes was someone I could trust.

She asked, softer, “What did you mean yesterday when you said you couldn’t turn yourself in? You mean because you were afraid?”

“Yes, I was afraid, at first. But no, it was something else. I just can’t tell you.”

“I’m not sure I see how you’re in a position to be keeping secrets, Dr. Steadman . . .”

“I can’t.” Part of me wanted to; I’d sensed that something I’d said yesterday had hit home. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t take the chance. The stakes were too great if it got out. “All I can say is that it’s bigger than whatever happens to me. It’s bigger than Martinez. Or even Mike. I wish I could tell you, Carrie, I just can’t.”

I heard a commotion. Voices in the background. They were probably coming up with my number at that very moment. Just a matter of seconds, then, to hit on my location. Or maybe they already had it! I was playing with fire.

“Did you do this, Dr. Steadman?” she asked me directly. “I knew Bob Martinez. He had a wife and three kids. I want to hear you say it. Did you kill those people?”

“No. I wish I was in front of you so you could see my eyes. I swear, Carrie. I swear on anything. I swear on what I said to you yesterday . . . My own daughter.” It hurt to even say it. “No.”

“And all that stuff that came out about you at college . . . ?”

“All totally twisted,” I shot back. “Yes, it happened. That fellow drowned. I was there. But it was an accident. He panicked on the rocks, that’s all. I never killed anyone. I wasn’t even suspended from school. Talk to the people at Amherst. It was an accident. They didn’t find a thing. I was even the one who was arguing on the kid’s behalf.” I turned on the main street, leaving the Wendy’s way behind.

“Then what the hell do you think is going on, Dr. Steadman?” I heard exasperation in her voice. “If it’s not you doing this—who is?”

The words had the feel of an accusation more than a question. And God knows, over the last twenty-four hours I’d asked it myself a hundred times. “I wish I knew, Carrie. But please, just look for that car. That’s all I’m asking. There have to be cameras. I guarantee you’ll spot it at, or near, both crime scenes. Please . . . ADJ-4. Did you at least write it down?”

She didn’t reply. I didn’t know if she believed me or not. Or if she had been tracing the call all along, and cops were on their way to pick me up right now.

“Did you write it down, Carrie?” was all I could ask.

Suddenly two police cars raced past me the other way, lights flashing, sending shock waves through my heart. Now the answer to whether she’d traced my call was clear. “Thanks . . .” I said, and cut off the connection, my disappointment morphing into outright panic. There were sirens echoing all around. I fully expected the cars to do a U-ey, realizing they’d just gone past me, and surround me on the street. Cops jumping out of their cars with weapons drawn.

But they just kept going. Maybe to that McDonald’s. Maybe to some other fixed point they had triangulated.

I was still free.

I melded into traffic, getting away from there as fast as I could.

My only hope now was to wait for Marv.

“Great job,” Bill Akers said, ducking his head back in. “We missed him. The initial fix was on a fast-food place out on Cassat. We almost had him.”

“Too bad,” Carrie said. “Bill, you think we ought to check out his story? About that car?”

Akers chuckled, indicating that he didn’t give it much credence. “Just let me know if he calls in again. There’ll be other chances. He won’t get far.” He gave her a thumbs-up sign.

She’d done the right thing. Right? Carrie wondered after he left. She’d put out the trace. She’d gotten the proper people involved.

Still, she felt an anxiousness come over her.

She looked down at the sheet of paper on her desk. At the partial plate number staring up at her.

Yes, there probably were cameras around somewhere. And yes, it all did seem just a bit improbable. Why would Steadman kill Martinez? Over a traffic violation, no less. While he was letting him go. Not to mention killing his friend?

And with what gun?

Her heart beat nervously. She’d be a fool. A fool to get involved. What with Raef. And she wasn’t even a detective.

But, yes . . . She slid the number under her desk mat, answering him. I wrote it down.