Читать книгу Just Past Midnight - Amanda Stevens - Страница 12

GREG MELCHER ANXIOUSLY checked his watch. It was already after midnight, and he still had another hour or so before his plane touched down at Bush Intercontinental Airport in Houston. He’d hoped to be on the ground by now—checked into his hotel and plotting his next move—but a severe storm front had delayed his flight out of LaGuardia.

His pulse quickened with excitement. Seven years of searching was about to come to an end, and he couldn’t wait to see Dr. Darian West’s face when he confronted her with what he knew.

But that meeting was still hours away, and Melcher had more pressing concerns. Like getting off the damn airplane in one piece. As he watched lightning flicker in the distance, he gripped the armrests. The bad weather had followed them south, and he hoped like hell the storm wasn’t some kind of omen.

Like a lot of other Americans, Melcher hadn’t really enjoyed flying since 9/11. Before that, he hadn’t thought twice about getting on a plane, and had usually been able to sleep through most flights. Nowadays, he was a nervous wreck during takeoffs and landings, and he never fully relaxed until the plane taxied up to the gate.

As his gaze remained fixed on the window, he decided the lightning was getting closer. The flashes seemed to be just beyond the wing tip now, and the plane dipped ominously as it hit a patch of turbulence.

Damn, he needed a drink. He was flying first class, so he could have whatever he wanted. All he had to do was press the call button, but he suppressed the urge. As soon as he landed, he’d have to get behind the wheel of a rental car, and he remembered from prior trips to Houston that the heavy traffic didn’t abate much after midnight. He’d need all his faculties to navigate the clogged freeway systems that crisscrossed the city.

Besides, Melcher had learned the hard way that drinking and driving didn’t mix. If two broken legs, a broken back and a fractured skull hadn’t taught him that lesson, then nothing would. Luckily, he’d wrapped his car around a tree instead of another vehicle, and had managed to avoid, through a complicated series of back-room negotiations, a license suspension. He was six months on the wagon and counting. He could do this.

Closing his eyes, he gulped in several deep breaths and tried to relax. Tried to remind himself that he’d escaped death once before, and he could do it again.

What he had to do was get his mind off his present predicament. He had to forget the fact that he was riding in the equivalent of a giant tin can, completely at the mercy of the weather. And fate. Couldn’t forget about fate. That bitch always seemed to bite him on the ass when he least expected it.

Okay, so what was his next move going to be? he wondered, as he consciously tried to loosen his grip on the armrests. God knows he hadn’t taken the time to formulate a plan before leaving New York. When he’d opened the e-mail attachment from an anonymous sender, Melcher hadn’t taken the time to do anything except grab a cab and race back to his East Village loft, where he quickly packed a bag and then headed straight for the airport.

Funny how that photograph had brought it all back when he honestly hadn’t thought about Danielle Williams in years. It wasn’t like he was obsessed with her or anything. His life certainly hadn’t come to a screeching halt just because he hadn’t been able to solve Paul Ryann’s murder eleven years ago. Quite the opposite.

He’d left Allentown shortly after Danielle had. While she’d headed North to Drury University, Melcher had gotten a job with the San Antonio Express, and from there, he’d gone to the Boston Globe where he’d stayed until landing his dream job in New York.

During the five years he’d worked the police beat for the Times, Melcher had seen some rough shit. The crimes he’d covered ran the gamut from gang rapes to ritualistic murders. He’d even won a Pulitzer for his reporting on the Asian mafia and the murder of a prominent U.S. prosecutor. He’d written three novels, two had become bestsellers and one had been optioned by Clint Eastwood for a major motion picture. He’d become an expert guest on the talk-show circuit, providing commentary on everything from the latest celebrity trial to government corruption, and he’d appeared on such widely divergent programs as Live with Regis and Kelly to The O’Reilly Factor.

Melcher had money, he had prestige, and he had a beautiful ex-model girlfriend who wanted to marry him. By every account, he had it all, but there was still one thing that eluded him. Peace of mind.

He’d never been able to put that old murder behind him. He’d never been able to forgive Danielle Williams—a seventeen-year-old kid—for pulling something over on him.

The death of Paul Ryann and his family still niggled at Melcher. Still made him wonder, when he woke up in the middle of the night, just which piece of the puzzle he’d missed.

And then seven years ago—four years after Paul Ryann’s death—Melcher had heard about the dorm fire at Drury University. He’d still been working in Boston when the report had come over the wire, and recognizing the name of the school, he’d immediately hightailed it up to Connecticut to nose around for himself.

He’d learned within hours of arriving on campus that Danielle Williams was connected to yet another fiery death. However, the Hanover Police Department, along with the campus police, had closed the case almost immediately, insisting that Michael Farmer’s death was an accident. The case remained closed even when Danielle inherited half a million dollars from her dead lover’s estate. Even when she disappeared without a trace two weeks after Michael’s death…