Читать книгу In Plain Sight - Tara Quinn Taylor - Страница 6

“Any questions?” chief prosecutor Janet McNeil asked the insolent young man slouched across from her. His cuffed hands shifted behind him at the scarred table in the private conference room.

“You said you were going to offer us a plea.”

Jan shook her head at Gordon Michaels, a well-known Flagstaff defense attorney, and returned her attention to the defendant, Jacob Hall. He’d been arraigned the week before, with a trial date set for the middle of December—the maximum amount of time allowed by the law that ensured Hall the right to a speedy trial.

“No plea. I changed my mind.” Staring down the defendant, she answered his attorney. I’ve got you, buddy, for at least ninety days. That gives me time to find sufficient proof in the new evidence to lock you away forever.

The green snake etched into Hall’s arm flicked its black tongue in the direction of his neck. The ink elsewhere on his body was so thick that she couldn’t make out specific designs.

“Come on, Jan. What’s the maximum he can get on one count of identity theft?”

“By itself, four years.”

“So give us a plea for three. Save the state the cost of a trial.”

She didn’t take her eyes off the twenty-three-year-old white supremacist. She’d been trying to convict him since he turned eighteen. How many lives had been lost in those five years? And all because, even though the cops did their job and made the arrests, she couldn’t get enough on Hall to make anything stick.

“I’m adding charges for credit card and financial institution fraud, as well,” she told them.

Jacob Hall didn’t blink, didn’t flinch—and didn’t look away. The man was completely without conscience. And in possession of more physical agility, strength and intelligence than this world could withstand.

“Both federal offenses,” she continued, “and with priors, they could carry up to thirty years.”

Hall gave her a condescending smile. He showed no fear. Jan didn’t think it was an act. The man was completely confident she’d never get a conviction.

For a second, he had her. Tendrils of fear crawled from her belly into her chest.

“You didn’t make this jail call just as a courtesy to inform us of further charges, Ms. McNeil. That’s not like you—you’re a busy woman,” Michaels said, his voice coming from her right. “And since there’s no plea, I’m assuming you’ve got a deal to offer us.”

Pulling her gaze away from the defendant, Jan focused on Michaels. She’d known him since law school and had argued against him several times. The colorless man was basically a good guy—a top-rate defense attorney, sure, but he won his cases without playing dirty.

“Yes, I do,” she said, determined not to let weakness win. She turned back to Hall. “I want a list of names, places, dates. I want descriptions—in vivid detail. Give me Bobby Donahue and the people who help him run the Ivory Nation, and I’ll give you consideration on a sentencing recommendation.”

“You been reading too many fairy tales, Jan.”

“I don’t read fairy tales, Mr. Hall.” She glanced back at Michaels. “Take it or leave it.”

The two men exchanged a silent look.

“My client doesn’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” Michaels said.

“That’s your final decision?”

“It is.”

Jan stood, lifted the padded strap of her maroon briefcase to her shoulder. And then the guard was there, motioning for Hall to stand. “See you in court on Monday,” she said. The young man turned and sauntered out, but not before Jan noticed two things.

The black letters stamped on the back of his black-and-white clothing—Sheriff’s Inmate. Unsentenced.

And the middle finger extended at her from the cuffed hands resting against his backside.

Using a clean mason jar topped with a coffee filter, the perpetrator will pour the chilled hydrogen peroxide, muriatic acid and iodine tincture into the jar…

Slumped in front of the keyboard, Simon typed, stopped, stared out the front window of his dining room office, and yawned. A nice September Friday. Blue skies. Balmy weather. The neighborhood was quiet. He liked quiet.

Iodine sales are regulated by the federal government.

The school bus had dropped off the elementary school kids twenty-six minutes before. Because once upon a time he’d been trained to observe and to protect, he’d watched them all disperse to their respective homes and waiting parents. In another two or three minutes the high-schoolers would be descending on the block.

He got in another line or two before their bus arrived. And watched them climb down, one by one, sometimes collecting in groups, as they sauntered down the street, some going into houses, others disappearing down side roads. Alan Bonaby was the only one Simon knew by name because the boy used to deliver his papers before quitting the route. Alan walked alone, pushing his glasses up his nose every couple of steps. His house was the last one before the road dead-ended into acres of pine trees.

Simon pushed his wire rims up his nose and got back to work. Law-enforcement manuals did not write themselves—which overall, was probably a good thing, since if they did, his publisher, Sam’s publisher, would not pay him to write them.

Red phosphorus is regulated. To get around this, perpetrators obtain road flares in bulk and scrape off the phosphorus…

Reaching up to push against the knot of muscles at the back of his neck, Simon was briefly distracted by the hair tickling the top of his hand. It was starting to turn up at the edges. He opened the top right-hand drawer of his desk and grabbed a pair of scissors. Careful to catch the falling strands, he lopped off a quarter inch all the way around. Curls were out.

Indicators of a meth lab.

Simon hit the bullets-and-numbering key. Chose a hand-pointing bullet. Chemical odors. Bullet Two… A car had just turned up the street—a blue Infiniti, driven by his next-door neighbor…. Chemical containers in the trash. Bullet Three… She was pulling into her drive…. Multiple visitors who don’t stay long. And on into her garage. In about forty seconds she’d be heading out to the box at the curb for her mail…. Bullet Four. Homes with blackened windows.

And there she was, beautiful as always, her shapely butt looking quite fine in the narrow, calf-length black-and-red skirt she was wearing; that long dark hair swinging just above her hips as she bent to peer into her box.

Simon jumped up.

“You know,” he called out, seconds later, strolling across his front yard, “it’d be safer for you to drive up to this box just like the mailman does and get your mail from inside the car.”

Janet McNeil smiled at him. “You see robbers waiting in the wings to take me down and confiscate my bills, Simon?”

He saw all kinds of stuff she knew nothing about. “Just passing on an observation,” he said, sliding his hands beneath the loose tails of his button-down shirt and into the pockets of his jeans. They were baggy, too, exactly as he liked them. “If you’re not into safety, think of it as time management,” he said. “You could save a good two, three minutes if you picked up as you drove past.”

“And another five without my conversation with you,” she said, still grinning at him, “but then, what would I have to shake my head about over dinner?”

“I saw your name in the paper again this morning.” He’d dropped the toast he’d been eating, ready to stand up and protect her, before he remembered she was none of his business. That he was no longer sworn to uphold and protect.

“Yeah, another day, another criminal,” she said, sifting through the envelopes in her hand.

“Is Hall really a white supremacist like they claim?”

“Who knows?”

He rocked back and forth on his heels, watching her look at the coupons in a general delivery flyer. “You going to try to prove it?”

She looked up then, her fine features completely composed. “What do you think?”

What he thought was that she should be married and at home having babies. Sexist or not, the concept suited him far better than the idea of a nice woman like Janet McNeil spending her days with the dregs of society spitting at her.

“I hear they’re not a friendly bunch,” he said, keeping most of what he had to say on the subject to himself. Simon might understand how vital it was to obliterate violence and hate, but he didn’t have to think about it. Or like it.

“You know, Simon,” she said, tilting her head, “you should consider writing suspense instead of economics textbooks. It might suit you better.”

Yeah, well, no one said she didn’t have a discerning eye. He’d finished typing in the handwritten revisions on an economics textbook once. He’d done it for someone else and still maintained the fiction that this was what he wrote. It was easier that way. “Hey, you trying to say I don’t look the economics type?”

“No.” She held her mail to her chest. “I’m saying your curiosity and imagination are wasted on numbers and percentages.”

But being considered an author of economics textbooks made a great cover. “Someday, I’ll have to show you my etchings.” He managed to keep a completely straight face while he delivered the tacky line.

“Are you ever serious?”

“Not often. You?”

“All day, every day.”

He was glad to hear that. One moment of levity in her line of work could lead to the missed clue that returned to stab her in the back—literally.

“Then, you should pay particular attention to your five minutes with me every afternoon,” he said. “People need a bit of humor to keep them healthy and strong.”

“I figured eating a good breakfast did that.”

He smiled. And would have liked to hang around. “Have a good evening, Counselor,” he said, backing up before he got too close.

Or did something stupid, like ask her if she wanted to go get a burger with him.

Simon didn’t like to share his burger experiences. Or his life.

He didn’t have enough to spare. And he intended to keep it that way.

They knew the landing gear on the jet was damaged. No one was all that concerned. Jan pulled a file from a vault in the courthouse office inexplicably housed within the airport, watching people come and go from the street. The sun was shining out there. Inside, a cast of gray infused the lighting with gloom.

Suddenly, the structure lurched. Her shoulder slammed against a wall. They were going to crash. She heard someone scream the news—a coworker. Oh, God. She was finally going to crash. She’d known her whole life this time would come.

She tried to scream, but she couldn’t make a sound. Tried to tell someone they were already on the ground. And then all she heard was the screeching of metal against metal, as the plane met asphalt and she fell to the side. Things tumbled around her, breaking. She waited to die. Wondered how it would feel.

And then, just as quickly as it started, the motion stopped. Jan half lay on the floor, listening, waiting. She was breathing.

She tried to stand, slowly, straightening her limbs—waiting for them to fail, waiting for the ensuing pain. She explored her face with her fingers, assessing the damage, feeling for cuts. There were none.

She was alive—and she had to get out before there was an explosion. She searched frantically but the distressed and agitated people blocked her view. And then she saw Johnny. Her only sibling had glanced her way, but he must not have seen her. He turned toward a beam of light and dashed into it.

Scrambling over files, slipping on debris, Jan stumbled after him, desperate to get to the light before the plane burst into flames. She gulped. And her lungs filled with the coolness of fresh air. She’d made it out.

Distraught, she looked for someone she knew. She was crying. Needed to be held, comforted, and everyone was busy, unaware of her presence. Pushing through the crowd, she caught a glimpse of a familiar body up ahead.

“Mom?” she called out.

Her mother turned, saw her, and then immediately turned back to the women she’d been walking with. They were heading toward the crash. Jan wanted her mother to know that she’d been in the crash—that she’d survived.

She said the words. And then again louder. Her mother looked at her, nodded, patted her on the head and continued on her way, leaving Jan standing alone in the street, sobbing. Sobbing. So hard…

Desperate crying woke her. Sitting up in bed Jan brushed damp tendrils of hair back from her face and forehead with both hands, holding her head between them.

Oh, God. Would these dreams never end? Almost thirty years she’d been having the nightmares. The situations varied, but the feelings never changed. Devastation. Unanswered cries for help. Loneliness. What did it mean? Why was she tortured like this?

With her head resting against her knees, Jan hugged her legs. She hated the nightmares, the subconscious she couldn’t control, but she didn’t hate herself. She tried hard every day. She did her best.

Slowly, thoughts of the preceding day penetrated her consciousness. The newspaper article describing Hall’s arrest. Her visit to the jail. Lunch with a law-school classmate. A spat between the office manager at the county attorney’s office and a prosecutor who didn’t understand job jurisdiction. Simon. The quick Friday-night phone call to Hailey, confirming their outing the following morning. Nothing uncommon. A good day.

Jan glanced at the clock. 3:00 a.m. She considered lying down again, trying to get some sleep. And shivered as all the horror of her nightmare resurfaced. She couldn’t chance going back there. Not tonight.

Getting up, Jan pulled her hair over one shoulder, giving the sweaty back of her cotton pajamas a chance to dry out as she walked over to the window to peer into the night. At the side of her house, more long than square, the bedroom window allowed only a partial view of the street. Not that she was missing much. Dark houses. Stillness. A couple of dim streetlights that cast more shadow than illumination. But the view straight ahead was a different matter. Light was streaming from Simon Green’s bedroom window, which was opposite hers. She couldn’t see through the pulled curtains—not that she wanted to.

But there was a strange kind of comfort in knowing she wasn’t the only human being awake on the block.

Did he suffer from nightmares, too? Somehow, she doubted it. Smiling tentatively, Jan left her bedroom and went into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. Simon’s mind probably entertained him with stand-up routines all night. Or maybe he was working late. She’d heard that writers did that. And why not? That freed up his days to do whatever he pleased.

Jan was coming out of the shower several hours later when she heard the front bell ring. Wringing out her hair, she wrapped it in the only towel that would hold it all, an extra-large bath sheet she’d bought for just that purpose, pulled on her violet robe and went to peek out the front window.

A motorcycle was parked in the gravel beneath the low-hanging branches of the aspen tree. She didn’t recognize it. Hesitated, as she stared at it. But really, anyone who meant her harm wouldn’t park out front—especially in the broad light of day.

Reminding herself of the fine line between caution and paranoia, she went to the door and opened it a crack, intending to ask her visitor to wait while she got dressed, then she threw it wide instead.

“Johnny!” She reached up to give her younger brother a hug. “I didn’t know you were back.”

A sales rep for a major publisher of nonfiction and self-help books, Johnny was on the road a lot. And too busy to see her, most of the time, when he was in town.

He shrugged, his off-white shirt opening at the collar, revealing what looked like the edge of a tattoo just beneath his collarbone. “I just got in last night,” he said.

He had a tattoo. Everyone was getting them these days—she knew that. But Johnny? Jan wanted to ask him about it, wanted him to tell her that the mark was only henna.

She invited him in instead. Offered to make some coffee.

“I can’t stay.” Johnny held his shiny black-and-white helmet between his hands as he stepped through the door. “I’m back on the road on Monday and I have a load of things to do before then. I just wanted to talk to you for a second.” He glanced down, almost sheepishly, his longish dark hair falling over his forehead. Jan’s heart melted, as it always did when her brother needed something.

“What’s up?” Johnny’s visits and his requests were few. She’d do anything she could for him.

“I was kind of wired when I got in last night,” he said, and she wondered if he was still in the apartment by the university, where he’d lived the previous summer. Last she’d heard from their mother, he’d been planning to move to a new place out by the Woodlands. “I looked through the week’s papers, catching up, and noticed the article about you and that Hall dude.”

Jan warmed beneath his concerned stare and nodded.

“He sounds dangerous, sis.” Sis. He hardly called her that anymore.

“Which is why he’s safely in custody.”

“I don’t know.” He bowed his head again and then glanced back at her, his dark eyes serious. “I don’t like the idea of you out there digging up stuff on him. He might be locked up, but what if he does have people—and money—on the outside?”

Fear shot through her chest. Jan took a deep breath, quelled the emotion—left over from her bad night, she told herself—and smiled. “I’ve been at this job a long time, little brother,” she reminded him. “And I’m still here.”

“So why chance it? Drop the case, sis. Give it to someone else.”

“I can’t,” she told him, torn between exasperation that the one time he came to see her it was to ask her to do something she couldn’t possibly do and happiness that he still cared. “I’ve been following this guy for years. The history’s convoluted, complicated, and I’m the only one who knows it all. If I don’t argue this, he’s going to get off again, and we’re not safe with him out there.”

Johnny frowned, dropping his arm, his helmet resting against the side of his black jeans. “It says he’s in for identity theft. That’s not a matter of life and death for the citizens of Flagstaff.”

No, but the longtime white supremacist was guilty of more than fraud. She was sure of it. She decided now was not the time, however, to let her worried little brother in on that fact.

“It’s my job, Johnny,” she said instead. “The police arrest them, and we prosecute them. Someone has to, or the entire judicial system goes down the tubes and chaos reigns.”

“Just this once, sis. Can’t you let go of the responsibility just this once? Lighten up. Take a vacation. I’ll spring for it. Hell,” he said, grinning, rubbing his knuckles against the side of her cheek, “I’ll even go with you, if that’ll get you out of town.”

Tears welled at the back of her eyes. They’d been so close when they were younger. He’d been her best friend, in spite of the four-year difference in their ages. How many nights had he come to her room when he’d heard her cry out from a nightmare? How many nights had he sat there with her, telling her stupid jokes, making her smile, until he’d fallen asleep at the end of her bed and she’d covered him with her comforter and fallen back to sleep herself?

“Now, that’s tempting, Johnny,” she said softly, even knowing that she couldn’t run out on her job—not on this case. There was too much at stake. “Where would we go?”

It didn’t hurt to fantasize for a moment.

“Anywhere you want,” he surprised her by saying. “You name the time, the place, and I’ll be there.”

“What about your job?”

“I have vacation coming.”

“Johnny…” She hated to disappoint him.

“Name the time and place, sis,” he repeated, his voice intent as he bent to give her a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be waiting to hear.”

“Johnny!” she called after him, as he spun out the door and headed down the walk without letting her tell him she couldn’t go. He climbed on his motorcycle, slid the helmet down over his ears, and without looking her way, sped off.