Amber Morn (14 page)

But one thing remained out of Vince’s control — how Wick-sell, driven by his own warped perceptions, might choose to interpret anything a reporter did or said.

Still, this was something to work with.

>> Kent, I will agree to your compromise — moving off the blog in return for getting you these two reporters. I will try to contact them, but please realize it may take awhile. As soon as I get their email addresses, I’ll let you know.

When he posted the comment, he saw a new message from Wicksell.

>> We want a TV brought in so we can watch the news.

Vince puckered his chin. No surprise, but fulfilling the request would be a dangerous procedure. Vince would need help from Tactical, and he and Wicksell would have a lot of negotiating to do beforehand.

You want a TV, Wicksell, I’m getting something else in return. Something big.

He already knew what to ask for.

>> I understand your request for a TV. Let me see what I can do.

He posted the comment, then turned toward the door. “Roger! You available?”

“Coming!”

When Roger appeared, Vince gave him the names of the two reporters and why they were needed. “Also, call the phone company now and get that dedicated line to Java Joint set up.”

Roger listened, jotting notes, then hurried away.

The station phone rang. “I’ll get it,” Roger called over his shoulder.

A minute later Vince heard the rear door of the station open. He stepped into the hall to see an ISP officer escorting in Justin and Larry.

Vince shook hands with them both. “Thanks for coming. We really need your help.”

“No problem, where do you want us?” Larry dug a leathered hand into his scalp.

“Roger can use you to post information on the situation board in my office as he gathers it, and also to help keep the log. He’s in there.” Vince pointed to the closest office. Larry gave a quick nod and headed off. “Justin, I need you with me.”

In his late fifties, Justin was over six-two and hard- muscled from working out, with an angular face and dark brown eyes. His experience as a negotiator would provide Vince with a second set of ears and expertise as he communicated with Wicksell.

“Okay. Whatever I can do.”

Justin spoke in a level tone, but the words hardened at the edges. For a surreal moment Vince stood outside himself, surveying the scene. Hearing the voices, watching the movements, all carried out in this new, grim normality.
Weighted
, that was the word. Everything felt weighted.

Justin turned to the ISP officer, a salt-and-pepper-haired man who looked to be in his forties. “Thanks for bringing me in.”

“No problem.” The officer looked to Vince. “Anything you need me to run back?”

“Not right now. Thanks.”

The officer exited the station. Vince motioned Justin into his office. “I’ll print the blog conversation so you can see where we are.”

“All right.” Justin pulled a chair up to the other side of Vince’s desk. As the printer spat paper, Vince plucked up the sheets and handed them to him. Justin read them swiftly, his lips pressed. “This where we are now, with your answer about the TV?” He tapped the papers.

“Yeah. I’m waiting for Roger to get through to the reporters. Once I manage to move Kent to the telephone and we can tape the communications, you can be my note-taker and help me with ideas.” Even though the digital taping system could feed into a computer, it would be much quicker to refresh memory from notes than to search for specific information in a downloaded file.

Roger leaned in the office door, a phone to his ear. He pointed to it, mouthing, “Prosecutor Mick Wiley.”

Vince looked back to Justin. “I need to take this. You know how to check the blog for comments, in case Wicksell says something?”

“Sure. I always read the blog posts.”

“Okay. Let me know if anything comes up.”

Justin came around the desk to sit at the computer. Vince picked up the receiver for the station line and walked a few steps toward the front window. Staring at an empty and silent Main Street, he hit the
talk
button and greeted the prosecutor who’d sent T.J. Wicksell to prison.

THIRTY-FOUR

“That man who dragged the cop away…”

Brad’s words turned every vein in Bailey’s body to ice.

Kent hulked nearby, gun in his left hand, scratching his neck with the other. His expression indicated he was considering the idea.

Mitch jerked his chin. “He’s gotta be a friend of these people. Probably won’t try to pull a fast one like some cop.”

“Exactly.” Brad sniffed.

Bailey looked down at her lap. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Kent’s clothes rustled. She could feel his cool gaze on her.

“Who is he?” He leaned down toward her.

She refused to answer, even as she knew her silence would give her away.

Mitch pulled in air with a whistle. “Obviously somebody she likes pretty well. Her husband?”

“Mm.” Kent sounded pleased with the thought. “That true?” He eyed her coldly.

She managed the barest of nods.

“Hey, man, that’s perfect.” Brad gave a low chuckle.

“Yeah.” Kent pressed his knuckles into Bailey’s upper arm. She cringed. “Tell Edwards we want your husband to bring the TV and nobody else.”

Bailey was afraid of heights. Put her near the edge of a cliff, on a high bridge, and the panicky sensation was always the same. Like an unhinged trap door, the bottom of her stomach would just… drop away. A sickening feeling, dizzying. The same reaction could come just from watching someone else sidle too close to an abyss, particularly if it was someone she loved.

This was what she felt now, with Kent’s hot breath on her, his fingers digging into her skin. The thought of summoning John
here
perched her on a crumbling mountaintop, no end to the drop in sight.

“Hey!”

Kent hit her shoulder. The punch landed so fast she didn’t even see it coming. Pain shot through her muscle. Bailey heard her friends gasp.

Fine. He could hit her again. Kill her if he wanted. She was
not
luring her husband into this death haven.

Slowly she raised her head and dared look him in the eye. “No.”

Anger twisted his features. “Don’t tell me no.
Do
it!”

Bailey shook. Try as she might, she couldn’t bear to look into his heartless face any longer. She lowered her head and focused on the keyboard, heart thumping.

“No.”

Silence. Bailey squeezed her eyes shut, steeling herself for whatever came next. A strange aura settled over her — not calm, surely not peace.

Acceptance.

She sensed a motion from Kent. Then — firm footsteps. Coming from Brad’s direction. They stopped.

Sudden rustling. A moan. Someone wailed.

Angie?

Bailey’s eyes flew open.

The barrel of Brad’s automatic weapon dug against Bev’s left temple. She sat frozen, head tilted away from the killing machine, eyes round, mouth hanging open. Both hands clawed the tabletop.

Kent sank his fingers into Bailey’s shoulder. “Do it or he shoots.”

THIRTY-FIVE

“Mick, Chief Edwards here.” Vince wandered the office, unable to keep still. He pictured Mick the last time he’d seen him in a courtroom.

At five-seven, Mick Wiley could only be described as round. Round face, rotund body, big round green eyes. He looked like a teddy bear — until he opened his mouth. His booming voice echoed off courtroom walls and straightened tired jurors’ spines. Mick had won a lot of convictions, and he was proud of every one. Especially, according to the papers, T.J. Wicksell’s, because of the heinousness of the crime.

“Vince, sorry it took so long to get back to you. I was out on the lake without my cell phone. I hear you got yourself a situation with the Wicksells. Can’t say I’m surprised, knowing that family.”

“You deal with any of them during the trial?”

Mick snorted. “Oh yeah. Big brother Mitch is a meth head. And daddy Kent’s a roaring locomotive. Guy was in my face every time I turned around. Complaining about the defense attorney, insisting his son was innocent. Had to kick him out of my office twice. After that I refused to see him.”

“We tried and tried to talk to the lawyers, but no one would listen.”
Kent’s words in his letter.

Vince knew Mick’s case had been airtight. He’d put forth evidence; the jury had convicted. End of story. There was little Mick could say to placate Kent Wicksell — yet that was exactly what Vince was asking him to do.

“Kent accused the defense attorney of showing up in court with a hangover. You know anything about that?”

Mick snorted. “Get real. We had reporters in there every day, hanging on every word. You think one of them wouldn’t mention some bumbling attorney? T.J. got fair representation. He just happened to be guilty.”

Larry hurried into the office, notepaper in hand, and made a beeline for the situation board. He picked up the fine-tipped marker lying on the ledge beneath the board and started writing, head jerking up and down as he consulted the paper.

“No questioning that. But I need to give Kent something. Of course I’m trying to talk him out of there, but his level of anger tells me that won’t happen anytime soon.”

“What can I do to help? Roger said he’s demanding we cut T.J. loose. That’s not about to happen.”

“No. But Wicksell needs to see me talking to you. Like I’m trying to free his son. Will you be willing to listen to his so-called evidence?”

“Sure, sure, we have to do something. You talked to Lester?”

Mick’s tone dipped. Lester Tranning — T.J.’s defense attorney. The two men’s animosity toward each other was legendary. According to courthouse talk, it started years ago over some case Mick won, with Lester publicly accusing him of underhanded lawyering. During T.J.’s case their hostility had only given the media more titillating stories.

Vince would have his hands full trying to work with them in the same room.

“We’re trying to reach him. Judge Hadkin too. I’d like to get the three of you down here to talk this thing over while I communicate with Wicksell. I’ll want to keep it quiet because I don’t want to tell him you’re here until I can get the best negotiating advantage from the information.”

Larry began taping photos of the Wicksell men to the situation board.

“Yeah, got it.” Mick paused. “Okay. I can be there in forty-five minutes.”

Mick was driving from the Coeur d’Alene area. “Great. Thanks.” Vince gave him Jim’s cell number to call for instructions on being escorted into the inner perimeter. He didn’t want the attorneys meeting at Al’s media site, where reporters would recognize them.

Vince hung up and strode to the situation board to study photos of the three Wicksells. He gazed into Kent’s eyes, trying to get more of a feeling for the man. Then read through birth dates, contact information, and other pertinent data.
Kent’s wife — Lenora, 51
. He might want to talk to her at some point. Priors: Kent — armed burglary, 1988. That would be a year before T.J. was born. Brad — two assaults against girlfriends. Mitch — drug possession and sales.

“You make copies of these photos for Tactical?” Vince asked Larry.

“Got a set ready.”

“Thanks.” Vince veered toward his desk. He needed to give Jim a heads-up about the attorneys and judge. Justin still focused on the monitor, clicking the mouse.

“Anything?” Vince reached for the phone.

“Nada.”

Two minutes later as Vince hung up from the call, Roger hustled into the office. “I checked with Al first about reporters Jeremy Cole and Teresa Wright, in case they’re already at the media site. No such luck. I called their stations — both are off today. Called their cells and left messages.”

“Good. They should call back before long.” Reporters stayed close to their phones.

Roger’s cell rang. He checked the ID, his face lighting with recognition. Held the phone out to Vince. “Lester Tranning.”

As Vince took the call, Roger moved to Larry and handed him more paper. The reporters’ names and phone numbers went up on the board.

“Vince, I heard what’s going on. What can I do?” Unlike the dichotomy between Mick’s voice and body, Lester’s nasally tone had always struck Vince as fitting for his tall, lean frame.

“Tell me about Kent Wicksell.”

“He’s bad news, that’s what. Kept accusing me of not doing enough for T.J. I finally stopped taking his calls. One day he barreled into my office when I was in the middle of a meeting. I had to call an officer to escort him out. Hate to tell you, but I’m not all that surprised to hear what he’s done.”

Vince asked Lester if he could come to the station to meet with Mick and — if they could get ahold of him — the judge. Lester said he could be there within an hour.