No Time To Run (Legal Thriller Featuring Michael Collins, Book 1) (9 page)

Before guilt intruded, Michael took a deep breath and sat down behind his desk. He looked at his in-box. It was already filled with papers. There were orientation materials, internal policies, health insurance information. He picked up the top of the stack and started sorting.

There was a phone message from Rhonda Kirchner, another associate, inviting him to a recruitment dinner, and then underneath there were three thin, blue folders held together by a rubber band.

The color blue indicated that the folders contained research by one of the firm’s private investigators. Everything at Wabash, Kramer & Moore was color coded. Michael began to remove the rubber band and open the first folder, but stopped.

Michael set the files down and picked up the phone. He needed help, not with the folders, but with everything. He needed Kermit Guillardo.

God help him.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The phone rang on Tammy Duckstein’s government-issue desk. The desk was a classic piece of utilitarian furniture circa 1973, featuring dented metal drawers and a fake wood top. She glanced at the clock, 4:57 p.m. She hated these calls.

Tammy thought about letting it go. “But that’s why they pay me the big bucks.” She picked up the phone.

“
This is Tammy Duckstein.”

“
It’s me.”

Tammy glanced at the thick file on the corner of her desk. Her pulse quickened.

“
Yes.” Tammy retrieved a pen from her top desk drawer and turned to a fresh piece of paper in her notepad. “I’ve been hoping that you’d call again. I’ve run into some –”

“
He’s back.”

“
When?”

“
Just walked down the hall, I saw Collins sitting in his new office.”

CHAPTER EIGHTTEEN

The transfer from the courthouse back to Rikers Island took over two hours. Eventually the white unmarked van came to a stop in the back of the Singer Center. The side door opened, and eight women in orange jumpsuits emerged from the vehicle in handcuffs. One by one, they hobbled out like clowns emerging from a funny car.

A guard lowered his black wooden baton in front of Andie Larone. “Not you, gorgeous.” He tapped the baton against her chest. “Got something special for you.”

Andie’s hands balled into fists, and the guard smiled. “Let’s go.” He gave her a little push off to the side. Andie was led in one direction, while the others were led in another.

Inside, Andie and the guard walked down a pale yellow hallway that reeked of artificial lemon
.
 

“
Stop.” The guard lowered the wooden baton onto Andie’s shoulder. He then removed a set of keys from his belt clip and opened a door. “In here.”

Andie didn’t move.

“
What’s this about?”

“
It’s about nothing, sweetie, just go inside.”

Andie took a step toward the guard, calm and steady.

“
I’m not moving until you tell me what’s going on.”

The guard smiled.

“
You’ve been hearing too many stories about lonely guards and lonely women.” He laughed. “Now go inside and sit your ass down.”

His hands shot forward, pushing Andie backwards into the room, and then another push.

Andie swung, but didn’t land her punch. While she was off-balance, the guard closed the space and came around with his wooden baton. It struck just above the knee, and Andie collapsed to the floor.

As she held her leg, the guard knelt down next to her.

“
Know your place, Ms. Larone.” He leaned in closer, whispering. “I’m one of the nice ones.”

The guard stood and walked away, closing and locking the door behind him.

Andie wiped away the one tear that had managed to escape and stood.

The walls were bare and painted the same pale yellow as the hallway. There were no windows, pictures, or graffiti, just a square fluorescent light fixture on the ceiling and two chairs.

Andie walked over to one of the chairs, and pushed it into the far corner of the room. It was as far away from the door as possible. She wanted time to move, next time there wouldn’t be surprises. There’d be a fight.

She didn
'
t have to wait long. When the door unlocked and opened, a man wearing a suit and tie and sitting in a wheelchair rolled himself inside.

“
Agent Frank Vatch of the FBI.” He extended his hand, and his tongue flicked out and back in. “Maybe young Michael Collins has mentioned me.”

“
No.”

Agent Vatch puffed out his lower lip in a pout.

“
I’m hurt,” he said. “We go way back, Mr. Collins and I do.”

“
Since you know Michael, you know I’ve got an attorney.”

“
I do.” Agent Vatch nodded with a half-smile.

“
And so you can’t talk to me, and I don’t want to talk to you.”

Vatch smiled.

“
I’m not here to talk about you and Helix Johannson. Well, not specifically.” He reached into his pocket and removed an envelope. “Why don’t you take a look at this?”

Andie took the white envelope. It had the seal of the U.S. Department of Justice in the corner. Andie paused.

“
Well, go ahead, now, open it.” Vatch was enjoying himself.

She slid her finger into a small gap in the back, and opened the envelope. Andie unfolded the pieces of paper and read.

“
I don’t understand.” She looked up at Vatch.

“
It’s a grand jury subpoena for you.” When Andie still didn’t understand, Vatch continued. “It’s about your boyfriend.” There was little attempt by Vatch to disguise his delight, as he wheeled closer to Andie. “We need you to testify for the government against Mr. Collins.”

Andie shook her head.

“
Don’t be so quick.” Vatch’s tongue flicked. “Your testimony could be very helpful to us. ... and to yourself.” He removed a business card and handed it to Andie. “You need to get a new a lawyer, and have him call me at that number.”

Vatch put his hand on Andie’s thigh and let it roam upward.

“
It might be the only way to prevent the …” He made a buzzing sound, then rolled his eyes back into his head and jerked his body up and down, a crude attempt to simulate someone getting electrocuted.

Andie stood.

“
Leave.” She pointed at the door.

“
Fine.” Vatch spun his wheelchair around, and rolled toward the door. “You know, the death penalty isn’t this nice, painless way to enter the afterlife,” he said. “In your spare time, you might want to look up the case of John Evans. Poor fellow down in Alabama got electrocuted one, two, and then three times. Darn machine kept malfunctioning so they just kept at it until the boy was a piece of coal, charred and smoking.” Vatch smiled and shook his head in amusement. “Then there was this other guy named Tafero down in Florida. Now he had a go with ‘Old Hickory’ and the sponges on his head lit on fire during the electrocution. Six-inch flames shot out –
"

“
Leave.” Andie turned away from him.

“
Problem is,” Vatch continued, “folks don’t care. In fact, the public says these fellas got what they deserve, hang ‘em high – ”

“
I said leave.”

“
Has Michael Collins ever told you about his last client, Joshua Krane, and how Mr. Krane met his maker?” Vatch knocked on the door. A guard on the other side opened it. “Or has Michael Collins ever told you how he got his money? Everybody needs money to live, and he isn’t Bill Gates’ long-lost son as far as I know. That question must have crossed your mind, Ms. Larone. Certainly it has.”

Vatch wheeled out the door, and then turned around to face Andie once he was in the hallway.

“
How about that little school near that resort of yours? Isn’t it odd that soon after Mr. Collins arrived in your part of the world, the town built a brand new school with computers, new text books, supplies, everything? Doesn’t your boyfriend coach that soccer team?”

Vatch laughed. “I don’t think you know Michael Collins' whole story.” He wheeled back into the room, and then stopped. “You’re going to have to testify no matter what. Why not be a smart girl and get something out of it? Save that little bankrupt resort of yours. Or better yet, save yourself.”   

CHAPTER NINETEEN

It was well past dusk when Michael arrived at the New York Helmsley Hotel. He slid his key into the door, turned on the lights, hung his new clothes in the closet, and then crossed the room to the window and opened the curtains.

The corner room, which he had specifically requested, was on the second floor and offered views of both 42nd Street and Third Avenue. If someone was out there, Michael had convinced himself that he would see them coming. If he had to run, Michael figured that he could survive the jump with just a few bruises or maybe a sprained ankle.

The Helmsley also had the advantage of being relatively close to the office, and willing to rent a room by the week at a decent rate.

Michael sat down on the bed and turned on the television.

Channels flicked by as Michael searched for something decent. Two times through the dial, however, nothing interested him.

He checked the clock. It read 10:47 p.m.

Michael had worked later than he thought he did, filing a Notice of Appearance in state court, and then researching his opposition to the government’s motion. He wanted to prevent them from stopping the state court proceedings while the federal case went forward. Unfortunately, all of his research indicated that he was going to lose. He was being forced to rely upon the “breakfast defense.”

The “breakfast defense” was so named because it wasn’t rooted in any law or legal reasoning. The defense and ultimately the decision itself were based entirely on the judge’s mood as determined by what he or she had for breakfast. If the judge had eaten well that morning, he just might rule in Michael's favor.

Michael flicked through the channels again, this time looking for the local news or maybe the weather.

On Channel 3 he found what he was looking for. The Ken-and-Barbie anchor team worked their way through a story about a possible transit strike, a homeless cat that had brought a group of wealthy New Yorkers together, and then the weather.

Michael was about to turn the television off when Andie’s picture came up on the screen.

“
The murder trial of Helix Johannson began at the New York County Courthouse today, in what the local tabloids are calling the 'Kase of the Kingpin Kutie.' ” The anchor held up a copy of tomorrow’s Post, never known for its subtlety, which had the headline in large bold letters across the top of the front page.

Below the headline was a large picture of Andie wading out of the Caribbean surf in a bikini. The Barbie anchor smiled and shook her head, muttering something about “only in New York,” while the Ken anchor continued.

“
Here’s our own Rachel Finn with more on the story that has local legal circles buzzing.”

Michael watched shots of the press conference as another skinny blonde recounted the more salacious details contained in the formal charges against Andie. The local district attorney and New York Attorney General stood behind U.S. Attorney Brenda Gadd as Gadd stated her intention to make New York a “perilous place for drug dealers to settle scores, no matter your race or gender.”

Then, a quick shot of Michael standing on the courthouse steps. They used the “set up” quote because it was the only one they had, but it didn’t sound as powerful as Michael thought it would. In fact, it sounded trite. He looked too young, and his promise to make the prosecutors look like a bunch of asses was unprofessional.

The age difference was going to be a problem at trial, Michael thought. The jury may not like Gadd, but they won’t trust a kid.

He turned off the television and lay back flat on the bed. Michael stared at the ceiling and thought about the case. There were just too many missing pieces, things that didn’t make sense. Andie’s alibi was turning out to be non-existent, and how the FBI could have "lost" a drug kingpin under 24-hour surveillance was beyond him.

Michael got out of bed and walked to the bathroom, shedding his clothes along the way.

Stepping into the shower, he turned the water on and let the room fill with steam, then he stepped inside.

He took a handful of shampoo, worked it into lather, and then rubbed it into his scalp. The water washed the soap away. Then Michael did it a second time, and then a third. He closed his eyes, and his breathing slowed.

In these moments, these quiet moments, he could feel the bullet fragment still inside him, just a millimeter away from his spine. It felt alive, like a small worm burrowing further, moving ever so slowly to finish the job it had started.