She Can Run (35 page)

He strolled down the hall and out the double doors with all the other employees leaving at the end of their shifts. Outside, the warm breeze carried exhaust fumes and the scent of rotting garbage. Philadelphia residents cursed and honked with abandon. So much for the City of Brotherly Love. He walked the two blocks to the lot where he’d parked his car.

He kicked an empty beer can aimlessly as he unlocked his sedan. Disappointment weighed on him. Tonight’s killing had left him distinctly unsatisfied. He’d never killed a man before. It wasn’t nearly as much fun as being intimate with a naked woman. There hadn’t been any struggle for life, no scent of panic, no eyes wide-open in terror, no recognition that
he
was the one in control. And leaving before Baker was actually dead had been downright anticlimactic. Usually, after such an event, he basked in a powerful afterglow, as if his batteries had been recharged. No such luck this time. But the job was done, and that was all that mattered.

He slid into his car and piloted it toward the entrance to the Schuylkill Expressway. Ninety minutes till home. He checked the dashboard clock. He’d be home in plenty of time to watch the ten o’clock news.

He smiled to the empty car. He looked forward to watching some breaking news in the saga of Congressman Baker and his estranged wife.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Jack set two mugs of coffee on the patio table and slid into the chair across from Beth. Despite the warmth of the late-morning sun, she was burrowed in a huge sweatshirt of his. It made her look as vulnerable as a child. Following her gaze to the horizon, he scanned the view. Over the mountains, the sunrise painted the sky pink, and he sincerely hoped the whole “red sky in morning, sailor’s warning” saying only applied to the weather.

‘Cause they could sure use a freakin’ break.

Reaching across the scrolled metal table, he curled his fingers around Beth’s hand. Just above her wrist the fabric hid the thick bandages that covered dozens of stitches. Three days ago he’d almost lost her. The memory welled up in his throat. A sip of coffee helped him swallow the lump.

She turned toward him, exposing the battered left side of her face, her bruises another reminder of how close she’d come to being killed.

“You feeling OK?”

Her smile was a little crooked due to the swelling. “Yeah. Just restless. I’m not good at sitting around.”

Jack feigned surprise. “I never would’ve guessed.”

“And I miss working with the horses.”

He deadpanned, “No worries. You’ll be back to shoveling shit in no time.”

“I hope so.” Her smile widened.

He raised her hand to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. “I didn’t get to finish what I was going to say the other night, but I love you.”

“I know.” She smiled. “And I love you, too.”

A grin stretched across his face. “I’ve never said that to a woman before. Now you’re going to have to marry me.”

Her face froze. The smile faded. “I think I’d better get my life sorted out first, don’t you? That may take a while.” She pulled her hand out from under his to pick up her coffee. Averting her gaze, she lifted the cup to her lips.

Was that a yes or a no? Maybe?

Well, shit. It hadn’t occurred to him that she wouldn’t accept. He’d thought it was a given. He was the one with the commitment issues. Right?

“We’ll get through it. It’ll be fine. Have some faith in Carlyle. He looks like a nice old gentleman, but in reality, he’s as vicious as they come.” Jack faced her and recaptured her hand, clasping both of his around it. The sun was warm on his back, but her fingers were cold, her face pale and drawn. “We love each other. That’s all that matters. I’m sticking with you through this whole thing.”

“Even if I go to prison?” Her voice quivered on the last word. She kept her face turned toward the mountains.

He shook his head, rubbing the back of her hand with his thumb. “You’re not going to prison.”

Still she didn’t look at him. “We don’t know that, Jack. Richard’s father has a lot of clout. You have no idea what those people can do.”

Didn’t matter. He wouldn’t let it happen. “But—”

Beth interrupted him. “Stafford will talk the prosecutor into pressing charges against me for attempted murder. I’ve accepted that. It’s really just my word against Richard’s, and you can bet as soon as he can talk, the first thing out of his mouth will be a well-crafted lie. Richard can spin anything.”

Jack’s oatmeal condensed to a ball in his stomach. He hadn’t considered that he could lose her to a legal system skewed toward a powerful politician. “Then we’ll talk to Carlyle about finding the best defense attorney.”

Beth nodded, and she finally turned her wide green eyes to him. Her gaze was level and straight. “It’s the kids I’m worried about. They have no blood relatives. Richard and his family would get custody of them if I went to prison.”

“Then we’ll talk to Carlyle about that, too.” It sickened Jack that Beth had prison on her mind just a few days after nearly losing her life. The possibility that she was right about the situation hammered home all the reasons she’d been hiding in the first place. She hadn’t had a choice. On her own, she’d have been at Baker’s mercy. Without his money, Uncle Danny’s fancy lawyer, and Mike O’Connell’s integrity, she’d probably already have been arrested. Mike would never take a payoff or bow to political pressure, but a former senator could go over his head faster than a 747.

Even with the congressman out of the picture physically, the risk to Beth was still there. Damn it, would she ever be really safe? Would it ever be over?

Next to him, Beth lifted her face to the sunshine and closed her eyes as if appreciating something that might be in short supply soon.

Lost in thought, Jack started when the door behind him opened and the police chief stepped out. Jack had been expecting a follow-up visit, but from the worried expression on Mike’s face, this didn’t look like a routine call. Something must have happened. The police chief didn’t sit, Jack’s second clue that some new shit had hit the fan.

Mike walked to the edge of the patio and stared out toward the lake. Beyond the trees, its surface was a sheet of glass in the still morning. “Have you seen the news since last night?”

“No, sorry. We’ve been keeping the TV off.” Seemed like every hour, the media had an “update” on Congressman Baker’s condition or some new speculation on the estrangement between Baker and Beth. Or worse, someone had commented on the perils of having dangerous, mentally ill people on the loose. “The coverage has been brutal.”

The public was behind Congressman Baker one hundred percent.

Mike sighed, turned, and pulled out a chair. Metal scraped against rough stone. “I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’ll just say it. Congressman Baker is dead.”

The silence that descended upon them was broken only by a pair of tweeting sparrows.

Jack shifted his gaze from Mike’s face to Beth’s. A tear spilled from her eye and rolled down her swollen cheek. For Baker? Or for what his death meant to her?

The chair squeaked as Mike leaned back and rolled his head on Atlas-like shoulders. “The autopsy will be this afternoon. He was in critical condition, but stable enough that the doctors were surprised when he kicked. A nurse had checked his vitals twenty minutes before he coded. Nothing indicated he was checking out.”

Mike pulled out his small black notebook. “I have to ask where both of you were last night.”

The lump in Jack’s throat swelled, and his heart skipped a beat. “We were here all night.” He’d questioned many people in his career, but he’d never been on the wrong side of an interview. His life had done a complete about-face.

“Any witnesses?” Mike asked.

“Just the kids and Mrs. Harris.” Jack stared at the police chief. “You can’t think Beth is in any condition to have driven down to Philadelphia last night?”

“It’s a possibility. I have to cover all the bases, Jack.” Mike scrubbed a hand down his face. “But I admit, given Beth’s physical condition, you’d be the more likely candidate. Those bruises stand out. Be hard for her to sneak into his room.” Mike paused. “The congressman died around seven thirty. Was Mrs. Harris here at that time?”

“Yeah.” Jack nodded. “We’d just finished dinner.”

“I’ll get her statement on my way out.” Mike closed the notebook and shoved it into his breast pocket. “I’d find the best criminal defense lawyer you can, Beth. Stafford Baker is on a media rampage against you.”

The last remaining bit of color drained from Beth’s pale face.

The police chief paused in front of the door. “If the autopsy’s clean and his cause of death is officially determined to be the gunshot wound, this time the charge would be murder.”

“If Baker’s autopsy is clean, Beth could be on the hook for his death. But if the autopsy turned something up, then I’m a suspect in his murder.”

“Yeah.” Mike nodded. “Either way, you’re fucked.”

A blue ribbon scrolled across the bottom of the television screen in James’s plush room at the Bellevue Hotel in Philadelphia. The words
Congressman Richard Baker, dead at forty-three
caught his attention. He set his coffee down and turned up the volume to better hear the breaking news report.

A pretty newswoman stood outside a hospital emergency room entrance. In the background, an ambulance pulled up to the door, red strobe lights flashing.

“We’re outside Hartman University Hospital, where Congressman Richard Baker was pronounced dead last night from a gunshot wound to the chest. The congressman was shot three days ago by his own wife, Elizabeth Baker—the same wife he’d been searching for since her mysterious disappearance last fall. According to sources close to the Baker family, Elizabeth was a former mental patient at this very hospital after she attempted to commit suicide…”

Blah, blah, blah. James tuned her out. An official account from anyone close to the Baker family was total bullshit.

The screen shifted to an interview with Stafford Baker. The former senator sat in a swiveling chair in the newsroom. A microphone was clipped to his navy suit jacket. For a man whose son had just died, Stafford looked immaculately groomed in a navy suit and blinding white shirt, with the prerequisite red power tie. Although polished and pressed, the strain was evident in the paleness of his skin, the repetitive clenching of one fist, and the puffy flesh around his eyes.

The interviewer turned to his guest. “Mr. Baker, you claim that the congressman was attacked by his estranged wife. She says he attacked her.”

Stafford Baker shook his head and frowned. “My son had recently located his wife. He wanted nothing more than to bring her home and get her help. He lived in fear for the children for almost a year. I’ve no doubt those ridiculous accusations against Richard will be dropped. He did nothing but try to be the best father and husband possible under the circumstances. Unfortunately, my daughter-in-law has a long history of mental illness. It runs in her family. Her father committed suicide. Without the proper medication, she’s a dangerous woman. Depressed, paranoid, and delusional. Her diagnosis was one of the reasons my son campaigned so hard for mandatory health-insurance coverage for treatment of mental illness. He realized that, given the cost of his wife’s inpatient stay, many uninsured or under-insured Americans would be unable to obtain professional help.”

The reporter leaned forward. “Then how do you explain the injuries Mrs. Baker suffered?”

“Elizabeth must have hurt herself. It wouldn’t be the first time.” Stafford eyes filled. “My son was a great man, destined for great things. He’s the victim here.” He took a shaky breath. “I bear my daughter-in-law no ill will. She’s sick. But for the sake of public safety, she needs to be locked away where she can’t hurt anyone else. It’s time this country stopped allowing potentially dangerous, mentally ill people to roam the streets.”

“Mr. Baker, before your son was killed, you’d been considering making another run for the Senate. What are your plans now?”

Baker straightened his shoulders. “I can’t make any decisions right now. My family needs time to grieve.”

Unbelievable. The bastard was still campaigning. He’d just shifted his focus from his son to himself. He was one smart son of a bitch, had covered his ass every way from Sunday. Beth couldn’t win. If she agreed with the doctors, she was nuts. Denying her official medical records made her look even crazier. Hell, if James didn’t know her,
he’d
believe Baker. Conspiracy theories were always hard to swallow.

But James knew Beth, and now he knew the Bakers as well. Both father and deceased son were rotten down to their stunted souls. Beth needed someone to play hardball for her, someone who’d play dirty. O’Malley was too much of a white hat. People like Stafford Baker didn’t play by the rules.

James fingered a flash drive barely larger than a stick of gum, the results of his extensive surveillance on Richard Baker. While the pictures and videos James had recorded with the tiny camera he’d hidden in the heating vent weren’t evidence of any illegal activity, he was pretty sure Stafford wouldn’t want these movies uploaded to YouTube any time soon.