He typed a few things into his computer, pulled up more about Creed Kershaw. He would find out everything he could to help Holly so she wouldn’t feel the need to go after him herself.
CHAPTER 11
The idea that Leonard Miller was back in town kept Michael from sleeping. He sat up on his bottom bunk late into the night, studying the notes he kept under his mattress about the man who’d killed his brother and terrorized Cathy’s family.
His chest hurt, and he rubbed the surgical scar from a few months ago—the consequence of a gunshot wound.
His new cell mate hung his feet over the top bunk.
Michael looked up. “Sorry, man. Did the light wake you?”
“Naw, I just can’t sleep. Sick to my stomach, shaking like a leaf . . .”
“Would you rather have the bottom bunk so you can get to the bathroom faster?”
The man slid down to the floor, then considered that. “Yeah, maybe.”
Michael had waited until his last cell mate was released to claim the bottom bunk, but he figured it hardly mattered now. Craven was covered with sweat. As he stumbled to the toilet again, Michael got up and moved the papers he’d been reading. “Here, take it,” he said when Craven was upright again.
“Thanks, man.”
“So what are you withdrawing from?”
Craven moved the few supplies they’d given him from the upper bunk. “Heroin, Xanax, alcohol.”
Cold turkey from any one of those could make him sick, but all three could make a person wish he was dead. “Did you see the nurse when they brought you in?”
“No. I see him tomorrow. Will he give me something that helps?”
“Maybe.”
Craven scratched his arms. “You go through this when you came in, dude?”
“No, I don’t use.”
That seemed to shut the conversation down. Michael dreaded Craven learning he had been a cop. The moment his last cell mate found that out, he’d accused Michael of being a plant by the DA to snitch on him. That bit of gossip had spread through Michael’s pod like fire, marking a target on his back.
Michael sat down at the metal desk built into the wall and studied his notebook. Craven looked over his shoulder. “Why are you writing about Lenny Miller?”
Michael looked back at him. “You know him?”
“I know of him.” Craven wiped the sweat off his forehead with a towel. “Saw him the other day.”
“You did? Here in town?”
“Yeah.” Craven went to the toilet and heaved.
Michael waited, telling himself not to show cop-like interest, pausing while Craven slumped onto the bottom bunk and curled up in a fetal position. He could hear the man’s teeth chattering.
Michael washed out a small Styrofoam coffee cup and filled it with water. “Here, drink something.”
Craven sat up and took the cup, sloshing the water out. He was trembling too badly to hold it, so Michael helped him.
Craven wiped his mouth. “Thanks, man.”
“Sure. Detoxing in jail is no picnic.” After a moment, Michael said, “I thought I saw Miller the other day when I was out with the crew. His hair was lighter.”
“Yeah, blond.”
“Is he still distributing, or is he a broker now?”
“Got me. All’s I know is you don’t mess with the dude.”
“So where did you see him?”
“In Bayou Park. I was sleeping there. They were . . . exterminating my place.”
So Craven was homeless. “Yeah? And you saw him there?”
“Yeah, talking to some scary dudes. I stayed back. Didn’t want to be noticed.”
“How did you know it was him?”
“Recognized him from all that time he was on TV during the trial. At first I was like, who is that guy? I know I seen him before. I thought maybe he was an actor or some athlete or somethin’, but then it hits me. That’s that Miller dude from that trial.” Suddenly Craven turned over and squinted at Michael. “Hey, that’s where I seen you too. That’s who you are!”
Michael turned back to his notebook.
“During that trial, coupla years ago. You was that cop.”
Michael didn’t look up. “That trial is what got me here.”
“Oh yeah, I remember. Perjury, right?”
Michael didn’t answer. A few minutes later, Craven heaved in the toilet again, and when he was back on the bed, he seemed to have forgotten what they’d been talking about. He wrapped up in his thin blanket and turned to the wall.
Eventually Michael climbed onto the upper bunk and lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. If he were out of here, he would find Miller. He’d make sure he got justice. There were several warrants out on the man, and if they ever found and convicted him, he’d go to prison for life.
But Miller wasn’t stupid. Even staying here in town, he would manage to elude the authorities.
Michael tried to quell the sense of absurdity that he was locked up instead of the man who had murdered, kidnapped, trafficked cocaine, and evaded the law so many times. But that was the way things worked.
He would see if he could get more information about Miller out of anyone else in the jail population, then let Cathy know tomorrow about Craven’s confirmation that Miller was back. Max might also be able to find Miller in his official capacity with the Panama City PD, now that they knew he really was in town. If Max knew, he’d be all over it. Next to Cathy and himself, Max wanted to find his brother’s killer most of all, and they all wanted the arrest to be incontestable. They wouldn’t let him get off on a technicality again.
CHAPTER 12
Holly hated lying to Juliet, but it wasn’t the first time. Her lying muscles had grown weak over the last few months, but it was like getting back on a bicycle.
“You want to drive at night after you got mugged?” Juliet asked her. “I thought we talked about this. You were going to transition to full-time at the office and quit driving the cab.”
“That’s not what I said, Juliet. I said I’d work more for Michael, but that I’d still have to drive. I worked all day at the office, but I need cash now. I lost a lot in the robbery, and I need to make it up.”
“But aren’t you scared?” Juliet asked as she took Lily.
“I have to get back in the saddle. I’ll be careful who I pick up. No more dodgy neighborhoods. I’ll stick to the airport tonight.”
Holly headed to Southport, her notes open on her seat. She’d found Creed’s last-known employment, a restaurant where he’d worked as a server. She would go there first and see what she could find out. Then she’d go by his parents’ house—the address he’d used last—and see if she could catch a glimpse of him coming or going. Yes, the police were probably watching him too, but they were a small-town force. They might not have the manpower for twenty-four-hour surveillance.
The taxi could stand out like a sore thumb in certain areas, but there were times when it became invisible, like at hotels or the airport, and sometimes people overlooked it in neighborhoods too. She hoped that would be the case tonight.
Holly easily found the Gourmet Crab Bar and Grill in Southport. There weren’t that many patrons taking up spaces. She went inside, looked around. The place was nice, with a good atmosphere, and classic rock music played throughout. A couple of groups sat at tables, three or four around the bar.
Holly slipped onto a stool and waited for the bartender to notice her. Finally, the girl—who sported a name tag that said Brittany—came to her. “What can I get you?”
“Coke,” Holly said.
Brittany crossed her pit and filled up a glass. When she came back, Holly tossed out the question. “Hey, is Creed working today?”
The girl paused and gave Holly a narrow gaze. “No.”
Holly sipped her drink. “He works here, right? I was just gonna say hi. When will he be back in?”
“Are you a cop?”
Holly almost spat out her drink. “A cop? No, do I look like one? Why? A
re they looking for him?”
Brittany got a dishrag and wiped off the counter. “I don’t know where he is, all right? I haven’t seen him in days. I’ve already been questioned, and I told them everything I know.”
Holly took that in. Brittany’d been questioned . . . but why? Had they questioned all his coworkers?
Something about the uncomfortable look on Brittany’s face told Holly there was more. “So what’s going on? Is he in some kind of trouble?”
“He didn’t do what they’re saying.”
Holly tried to look irritated. “And that would be . . .”
The girl wasn’t buying it. She looked over her shoulder, as if looking for her boss. Then she turned back to Holly and leaned on the counter. “Who are you?”
Holly thought of lying, but she wanted to see if her name got a reaction. “I’m Holly Cramer.”
Brittany stopped wiping and stared at her. “You had the baby.”
Holly felt the blood draining from her face. So he had told others. A guy who didn’t care, who wasn’t going to intrude on her life, would have kept it to himself, maybe even denied that he could be the father. But someone who shared it with a confidante . . .
“He told you that?”
“Yes, last week. He said it was a girl. What do you want? Child support, when you didn’t even bother to tell him he was a father?”
“No, that’s not why I’m here.” Holly’s lips tightened, and she reached into her purse for her cash. She slid the cost of the drink across the table. “I just want to know what his intentions are.”
“Who knows? They’re trying to nail him with a murder rap.”
“Murder?” Holly asked, trying to look surprised.
“He hasn’t been charged with anything. Not yet.”
Holly slid off her stool. “Do you know how I can reach him?”
“Of course not.” That was all. The speed with which she answered made Holly think she was lying. This girl knew where he was. Maybe she would lead her to him.
Holly went back out and sat in her car. Brittany probably worked the dinner shift. Maybe Holly could come back later and see where she went after work.
While she waited, Holly drove to Creed’s parents’ address. Surprisingly, it was in a nice middle-class neighborhood, where people took pride in their lawns and homes. She found the address and slowed as she drove past. There was one car in the open garage, another in the driveway. She wrote down their tag numbers, then drove around the block.
As she approached the house on her second drive-by, she saw that someone was walking to the car in the driveway. Dark hair, same height as Creed, but twenty-five years older. Creed’s dad? The man was clean-cut, dressed in a T-shirt and khaki shorts. As she drew closer, a blonde middle-aged woman came out of the house and got into the passenger seat.
Holly pulled into a driveway a few houses up from them, idled there a moment. When the Kershaws had pulled out of their driveway, she followed them. Hopefully they would think she had picked up a neighbor, if they noticed her at all.
Would his parents know where he was staying? Would Creed have dared to tell them? Maybe they were paying for a hotel or something. Surely they were worried about their son’s situation.
But no—hadn’t the two Southport cops told her that his parents had called them, worried about suicide? Maybe they were in the dark about where he was.
When Creed’s parents reached an athletic park with several baseball fields, she followed them in and parked at a diamond adjacent to the one they went to. She watched as they went to the bleachers of a smaller field, where little kids gathered with their parents for a T-ball game.
She got out and crossed the field to the game. Creed’s parents stood apart from the stands, their expressions grim. They both looked tired, as if they hadn’t been sleeping, but when a little boy called out, “Grandma! Grandpa!” their expressions changed. They smiled as he ran to them for hugs.
As the boy went to join his team, a younger man and woman—the boy’s parents, probably—talked quietly with the Kershaws. Holly took a seat on the bleachers as they set up lawn chairs away from the others. She couldn’t hear them talking, but Mrs. Kershaw wiped tears, then hugged the young woman. Creed’s sister?
She sat for a while, half-following the hilarity of the game—kids chasing butterflies in the outfield, hitting the ball and running to third base instead of first, parents cheering madly even when their kids didn’t hit the ball. She couldn’t wait until Lily could play. She watched from behind her sunglasses as the Kershaws cheered for their grandchild, even though she knew their hearts were breaking over their son’s plight. Did they fear he was dead? Did they assume he was hiding? Was this just one more thing in a long history of catastrophes he’d brought on their family?
She could see how focused they were on their grandchild. And they were Lily’s grandparents too. Watching them made her more determined than ever to keep them from claiming Lily. This couple would never simply walk away from a grandchild.
When the game was over, she drove back to the restaurant. From the cab in the parking lot, she used their Wi-Fi signal to find out what she could about Creed’s parents and sister. Frank Kershaw was a building contractor, and Sandra, his mother, was a third-grade teacher. They had no arrests—not even any traffic violations. Neither did his sister, Kelsey.
Creed must be a huge disappointment to them.
As darkness fell, she watched the door for the employees to leave. At nine o’clock, Brittany came out, got into her car, and sat there a moment. Holly wrote down her tag number to look up later. When Brittany pulled away, Holly followed.
“Take me to Creed, girl,” Holly muttered as she drove.
But Brittany didn’t take her to Creed. She only went to another bar. Holly went in a few minutes behind her and stopped in the front area behind a plant, looking around the dark room.
There she was, joining a table of women, each of whom hugged her when she arrived, as if consoling her for some loss. They were there to commiserate with her. It was unlikely Creed would be here.
Disappointed, Holly headed back home. Tonight was a dead end, but she wouldn’t give up. She would try again tomorrow.
CHAPTER 13
The last thing Cathy wanted tonight was to dress up in formal wear and schmooze at the governor’s dinner, but it had to be done. She looked in her rearview mirror at the earrings she wore, hanging to her jawline and catching the light. She wore a necklace that looked expensive, although she’d bought it secondhand in a thrift shop. She drove through the gates of the mansion and up the circular drive. When she stopped, a valet came to her door. She grabbed her clutch bag and slipped out, trying not to wobble on her heels. Why had she worn these anyway? They were too high and she hadn’t worn them in months, but she stretched herself to her full height and tried to walk like a runway model up the steps and into the white mansion. Men in tuxedos stood at the door, checking invitations. She pulled her press pass out of her bag and showed it to one of them.
“Yes, Ms. Cramer. Take the doors to the right and you’ll see your table.”
“Thank you.” She walked into the foyer crowded with people waiting to enter the ballroom. Most of the guests looked as though they’d had red-carpet consultants. Cathy had worn her go-to black formal and hoped she looked as though she’d tried.
The mansion was warm. She would have thought they would adjust the thermostat with so many people crowded in, but Florida heat was difficult to battle. She fanned herself with her credentials as she waited to make her way to the door. As she did, she scanned faces. If she could just get an introduction to the governor . . . if she could just speak to him for two minutes . . . Then she could leave and she wouldn’t have to suffer through the whole program.
Once past the bottleneck at the door, she scouted out her table and found her name card. She’d been seated between two other press members—one of the anchors from the local NBC affiliate, and a newspaper editor. Disappointed, she c
hecked the name cards around the rest of the table. The one directly across from her was the governor’s press secretary, Jeremy Brix. Quickly, she swapped his card with the one next to her, ensuring that she was seated next to him.
If no one moved his card back to where it had been, she would at least have the chance to pitch Michael’s story to him. It was one more avenue to get to the governor, to put a bug in his ear. She scanned the crowd. It didn’t appear that the governor had shown up yet. He would probably make his entrance at the last moment.
She recognized some of the astronauts who were the evening’s guests of honor—they all wore special name tags. She had no professional interest in what they would say tonight, even though, under different circumstances, she was sure she would have hung on every word.
“So I see you made it.”
She turned to see Ned Garrison, the governor’s administrative assistant. “Hi, Ned,” she said, applying her most charming smile. “Thanks so much for getting me a pass. I really appreciate it.”
“Well, don’t abuse it, okay? The governor is focused on the space program tonight.”
“I know, but if I could just speak to him for two minutes.”
“Good luck with that. Everybody here wants to see him for two minutes. And by the way, your fans have broadsided us with mail. It’s getting a little annoying.”
“Great,” Cathy said. “At least it’s gotten your attention. And they’re my readers, not fans. They just agree with me that Michael shouldn’t be in jail.”
“Everybody in jail feels they shouldn’t be there. The bottom line is that he broke the law, and that’s all that matters.”
“It is not all that matters!” Cathy said too loudly. “He shouldn’t have had a felony conviction in the first place. He didn’t do anything wrong—everybody knows that. The woman had dementia—”
He raised his hand, cutting her off. “Cathy, I don’t have time for this. Enjoy yourself, but please, don’t make me sorry I got you the pass.”