15 seconds

I hung up and let out a long breath. I rested my head back and closed my eyes. I was safe here—for a while. But sooner or later a customer would drive in. I didn’t know what information had been released on the airwaves, if my car was hot—they surely knew who I was—so I turned on the radio. All anyone had to do was see my front windshield and it would be clear . . . I waited, seconds seeming like minutes.

I just about jumped with relief when my phone suddenly rang.

“Henry, it’s Mike . . . !” he said. “I was out polishing my clubs. What’s happened?”

I filled him in on what had happened, trying to keep it from sounding as if I’d lost my mind.

“They think you did what, Henry?”

“They think I killed the cop, Mike! Me!”

“That’s crazy, Henry!”

“I know, but, Mike . . .” I told him I needed a place to go. That I had to turn myself in.

He didn’t waste a second answering. “Tell me where you are. I’ll come and get you . . .”

“No. No. These people are crazy. I don’t want to put you in any danger. It’s best I come to you.”

“You’re sure?” he asked unhesitatingly. “I could—”

“Yes. I’m sure.”

He gave me his address and told me it was only about fifteen minutes away. I said I’d figure out a way to get there. “I’ll be waiting for you,” he said. “Don’t worry. We’ll make this come out.”

“Okay. Okay . . . Mike, thanks a lot. I don’t know what to say. I didn’t know where else to turn.”

“Don’t even say it, Henry. We’ll figure this out. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

I blew out a long, relieved breath. “Thanks.” Then I couldn’t believe what popped into my mind. “Sorry about the golf, dude. Looks like we may have to put it off for today.”

He chuckled grimly. “You just be careful, Henry . . .”

I hung up and jumped out of the Caddie, getting ready to leave. I grabbed my satchel case out of the backseat. I figured my iPad might come in handy. And a golf cap. Anything that might conceal me a bit. The rest . . . clothes, papers, my speech, what did it matter now?

They already knew who the hell I was anyway!

I locked it up and headed out onto the street. Southside Boulevard. It was a pretty commercial thoroughfare—an auto supply store, a Popeyes. On the other side of the street, a couple of blocks away, I saw some kind of motel. A Clarion I

“You free?” I knocked on the driver’s window.

“Sorry, waiting for a fare,” he said. He picked up his radio. “If you need a car, I could . . .”

“How about a hundred bucks?” I reached inside my pocket and pulled out a crisp, new bill. “I need to get somewhere fast.”

The driver shot up. “I could always call them another car, is what I meant to say.” He turned on the ignition. “Hop on in.”

I did and pushed the hundred-dollar bill through the partition. I read off Mike’s address. “I need to go to . . .” Then I caught myself and gave him a street number that I figured would be close by. No reason he had to know exactly where I was going. “ . . . 33443 Turnberry Terrace.”

“That’s in Avondale, huh? I think we can get you there.”

I leaned back as the taxi pulled out onto the street and closed my eyes. The driver called in to his dispatcher. “Base—this is seventeen. My fare’s fifteen minutes late and some guy’s got an airport emergency, so I took him on. You may want to check with the Clarion and see if these people still want a car . . .”

I sat back, away from the driver’s line of sight. My heart rate calmed for the first time since I left Martinez at the scene. The driver tried to catch my eyes in his rearview mirror, asking me questions I didn’t need to hear: “From around here?” “Shame about the weather, huh?” It was cloudless. Eighty degrees. I grunted a few halfhearted replies so that, given how the guy had just basically saved my life, he wouldn’t think I was rude. He drove a little farther, and as he pulled onto I-10, I saw two police cars staked out at the entrance ramp. I pressed deep into the seat as we went by.

“You hear what happened?” the driver asked.

“No,” I replied. “Sorry. What?”

“Some guy just plugged a cop right back there on Lakeview. Traffic’s all to hell. They won’t let anyone by.”

He turned on a local news station. First it was the weather, then a couple of car ads. Then the a

I immediately felt the sweats come over me, the a

My stomach forced its way up.

The possible suspect I was hearing about was me!

“The slain officer, whose name is being withheld, pending family notification, is a decorated, fifteen-year veteran of the force . . .”

If I wasn’t sick already, that got me there. The guy had been a prick to me—I still didn’t know why he had pulled me over. But there was no reason in the world that he had to die.

We crossed a bridge and drove past another exit or two, then we pulled off at Riverside Avenue and entered a neighborhood of large, upscale homes. I knew we were close.

“Can you believe that shit?” the cabbie said, trying to catch my eyes in the mirror. “What kind of bastard does that, you know what I mean . . . ?”

“Yeah, I know.” I shifted my face away. Please, just get me there.

We wound around some residential streets. I recognized the area from my time here before. Then I spotted a street sign for Turnberry Terrace. No need for the cabbie to know precisely which house I was headed to.

“This is fine,” I said, grabbing my satchel. “You can let me off here.”

Chapter Six

I waited until the cabbie drove off before crossing the street. The homes here were sprawling and upscale—Tudors and colonials with well-manicured lawns and pretty landscaping.

I knew Mike had done well. He had worked on some big land deals in the past few years. Just being here made me feel a bit more hopeful. Mike would hear my story. He’d be able to negotiate something with the local authorities. In spite of how everything looked, it would be clear: the lack of any motive; the impossibility of how I could have gotten my hands on a weapon; how I’d only ducked into Martinez’s car to check how badly he’d been hurt. Even why I’d fled the scene . . .

It would be clear I wasn’t the killer.

A mail truck drove around the circle, stopping at each house, and I waited, one resident stepping out in her bathrobe to take in her mail, until it headed back down the block. Then I found Mike’s house, a stylish, mustard-colored Mediterranean.

I began to wonder if my identity had been released. Dr. Henry Steadman. Prominent cosmetic surgeon from Palm Beach. Wanted for murder. He fled the scene in a white Cadillac STS. . .

By now Mike must’ve heard.

Cautiously, I went up the driveway, praying that I wouldn’t run into Gail, his wife, first and have to explain this all to her. She would probably freak. I knew Gail had her own real estate agency in town. She and Mike had two kids—one away at college. The younger one, I figured, would already be at school.