Stray Bullets by Rotenberg Robert

Author:Rotenberg, Robert [Rotenberg, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Touchstone
Published: 2013-06-04T00:00:00+00:00

PART THREE

JANUARY

35

“I think he’s a cop.”

“Who?”

“My cell mate.”

“Shit.”

“Don’t worry.”

“Hah,” Nancy Parish said. She was so angry at Larkin St. Clair, she could almost feel the steam blowing out of her ears. She glared at him across the steel jailhouse table.

“It’s cool,” he said. It had been two months since his arrest, and now his hair was touching his shoulders. He stroked it lovingly, like an old lady would her favorite cat.

“There’s nothing cool about it. What have you told him?”

“Believe it or not, nothing.” He started to laugh, his big hearty chuckle.

“You think this is all just a big joke, don’t you,” she said.

He stopped laughing as abruptly as he’d started. She’d seen this before, his uncanny ability to switch moods at lightning speed. “You want to see how I’m going to cry in front of the jury?”

“Larkin, please.”

“No. Watch.” He placed his hands on the table and looked over her shoulder. His face turned passive. “Okay, this is me sitting in court beside you. The father of the little boy is testifying. What’s his first name?”

“Cedric.”

“Right. Mr. Cedric Wilkinson. Okay, take his statement out of your binder and read it.”

She exhaled. “What’s the point?”

“The point is, I already told you I’m not going to testify. But we both know the jury will be watching me like a hawk. Let’s rehearse.”

She sighed, but she grabbed the binder out of her briefcase. It was heavy. St. Clair was right about what would happen in court. The jury would be eyeing him, the silent accused, sneaking looks throughout the proceedings, searching for clues as to who he really was. Good luck, she thought, chuckling to herself. “Ready?”

“Yeah.” Larkin’s face had turned solemn. His eyes were fixed on the fictional witness with remarkable intensity.

“‘My name is Cedric Wilkinson, father of Kyle,’” she read. “‘I was born in California and lived my whole life there until my company moved our family to Canada this fall—’”

“No, no. Don’t bother with all the background crap.”

“If you insist.” She scanned through a page and a half, and then started reading again. “‘On November fourteenth, just before five o’clock, I was taking my son Kyle to see his mother, my wife, Madeleine, who was in the hospital. There were complications with her pregnancy, and she was there for observation. We parked the car, and, as we were walking over, Kyle saw the Tim Hortons. He wanted to go for a doughnut. Madeleine doesn’t like me giving him sweets, but it was cold and I knew we’d be at the hospital for a while, so I foolishly—’”

“Come on, come on,” St. Clair said. “Get to the shooting.”

“Okay, Mr. Sensitive, okay.” She flipped over to the next page. “‘It had just turned very cold, and we were both wearing sneakers. I remember Kyle slipped on the sidewalk before we even got there. We were walking up through the parking lot when it started to snow. Kyle had never seen snow before. He’d been waiting for it. Asking every day: “Daddy, when’s it going to snow?”’”

She looked up from the notes.

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