15 Seconds (11 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

I
wasn't sure what to do while I waited, other than stay out of sight. I snuck into the men's room at a Wendy's and washed up. I was gritted out and had no idea how long it would take for Marv to get back to me. Or what the result would be when he did.

Or even what I would do once he found something.

Every time a police car passed by, if they did an electrocardiogram on me my heart rate would be off the paper!

Around 10
A.M.
, going out of my mind, I finally decided,
The hell with it!
I did have one other option.

I called the Jacksonville Sheriff's Office and said to the operator, “Carrie Holmes, please.”

Yesterday, I detected the slightest wavering in her voice, and right now my book was pretty empty on whom I could trust. I wasn't sure what I would say if a secretary answered or if her voice mail came on, but to my relief, Carrie picked up.

“Community Outreach. Carrie Holmes . . .”

“Guess the glory days are over,” I said. “Back to the same ol' grind . . .” Then I immediately felt foolish for being so glib.

I was met by a lengthy silence on the line.
“Who is this?”

“Carrie, please, don't hang up! Or alert anyone,” I said. “I just need to tell you something, without worrying if you're tracing this and that I have to hang up. Can we do that, for just a second?”

She still didn't say anything; just let the call go on in silence. I figured I'd misjudged her.

“Carrie, please, I know what you're about to do, but I found something that can help prove my innocence. I know you'd be taking a risk, but just hear me out. Just for a second. I don't have anywhere else to turn . . .”

Still more silence.

Then she said, “Yeah, back to the same ol' grind . . . Dr. Steadman, you should not be calling me,” which felt like kind of a miracle, momentarily putting my worries at ease.

“Just give me a second!” I said. “So did you do what I asked? Did you try to find that car? The blue sedan I told you about yesterday. With South Carolina plates . . . ?”

“Dr. Steadman, I told you yesterday, I think you have to turn yourself in,” she replied in a lowered, but firm voice. “If you don't, things are going to go very badly for you. I think you've seen that already. And I honestly
can't
be talking to you, other than to say—”

“You didn't, did you?” I interrupted her. “You didn't look for it?”

She didn't answer right away. I heard her release a breath. “No.”

I let out one myself. “So are you tracing this?” I suddenly didn't know why I had thought to put myself in her hands and realized I should end the call immediately. But I didn't. “Just tell me. If you are. I don't know why, but I have this sense you're the only one there I can trust.”

“You've got no cause to trust me. I work for the sheriff's office, Dr. Steadman. I'm not on your private security team . . . And I'm not your confidante.”

“So are you tracing me?” I asked her again. Then I waited. I felt something strangely empathetic in her tone. “Look, I'm gonna put myself in your hands, Carrie. Right or wrong. Maybe I'm stupid. I'm gonna tell you something that can help clear my name. Just please tell me, are you tracing this call?”

She didn't answer.

But I knew what the answer was. She had to trace it. It was her responsibility. And as I checked the time I figured that gave me maybe about another minute and a half before I had to cut it short and move on.

“So how long do I have,” I asked, “a couple of minutes . . . ? Then just hear me out. Why the hell would I kill those people, Carrie? Why would I kill my own friend? We were going to play golf, for Christ's sake. I'd known him since college. He was a lawyer! The only reason I even went to his house was to get his help in turning me in.
Check
—I made two calls to him from my cell phone immediately after Martinez was killed. But he was dead by the time I got there. I realize I took his phone and his car—and how that makes me look. But I needed to get out of there and there was no other way. And my phone was compromised. And who the hell was going to believe me anyway after what happened to Martinez?”

She didn't reply. The clock was ticking.

“And I told you, yesterday, that I was back in my car when Martinez was shot. He was letting me go; just writing me up a warning . . . You can check that too. What possible reason would I have for shooting someone if they were about to let me go? Not to mention, with
what
gun? Last I checked, they didn't let you keep one on you when you traveled by plane. Has anyone given three seconds thought to
that
?”

“You could have ditched the gun when you say you took off after the car,” Carrie said.

“But I didn't. And how would I get one? Did I know in advance that Martinez was going to pull me over?”

“So then turn yourself in, Dr. Steadman. To
me,
since you seem to trust me. I'll make sure you're treated fairly. You've done wonderful things. In Nicaragua. You built a school there. I saw your daughter's photos—” She suddenly stopped herself, as if she'd revealed too much.

To me, it was the smallest crack in her armor. “You were on my website, weren't you?”

“No,” she answered, as if she'd been caught red-handed. “Okay. Yes. I was.”

“Then I'm not wrong, am I? You do have doubts. Carrie, I need you to take this down.
Please.
I recalled the plate number from yesterday. From that car I mentioned. Not the whole thing, but part of it. It began with the letters
A-D-J
dash four . . . There were three additional numbers, but I'm sure that's how it began. There have to be security cameras around. On the lights, or near one of the scenes. The guy headed down Lakeview after he shot Martinez and went onto I-10, heading west. There are
always
cameras! Please, Carrie, I need you to do this for me. That car is the only chance I have!”

I didn't know if I had reached her or not, but I knew my time was rapidly coming to an end and that I'd better get on the move. I put the phone on speaker and the car in gear and headed onto the road. I knew that my partner Marv was a long shot,
if
he even could come up with something. But there was something that made me feel that Carrie Holmes was someone I could trust.

She asked, softer, “What did you mean yesterday when you said you couldn't turn yourself in? You mean because you were afraid?”

“Yes, I was afraid, at first. But no, it was something else. I just can't tell you.”

“I'm not sure I see how you're in a position to be keeping secrets, Dr. Steadman . . .”

“I can't
.
”
Part of me wanted to; I'd sensed that something I'd said yesterday had hit home. But I couldn't. I couldn't take the chance. The stakes were too great if it got out. “All I can say is that it's bigger than whatever happens to me. It's bigger than Martinez. Or even Mike. I wish I could tell you, Carrie, I just can't.”

I heard a commotion. Voices in the background. They were probably coming up with my number at that very moment. Just a matter of seconds, then, to hit on my location. Or maybe they already had it! I was playing with fire.

“Did you do this, Dr. Steadman?” she asked me directly. “I knew Bob Martinez. He had a wife and three kids. I want to hear you say it. Did you kill those people?”

“No. I wish I was in front of you so you could see my eyes. I swear, Carrie. I swear on anything. I swear on what I said to you yesterday . . . My own daughter.” It hurt to even say it.
“No
.”

“And all that stuff that came out about you at college . . . ?”

“All totally twisted,” I shot back. “Yes, it happened. That fellow drowned. I was there. But it was an accident. He panicked on the rocks, that's all. I never
killed
anyone. I wasn't even suspended from school. Talk to the people at Amherst. It was an accident. They didn't find a thing. I was even the one who was arguing on the kid's behalf.” I turned on the main street, leaving the Wendy's way behind.

“Then what the hell do you think is going on, Dr. Steadman?” I heard exasperation in her voice. “If it's not
you
doing this—who is?”

The words had the feel of an accusation more than a question. And God knows, over the last twenty-four hours I'd asked it myself a hundred times. “I wish I knew, Carrie. But please, just look for that car. That's all I'm asking. There have to be cameras. I guarantee you'll spot it at, or near, both crime scenes. Please . . .
ADJ-4.
Did you at least write it down?”

She didn't reply. I didn't know if she believed me or not. Or if she had been tracing the call all along, and cops were on their way to pick me up right now.

“Did you write it down, Carrie?” was all I could ask.

Suddenly two police cars raced past me the other way, lights flashing, sending shock waves through my heart. Now the answer to whether she'd traced my call was clear.
“Thanks . . .”
I said, and cut off the connection, my disappointment morphing into outright panic. There were sirens echoing all around. I fully expected the cars to do a U-ey, realizing they'd just gone past me, and surround me on the street. Cops jumping out of their cars with weapons drawn.

But they just kept going. Maybe to that McDonald's. Maybe to some other fixed point they had triangulated.

I was still free.

I melded into traffic, getting away from there as fast as I could.

My only hope now was to wait for Marv.

“G
reat job,” Bill Akers said, ducking his head back in. “We missed him. The initial fix was on a fast-food place out on Cassat. We almost had him.”

“Too bad,” Carrie said. “Bill, you think we ought to check out his story? About that car?”

Akers chuckled, indicating that he didn't give it much credence. “Just let me know if he calls in again. There'll be other chances. He won't get far.” He gave her a thumbs-up sign.

She'd done the right thing.
Right?
Carrie wondered after he left. She'd put out the trace. She'd gotten the proper people involved.

Still, she felt an anxiousness come over her.

She looked down at the sheet of paper on her desk. At the partial plate number staring up at her.

Yes, there probably were cameras around somewhere. And yes, it all did seem just a bit improbable. Why would Steadman kill Martinez? Over a traffic violation, no less. While he was letting him go. Not to mention killing his friend?

And with what gun?

Her heart beat nervously. She'd be a fool. A fool to get involved. What with Raef. And she wasn't even a detective.

But,
yes . . .
She slid the number under her desk mat, answering him.
I wrote it down.

Chapter Twenty-Four

C
arrie drove, later that afternoon, out to Lakeview, pretending to be on department business, just to see for herself where Martinez had been killed. Her eyes darted back and forth across the steadily trafficked street as it led toward I-10.

She wasn't sure why she was doing this, other than because somewhere deep in her gut, a part of what Steadman had said must have made sense to her. Was it the fact that he'd had no reason to kill Martinez, who
was
in the process of letting him go? She'd checked on that. Or, like he'd said, where would he have gotten a weapon? And why? Or that it made perfect sense for him to go to his friend's house, the only person he knew in town who could help him turn himself in. And no sense at all to kill him. Or was it the good things he had done, which she had read about on his website? Or was it his kind face, which didn't look like a killer's face, and the way he defended himself. Or, lastly, was it what he had said about his daughter? As if he'd known exactly what she had once said about her own son.
Then you'll understand
 . . .

Maybe it was that that had hit home the most.

Or maybe it was simply because nothing in Steadman's story fit the profile of a killer. And everything he had said rang true. He was in town to deliver a speech at a Doctors Without Borders conference. Martinez would have been no more than a random interaction. Not to mention this car, this “blue sedan” he pressed so hard on. What would he possibly have to gain if they couldn't find such a car? If it didn't exist.
There have to be cameras
.

But he was right on one thing—Steadman. That there was no one in the department—not a detective or a patrolman or anyone in the brass; not even the guy who mopped the floors at night—who didn't want to see him thrown into a cell for Martinez's murder.

Or who was focused on any other suspect.

No one other than Carrie herself.
Carolyn Rose Holmes
—she smirked to herself as she slowly drove her way up Lakeview—
when did you become the patron saint of lost causes?

Her heart picking up, she passed the turnoff where Martinez had been shot—Westvale, it was called—and stopped for a second to look. It was still cordoned off with police barriers.

To her knowledge, there weren't cameras on any traffic lights on Lakeview. Which made her task all the more difficult. She'd have to go from business to business and ask around. Kind of like a detective. And do it without drawing attention to herself. At five feet four inches, with shoulder-length strawberry-blond hair, light blue eyes, and a scattering of orange freckles on her cheeks, she didn't much look like a detective.

And she liked that.

Noting the time, she continued west from the murder site toward the highway. The direction Steadman claimed the blue car with South Carolina plates he so desperately wanted her to find was traveling.

She had taken a glance through the witnesses' statements. None of the people who saw Steadman exiting Martinez's car had mentioned the vehicle. Of course the killer would have waited for a gap in traffic before he pounced, and Steadman, rushing back to Martinez to check him out, might have been over him, what, twenty, thirty seconds?

Why do you believe him?
Carrie asked herself.
Are you in such a state now that you're a sucker for anyone with a smooth voice who throws on a little charm?

ADJ-4, right . . . ?

She passed a bank, Gold Coast Savings. They must have security cameras. At least, Carrie figured, ones facing in. But obtaining them might be problematic—given that while she had a perfectly valid sheriff's office ID, it wasn't exactly a detective's shield.

Continuing, she passed a row of fast-food outlets and larger malls, all possibilities. But the big stores were all set back well off the street behind large parking lots.

I-10 was just a quarter mile ahead.

Then she saw a gas station. A tall Exxon sign that suggested that the place might have a fairly sweeping view of Lakeshore Drive.

She decided to turn in.

She parked near the office and asked herself one more time just why she was doing this. Then she opened her door.

She went into the service station's office and asked the guy behind the counter for the manager. He got on the intercom, called out a name, and an affable-looking Indian with a name tag that read
Pat
stuck his head in from inside the garage. “Can I help you?”

“I'm with the sheriff's office,” Carrie said. She flashed him her photo ID. Then she pointed toward the road signs. “You know there was a serious incident down the street involving a policeman yesterday?”

“Of course.” The manager nodded. “Traffic along here was backed up all day.”

Carrie asked him, “Any chance you have security cameras that have a view of the street?”