Keller County Cops Book Seven: Code of Vengeance (14 page)

"I like him, okay?" Her words sounded foreign, even to her own ears. "I-I didn't want him to be hurt, even though I was supposed to meet him today to tell him why I was at the club that night. I can't explain it. I just couldn't stay away."

"I see." To her relief, didn't say anything else.

She stayed silent as well, and soon courthouse loomed up ahead. She wrapped her hand around the handle of her satchel and prepared to get out of the car.

As the detective pulled into an empty parking space, he quirked his mouth and turned his attention to her again. "I'll tell Rick you coerced Jonah into bringing you to Mercy General. I'm sure he'll want to know."

"That won't be necessary." Her cheeks grew hot again. "Really. Please."

"Why shouldn't I tell him?" The twist of his lips turned into a full-fledged grin. "He'll want to know. Have a good rest of the day in court, Keegan. I'll see you inside."

"Okay," she croaked, hopping out of the car and scurrying into the building.

She didn't realized she'd forgotten to run eat her sandwich until she was back inside the courtroom settled on the same bench she'd occupied earlier, and her stomach growled. The man next to her lifted a brow, but she ignored him and hurriedly sketched the scenario before her.

One of the forensic techs who'd worked the crime scene at the Wicker house sat on the witness stand, at ease as Abington grilled him about the lack of physical evidence.

"I don't know what else to say, sir. We didn't find the murder weapon."

"But you did find fingerprints."

"Yes, sir. Lots of prints, all belonging to either Rebecca or Ronald Wicker." He met the D.A.'s high-powered gaze. "I expected that, because they both lived there at the time."

"What about DNA? Hairs? Fibers?"

"We found all of the above, but again, every bit of the DNA evidence belongs to either the defendant or the deceased and can easily be explained away. The fibers either came from articles inside the home or clothing belonging to the Wickers."

Of course. Ronald Wicker knew exactly what he was doing. He's going to get away with murder just like Dirk did.
Keegan's seething emotions bubbled to the surface. She gripped the pencil so hard she was surprised it didn't break.

Across the way, Mitch Ransom kept sneaking glances at her, and that didn't help her antsy mood one bit. Tingling nerves plus anger led to mistakes, and yet she couldn't help teetering on the brink of a meltdown. What in the world would she tell Sheriff Blaylock about her rushing to the hospital to find out if he were okay? She should have just stayed here and eaten lunch. Then she wouldn't have to spend the afternoon starving half to death and worrying whether or not the sheriff would think she was off her rocker.

Quincy rose to cross-examine the forensic tech, his expression entirely too gleeful for a participant in a murder trial. He had the upper hand, and he knew it. Keegan did her best to capture his triumphant look on paper. The jubilant defense attorney anticipating a victory.

Fine. Let the bastard come out on top. His win will mean a loss for Wicker in the form of a knife to the throat, courtesy of
me.

Keegan suppressed a grin so no one would think she sided with the defense, because she sure as hell didn't. Best-case scenario, the prosecution would pull a rabbit out of a hat and turn the jury on its ear. Too bad she didn't believe that would happen.

She was right.

Just a little after three o'clock, the prosecution rested. They had no more evidence to present. No more witnesses, nothing else to prove Ronald Wicker had murdered Rosemary.

His fate now rested with the jury.

Judge Rouse turned to face those seven men and five women -- four whites, five blacks, two Hispanics, and one Asian -- and they all sat forward in their chairs to hear his instructions.

Keegan's hand flew across the page as she sketched their eager expressions. How would they rule? She was pretty sure they would acquit Wicker because so much of the evidence against him was circumstantial, so she had to be ready to act soon.

If they didn't, no problem. She'd ferret out another target.

Once the judge finished giving the jury his instructions, the twelve filed out. Seconds later, Rouse banged his gavel and proclaimed that court was in recess until they ruled.

"All rise!" the bailiff shouted.

The spectators rose as one, and nearly all of them stretched to get out the kinks from sitting on the hard benches all afternoon. They waited until Judge Rouse disappeared through a door behind the bench, and then murmured among themselves while a pair of court officers led the defendant from the courtroom. Quincy and his co-counsel followed him out.

The dour look on Abington's face as the crowd turned to leave told Keegan she was probably right about an imminent acquittal. Too bad she couldn't tell him what
she
had planned for Wicker. Might make the jury's ruling easier to stomach.

She packed up her sketches and supplies and headed for the door.

"Keegan," Mitch Ransom called as he intercepted her. "I need to talk to you."

"Not here," she said, her nerves thrumming.

He nodded and followed her out into the hall. She led him over to an alcove partially hidden by a huge fake ficus, and then turned to face him.

"What is it? Any word from the hospital?"

"As a matter of fact, yeah. I exchanged texts with the sheriff when I took a bathroom break a little while ago." He slid his hands into his pockets. "He's in a room now and is doing great except for being pissed off at having to stay overnight."

"Oh, good." She released a breath she hadn't known she was holding. "He'll be okay?"

"Once he has a few months of physical therapy, he'll be good as new."

"I'm so glad." The knot that had sat like a lead weight in her chest since she left the hospital slowly unfurled.

Mitch smirked. "You might not be so glad when you hear what he asked me to do."

"What do you mean?" Alarm shot through her, because she thought she knew what he was about to say. She swallowed back the urge to run and looked him in the eye. "Tell me."

"He wants me to bring you to the hospital so he can interview you."

"Are you kidding?" She gaped at him. "He just got out of surgery after being shot."

"Wasn't much to the surgery, apparently. The bullet wound was a clean through-and-through that didn't do a lot of damage. They just cleaned the wound and stitched him up. I offered to interview you for him, but he declined. Fancy that."

"I see." Her stomach flip-flopped at the implication. "Well... it's good that he feels well enough to question me himself, right?"

"Yeah. Unfortunately, he thinks you may have had something to do with the shooting."

"Seriously?" Keegan's nerve endings sang. "No. I've already told you I--"

"I know, but he wants to hear it from the horse's mouth," the detective broke in. He studied her. "So... if you'll agree to meet with him, I'll text you his room number."

"Fine. I'll go." She avoided Mitch's eyes, because she didn't want him to see the eagerness she was sure had surfaced in hers. She wanted to see for herself that Rick Blaylock was okay, even though she dreaded being bombarded with questions she still wasn't ready to answer.

He grinned. "Figured you would, so I told him you'd be there by five o'clock."

"Thanks a lot." Already vibrating with anticipation, she turned away. Better to make a quick exit than to let him see just how much she wanted to see the sheriff.

Mitch caught her arm. "Tell him the truth, Keegan. He hates liars."

"Okay," she agreed with a gulp. "I don't have anything to hide."

Yeah, right. I still don't have a plausible story about why I was at the club that night. Guess I'll have to make up a boyfriend after all. A boyfriend I kicked to the curb for preferring to gawk at strippers rather than making love to me.

The idea galled her, but she couldn't think of a better explanation.

With an accepting nod, the detective let go of her arm and walked away.

Keegan drew in a deep breath, gathered her courage, and marched down the hall to her office to scan her sketches into the computer. She'd only done one when her phone dinged. She checked the display and found a message from Mitch containing a single four-digit number.

Rick Blaylock's hospital room number.

Goose bumps rose on her arms as she sent Mitch a
thank you
message.

She hurriedly scanned in the rest of her sketches, fired them off to the PR department, and stopped by the restroom. She needed to rest for a little while, but didn't have time.

By the time the clock hit ten after four, she was on her way out the door.

*****

"Mindy? I need you to get over to Mercy General right now."

"Why, Ted?" She squeezed the phone and suppressed a groan at the urgency in the news director's tone. He got excited about the stupidest things. Some socialite had probably had a fender bender and broken a nail. "Who's on their way to the ER?"

"Sheriff Blaylock," her boss said. "He's been shot. I heard about it on my scanner."

"Oh, my God. When? Where?" Her heart skipped a beat. "What the hell happened?"

"Someone shot him outside his campaign manager's office, apparently. He's on his way to the hospital via ambulance right now. That's all I know."

"Thanks for the heads up. I'm on my way." She slammed down the phone and snatched up her makeup kit. No time to get Suzy's help this morning. She had to round up a cameraman and get to the hospital before their competitors beat them there.

A scoop like this could only help her career.

As Mindy touched up her makeup, her thoughts flew to Henry Maillet. Did he know what had happed to his opponent? Would he care?

"Probably not unless Blaylock dies," she finally murmured, tossing down the eye pencil with a deadly smirk. "I'll worry about him later."

She finished her face by adding a little mascara and lipstick, then hurried into the newsroom and grabbed Bob Watterson, an experienced cameraman who wasn't afraid to break a few rules. Her heart thudded as he jerked out a set of keys.

"I'll drive," he announced, angling for one of the station's many cars. "Just got back from doing the traffic report. My equipment's still in the trunk."

"Wish we kept the helicopter here."

"That'd sure be nice, wouldn't it? Where are we going?" He jerked open the car door and slid into the driver's seat.

She got in beside him, fastened her seatbelt, and took a deep breath. "Mercy General Hospital. Sheriff Blaylock's been shot."

"Hot damn." With a big grin, Bob fired up the car. "Grab the door handle and hang on, sweet cheeks. Your station's gonna have one wing-ding of a lead story for their noon report."

 
Rick glanced down at his cell phone and grinned. Mitch had come through for him again. Thanks to the detective's smooth talking, Keegan Riley was on her way to the hospital. Not for a regular visit, of course, but so he could question her like he'd planned to do before the shooter had winged him this morning. He was surprised she'd agreed to do it.

"She swears she had nothing to do with your shooting," he read aloud from Mitch's text, not surprised the detective had already informed Ms. Riley of their suspicions.

In reality, she probably
hadn't
been behind the shooting, but Rick wanted to cover all the bases. Right now, deputies were busy scouring the uninhabited wooded areas near Willa's office and canvassing the scattered homes and businesses in the area, hoping to uncover some evidence, no matter how small, that might lead them to the man who'd pulled the trigger.

He fired off a text thanking Mitch for helping him, and then dropped his phone onto the bed. He'd already had two calls from Willa; one to confirm he was okay, and the other to verify he'd have to cancel his appearance at a campaign event at the community center tonight. If she hadn't called, he would've forgotten all about it. No way was he giving a speech less than twelve hours after taking a bullet, even if it might make him look like a hero.

His shoulder throbbed.

He adjusted the pillow behind his head and struggled to get more comfortable. Staying in the hospital overnight sure as hell hadn't been his idea, but he figured it was for the best. He could definitely use the rest and would enjoy a break from the campaign, even though it would probably be for only one night. He had access to a morphine pump in case he needed a hit for pain, and that would help as well. So far, he'd taken only one dose, although he was past due for another. He wanted a clear head when Keegan Riley arrived.

His phone buzzed with another text.

"Damn it," he muttered, groaning as he reached for the device.

This text was from C.J. Bowman. Rick frowned down at the screen.

Found shooter's nest, probable DNA, & the round that hit you. Also prints.

"Good," Rick murmured, quickly asking C.J. to push the lab to hurry all three tests: fingerprints, ballistics, and DNA, even though that one would still take a while. If they could at least get a fingerprint match, they'd be in business. A hit in AFIS would definitely help.

Will do,
C.J. answered.
BTW, nest approx 200 yds from office. Cigarette butts = DNA.

"So the son of a bitch knew my schedule and was waiting for me," Rick murmured, thinking aloud. "Why else would he have staked out Willa's office? Who else knew I'd be there? My secretary, C.J., Mitch, Keegan... and nobody else, right? Makes no sense to me, unless..."

Irritated as to where his thoughts had gone, he tossed down the phone and grimaced as another shaft of pain speared his shoulder. He needed another dose of morphine, but still wanted to wait.
Damn it. Being injured sucks.

A nurse wandered into the room to take his vitals, check his bandage, and adjust his IV. She slipped back out a few moments later without engaging him in much conversation, and for that he was glad. Small talk about his condition didn't bother him. He assured her he was fine so she'd get out of there and he could go back to whining to himself about getting shot. He hated being sidelined, even for a little while... and with the election coming up, his injuries could spell doom for his campaign if Maillet played it right.