Between Black and White (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #2)(64)

Once in the patient room the woman didn’t mince words, and George immediately knew why she looked familiar.

“You . . . should . . . not be here,” he said, pacing the floor in front of her, agitated almost beyond words. “Our mutual friend should know better than to pull a stunt like this. The cops have been passing your picture around town. They are onto you. He should have called.”

“Our mutual friend said that no one here would have any idea who I was. He said that wasn’t possible, and besides, even if someone here did know me, there was no other way to get his message to you. He lost his phone.”

Dr. Curtis stopped pacing and placed his hands on his hips. “Well, they are onto you, sweetheart. I don’t know how, but they are.” He sighed. “What’s the message?”

“That he is alive and ready to finish the game.”

“That’s it?” Curtis said.

“Yes. He said you would be pleased.”

Curtis brushed a lock of silver hair out of his eyes and began to pace again. “I am . . . I guess.” He stopped abruptly and closed his eyes. Thinking of something, George quickly walked to the front of the office. When he saw the visitor list, he put his face in his hands. “You gave her your name!” George screamed, finally coming undone. “How stupid are you? You gave her your goddamn name!”

“Like I said”—the woman did not raise her voice—“our friend told me that no one here would have any idea who I was.”

George surveyed the visitor’s list. “Martha Booher” was written in Dabsey’s hand about midway down. Dabsey always insisted on writing the guest names herself so that she’d be able to read them when she called visitors back to see George.

Damnit, George thought. Dabsey wasn’t the sharpest tack in the box, so maybe she wouldn’t pick up on it. Or maybe she already had . . .

“How did you get here?” George asked.

“The bus. I took a bus from Ethridge at eight this morning.”

George looked at his watch. It was twelve thirty. Dabsey would be back in a half hour.

“I was planning to take the bus back to Ethridge at five,” Martha offered.

“That’s too risky,” George said, pulling his keys out of his pocket. “If no one recognized you walking from the bus station to here, they might when you walk back.”

He led her by the arm to the front of the office and looked through the blinds, seeing no one coming and no cars on the roadway. There were also no cars in any of the nearby driveways, except the dentist office that was caddy-corner, and he doubted any of the patients there would take notice. Quickly, he thrust the keys into Martha’s hand. “Listen, my house is two doors down from the office on the same side of the road. 1404 is the house number. As casual as you can, I want you to walk to my house and use this key”—he pointed to a large gold one—“to open my front door. Got it?”

She nodded.

“Lock the door behind you and don’t turn on any lights. Feel free to eat whatever you like from the fridge. Just don’t do anything that would draw attention to the house. OK?”

Again, Martha nodded.

“I should be over there a little after six, and we can come up with a plan for getting you home then. Got it?”

“Yes, I—”

“Go,” George said, pushing her toward the front door.

George watched Martha walk down the sidewalk and up the front walk to his home, his heart racing the entire time. Once she was inside, he slowly exhaled. Then he grabbed the phone and dialed the number.

Before the person on the other end of the line could even say hello, George was talking into the receiver, making no effort to hide the panic in his voice.

“We have a problem.”





46


Michael Capshaw was a patent lawyer in Birmingham at one of the largest firms in the state. Five years ago, after the kids had both graduated from college, Michael finally bought his wife and himself something he’d wanted his whole life.

A two-bedroom condo on the Gulf.

He had long been fond of Holiday Isle in Destin, having had several colleagues buy in the area, and the private-only complex on Gulf Shore Drive was exactly what he’d always wanted. Since in addition to a spacious parking lot the condominium provided a one-car garage for each owner, Michael had decided he wanted to leave wheels at the condo at all times. That way he and Lisa could fly down on a whim if they so desired and would have a car to drive when they arrived.

He’d bought the crimson Porsche a year after closing on the condo.

Michael also had his own plane, a twin-engine Cessna, and he and Lisa boarded it on Friday afternoon at 3:00 p.m. They landed at the Fort Walton airport by 4:30, and a cab dropped them off in front of the condo at five.

Knowing a trip to the grocery store was in order—it had been over a month since they’d been to the condo—and secretly wanting any excuse to take the Porsche for a spin, Michael walked down the aisle of cars with Lisa until they reached the parking spot. Frowning, he looked to his left and right, making sure he was in the right place.

“Honey, where’s the car?” Lisa asked.

When Michael opened the storage unit and noticed that the key chain on the side hook was gone, he knew he had an answer to his wife’s question.