Justice Delayed (Memphis Cold Case #1)(30)

Less than a minute later, he was beside the wheel and feeling his way around the undercarriage of the truck. He couldn’t risk a light, but this was something he could do in his sleep. He loosened the nut that held the tie rod to the steering knuckle, and once he had it down to the last threads, he used the hammer to break the tie rod away from the steering knuckle. With the potholes on I-40, the nut should come off about five miles down the road, and Johnson would be history.

Finished, he returned the tools to his SUV, then removed the cap and brushed his clothes. He sauntered across the parking lot, observing the row of darkened cars bathed only by the pump lights and the neon sign advertising the Blue Cafe. After entering the cafe from the convenience store side, he walked to Larry Ray Johnson’s table and slid into the booth.

Johnson jumped. “Man, where’d you come from?”

JD jerked his head toward the store. “Side door.” He took an envelope from his jacket. “The letter?”

The other man pulled an envelope from his back pocket and hesitated. “I want to see the money.”

He couldn’t believe how untrusting Johnson was. Did the guard actually believe he would cheat him . . . or snatch the letter and run? He opened the envelope and thumbed through the bills. “Satisfied?”

He nodded.

“Then how about on the count of three, we both lay our packages on the table.”

“Sounds good.”

JD counted and on three laid the money down. Johnson did the same and then snatched the envelope up. JD examined the letter, recognizing Lacey’s flowery script. The woman should have known better than to mess with him.

The corrections officer cocked his head to one side. “How do you do it? Look different every time?”

JD shrugged. “I have resources. And why are you trying to figure out who I am? You do, and I’ll have to kill you.”

Johnson laughed, but when JD didn’t laugh with him, he scrambled out of the booth. “I don’t want to know what you look like. I’m outta here.”

“Have a safe trip,” JD called softly. Then he looked up and smiled at the waitress who walked toward the table. “I think I’ll have a steak sandwich to go,” he said when she asked him what he wanted to order.



Andi surveyed the mess. So much for making Treece breakfast this morning. Charred tops on the biscuits. Brown scrambled eggs because she let the butter get too hot. She picked up a piece of the brittle bacon, and it broke off, falling back on the plate. All because she had so much running through her mind. Treece would be off the rest of the week with her arm in a sling, Chloe was clinging to life, Andi’s arm burned like fire, and Jimmy Shelton would die if she didn’t find evidence of his innocence.

Chloe and Jimmy were her biggest worries. If the girl died, Andi would never forgive herself. And if Jimmy died, and they discovered later he was innocent . . . well, she wouldn’t get over that, either.

Andi had spent eighteen years hating him. Now she had major doubts that he killed Stephanie. But was there enough evidence to stop the execution? She made a mental note to stop by and see Maggie Starr later today . . . after her meeting with the station producer, and the police director, and . . .

She checked her phone for the time. Eight o’clock? She didn’t have time to stand and cry over burned biscuits. Andi grabbed her purse and phone, dialing as she bolted out the door. She should have gone to Sally’s Bakery and picked up muffins in the first place. “Don’t eat breakfast until I get back,” she said when Treece answered.

“Too late. I’m done.”

Par for the morning. Andi turned around on the stairs and trudged back to Treece’s apartment. The Commercial Appeal still lay where she’d dropped it in front of her door earlier, and she picked it up and rang the doorbell.

“Hold on while I turn off the alarm.”

Andi bit her lip. She’d forgotten to set the alarm when she raced out of her apartment. And earlier when she went to the grocery.

Her friend wrinkled her nose when she opened the door. “What did you burn?”

“Your biscuits and bacon. And eggs. I thought it was the least I could do. Cook your breakfast, I mean.”

“How do you burn eggs?” Treece moved so Andi could enter the apartment. “Never mind. I don’t want to know. Good thing you don’t have a husband to cook for. How about an English muffin with honey?”

The aroma of fresh-ground coffee beans made her mouth water. “How about just coffee? I haven’t had any yet.” Andi had forgotten to grab a bag when she bought the bacon and eggs.

“Just ground some.”

“I know, I smell it. And, as far as husbands go, if cooking is part of the deal, it won’t happen—I don’t have time to learn.”

The memory of thinking Will was going to kiss her last night brought heat to her face. For him, she might be willing to take cooking lessons. Sometimes Andi thought she’d been waiting all her life for him to notice her.

She placed the newspaper on top of three unopened editions. Treece was as busy as Andi was. A wooden angel and a bottle of mineral oil sat on the island. “Is this new?”

“Relatively. I bought it last week at the flea market, and I was polishing it with the oil to bring out the grain. You should go with me sometime.”

“Maybe.” Andi took the mug of Italian roast Treece handed her. “How’s your shoulder?”