And then she understood. When help came, Thomas would be caught in the school. With a dying Richard Linden.
‘They’ll blame you.’ She choked on the words. Dropping to her knees, she grabbed his arm, but he shook her off. ‘Thomas, come with me. We’ll call 911 and then leave. Together.’
Thomas shook his head and resumed putting pressure on Richard’s stomach. ‘Somebody has to stop the bleeding. He’ll die otherwise. He’s not even conscious. I can’t leave him to die.’
She stared at him helplessly. ‘Tommy . . .’
He met her eyes, his misery unmistakable. ‘For God’s sake, go! Do not come back. Please.’
She pushed to her feet and backed away, then ran for the payphone. She’d make the damn call, then she’d go back and sit with him. There was no way she was leaving him to face the blame for something else he had not done.
The payphone was next to the front office. With trembling hands she dialed 911.
‘What is your emergency?’ the operator asked.
‘We . . .’ Sherri drew a deep breath through her nose, tried to slow her rapid pulse. ‘We need help. There’s a guy—’
The doors flew open and men poured through them. Men in uniforms.
Cops.
Cops? How did cops—
A burly man grabbed her arm and squeezed hard. ‘Drop the phone!’
‘But . . .’
The man clamped his other hand around her wrist, drawing a cry of shocked pain from her throat. ‘I said drop it.’
Her fingers were forced open, releasing the phone, which hung on the tangled cord. She stared up at the cop, stunned. Roughly he spun her around and shoved her against the wall. The next thing she knew, he was snapping cuffs on her wrists.
Behind her, she could hear Thomas screaming her name. ‘Sherri, run!’
She grimaced, her temple pressed against the wall so hard that it hurt. It was too late for that now.
Montgomery County Detention Center, Rockville, Maryland,
Wednesday 13 January, 11.15 A.M.
Laying his head on the cold metal of the interview room table, Thomas closed his eyes, too tired to wonder who was behind the mirror and too exhausted to be worried about what this meeting was about. He hadn’t slept in three days, not since they’d brought him to this place.
To jail.
I’m in jail. Words he’d thought he’d never say. Goddamn Richard. The fucker had died. I ruined my life and he died anyway. Bled out from stab wounds to his gut. Thomas’s first aid had been too little, too late.
Murder. They’d charged him with murder.
He was almost too tired to be terrified. Almost.
He hadn’t seen Sherri since he’d been here. He hadn’t seen anyone. Not even his mother. His mom had written a letter, though. He laughed bitterly. Yep, she’d written him a letter, saying she was disappointed in him and how could he kill that nice Richard Linden? And oh, by the way, we will not be paying your bail or for a lawyer.
Thomas was on his own.
The door opened, but he was too exhausted to lift his head. ‘Thank you,’ a man said. ‘I can take it from here.’
‘Fine.’ That voice Thomas knew. It was the guard who’d locked him inside this room. Leaving his hands cuffed behind him. ‘If you need anything, just ask.’
‘Wait,’ the new man said. ‘Uncuff him.’
Thomas lifted his head enough to see the man’s dark suit and tie. And his wheelchair. Thomas jerked upright, staring.
The man wasn’t old. He was young, actually. Maybe thirty. It was hard to say. His hair was cut short, his suit expensive-looking. He was studying Thomas clinically.
‘Thomas White?’ he asked.
Not for much longer. He’d be ditching his stepfather’s last name as soon as possible. He was sure the bastard was the reason his mother had turned her back. Part of him wondered what his stepfather had needed to do to force her to write that letter. Part of him worried about his mom. Part of him was too tired to care.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded.
‘I’m your lawyer,’ the man said blandly. He turned to the guard. ‘Uncuff him. Please.’
The way he said please wasn’t polite. It was . . . imperious. Commanding.
‘If you’re sure,’ the guard said with a shrug.
‘I’m sure,’ the lawyer said.
Thomas gritted his teeth when the guard jerked his arms under the guise of unlocking the cuffs. ‘One move from you, kid,’ the man growled in warning.
Rubbing his sore wrists, Thomas glared and said nothing.
‘That’ll be all,’ the lawyer said, waiting until he and Thomas were alone to roll his eyes. ‘All right, then, Mr White. Let’s start—’
‘Thomas,’ Thomas interrupted. ‘Not White. Just Thomas.’
‘I can do that. For now, anyway.’ The lawyer rolled his wheelchair to the table, appraising Thomas with too keen an eye. ‘Have you been eating?’
‘No.’
‘I didn’t think so. I don’t have to ask if you’ve been sleeping. You’ve got bags under your eyes.’
Like you care. This guy, with his expensive suit and lord-of-the-manor attitude. ‘Who are you?’ Thomas asked again, more rudely this time.
The man pulled a silver business card case from his breast pocket and gave one of the cards to Thomas. ‘My name is James Maslow.’
The card was sturdy and not cheap at all. Maslow and Woods, Attorneys at Law.
No way I can afford this guy. ‘I have a lawyer already.’
‘I know. The public defender. If you choose to stay with him, I’ll honor your wishes. But first let me explain to you why I am here. Your history teacher and my law partner are brothers. Your teacher asked me to speak with you, as a favor. He thinks you’re innocent. I reviewed your case and thought he might be right.’
Mr Woods talked to this lawyer? For me? Why? His lungs expelled air in a rush. ‘You believe me?’ he asked, his voice small and trembling, because no one else had.
Maslow nodded once. ‘Yes.’
‘Why?’ Thomas’s voice broke on the single word.
Maslow’s smile was gentle. ‘For starters, because your teacher told me what really happened the day you defended that young girl from Richard Linden’s advances.’
‘Mr Woods will lose his job,’ Thomas whispered, remembering the principal’s barely veiled threat. Had that been only six days ago? Really?
‘He decided to risk it,’ Maslow said, and there was a spark of pride in his eyes. ‘Mr Woods has written a letter to the school board on your behalf.’
‘Wow.’ Thomas cleared his throat. ‘That’s . . . really nice of him.’
‘Well, he’s a really nice guy. I think you probably are too.’
Thomas lifted his chin, stared Maslow in the eye. ‘I didn’t kill Richard Linden.’
‘I believe you, but the prosecutor thinks he has a case. He wants me to tell you that he’s offering voluntary manslaughter. Eight to ten years.’
Thomas came to his feet, shoving the chair backward. ‘What? Eight to ten years?’
Maslow patted the table. ‘Sit down, Thomas, before the guard comes back.’
Thomas sat, his body shaking. Tears burned his eyes. ‘But I didn’t do it.’
‘I know,’ Maslow said soothingly. ‘But I’m required to tell you whatever they offer. Let’s discuss your case and then you can decide what you want to do about representation.’
Thomas rubbed his eyes roughly, clearing the moisture away. ‘I can’t pay you. I can’t even make bail.’
‘Don’t worry about my fees. If you agree, I’ll be taking your case pro bono. That means for free.’
Thomas frowned. ‘I know what it means,’ he snapped. ‘I got seven-eighty on my verbal.’ Not that his SAT scores mattered anymore. No college would t
ake him now. Nor was it this guy’s fault. He drew a breath. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m . . . tired.’
‘You look it,’ Maslow said sympathetically. ‘You’ve also made bail.’
Thomas’s mouth fell open. ‘What? Where did my mother get the money?’
‘It wasn’t your mother. I’m sorry about that.’
His stomach pitched. Not my mom. ‘She really has cut me off, then.’
Maslow’s brows crunched in a disapproving frown. ‘I’m afraid so.’
‘That’s why I don’t want to be White. Her husband changed my name when he married her. I want to change it back. Take back my real father’s name.’
‘What name was that?’
‘Thorne. I want to be Thomas Thorne.’
One
Present day
Baltimore, Maryland,
Friday 27 May, 5.30 p.m.
He sat back in his chair, waiting patiently as one of his most trusted aides walked into his office with a bright yellow folder. He truly hoped Ramirez would deliver, but he didn’t really believe he would. Which was unfortunate indeed.
‘Here’s the information you asked for,’ Ramirez said, placing the folder on his desk, looking as relaxed as he usually did.
That Ramirez had been betraying him for so long . . .
If he hadn’t seen the evidence with his own eyes, he never would have believed it. Ramirez was like a son. A trusted son.
‘Have a seat,’ he said, using his normal tone, unwilling to give away what he knew just yet. He opened the folder, flipped through the contents. And sighed. ‘This is incomplete.’
Ramirez frowned. ‘It is not. I compiled the data myself. That is everything that anyone knows about Thomas Thorne.’
‘It is not,’ he said, intentionally repeating his clerk’s words. ‘I know this because I also had Patton do the same search. The file he compiled is twice as thick. What you’ve given me is less than I could have gotten from searching Google myself.’ He deliberately closed the file and folded his hands. ‘What do you think I should do about this?’
Ramirez licked his lower lip, his first sign of nerves. ‘Do? About what?’
‘About you, my friend.’ From his drawer, he pulled out the photos Patton had taken of Ramirez. And Thomas Thorne. Conspiring together. ‘Care to explain?’
Ramirez drew a breath. ‘You had me followed?’
‘I did. Thorne seems to know a great deal about my operations. I wondered how he’d gotten all that information. I had all of my inner circle followed – by the person who’d get their job should they be shown to be the betrayer.’ He smiled. ‘Patton was extremely thorough. He’ll make a very good head clerk.’
Ramirez swallowed hard. ‘I never betrayed you.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Patton photoshopped those pictures.’
He turned on his cell phone and swiped through the photos he had stored there. ‘Ah, here it is. You with Thorne.’ He held his phone out so that Ramirez could see the image. ‘I took this one myself.’
Ramirez paled. Then he squared his shoulders and lifted his chin, acceptance of his fate in his eyes. ‘My wife had nothing to do with this.’
He shrugged. ‘Then it’s a pity she has to die too.’
‘No.’ Ramirez leaped from his chair, reaching out as if he’d strangle him with his bare hands. But at the sight of the gun aimed at his head he stopped abruptly and froze, breathing hard.
‘Why?’ he asked the clerk simply, holding his gaze. ‘Why did you give Thorne information?’
‘I didn’t,’ Ramirez insisted.
‘You’re going to die either way, old friend. I can make it quick or make it last. I can also do the same for your lovely wife. Quick or slow torture? Tell me why.’
Ramirez closed his eyes. ‘You killed my nephew.’
He lifted his brows. ‘I did?’
‘Your people did. He was sixteen, just a kid. Got caught in the crossfire when your guys did a drive-by two years ago. Except they picked the wrong fucking house and it was my sister’s son who was filled with your bullets.’ Ramirez’s eyes filled with fury and grief. ‘You weren’t even sorry. I’ve worked for you for twenty years and you weren’t even sorry.’
‘I’m still not sorry,’ he said, then lowered his aim to Ramirez’s gut and pulled the trigger three times in rapid succession, creating a tight grouping of bullets. Ramirez slumped to the floor with a groan.
He stood, peering over his desk at the man writhing on his hardwood floor. Ramirez looked up, the fury and grief in his eyes now joined by shocked realization, intense pain and all-consuming hate. ‘You said it would be quick,’ he gasped. ‘You lied.’
‘So did you.’
‘No, no.’ Ramirez groaned. ‘I told you the truth. I told you why I gave Thorne that information.’
‘Too little, too late, my old friend.’ He spat the final word. ‘You lied to me every single day that you came in to work for me, took salary from me, all while you betrayed me.’
Ramirez’s pain-glazed eyes narrowed to a sneer. ‘And it’s all about you, isn’t it? My old friend?’
He blinked at that. ‘Of course. It’s always about me.’ He stared down at Ramirez for another full minute. How had he missed that grief? That fury? That absolute hate?
He settled back in his chair, knowing full well the answer to that question. He’d missed it in Ramirez’s eyes because he’d seen it in his own. In the mirror. Every damn day since the prison had delivered his son to the morgue in a body bag, minus his guts. Those had been spilled onto the dirt in the exercise yard when his son had been eviscerated, quickly and skillfully. But he’d suffered before he died.
He closed his eyes, a wave of fresh pain rolling through him, clenching his chest so hard that he had to fight not to gasp. His son had suffered before drawing his last breath. God, how he’d suffered.
Ramirez was getting off easily, he thought coldly.
He pressed the intercom button. ‘Jeanne, can you send Patton in? Tell him to bring in Mrs Ramirez and two body bags. Mr Ramirez isn’t quite dead yet, but he should be soon. Also give me a few minutes to dispatch Mrs Ramirez, then send someone in with a wet-vac. My floor seems to be covered in blood.’
‘Certainly, sir,’ Jeanne said with an equanimity that he’d long admired. His office manager was pushing sixty and he dreaded the day she’d retire. At least she was training her replacement, and he had to admit the girl had all of her mother’s organizational skills. Jeanne’s younger daughter, Margo, was as close to a daughter of his own as he’d ever had.
And Jeanne’s older daughter, Kathryn, was as close to a soulmate as he’d ever have again. Kathryn warmed his heart and his bed, but they both knew that he would always grieve his Madeline. That Madeline had hand-picked Kathryn to be her replacement had made the transition smoother, but Kathryn would never be his wife. Luckily she didn’t expect to be. She was happy to be the mistress of a powerful man.
‘Can I get you anything else?’ Jeanne asked.
‘Yes. Tell Margo that I need to meet with her in about thirty minutes.’ The mother of his grandson, Margo, and little Benny were all he had left of his son, Colin. Anguish speared his heart, but he welcomed the pain. Avenging his son’s death was what gave him the strength to wake up each morning. ‘I have a job for her.’
‘You bastard,’ Ramirez gasped when his wife was brought in, bound and crying.
He smiled. ‘What is the expression? Pot, meet kettle? You have much nerve, Mr Ramirez. Your betrayal will hurt so many more people than only yourself. You can excuse us, Mr Patton, but don’t go far. We’ll need those body bags soon.’
Standing, he removed his clothes, folding them neatly and storing them out of the way in the wardrobe. He liked this suit and didn’t want it bloodied. Carefully he lifted the leather thong over his head. From the end of
it dangled a small vial containing Madeline’s ashes. Soon he’d mix Colin’s ashes with them.
Feeling the burn of pure rage, he put the vial on top of his clothes and shut the wardrobe door. ‘Now, Mrs Ramirez. I will apologize in advance for the pain I’m about to cause you. When you are screaming curses, aim them at your husband. You’re here because of his betrayal.’
‘I won’t,’ Ramirez’s wife stated forcefully. ‘I will never curse my husband.’
But she did. They always cursed the one whose missteps had put them under his knife. In this case, his auger. Mrs Ramirez suffered terribly before he finally took pity and put a bullet in her head.
Then he ended his former aide with a final bullet to his heart and showered off the mess. Once he was dressed again, he called for Patton to remove the bodies and sat down to read through his new head clerk’s much fuller folder.
Patton had indeed been thorough, finding nearly everything he himself had found. There was nothing new here. His plan to bring Thomas Thorne to his knees had been in progress for months.
Thorne would beg for mercy, just as Ramirez’s wife had. But just like with Mrs Ramirez, there would be none.
Baltimore, Maryland,
Saturday 11 June, 11.45 P.M.
‘I’m out,’ JD said, tossing his cards to the table with an annoyed huff. ‘Fuck, Thorne. Do you have to win every damn hand?’
Thomas Thorne gave the five men sitting around his poker table a smug grin as he began to stack his chips. ‘Yes.’
The others grumbled good-naturedly as they fished out their wallets.
‘Your luck’s too good tonight,’ Sam muttered, throwing a ten on the table. No one ever lost more than ten in an evening. They played for fun. And to win, of course. None of them liked losing.
Across the table, Grayson rolled his eyes. ‘I’m thinking his luck is way too good tonight. Maybe we should investigate. Sam? JD?’
‘Lots of ways a man could cheat,’ JD agreed.
Grayson Smith, the city’s lead prosecutor, decorated homicide detective JD Fitzpatrick, and former Baltimore PD officer Sam Hudson would certainly know about many of those ways, but Thorne knew none of the men were really upset. Nor did they believe he’d actually cheat.