Dead Reckoning (2 page)

The man walked to the checkout and set the beer on the counter.

“Evenin’.” Evangeline gave him only half of her attention as she punched the sku number into the cash register from memory. “That be all?”

“Yup.”>

She heard Seinfeld say something funny and smiled as she reached for a bag. Vaguely, she was aware of the man reaching for his wallet. Laughter on the television behind her. The crackle of cellophane from where Irma was stocking sandwiches.

She’d just hit the Total key when in her peripheral vision she saw the man pull something long and dark from beneath his coat. For an instant, Evangeline thought it was a baseball bat. Then she looked up and saw the sawed-off shotgun.

Adrenaline slammed into her with the force of a speeding bus. He raised the gun. The ensuing blast deafened her, and the security camera mounted above the TV exploded into a million pieces. Evangeline yelped like a hurt dog when he cocked his head and looked at her.

“I’ll get you the money,” she said, her heart rolling into a hard pound.

She wasn’t
that
afraid. She didn’t like the looks of that shotgun, but she didn’t think he was going to hurt them. Still, her hands were shaking when she punched in the code to open the register. “I can’t get the safe open,” she said.

“I don’t give a fuck about the safe,” he snarled, glancing out the window toward the pumps. “Just get on the floor like a good bitch.”

She thought that was an odd thing for him to say about the safe. There was barely two hundred dollars in the register. It was company policy for them to drop the twenties into the safe at least twice during the shift. Irma had made the drop fifteen minutes ago. She hoped he wasn’t pissed when he found out he was risking prison time for two hundred bucks.

She glanced at Irma, hoping the other woman would stay out of sight. A cold finger of dread scraped up Evangeline’s spine when she saw Irma walking toward them, her face stern and unafraid.
Too unafraid,
Evangeline thought. She tried to catch the other woman’s gaze, but Irma either didn’t see her or chose to ignore her.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Irma demanded.

The man spun. The second blast rocked the store. Evangeline saw Irma fly backward, her arms flailing, her face a mosaic of horror and shock. Red bloomed like a bloody rose on her white blouse. Then her small body crashed through the beef jerky display and lay motionless on the floor.

Evangeline heard a scream. A scream that was shrill and terrified and seemed to go on and on. Then she realized the sound was coming from her. She couldn’t catch her breath. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought her ribs might break. Terror was a violent tornado inside her, pulsing and spinning out of control.

Her eyes met the man’s. He had a pale complexion. Blue eyes. Whiskers on pitted skin.
“Why did you do that?”
she screamed. “I gave you the money! Why did you do that?”

“Shut the fuck up!”

But she was already rushing toward her friend. “Irma!”

Behind her, she heard the sound of steel sliding against steel, and it suddenly dawned on her that he was going to shoot her. Oh, God, no! Please!

Another layer of terror enveloped her when she looked over her shoulder and saw him raise the shotgun. “No!” she screamed, thinking of her children. “I have babies!”

Arms outstretched, she pivoted, changed direction, and sprinted toward the rear exit. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Irma. Her small white face surrounded by a pool of blood the size of an ocean.

Evangeline didn’t hear the shot. But the blast hit her in the back like a baseball bat slamming in a home run. Her breath left her lungs in a rush. A terrible sound tore from her throat. Pain exploded between her shoulder blades. When she looked down she saw blood and for an instant wondered how she could bleed in the front when she’d been shot in the back.

And then she was falling.

She tried to break her fall, but her arms refused the command. An instant later the floor rushed up. Her head slammed against the tile. Black and white stars exploded behind her eyes. The world went still.

The knowledge that she’d been shot registered in her brain. She wanted to move, to run. If she could get out the back door, she might be able to get away. But her arms and legs refused the command. Oh, God, why couldn’t she move?

She opened her eyes, realized she was lying on her stomach. She saw a pale hand speckled with blood and tissue. The hand was twitching. Shock rippled through her when she realized it was hers.

Vaguely, she was aware of the thud of boots against tile. She wanted to see if the man had gone but couldn’t move. But deep inside she knew he hadn’t left. That he wasn’t finished with her. That maybe the worse was yet to come.

“Turn over,” he said.

Evangeline tried to speak. She opened her mouth to form the words, tasted the metallic tang of blood and realized the bullet had paralyzed her. She couldn’t run. Couldn’t move. Helplessness and horror exploded inside her. And she thought,
Oh, dear God, take me now. . . .

The sound of his zipper being yanked down registered in her brain, and she wondered what had happened to this man to make him so depraved.

She could hear his boots shuffling against the floor. He cursed as he yanked at her skirt and panties. She closed her eyes when the fabric ripped. It was unreal, lying on the floor, shot and bleeding and unable to feel any of it. She was aware of her body being jostled, but her nerves were dead to sensation. Then he was on top of her. His body against hers, moving, rocking her back and forth. She could see his hand braced against the floor a few inches from her face. He was grunting like an animal. Cursing her . . .

The assault was over quickly. Evangeline lay there, paralyzed and helpless and wondering if he was going to let her live.

“You got blood all over me, you bitch,” he said, jerking up his zipper.

When she opened her eyes, he was standing over her. Pale eyes staring at her with the cold blankness of a mannequin. The shotgun muzzle was less than a foot from her right temple.

Take care of my babies,
she prayed.

And then the world exploded.

ONE

MONDAY, JANUARY 23, 7:25 A. M.

The city of Dallas rose early on Monday morning. By six thirty A.M., Central Expressway, the Dallas North Tollway, and LBJ Freeway were packed with tens of thousands of commuters, each determined to get to work on time despite the miles of construction, the endless congestion, and the simple fact that there were more cars than roads.

Part southern belle, part cosmopolitan metropolis with a little bit of the Wild West thrown in, Dallas was a city of stark contrasts. A city caught in a perpetual identity crisis. It was a place where gracious old mansions battled for space among the glass and steel skyscrapers that had been born during the oil boom of the 1980s. A city where the slow pace of the Old South clashed with the high-tech scramble of urban America. A place where lush southern magnolia trees shivered in the wicked winds that whipped down from the high plains during the short, cold winters.

But despite its quirks and growing pains, Dallas was home and Kate Megason loved it with a passion. She loved the excitement of big-city living. The restaurants and shopping, parks and cultural events. She loved the interesting mix of cultures that made Dallas one of the most diverse cities in the United States.

But like all big cities, Dallas had a dark side and more than its share of violent crime. Averaging over two hundred murders a year, the city was one of the nation’s most violent. As a Dallas County assistant district attorney, Kate took those statistics as a personal affront.

She’d graduated magna cum laude from the University of Texas at Austin. For her law degree she’d chosen Southern Methodist University over Northwestern. And at the ripe age of twenty-six, she’d passed the Texas State Bar exam and become a lawyer. That same year she landed a job with the Dallas County district attorney’s office and became one of the youngest ADAs in the county’s one-hundred-and-fifty-year history.

Kate believed staunchly in the criminal justice system. She believed just as staunchly in the judicial system to which she had devoted her professional life. She enjoyed the challenge of her work. She craved the satisfaction that came with knowing she’d put a dangerous criminal behind bars where he couldn’t hurt anyone else. She liked knowing she made a difference. Maybe even helped make the world a better place to live.

It was almost seven-thirty when she turned off Industrial Boulevard and swung her BMW into the parking garage of the Frank Crowley Courts Building in downtown Dallas. She entered the building and flashed her ID badge at the police officer stationed at the front entrance the way she had every day for the last two years.

“Morning Ms. Megason.”

“How’s it going, Sam?” she asked as she set her briefcase on the belt and walked through the metal detector. “LaShonda have that baby yet?”

He grinned. “Going to be any day now.”

Kate smiled back, liking both the routine and the man. “Number three?”

“Four.”

“Give her my best, will you?”

“Sure will. You have a nice day now.”

She picked up her briefcase. “You, too, Sam.”

Her Italian boots clicked smartly against the tile floor as she crossed to the bank of elevators and rode to the eleventh floor. The doors opened to a wide hall with tiled floors and walls covered with an industrial blue fabric some well-meaning interior designer had installed the year before when the offices were remodeled. Next to two double glass doors, a bronze wall plaque proclaimed the office of Mike Shelley, Dallas County district attorney.

Kate swiped her security card and stepped into the outer office. The familiar smells of paper dust, old books, and new carpeting greeted her as she passed through the main lobby. Even though the operator didn’t come in until eight, the switchboard was already lit up like a Christmas tree. It was going to be another wild day at the DA’s office.

Just the way she liked it.

Kate turned left and entered the small break room. After setting her briefcase on the table, she quickly made a pot of coffee, then picked up her briefcase and headed toward her own cubbyhole office at the end of the hall. She unlocked the door, shoved it open with a booted foot, and went directly to her desk. Pulling out her Palm Pilot, she checked her schedule for the day. Conference call at ten o’clock. Lunch at noon with one of her paralegals, who would be expecting a positive review and a raise and was going to get both. Court at two o’clock, where she would give her opening statement on a felony assault case. Back to the office in time to meet with a potential witness in a vehicular homicide case. By then it would be well after six o’clock. If her phone wasn’t ringing, she might just be able to get some work done.

Kate was a creature of habit and thrived on routine and the fast pace of her job. A workaholic by nature, she lived by her schedule and drove herself relentlessly. She was up before dawn and at the office until long after dark six days a week. Aside from the occasional dinner or lunch or happy hour with coworkers—or the occasional duty visit at her parents’ Highland Park home—she didn’t have much of a personal life. Kate preferred it that way.

The smell of dark roast wafted into her office, telling her the coffee had brewed. To save time, she dug out the case file she was working on and skimmed the first page as she headed for the break room. Ricky Joe Paulsen was a repeat offender with a cocaine habit and a penchant for violence. He’d gotten off easy twice in the past. Probation for possession of marijuana six years ago. Then a five-year sentence on a burglary conviction. He’d been released after only eighteen months due to prison overcrowding. A week after his release, he beat his girlfriend to within an inch of her life. Kate was going to do her utmost to make sure the son of a bitch didn’t kill someone the next time he lost his temper.

She poured coffee into a Lawyers Do It Better mug and carried it to her desk. She would outline her strategy this morning while her mind was fresh, then try to squeeze in the rest of her caseload between court and meetings.

Pulling a legal pad from her drawer, she scribbled the points she wanted to make in her opening statement. Repeat offender. Violent. Potential for extreme violence. No deals.

“Kate?”

She looked up to see District Attorney Mike Shelley standing at her office door, watching her as if she were his favorite child and had just ridden her bicycle without training wheels for the first time. The image made her smile. “You’re in early this morning,” she said.

“Says one workaholic to another.”

“I prefer to think of it as dedicated.”

“Sounds healthier if you put it that way. But if you’re angling for a raise . . .”

“I already got my raise.” Kate jotted a final note on the pad and set down her Mont Blanc. “And it was a good one. Thank you.”

“Make it last. Both the mayor and city manager are screaming about budget again.” Mike Shelley was a large man with direct, square features and a mouth that was too big for his face. He wore a custom black suit and the requisite conservative tie over a crisp white shirt. His graying hair gave him a distinguished air without making him look older. His forthright expression revealed little of what he was thinking. A trait Kate admired even though it made her just a little bit nervous.

“Can I see you in my office for a moment?”

Surprise rippled through her at the request, and it was quickly followed by curiosity tinged with a low-grade uneasiness. In the two years she’d been working for Mike, she’d learned his habits and preferences. Lunch meant a raise. Dinner meant a promotion. The conference room adjacent to his office was usually reserved for ass-chewings. The only time an ADA was called into the DA’s office was when something big was going down.