Stay of Execution (5 page)

 

Chapter Twelve

J
ULIA SAT ALONE,
perched on a swivel stool at the diner counter, feet dangling. She pushed aside the meat loaf, dense with peppers and onions, and scooped up a bite of gravy-­laden mashed potatoes instead. Shoulders hunched, she ate slowly, eavesdropping on the conversation at the table behind her.

“What's with this guy anyway?” She recognized the man's voice. It was Larry Conroy, the reporter her soon-­to-­be-­ex had sent. “Talk about managing your press. You'd never know this guy's been in jail for twenty years the way he's playing us.”

“I heard he's got someone scheduling us in fifteen-­minute blocks in order of circulation or TV ratings,” a woman said.

Julia smiled. If that rumor turned out to be true, the woman with Conroy would be waiting a long time.

Another reporter from Washington chimed in. “Damn. I hope I get picked. I'd love fifteen minutes. That speech he gave yesterday was like something written for the movies. Beautiful. Only thing is, you kinda picture a gorgeous sunset and a girl waiting at the end, not a mob that seems like it wants to lynch you.”

Julia turned at the sound of raised, excited voices. She spotted the mayor, the man who had introduced Spradlin at the conference the day before. Without thinking, she slipped off the barstool, working her way toward him until she stood outside the circle of ­people surrounding him near the long counter. She tilted her chin to look up at him.

Mayor Baldwin was a big man, well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a few extra pounds around his waistline. His age was hard to guess, maybe early forties, and when he smiled, his light eyes brightened. His shirt was open at the collar, his dark tie loose. A matching suit jacket hung over one arm. The mayor glanced down at her, then turned away to nod at an elderly woman clutching his arm. Waiting, Julia kept her position, staying close enough to hear the mostly one-­way conversations.

“Mayor, my daughter and my granddaughters are terrified,” the older woman said. She held on to his arm with two wrinkled hands. “You can understand. Everyone around here is scared by this whole crazy business. I mean, how can this guy just walk out of jail? All my girls are worried, and I can hardly blame them.” She shook her head, pursing her lips. “I remember everything, how afraid we all were.” The lady's moist eyes were fixated on the mayor. “You were there, too. I know you remember.”

“Yes, Edith, I remember.”

The woman opened her mouth to speak again, but a shout from the back of the crowded diner stopped all conversation.

“We don't have to take it,” a man said. He raised a finger and pointed at the full house. “None of us want Spradlin here. I say, let's not take it. Shit! Let's force him out. This is our town.” A small chorus shouted in agreement.

Baldwin looked at the man, his expression benign. “What's done is done. The man is legally free. He's entitled to live here if he chooses. We can't make him leave. It would be against the law.”

The man scowled. “Fuck the law!”

“Garrett,” Baldwin said, casting a look in the direction of a booth filled with gray-­haired women, “there are ladies present.”

“Sorry,” the man muttered, his face sheepish.

Julia's eyes slid from the mayor to the reporters. Conroy struggled to repress his laughter. They weren't in Washington anymore.

“But it's true,” Garrett pressed on. “If it weren't for the law, that scumbag murderer wouldn't be free right now.” The faces encircling the mayor nodded. Some grew pinched with indignation. Julia glanced again at the reporters who'd been sitting behind her. A few were furiously taking notes now. The others watched the commotion closely.

Raising his right hand, the mayor spoke to the crowd, his tone smooth, controlled. “Look, Spradlin is a free man whether we like it or not.”

“We don't!” The man's face was beet-­red, his chin jutting forward.

The mayor's right hand dropped back to his side. “Now, Garrett, I don't like it any more than you, but it doesn't matter what we think here. Spradlin has been cleared. Bottom line is, the press, the state, heck, even the nation is watching what this man's gonna do.” His eyes swept the diner, landing on the table of reporters. The angry glares followed his gaze. “And what everyone here needs to understand is that means they're also watching what we're gonna do.” He smiled. A ­couple of the reporters ducked their heads. “Of course, they're only doing their jobs, same as we would. It's not their fault. We are a peaceful town, and that's what they're gonna see.” He smiled wider, revealing a row of bright white teeth. “Hey Jenna, fill everyone's cups, will ya? It's on me!”

The tension was gone as quickly as it had skyrocketed. The crowd around the mayor scattered. Giggles rose from a booth in the corner, and Kenny Chesney's voice boomed from the old jukebox near the kitchen. Julia exhaled, relaxing her shoulders. It was only then that she noticed the mayor watching her, a tiny smile playing about his lips. He moved closer to her, until they were only inches apart.

“You okay?” he asked. He cocked his head to one side.

Her face grew hot. Had she seemed nervous, afraid? “Kind of an angry group, aren't they?”

The mayor's smile disappeared. He pointed at several tables filled with locals. “These are good ­people.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.” He raised three fingers in the air, his expression solemn. “Scout's honor.”

“Wow. Do ­people still do that?”

“Do what?”

“That Scout's honor thing?”

“I don't know,” he laughed and blushed. “Look, I'm sorry about putting your friends on the spot like that. It wasn't fair.”

“They're not my friends,” she said automatically.

“Oh.” He angled his head, his face serious. “Aren't you a reporter?”

“I am. What I meant to say was I know them, but I'm not with them exactly . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Oka-­ay. Well, I'm sorry anyway, you know, about diverting attention toward them.”

“They'll live.”

“Good to know.”

Julia held his gaze. Fine lines around his eyes and tiny grooves at the corners of his mouth softened his kind face. “I have to say, you sure know how to work a crowd. That free coffee thing was brilliant.”

He laughed again. “Comes with the job, I guess.” He extended his hand. “Ted Baldwin. I'm the mayor of Little Springs.”

“Julia Manning,
Washington Herald
.” His large hand covered hers. “It's nice to meet you.”

He smiled broadly. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

She shook her head. “Sorry. I've had enough coffee for today.”

He blinked, then stammered, “Oh. Okay.” His face flushed again. “I understand. Maybe another time then.”

She reached out and touched his arm lightly. “I keep saying the wrong thing. What I meant to say was I've got a better idea.” She smiled up at him. “Do you know a good place a lady can get a drink?”

 

Chapter Thirteen

C
ANCINI STOOD OUTSIDE
the old bar, staring up at the faded sign. Ernie's. Same name. Same place. The siding was peeling, and the torn screens on the second floor windows flapped in the light breeze. If it weren't for the small “Open” sign tacked to the front door, he'd swear the place was deserted, or worse, condemned. Inside, nearly all the stuff on the walls had been there for decades. It was junk mostly, with a few animal heads and rusted metal signs thrown in next to the faded movie posters. All of the memorabilia, even the moose antlers, were covered with a layer of dust, adding to the dingy ambience. Burned-­out bulbs dotted the ceiling, casting an uneven light across the bar. Despite the bad lighting, Cancini noticed the rug had worn through, revealing a black, gummy vinyl underneath. The smell of old beer mixed with stale cigarette smoke rose from the mud-­colored carpet. Cancini grinned. At least some things never changed.

Ernie's specialized in locals only, a grizzled and loyal clientele. Because of its location in the oldest section of town, college students didn't frequent the place. The stools were filled with solitary drinkers washing away their cares with house liquor or whatever Ernie had on tap. Grey Goose was not popular, and Cancini imagined Ernie had never made a cosmopolitan in his life. Food consisted of burgers and nachos, and if it was the special that night, a loaded chili dog. He wondered if Ernie even knew what a vegan was.

Cancini slid onto a wooden stool, his hazel eyes downcast. The place was mostly empty. A few folks sat at the end of the bar, and a handful more occupied a ­couple of tables along the far wall. It was early though. In a ­couple of hours, the regulars would crowd the bar and fill most of the seats. Cancini had always loved Ernie's, a true watering hole where a man could be anonymous yet surrounded by ­people he knew. The drinks were cold and reliable and, best of all, the owner was a friend. When he'd moved to Little Springs, with only a suitcase and a few references, it was Ernie who'd rented him a place to live, leasing him one of the two apartments over the bar. Ernie lived in the second one.

Rumor had it Ernie opened the bar after his first wife ran off with a traveling salesman. Ernie loved to say, “If I'm gonna spend all my time drinking away my sorrows, I might as well own the place. Makes it a helluva lot cheaper.” Nice story, but Cancini knew better. Ernie never drank more than two beers in a day. The bar gave him purpose. Even more likely, owning the bar meant he always had friends, and he would never be alone.

The old bartender worked from one end of the bar to the other. Cancini watched and waited. In spite of his age and a slight stoop, Ernie was still agile, drawing pitchers and wiping tables like a much younger man. His face, pale and heavily lined, was the face of a man who spent most of his days and nights holed up in a dark bar.

Ernie ambled over, a half-­smoked cigarette bobbing between his lips. “What can I getcha?” he said, his voice low and hoarse. The man's faded eyes wandered to a baseball game on an old TV set hanging from the ceiling.

Cancini repressed a tiny smile. “Ernie?”

The old man huffed and wiped his hands on the rag hanging from his waist. He squinted at Cancini. “Who wants to know?”

Cancini chuckled. “You don't recognize me?”

“Oh, for the love of Pete,” the old man said under his breath. He reached behind him for a pair of glasses. “Do I look like I have time to . . .” He stopped mid-­sentence, breaking into a grin. “Well, I'll be.” He shook his head. “Jesus, I can't believe it. Mike Cancini.” Reaching across the bar, they pumped hands, smiling at each other. “Goddamn. How long has it been anyway?”

“A long time, Ernie. Too long.” Cancini paused. “Since the trial, I guess. I'm sorry about that.”

Ernie nodded, his smile gone. “You had your reasons. No one blamed you for not coming back.” Cancini was quiet, lost in memories he'd tried once to forget. “Can I get you a beer?”

“I thought you'd never ask. Whatever's on tap.” He sat waiting, watching Ernie draw the beer into a heavy mug with a thick handle, an old-­style bar glass cloudy with use. Cancini drank slowly until it was half gone. A bowl of pretzels appeared before him. “How are you, Ernie?”

“Never better.” Ernie had been saying the same thing for years. After a few minutes of silence, the old bartender spoke again. Although his tone was conversational, his words betrayed his outward indifference. “Shit, Mike, I don't know what they expect us to do. Sit around and wait for the other shoe to drop? You and me, old friend, know the truth, and I don't give a rat's ass who rigged the evidence. Spradlin's guilty. He can't goddamn stay in this town.”

Nothing Ernie said surprised Cancini. He understood the town's reaction and would not judge its ­people. They were not coldhearted or ignorant as so many reporters were already implying. They were just protecting their own. “The law says he can, Ernie. You know that.”

Bloodshot eyes searched Cancini's. The bartender nodded. He pulled out another glass, filling it to the rim before taking a sip himself. “What do you want from me, Mike?”

“Nothing, Ernie.” Cancini looked down the bar. The stools were half full. He raised his eyes, meeting the old man's gaze. “I don't know. I'm not sure.”

Ernie took a long drink. “Are you on the case?”

Cancini almost smiled. He liked the direct approach. In fact, it was the approach he used himself when conducting interrogations. He didn't like games. “There is no case for me, Ernie. Spradlin is a free man. The FBI is investigating now.”

“So, why are you here?”

Cancini pushed away the empty mug. “Baldwin called me. Said he was scared.”

Ernie snorted. “Of what? His election returns? Probably worried he'll lose his big seat as mayor when everyone remembers how he stuck up for Spradlin at the trial.”

Ernie's assessment wasn't entirely accurate, but it was true enough. Baldwin had provided a shaky alibi for one of the murders, but he'd been vague about what time he might have seen Spradlin, discounting his testimony. Spradlin himself offered no alibi. Still, any ill will Baldwin had earned, he'd erased with solid accomplishments since then. He held an important position in town, one he wouldn't give up easily. “Who knows what's going on in his head?”

Ernie's brows furrowed, and he clucked his tongue. “So, then, what're you s'posed to do for him so he won't be such a scaredy cat?”

Cancini raised one shoulder. “Nothing as far as I know. At least I'm not planning on doing anything.”

Ernie walked away, tending to other customers. Cancini picked through the pretzels, emptying the bowl. In the last hour, the bar had nearly filled. A waitress wearing a denim dress two sizes too small came out of the kitchen. She glanced at Ernie and then at Cancini, eyebrows arched. He nodded at her once, and she disappeared again.

A fresh mug appeared before him. “If you're not here for Baldwin, then why're you here, Mike?” Ernie asked. He leaned on the bar, his forearms pressed against the dark wood.

Cancini picked up the mug, hesitating. He wasn't sure how to put his answer into words without creating rumors. “I've got some leave coming. I decided to take it.”

“Sure, and I'm married to Pamela Anderson.” Ernie stood up as straight as his old back would allow, and his tired eyes flickered with amusement. “C'mon, Mike. You're here for a reason, and you walked into my place for a reason.” He wore the expression of a man bracing for trouble. “What can I do?”

The detective wiped the beer foam from his upper lip, considering the question. He'd seen the press conference. Spradlin had lied and tensions in town were high. Still, he'd told Ernie the truth. The FBI would handle the case. There was nothing more to see, no real reason not to pack his bags and go home. He'd spent the last day and night wondering why he didn't do exactly that.

A woman's laughter rang out, bubbly and carefree. Cancini shifted on his stool, watching the woman as she joined a table of friends. Two decades earlier, she would have stayed home, afraid to leave the safety of her house. For months, a cloud of fear had hung over this town until Spradlin was arrested. But that was then. Now the deaths of all those girls had been reclassified as unsolved. It burned in his gut.

Cancini's bony fingers rubbed at the nicks and scars in the old wooden bar. He hesitated only a few seconds. He knew he would ask, knew he would start something he'd be obligated to finish. “I was wondering about Spradlin's mother. Did you know her?”

The man nodded slowly. “A little. She didn't come in the bar much, but I saw her at church once in a while. She kept to herself far as I know.”

“Do you know anything about her relationship with her son, maybe what her life was like after he went to jail? That kind of thing.”

The bartender shook his head. “Nah. I wouldn't know 'bout that.” He rubbed his hand over the gray stubble on his face. “I know someone who might though. Want me to have her give you a call?”

“Yeah, sure. I'd appreciate that.”

Ernie wiped his hands on the rag again before he took Cancini's card, placing it in the cash register. “Mike, thanks, you know, for doing this, for coming back. I'll sleep better at night jus' knowing you're here.”

Cancini looked down at his beer. “I'm not doing anything, Ernie, so don't expect too much. It's follow-­up. That's all.”

The man stared back. “But you know this is wrong, don't you, Mike? It's total bullshit. You know it is. You put Spradlin away. You know he's guilty, right?”

“I don't know anymore, Ernie.” Cancini shook his head. “The DNA evidence is pretty conclusive.”

“Conclusive? Ha! It's a crock. I don't know how Spradlin rigged it, but he sure as shit did.” Cancini had heard that same sentiment more than once since his arrival in Little Springs. “Besides, you had other evidence. There was that sweatshirt or T-­shirt or somethin' and no alibi and I don't know what else. He's guilty. Why else would it have stopped?”

“I don't know, Ernie.”

“But you believed he was guilty, didn't you, Mike?”

“I did.”

“And now?”

Cancini ran his fingers around the fat rim of the mug. Why couldn't he shake the feeling that something wasn't right?

“I don't know what I believe, Ernie,” he said, looking into the old man's eyes. “I wish I did.”