Stay of Execution (6 page)

 

Chapter Fourteen

“H
OPE THIS IS
okay,” Ted Baldwin said, his voice raised to be heard over the shouting. “You won't run in to any of your reporter friends here.”

Shouts erupted in the far corner of the bar and Julia turned in their direction. Several locals cheered and clapped in a circle near a large dartboard. She spotted a jukebox and rusted items hanging from the walls. A musty odor rose from the floor. She blinked several times, her eyes and nose adjusting to the acrid air. “It's fine.”

“Good,” he said with a smile. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

She waved a hand. Almost everyone in her business smoked or used to smoke. “Go ahead.”

“It's a terrible habit,” he said. “It's why I come here. It's the only place I can smoke, and no one notices or cares.” He lit the cigarette, inhaling deeply. His shoulders seemed to relax, and the lines between his brows disappeared. “So, tell me about Julia Manning.”

She sat back against the wooden chair. The palms of her hands were damp and her heart skipped a beat. The last time anyone had taken a real interest in getting to know her was when she and Jack had started dating, and that was a long time ago. She tilted her head, taking stock of the man seated across from her. It wasn't hard to see how he'd been elected mayor in this town. He was attractive, and his manner engaging. It crossed her mind to ask him if he had bigger political aspirations. Congress? The Senate, maybe? He was young enough and intelligent enough. Julia wondered if there was a wife and kids. He didn't wear a ring, but that didn't always mean anything. She looked down at her own bare left hand, rubbing at the indentation that still marked her third finger, naked and raw. She picked up her shot glass and downed the whiskey in one gulp.

“Wow,” he said, sipping his beer. “You weren't kidding about wanting something stronger.”

Flushed, she forced a laugh. “Sorry. It's been a strange ­couple of days. I guess I haven't been myself lately.”

“Oh?” He sat forward, tapping his cigarette into a metal ashtray. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. I don't think so.”

“Are you sure? I'm a pretty good listener. Plus, since I don't know you, I might even be objective.”

She smiled. “Thanks, but I'm sure.”

He smiled back. “You can't blame a guy for trying, and I do hate to see a pretty lady unhappy. Maybe another drink then?”

Her melodic laugh drowned out the preset oldies playing from the jukebox. His smile broadened. “Are you flirting with me, Mayor Baldwin?”

“Hell, yes,” he said with a wink.

She eyed his hand again. “You're not married?”

“No. Almost.” The grin faded. “When I was in my late twenties, I was engaged. About a month before the wedding, Carla—­that was my fiancée—­was in a car accident.” He picked up the mug and took a deep slug of the amber beer. “She was working in Charlottesville for the summer and was coming home for the weekend. The roads were wet and they said she was driving too fast. I tried to tell her all the time to slow down, but she would just laugh at me.” His voice shook. “The car must've spun out and she ran off the road into a row of trees. They said it was quick. She didn't suffer.” He drained the rest of his beer.

Julia swallowed. “I'm sorry.”

“It's okay,” he said, his wet eyes finding hers. “It was a long time ago. I came close again a few years ago, but it didn't work out. Guess it wasn't meant to be.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “The truth is, I don't date much anymore. It's a small town, and I've known pretty much everyone here my whole life. Makes it harder in a way, and the job takes so much time . . .”

Julia nodded. This was hardly what she'd intended when she suggested they have drinks instead of coffee. She'd hoped to ask a few questions, maybe even score an interview, but not swap sad relationship stories.

“Hey, sorry about that,” he said and waved a hand. “I didn't mean to bring any of that up.” He motioned to the waitress near the dartboard. “How about another drink?”

“A beer. Thanks.” When the waitress was gone, she slid a notepad and pen from her canvas bag. He raised an eyebrow. “Mayor Baldwin,” she said, “I was hoping to . . .”

“Please call me Ted.”

“Okay. Ted.”

The waitress set two mugs of beer on the table and swept away the empty glasses, pausing when her eyes fell on the notepad and pen.

“As I was saying, I was hoping to ask you a few questions.”

The waitress moved from table to table. She picked up the empty mugs two at a time, then mopped up any spilled beer. At the bar, she leaned into the bartender, nodded in their direction, speaking in his ear. Baldwin lit another cigarette. He gestured toward the pen in her hand, poised over the open notebook. “They know you're a reporter.”

She followed his gaze to the bar. “Is that a problem?”

“Depends. Is that why you agreed to have a drink with me? To ask me questions?”

“No.” Her face reddened. “Well, yes and no. I did want a drink, and you seemed nice and  . . .”

“And you thought it would be a good chance to get an interview with the mayor?”

There was no anger in his tone, only curiosity, and she breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes. I hope you don't mind. We could start with some background, and then I'd like to ask you about the press conference yesterday. I won't take up too much of your time. I promise.”

“I'm not in any hurry, Julia, but I'd rather you put the notebook away.” He spoke quietly, his voice gentle. “This is a locals' place, and it's been here a long time, like the ­people in here. They like their privacy. It wouldn't look good for me to give an interview in here to an outsider. Especially now.”

Julia thought of the way the waitress paused when she caught sight of the notebook, how her manner seemed to cool. He was right. She was out of her element, a stranger here, and she didn't need any enemies. Nodding, Julia returned the items to her bag.

“Is that why you brought me here?” she asked, crossing her legs. “So I could see some of the locals?”

“Sort of,” he said. “I know you think you saw everything there is to know about this town yesterday, but that's not the whole picture. ­People will be friendlier toward you if they think you're going to listen, take the time to get know them.” He paused, puffing on his half-­smoked cigarette. “My advice to you is to keep your notebook and tape recorder inside that bag. The folks around here are going to be turned off if they think you're hanging around so you can write about how Leo Spradlin got a raw deal.”

Julia folded her arms across her chest. “What do you think, Ted? Do you think he got a raw deal?”

The mayor shrugged, his bulk shifting with the movement. “Hard to say, but in my mind, he got a fair trial at the time. And from the moment he was arrested, the rapes and murders stopped. When you take that into account, this new DNA evidence is a bitter pill for ­people around here to swallow.” His eyes wandered around the bar. “I don't know about raw deals, but I do know I've got a town full of ­people who believe a guilty man just got out of prison. The truth is, folks are scared.”

Julia sipped the cold beer. She had figured most of this out at the press conference and in the diner. “You talked about justice at your press conference. What did you mean by that?”

He shrugged again. “Only that Spradlin went to prison based on the justice system, and he was also freed based on that same system. We need to respect the law even if we don't always agree with it. Spradlin has every right to live in this town, whether we like it or not.”

“Makes sense.” She leaned forward, her hands on the table. “But I don't think too many ­people around here feel the same way. I felt a lot of anger and hate out there yesterday.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “True, but you weren't here then. You can't understand what it was like. The ­people who were, they can't accept his innocence. That's why they're scared.”

“You were here, Ted. Are you scared?”

“Not the way you mean. Look, the law says he's innocent, so I have to go with that. I may not practice law anymore, but I know DNA evidence doesn't lie. That being said, I also know evidence that's been sitting in a lab or warehouse for years can be tampered with or degraded.”

Julia's head jerked back in surprise. “Is that what you think?”

“Not really,” he said. “But I know that's what some ­people think, and I can't blame them. So, yes, I am scared in a way. I'm scared for what Spradlin's presence is going to do to this town. I don't need any trouble, and the college sure as hell doesn't, either.”

“No, it doesn't,” a voice from behind Baldwin interrupted. A man with dark, cropped hair and piercing eyes stepped from behind the mayor and stood over the table. “At least that's one thing we can agree on. Right, Teddy?” The mayor ignored the man, who reached out and shook Julia's hand. “Mike Cancini.”

“Julia Manning,” she said, squinting. “You look familiar. Have we met?”

“No.” He shifted his attention to Baldwin. “Teddy, I need to have a word with you. Alone.”

Cancini wore a brown leather sport coat and rumpled khaki pants. Stylish, he wasn't. Although his build was average, he stood tall, his presence demanding the mayor's attention. His nose was long and narrow, bordering on prominent. But it was his eyes, a dark hazel, almost black in the dim lighting, that drew her to his otherwise ordinary face.

Baldwin fiddled with his pack of cigarettes. “It's not the best time, Mike.”

“Mike Cancini. Mike Cancini.” Julia said his name out loud, rolled it around on her tongue, and slapped her thigh. “I do know you. You're Detective Mike Cancini. D.C. I write for the
Washington Herald
.”

“Figures,” he muttered, wheeling around to face Baldwin. “It can wait. I'll be at your office tomorrow morning. Nine sharp.”

The mayor slid another cigarette between his lips. “Fine.” He focused on his lighter and cigarette, inhaling deeply.

Julia watched the detective walk away. “Well,” she said, breaking the silence that had settled over the table, “that might be one of the rudest men I've ever met.”

Baldwin blew out smoke. “Might be?” The mayor wasn't smiling. His face was glum, his eyes far away.

“What's he doing here anyway? He's Washington.”

The mayor picked at the corner of the cocktail napkin under his empty beer mug. “Mike Cancini lived here for a time. Back then actually.”

Her mouth dropped open, and her fingers itched for the second time in two days. “During the investigation?”

“Yeah. He was fresh out of the academy and was a rookie in our department. I was interning there, too, while I was in law school.”

Julia's heart thumped in her chest. Damn. It had been right in front of her, in those articles from the town paper. How could she have missed it? “He was working as a Little Springs cop then? Was he on the case?”

“Everyone was. It was his first job as I remember, a training type job.” A wry smile crossed his face. “Some training, right?”

She ignored his comment. “I still don't get why he's here now. What's the point? Is he just curious?”

The smile evaporated. “Mike Cancini is never just curious.” He rolled the napkin scraps between his fingers, his lips pursed. “I probably shouldn't tell you this, but if I don't, someone else will.” Julia drew in her breath, waiting. “We didn't have many guys in the squad when Mike got here. This wasn't exactly a high crime town, still isn't. Traffic tickets, the occasional drunk and disorderly, stuff like that. Chief Hobson was in charge back then. Passed away now. Mike started out working with campus security after the second girl was found. Reviewed the missing persons reports. Looked for connections in class schedules. Interviewed students. That kind of stuff.” He paused, squeezing the ragged pieces of napkin into a ball. “It was terrible. I don't know if you know this already, but my dad was president of the college back then. It was around the holidays. Dad took it hard. Everyone did. Nothing like this had ever happened in the history of this town. No one knew what to do. Chief Hobson did his best, but he was old.” His light eyes glistened under the low lights. “After the Christmas break, some kids didn't come back, but a lot did. All of us in the squad pulled shifts working security on campus.” Baldwin lit another cigarette, his hands shaking. “It didn't matter what we did. More girls died. Hobson called in the FBI.”

Julia rubbed the goose bumps on her arms.

“The feds didn't have much to go on. There just wasn't much evidence. Then Mike discovered Spradlin had known two of the victims. Then it was three. He was like a dog with a bone. He got a search warrant and found a sweatshirt at Spradlin's mother's house. It matched the torn piece found at the river, where the first girl was found.” Baldwin sat back. “It was Mike Cancini who broke the case. Not the FBI. Cancini went after Spradlin, built the case against him.”

She blinked. “You almost make it sound personal, like he went after Spradlin for a reason.”

Baldwin answered sharply. “You don't understand. The murders stopped. It all stopped.” He stubbed out his cigarette in the half-­full ashtray. “Cancini was a hero around here. He arrested Spradlin, and it stopped. Everything was better then. Everyone was safe again.”

She thought about the man who'd left the bar, an experienced detective from a metropolitan city where the number of homicides in a year might outnumber all the homicides in the history of Little Springs. What had he been like when he was young and green? What had it been like to be inexperienced, an outsider in the middle of an investigation as big as this one? He'd come for training and ended up with credit for the biggest collar in this county's history. Baldwin said the young Cancini had been like a dog with a bone. He wouldn't rest until he got his man. Maybe he should have been less single-­minded.