Part 20 (2/2)

”Why?” Cantele said.

”Because Justin Harris is about to be executed in five days, and we want to make sure it isn't a mistake,” Charlie said.

”You G.o.dd.a.m.n defense liars, uh, I mean lawyers, never quit, do you?” Cogle said. ”Are you aware that one of Harris's victims was the wife of Peter Fournier, Key West's chief of police? She was, like, twenty years old. That doesn't chill you?”

Peter was the police chief now? I tried not to pa.s.s out. That was unbelievable. Not to mention terrifying. As if I didn't feel paranoid enough coming down here.

”I know Fournier,” Charlie said. ”My taxes pay his salary, unfortunately. I saw his dumb a.s.s on the Today show on Thursday spouting all his victims' rights, fry Justin, Jump Killer c.r.a.p to Al Roker. I have no doubt his wife was killed by the Jump Killer. The problem is, and I know it's a hard one for you guys to follow, Justin Harris isn't the Jump Killer.”

It felt like the wind had been knocked out of me.

Peter had been on the Today show? On Thursday?

I really had seen him in Grand Central Terminal!

Chapter 79.

”HARRIS IS THE MISTAKE,” Cogle shot back. ”And his murderous a.s.s is going to get corrected come Friday. This is bulls.h.i.+t. You already had all the appeals you're going to get. Everything is in order.”

”You wouldn't just be saying that because it'll be your job if we find something, would you?” Charlie said, taking out his cell. ”You're not actually going to make me call the DA again, are you?”

”Fine,” Cogle said, leaving.

”This is a wild goose chase, isn't it?” Detective Cantele said, drumming her fingers against the cheap office table as we sat there, waiting. ”It's gotta suck knowing your boy is going down, and you couldn't stop it, huh, Baylor?”

Why don't you shut up, b.i.t.c.h, I wanted to say to the cop as Cogle came in with a bulky white evidence box.

Charlie threw open the lid and quickly flipped through the file folders. He lifted out a bag with a faded pair of panties in them and shoved them back into the box.

”Where are the hair samples?” he yelled at Cogle.

”Hair samples?” Cogle said, scratching his tilted head. ”What do you mean?”

Charlie pointed at the evidence manifest.

”Right here. Evidence Sample D2. Hair sample found beneath the ligature.”

Cogle hummed as he slowly flipped through the file folders. Finally he stopped and shrugged elaborately.

”What do you know? Must have gotten lost,” he finally said. ”Maybe a rat ate them or they evaporated. We are talking seventeen years, right? Was that all, or do you two need to use the restroom before you leave?”

Back out in the baking parking lot, Charlie seemed to have trouble opening our rental car. He suddenly threw the keys as hard as he could across the lot, then sat down on the concrete car stop beside it.

I sat down next to him, stewing in my own depressing thoughts.

Peter knew I was alive.

That was bad. About the worst thing possible. Was he still in New York? I thought about calling Emma and telling her to get out of the apartment, but then I remembered she was at her friend's in Brooklyn.

I wondered if I should go straight home and grab my daughter. I'd run once before. I could do it again. Throw a dart at a map and just go. Even if Peter was onto me, at least he didn't know about Emma.

I shouldn't have been surprised that Peter was chief of police now. He'd always been ambitious. But representing the Jump Killer victims' advocate group? What a G.o.dd.a.m.n bulls.h.i.+t artist. He must have been thrilled all those years, thinking I was dead without having to kill me himself.

”The police destroyed that evidence, Nina,” Charlie finally said. ”They're laughing at us. They don't care that an innocent man is about to die. No one does. That's it, Nina. That's all she wrote. We're done. Justin's done. It's over. We have to accept the inevitable.”

I sat there thinking about that. Maybe Charlie was right. Maybe I should just let Charlie and Justin figure it out. Every man, woman, and child for themselves.

But right there, among the cop cars, with tar sticking to my four-inch heels, my anger tipped the scales against my fear. I was tired of running. Tired of Peter. Tired of what I had become.

I wasn't going to run. I wasn't going to hide. I was going to do the right thing.

”Nothing's inevitable,” I said as I finally stood. I held out my hand and helped Charlie back to his feet as well. ”They won this battle. Now let's go and win the war.”

Chapter 80.

AFTER WE FOUND the rental's keys (Charlie had flung them under one of the Boca PD cruisers), we drove to the parking lot of a nearby Burger King, where I proceeded to go through Charlie's messy files like I was possessed.

Alone and penniless, I had managed to raise a daughter in New York City with nothing but sheer will. I was p.i.s.sed off now. I was going to straighten out Justin's case if it killed me.

”What are you looking for now?” Charlie cried.

I pulled out a sheet of copy paper on which Charlie had typed, ”HARRIS'S ALIBI INFO!” in big, bold letters across the top.

”This,” I said.

I read that Harris's ex-fiancee's name was Fabiana Desmarais. She was a Haitian immigrant who lived in Princeton, Florida, a few miles north of the Homestead Correctional Inst.i.tution.

”How far away is Princeton from here?” I said. ”We need to speak to Fabiana.”

”Wait one second,” Charlie said. ”I tried that before the first habeas corpus appeal three years ago. Not only wouldn't Fabiana's mother let me speak to her, but she actually sicced her dog on me, a half-starved boxer with a bad att.i.tude.”

”Hey, maybe you rub dogs the same way you rub people, Charlie,” I said. ”I'd like a shot at her.”

”Oh, right,” he said. ”We'll use your secret weapon: charm. I forgot about the universal love all people have for pushy New York broads.”

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