Patton squared his shoulders. ‘Thorne was discovered hours too early. I had the person who should have found him set up and ready to go, but his business partner found him instead. The scene was set as you directed, but because he was discovered early, the GHB was still in his system.’
He met Patton’s eyes directly, reluctantly impressed when the man didn’t look away. ‘That’s unfortunate, but no surprise. I have eyes and ears in the hospital,’ he explained when Patton’s eyes widened. ‘I am, however, disappointed that you waited so long to tell me.’
Patton scowled. ‘I waited until he woke up, to see what he remembered.’
He blinked. ‘You went to the hospital?’ There were only a million surveillance cameras there. Good God, man.
Patton’s scowl deepened. ‘No. Of course not. I have eyes and ears too.’
Well, at least there’s that. ‘What does he remember?’
‘Nothing so far. The problem is that the presence of GHB in his system will make the cops doubt his guilt. He doesn’t have an alibi, but he was drugged and bruised. Your goons were not careful.’
Because he’d told them not to be. He’d wanted Thorne in pain. A few broken bones would have been lovely, but his goons hadn’t been that resourceful. ‘It doesn’t really matter. The police would have doubted his guilt regardless. He’s done too many favors for them in recent years.’
Patton frowned. ‘Wait. What? You mean you never intended for him to be arrested for murder?’
‘I did intend for that to happen, yes.’ But that isn’t the end goal. ‘He will be arrested when all is said and done, so don’t worry, Mr Patton.’
Patton gave him a long, assessing look. ‘What is this really about? I mean, I could have put a bullet in his head twenty different times already. Now he’ll be on his guard.’
‘I don’t want a bullet in his head,’ he snapped, then drew a breath. He hadn’t meant to show his temper. Immediately he calmed himself. ‘There are worse things than death, Mr Patton.’ Like living alone for the rest of your life. Like watching your family die and knowing the person who killed them still lives.
He didn’t actually want Thomas Thorne to die. He wanted Thorne to know his pain. To live his pain. Preferably behind bars, where he’d be hunted like the animal he was.
‘I agree,’ Patton said evenly. ‘So what would you like me to do next?’
‘These two.’ He passed a photograph across the desk. ‘Bring them here.’
Patton’s eyes were flat as he studied the photo. ‘Where can I find them, and what did they do?’ he asked.
‘What they did is not important.’ Because it really wasn’t. The two men in the photo were tools. Nothing more. ‘They’ll be at Sheidalin tonight.’
Patton folded the photograph. ‘I’ll let you know when it’s done.’
‘Thank you. In the meantime, please dispose of the two currently tied to chairs next door.’
Patton’s jaw grew taut. ‘I see. Are you going to kill me too?’
‘No. First, you did tell me about the error. Second, it really wasn’t your fault that they were colossal idiots. Do be careful when you go into the office. The floor is slippery.’ Because the two who’d botched Thorne’s drugging had both bled out. From multiple wounds and orifices.
It had been . . . cathartic.
‘Where do you want them dumped?’
‘Over the side is fine. They’re fairly tenderized, but you should cut them up a bit more. Don’t want any identifiable parts washing up on shore.’
‘Of course not. May I go now?’ Patton asked.
‘Please. Have a good afternoon, Mr Patton.’
Baltimore, Maryland,
Sunday 12 June, 3.50 P.M.
Frederick Dawson rubbed his forehead with a sigh. He’d hoped that the files he needed to read would take his mind off the fact that he was sitting in a hospital, but no such luck. He really hated hospitals, but he was pretty sure nobody gathered here in the waiting room liked them either. Yet more than a dozen people waited for news on Thomas Thorne, the atmosphere tense and disbelieving.
It didn’t look good. Thorne had been unresponsive when he’d been brought into the hospital that morning. That would be bad enough, but the circumstances under which he’d been found . . .
None of the people waiting for news believed Thorne had killed the woman discovered in his bed. Frederick had heard the shocked words ‘He wouldn’t do that’ so many times.
But these were Thorne’s friends. His employees and co-workers. Of course they’d say that. Most of them even believed it.
Frederick wanted so badly to believe along with them. He didn’t want to think Thorne could commit such a heinous crime, but he no longer trusted his own judgment in such matters. He’d believed the liar he’d called his wife for years, after all. Not once had she set off his bullshit detector.
Still, he desperately wanted to believe in Thorne’s innocence, because he truly liked the man. He’d only known him for ten months, but he’d been impressed with Thorne’s ethics and his dedication to getting justice, especially for clients nobody else would touch. Not because they were guilty – many of them were guilty as sin – but because they couldn’t afford private counsel. Given representation by the public defender, they’d probably do far more time than was fair. Or, in the rare case of a truly innocent client, they’d get railroaded because they had no advocate.
Many of them had found an advocate in Thomas Thorne, and Frederick respected that. Thorne was the kind of attorney Frederick himself had once been, before he’d been forced to leave his practice and go into hiding to protect his adopted daughter, Taylor, from the biological father they’d believed would harm her. That belief had been rooted in the lies that Frederick’s wife, Taylor’s mother, had told him for years. Lies that hadn’t been revealed until after her death.
Frederick had given up his practice, his home and ten years of his life based on an unforgivable lie. Worse, he’d forced his family into hiding, stolen years of freedom from his daughters. The cost of his choices had been . . . immeasurably high. To his daughters and to the man he’d hidden Taylor from. A good man, who’d been innocent of any wrongdoing. All those years.
I judged him, found him guilty, hid his daughter away from him. And I was wrong. A year later, this remained a hard truth to swallow.
That same biological father was now lowering himself into the chair next to Frederick with a weary sigh and two cups of coffee from the Starbucks in the lobby.
Clay Maynard was not the monster Frederick had been led to believe. Now, unbelievably, he counted Taylor’s biological father as a friend. Unbelievably because Clay had forgiven him. Now, if Frederick could only forgive himself . . .
‘Hey,’ Clay murmured quietly, offering him one of the coffees.
Closing the file he’d been reading, Frederick took the coffee gratefully because it wasn’t the sludge he’d been drinking from the pot in the waiting room. ‘Thanks. Any news?’
‘Nope. I checked at the nurses’ desk on my way back in, but his status is unchanged. I really just needed to take a walk. The quiet here was getting to me.’ Clay grimaced. ‘But the zoo outside changed my mind.’
‘How many news vans?’
‘I saw at least six before I hightailed it back in here. Vultures,’ he snarled.
Frederick lifted his eyes to the TV mounted on the wall, its screen set to a cartoon channel even though there were no kids in the room. ‘We had to change the channel. The media have already declared him guilty.’
‘Vultures,’ Clay snarled again, then drew a breath to calm himself. He cast a look at the file. ‘I don’t mean to bother you. Keep reading if you need to.’
‘Nah. I wasn’t absorbing any of it. Just trying to stay busy. I met Anne in the office and we pulled the files as soon as I heard what had happened.’ Anne Poulin, Thorne’s receptionist and paralegal, was one of the most steadfast voices in his defense. ‘Whatever happens to Thorne, we have to protect the privacy of our clients.’
‘We’re going to clear him,’ Clay said, his jaw tight.