Dead Wrong (2 page)

“Is it hard?” Young Blood asked.

“Only for five-year-olds.” Woody smirked.

“Did you know he was going to bolt?” Channing asked.

“There’d been a rumbling, you know, in the cell block.” Woody leaned forward, his pale hands dangling between his legs. “But no one thought he’d be stupid enough to try it. He’s going to get caught—not because these guys here“—he nodded in the direction of the hallway—”are that good. But once they put the courthouse on lockdown, like they just did, there’s no way to get out. There’s one door in the front, and one door in the back, and they’re both guarded. He can hide in here for a while—crawl around in the ductwork, find a forgotten storeroom, maybe—but they’ll catch him before long. I think he’s just trying to have a little fun.”

“Won’t be much fun if they tack on some extra time to his sentence,” Channing noted.

“He’s serving sixty years. I don’t think he much cares about another twelve or twenty-four months.”

“What’d he do?” Young Blood asked.

“Armed robbery. Hit two banks in two days out here in the county. Shot a guard. His attorney filed a motion for a new trial, but Waldo knew it wasn’t going to happen. He only wanted to go through with the hearing today to see if he could get an opportunity to fly. Looks like he made it. Not that it will do him any good.” He turned to Channing. “How ’bout you? What’re you in for?”

“I was stopped for going through a stop sign—”

“Now, there’s a manly crime,” Woody muttered under his breath. “Explains the need for the leg shackles.”

“—and it turned out there was an outstanding warrant for a guy with the same name,” Channing continued. “You?”

“I’m in here pending appeal of a conviction.” The smirk was back.

“For what?” Young Blood asked.

“A domestic dispute,” Woody said dryly.

“Oh.” The young man nodded warily, then volunteered, “I’m supposed to have my trial today. I hope they find Waldo in time to get started. I want to get it over with.”

“What are the charges?” Channing asked.

“Well, see, they’re saying I stalked this girl.” His face began to cloud. “But I didn’t stalk nobody. She was my girl, you know? They got the whole thing all wrong.”

“She must have complained about something for them to charge you. What did she tell the police?” Channing leaned forward, interested now, wondering just what Young Blood had gotten himself into.

“She was confused. The cops made her lie.” The young man grew visibly agitated. “They made her say things. Things that weren’t true. I wouldn’t do nothing to hurt her. . . .”

“What’s your name, son?” Channing asked, changing the subject and hoping to calm the boy down. It wouldn’t do to have him go off and bring in the guards, who surely had more than a little adrenaline pumping owing to the escape and the courthouse being on lockdown.

“Archer Lowell,” the young man told him.

“I’m Curtis Channing. I’d shake your hand, but, well . . .” Channing held up his shackled wrists, and Lowell smiled for the first time.

Woody began to introduce himself. “Well, Archie, I’m—”

“Don’t call me Archie. Do not ever call me Archie.”

“Whoa, buddy. Chill,” the red-haired man said. “No offense. No need to get all upset.”

“I hate the name Archie,” Lowell grumbled.

“Okay. Archer. I’m Vince Giordano. Named for my uncle, Vincenzo—maybe you heard of him? He was a singer back in the fifties. Had his own band and everything. Vinnie and the High Notes. We don’t speak no more. Bastard testified against me in court. So much for blood being thicker than water.”

Lowell stared at Giordano for a long minute, then said, “I know who you are. I saw you on the news when you were arrested. . . .”

“Yeah, well, I got a lot of press back then, and the trial got a lot of airtime.”

Channing leaned back as far as he could in the chair and rested the back of his head upon the wall, wondering just what kind of domestic dispute had merited such coverage by the local news.

“I saw the news vans out front.” Channing nodded toward the window. “I was wondering who they were here to see.”

“Fame is a curse,” Giordano said dryly. “Guess they’re getting more of a story than they planned on.”

“So how long you think they’re going to leave us in here?” Lowell asked, watching Giordano with a mixture of awe and fear.

“If, as you say, the courthouse is locked down because a prisoner escaped, we could be here for a while. At least until they find him.” Channing stretched his neck so that he could peer out a nearby window. “Looks like there’s lots of law enforcement activity, and lots of press around to report on it. There were only two small crews earlier. Now there are five set up, and another van just pulled in.”

“Law enforcement activity,” Giordano mimicked. “You mean there are lots of cops out there.”

“Cops, yes, but FBI and state police, too. And if there are that many out there, you can be sure there are at least that many in here, looking for your friend.”

“Hey, he’s not my friend.” Giordano shook his head. “Not too many got real friends inside—you know what I mean?”

Channing shook his head. He didn’t know what Giordano meant, but he tried to imagine what it might be like to have a friend, in or out of prison. Except for a small dog he’d once owned, friends had pretty much eluded him.

“I don’t think it’s fair that I should miss my trial,” Lowell whined, “just because they lost someone and can’t find him.”

“Yeah, well, tell it to the judge.” Giordano gave him a cold stare, and the young man shrank from it. “I ain’t too happy about the delay myself. We had a big day planned here. My attorney says he’s going to get the judge to overturn my conviction.”

“What were you convicted of?” Channing asked.

“Shooting my wife,” Giordano said calmly, “among other things.”

“Did you?” Channing asked, and Lowell looked appalled at the question.

Giordano merely smirked.

Channing took that as a yes. “Why would they overturn your conviction?” Channing inquired.

“Because the cop who headed the investigation—the first one at the scene—made up evidence when he couldn’t find none. He lied on the witness stand, and everyone connected with the investigation knows that he lied.”

“They can let you go for that?” Lowell was interested in this possibility. “If somebody lies?”

“Yup. If they lie big enough, like this guy did.”

“But don’t they just try you all over again?” Lowell leaned forward.

“Nope. My lawyer says they can’t do it.” Giordano looked smug. “First time around, the D.A. loaded the charges against me. Tried me for everything he could think of. All of those charges were supported by the evidence provided by this one cop. And none of it was good.” His face lit up. “And you wanna hear the best? The cop, he’s facing perjury charges. He’s lost his job, he could go to prison. And they’re gonna have to let me out. Ain’t that a bitch?”

“What’s the first thing you’re gonna do when you get out, Vince?” Lowell tried not to look starstruck, but Channing could tell that he was fascinated by Giordano, who, apparently by virtue of his crime, was something of a local celebrity.

“Depends,” Giordano shrugged, “on whether or not I’d get caught.”

“What if you wouldn’t? What if you could do anything—anything at all—and not get caught.”

“Gotta think on that a minute . . .” Giordano rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “I’d put a bullet through the head of my ex-mother-in-law,” he said without blinking. “And then I’d do that woman—the advocate—who worked for the courts. The one who told the judge to take my kids away from me. And then the judge who said I couldn’t see my kids no more. Yeah, I’d do her last. . . .”

A darkness seemed to emanate from Giordano as he spoke, spilling into the room and filling it, threatening to choke out the air around them.

No stranger to evil himself, Channing recognized it when he met it head-on. He tucked away the information and chose to ignore it, for now.

“Where are your kids?” Channing had a hunch that he knew what the answer would be, but wanted his assessment of Giordano confirmed.

Giordano stared at him coolly, then replied, “They’re with their mother.”

The three men sat in silence for a long minute.

“How ’bout you, Archer? What would you do if you could do anything when you get out and not get caught doing it?” Giordano asked.

“I don’t know.” Lowell’s brows knit together as he pondered this. “Maybe . . . I don’t know, maybe that guy, that guy that kept bothering my girl. Maybe him, if he’s still around. And that neighbor of hers, that nosy bitch.”

“What about your girl?” Giordano taunted. “Seems like she’s the real problem here. She’s the one who called the cops on you, right? Why don’t you call on her when you get out? I know I would, if it was me.”

“Oh, I’m gonna pay her a call, all right.” Lowell narrowed his eyes, encouraged by Giordano’s toughness and maybe feeling a little bit of bravado of his own. “I’m gonna call on her first thing I get out of here.”

“How ’bout you, Channing? Anyone you gonna go see?” Giordano turned his attention to him.

“Never thought about it.”

“Oh, that’s right. You’re in here because of a mistaken identity. After being picked up for a traffic violation. Guess the first guy you’d be going to see is that other Curtis Channing, right? Then maybe the cop who arrested you.”

Channing laughed, and Giordano added, “Hey, Curtis, we’re just bullshitting here. There has to be someone, someplace, who you’d like to show a thing or two if you ever got the chance.”

Channing stared out the window. Finally, he said, “Well, if I were paying visits, as you say, I guess I’d stop off at my mother’s old boyfriend’s.”

“That’s all?”

“There’s a writer I wouldn’t mind having a little chat with.” Channing thought of a hotshot writer of true crime, including last year’s blockbuster
The Serial Killer Next Door
. The man had appeared on all the morning talk shows as well as
Larry King Live
and
Letterman
, and had been an insufferable know-it-all who, Channing thought, didn’t really know dick about the subject matter. He was itching to show him where he’d gotten it wrong.

“That’s only two,” Lowell reminded him. “You got one more.”

Channing thought it over. There’d been that dark-haired FBI agent who’d interviewed him a few years back in Ohio, bringing a particularly satisfying run to an end. She’d seen right through him, and he’d known it. He’d wanted to reach across the table and break her pretty neck, but he had much more self-control than that. As soon as the interview was over, he’d quietly disappeared and taken his work elsewhere. But he’d gone with the feeling that given the chance, she’d be right on his heels.

“Well,” he said with a smile, “there’s a cute little FBI agent that I’d like to see again. Just to see if the chemistry is still the same.”

Giordano snorted.

“Course, if we really did these things, if we really ever did go see ’em and . . . well, you know, did stuff“—Lowell grinned stupidly—”it isn’t like the cops wouldn’t know who to look for, you know? Like, Vince, they find your mother-in-law with a bullet in her head after you get out, the cops’ll be like,
Duh. Wonder who shot her?
”

“Well, it was just talk. Didn’t mean nothing.” Giordano shrugged, and the three fell silent.

“Unless we like, you know, switch our people,” Lowell said brightly.

Giordano frowned. “What d’ya mean, switch our people?”

“You know, like that movie. The one on the train, where these two guys meet and they each agree to whack someone that the other one wants—”

“Whoa, buddy. Watch it.” Giordano glanced nervously at Channing. Who knew who this guy really was? Or Lowell, either, for that matter. “This was just idle talk. That’s all. Just idle talk.”

“Sure it is. I know that.” Lowell nodded, eager to placate the man whom he knew to be a convicted killer. “But it doesn’t hurt to pretend. We got nothing else to do in here right now. No TV, no radio. We gotta think about something.”

“How old are you, Lowell?” Giordano’s tone was patronizing.

“Nineteen.”

“That explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“Your loose mouth, that’s what,” Giordano snapped.