John Lescroart - A Certain Justice

The gleaming face turned. Mohandas seemed to have an understanding of where the camera was. 'You're out there,' he said, pointing at Shea through the television, 'we know you are. And we are going to find you. And you are going to pay.'

As the picture cut away from Mohandas, Shea again saw the photograph of himself on the screen in a blurry close-up. Then the camera pulled back and the anchors chattered away, explaining what Shea needed no explanation for. His face was the centerpiece of a wanted poster, offering a reward of one hundred thousand dollars.

Suddenly the voices of the anchors came back into Shea's consciousness. '… denial that this is, in effect, a contract on the man's life, isn't that right, Karen?'

'That's true, Mark, but the talk here in the streets is that the money is being offered for the man's death. Even if somebody gets to him after he's been arrested, even if he's already in jail.'

Shea put the telephone back down in its cradle. Calling the police and giving himself up had just turned into a bad idea.

Melanie Sinclair had never done anything wrong until she'd met Kevin Shea, and now it seemed that everything she did turned out badly. The last thing she had wanted to do was get him mad at her again, accuse him of anything, put him on the defensive. That, she had come to believe, was how she had lost him.

But then on television she had seen what he'd done last night, or what it looked like. She couldn't believe it, that wasn't Kevin. But what was she supposed to think?

Before she had met Kevin Shea, Melanie had always done the right thing. She had gotten 'A's all the way through school. She kept her shoes neatly arranged in her closet underneath her color-coded hangers, on which hung, in order, dresses, skirts, slacks, blouses, coats, sweaters, vests. She combed her hair a hundred strokes every night, smiled easily without putting it on, was a genuine asset to any organization she decided to join. She loved both her parents and her younger brother and sister and they felt the same about her.

Up until now, at age twenty-one, she had experienced only one serious wrinkle in the otherwise smooth fabric of her life, and that had been Kevin Shea, who was not all, but quite a lot of what she tried not to be.

It should have worked out. Kevin was the right age for her, unattached, with an aura of sophistication that implied experience. Whatever his flaws – none of them too serious – she could help him with them and thereby insure his appreciation and love. Plus , to tell the truth, she had been very much physically attracted to him. She knew that that was important.

Just how important she couldn't be sure, since she was still a virgin. She had decided that Kevin Shea was going to be the man to deflower her and then marry her. Melanie Sinclair truly believed in the old-time values and virtues.

And for a few months it had worked. Melanie had good genes, shining auburn hair, nice breasts, shapely legs. She was considered a catch and she was honest enough to know it. She had picked Kevin Shea to be caught by. And then, five months after their first date, two months after they had been making love, three weeks ago, he had said goodbye.

Just like that.

He was sorry, he didn't love her and didn't want to change. He didn't want to stop drinking, for example. Or laughing out loud. In fact, he had said maybe she should consider changing – lightening up a bit. People should try for excellence, he said, not perfection because perfection, after all, was impossible, whereas excellence was occasionally attainable. Something to shoot for.

Well, to hell with him! That had been her original reaction. It was a phony distinction anyway.

But she hurt. God, how she still hurt!

And now she'd gone and made it worse. Calling him that way… she'd just thought there might have been something she could do.

She hadn't been able to keep that judgmental tone out of her voice. Why did she do that? She loved him. She knew he hadn't done what they were saying, but she was only trying to play a little devil's advocate, get him to understand the seriousness of it. Except, of course, he would know, she didn't have to tell him. He could figure things out on his own. But Melanie – dumb, dumb Melanie – she just couldn't leave well alone. And now she'd gone and lost him…

Kevin hadn't liked Cindy either. Cindy Taylor, her best friend. That had been another big problem.

'She's fooling you,' he had told her. 'She's using you, Mel, and you're carrying her. You watch, she's jealous, she's using you.'

(That was another thing – he called her Mel. No one had ever called her Mel and she kept correcting him about that too until he broke up with her.)

'How is she using me?'

'She's holding you back so that she can be the wild one, the exciting one. Not that she's exactly Madonna herself.' He'd even told her that Cindy had come on to him, which couldn't be true, because Cindy had told her that she didn't even think much of Kevin. Although, come to think of it, Cindy had been the one to notice him at school, to get her interested.

Well… no matter now, that was over. And Cindy, for better or worse, was still her best friend, and she had to talk to somebody… The tears wouldn't stop. She was going crazy.

'My God, that is Kevin.' The call had awakened Cindy too, but Cindy was used to it. 'What are you going to do?'

'I don't know. I called him. He was…' She was going to say hungover but held it back.

'What did he say?'

'I didn't let him say much. I just asked him why.'

'And what did he say?'

'He didn't say anything.'

'He didn't even deny it?'

Melanie had put that down to shock, but the fact was that he hadn't. 'No.'

'I knew he was capable of something like this.' The way she said it made Melanie feel uncomfortable, the effect Kevin seemed to have on her. It was too strong a reaction somehow. But she couldn't think about that now.

Dead air. Melanie could hear Cindy's television. 'They're saying anyone who can identify him should notify the police,' Cindy finally said.

'Well, I'm not going to do that.'

'I don't know, Melanie.'

'Cindy, come on . This is Kevin we're talking about. Whatever it looks like, he didn't-'

'It sure does look like it, though, doesn't it? If he did, the police should-'

'He didn't! I know he didn't.'

'I don't know that.'

'Cindy!' Calling her had been a mistake, too. Everything she did nowadays was turning out wrong. 'Cindy, come on, don't you do anything, either, okay?'

Silence.

Then, calling on every reserve of calm she had: 'Just promise me you won't do anything, would you? Promise ?'

A long pause. Then: 'I'll try.'

'Kevin Shea. And he was home as of about an hour ago. The snitch supplied the address, too.'

Glitsky didn't much like this emphasis on one man. After all, it had been a mob, and even if this one guy had been the leader – and it did look that way – he wasn't the only guilty party. There were somewhere between twenty and sixty people somewhere in the city who'd had a hand in this. Glitsky had sent out a team to go and persuade Jamie O'Toole, for example, the bartender of the Cavern, to drop down to the Hall before noon for a few questions. He also craved an audience with Paul Westberg, the photographer, whose identity he had only just learned.

'But now there was nothing to do but move on this Kevin Shea. Glitsky gave the order to dispatch a black-and-white to the address they had been given. Then, thinking about it, he made two more decisions: to send second and third cars as backups to Shea's place, and to stroll over to his chief's office and get the latest version of how things stood, bureaucracy-wise.