Alez Kava - One False Move

She took the turn for the access road without needing Jared's instructions. She noticed Andrew had sat up. He had taken off the sunglasses and was rubbing his eyes and forehead with such force she expected the wound to start bleeding again. What was wrong with him? Did he want to hurt himself? Sure enough, drops of blood fell onto the car seat. She grabbed a napkin she hadn't used earlier and tossed it into his lap. He stared at it, then finally, after glancing at her, picked it up and put it against the wound.

Jared and Charlie looked like two kids in a candy store scoping out the cars as Melanie drove up and down the rows.

"Not another Saturn," Jared said. "And nothing flashy."

"I can do Tauruses pretty good," Charlie said. "How 'bout that one over there? It's kinda dirty. I can't even tell what color it is. I can exchange license plates with that Ford Escort behind it."

"It's perfect. Melanie-"

But she was already pulling in to an empty slot two cars away.

Charlie jumped out and walked up to the car as if it was his and they were dropping him off. It didn't matter. There was no one around. And the building didn't have any windows that looked out over the parking lot.

Charlie grinned as he opened the Taurus's door without jimmying the lock. The owner hadn't even bothered to lock it. Melanie watched him slide into the driver's seat, his head disappearing while he hotwired it. But suddenly his head popped up with a wide grin as he dangled the car's keys for them to see.

"Christ," Jared said. "'People are so fucking trusting out here. They deserve to have their cars stolen."

4:10 p.m.

Max Kramer slammed the telephone receiver into its cradle. He couldn't believe it. Grace Wenninghoff had just passed on his offer. Was she recklessly stupid or did she know something?

Rumor was the cops didn't have jackshit as evidence in the string of convenience-store robberies. Nothing except maybe the stores' videos, which they had shown snippets of on the ten o' clock news. Not much to see there. It looked like the same routine, even the same guy in the same getup, but it also looked as if it would be impossible for anyone to ID the guy from those crappy videos.

There went his insurance policy, down the drain. Now he was stuck defending another crack whore who couldn't afford to pay him. Not even two weeks ago he was on the Larry King Show and he didn't think life could get any better. Well, he was right, because just when he thought he was on top of the world, he was sliding down shit hill again.

He leaned back in his leather chair and stared out his office window that overlooked the Gene Leahy Mall and downtown Omaha. It was this window and this view that made the small, cramped space prime commercial real estate. He couldn't afford it, but did, because he liked looking out over the city and feeling a sense of power. He had worked long and hard to win this city's respect. He wasn't about to have it taken away from him now.

He could cash in on his national media coupe for only so long. He knew that. It wouldn't take much before his colleagues started to try to knock him down- the bastards.

He sorted through the stack of voice messages. A half-dozen idiots, all wanting something from him. The one idiot he needed to hear from hadn't called. He checked his watch. He had to start thinking about an alternative insurance policy. It shouldn't be this difficult. After all, who better than a defense attorney knew exactly what the cops were looking for?

Max set aside the three messages from his wife. She'd want to know what time he'd be home. Should she keep dinner warm?

He hated that the bitch kept such tabs on him. He was sick and tired of her subtle threats. He had hoped after his national media blitz that he wouldn't need her or her money. What was he thinking? That Fox News would cancel Greta Van Susteren and be calling to offer him his own legal talk show? How likely was that?

Instead, he had a shitload of messages from death-row assholes all across the country, all wanting him to get them off. More assholes who didn't have a fucking dime to pay him. And there weren't any more favors he needed from any of them. Hell, the one bastard who did owe him couldn't get things right.

He checked his wristwatch again. He had better be getting a phone call and soon.

5:56 p.m.

Tommy Pakula searched the bleachers, squinting against the sun and finally putting a hand up to his forehead. Claire was on the second row from the top, waving at him and at the same time yelling at their daughter to "use your head." It looked as if he had missed most of the first quarter, but his team was ahead by one goal.

He climbed up the bleachers, and the pack of screaming parents automatically parted, allowing him to get to his designated seat. But because he was late he got only nods as greetings, no time for talk. The game was on.

This was the first year Pakula had sat in the bleachers instead of on the sidelines, wearing his sweat-stained ball cap with the tattered white COACH embroidered across the front. He missed it, but both he and Claire had decided something had to give. He was running himself ragged.

He barely sat down before Claire was pulling out a Pepsi and a sandwich from their beat-up minicooler. She handed him the drink while she unwrapped the sandwich, her eyes never leaving the field. He could already smell the spicy meatballs, last night's leftovers that she'd managed to resurrect with mozzarella cheese, hot mustard and sourdough bread. His mouth started watering before she had it out of the wax paper. It was a running joke between them that he'd never be able to divorce her because he'd never be able to live without her cooking. Of course without it, he probably wouldn't have to spend as much time and sweat every morning in their basement, slamming all those calories off with his punching bag.

"How's she doing?" he asked, his eyes finding their eight-year-old with no problem. Jenna was the smallest one, a skinny little blonde who could dart in between the other players. He found her easily on the field.

"It's so muddy," Claire said. "They've all been sliding into each other. Oh, she did that tiling you showed her."

"Yeah? How'd it work?"

"Too hard. The ball flew out of bounds."

"That's okay. She had some power behind it. That's good."

He glanced over at Claire as he took a bite of the sandwich. She turned and looked at him, smiling. He automatically wiped at his mouth, thinking she must have spotted a wad of mustard. She shook her head, the smile still there when she turned back to the game, but she reached over to pat his knee and that's where her hand stayed.

For some reason the gesture reminded Pakula of Andrew and their conversation out at the cabin. Andrew had given him a hard time about being an old married guy who couldn't possibly advise anyone on romance. But this, watching their daughter on the soccer field on a glorious evening with the sun setting behind them, having a meatball sandwich and his wife's hand on his knee, this was good, really good.

All he had tried to get across to Andrew was that he was missing out. He knew there was something in his friend's past, some miserable breakup, some failed relationship that had happened before the two had become friends. Stuff like that happens. You shake it off. You go on and find someone else. But not Andrew. Andrew seemed to react by closing himself off. There were too many emotional barricades set up with that guy. Even as friends, Andrew had only allowed Pakula to see and know as much about him as he wanted, bits and pieces doled out little by little. From what he did know about Andrew, he guessed the guy's father had really played a number on him, instilling in Andrew that he wasn't worth much. Amazing how easily parents could fuck up their kids.