Mallory Kane - His Runaway Juror

He pushed her toward the couch.

She stumbled and fell onto the cushions. By the time she’d righted herself, he was gone.

The smell of soap and mint lingered in the air.

Chapter Three

When the jurors filed into the jury box, Brand’s mouth fell open. He’d told Lily to do whatever she did to look good, but he hadn’t expected much.

Whatever she’d done, it had worked. She looked like a different person. Gone was the pale skin, the fearful, darting eyes, the entwined fingers.

Her brown eyes sparkled, her hair was shiny and wavy and her skin glowed under the harsh fluorescent lights of the courtroom.

He frowned, feeling the knots of tension in his neck tighten even more. He’d tossed and turned all night, worrying that his visit had been too much for her, that she wouldn’t show up at all this morning.

Her transformation was amazing. Too amazing .

A sick dread spread through his gut. She didn’t look like this because he’d warned her. He eyed the pugnacious lift of her chin, the determined line of her jaw, and his mouth went dry.

She looked like a new woman because she was. She’d come to a decision.

Beside him, Foshee whistled under his breath. “I reckon you was right about one thing, brau . She jus’ needed some rest. Looks like a whole new woman.”

Too much like a whole new woman. Ah, Lily, what have you done?

As the DA got up to make his closing arguments, Brand shifted and cursed under his breath for Foshee’s benefit. “Damn it, I gotta take a piss,” he muttered.

The little Cajun looked at him sidelong. “Mebbe I better go wit’ you.”

“Oh yeah? Like girls? I don’t think so. I’ll be right back.”

Brand stood and slipped out of the courtroom, aware of Lily’s eyes following him. He didn’t dare look at her—he wasn’t sure why.

Standing alone on the courthouse steps, out of earshot of anyone who might walk up, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed the preset number.

“Pruitt.”

“It’s Gallagher.”

“Isn’t court in session?”

“Yeah. This is important.” Brand kept an eye on the courthouse doors. He didn’t want to be surprised while talking to his FBI contact. “What’s happened?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “I don’t know what you mean,” the FBI agent said finally.

“I think you do. Yesterday Lily Raines was about to fall out of her chair, she was so scared. Today she looks like a new woman.”

“Maybe she got some rest.”

“Did she talk to someone? Has anyone talked to her?” Anger blossomed in his chest. “Damn it, Pruitt. If something’s up, I need to know.”

“I swear, Gallagher, I don’t know a thing. She didn’t talk to the DA’s office, or I’d have heard. Maybe you’re overreacting. Take a chill-pill.”

Brand commented on what Pruitt could do with his chill-pill. “What about Springer and Carson? Anything going on with them?” He rarely ran into the other two officers who were working undercover with Castellano’s operation.

“They’re checking in daily. Nothing from their end. Look, I told you I’d protect you, and I will.”

“Can you protect her, too?”

“We’re on it. We figure it’ll take about three days for the jury to figure out she’s not going to change her vote to guilty. We’ll be there to intercept you and Foshee, and to rearrest Simon. It’s all going smooth as silk.”

“I hope to hell you’re right.”

Brand disconnected and headed back inside. He sat down next to Foshee, who sent him a suspicious look.

“What took you so long?” he whispered.

“Got a call.” In case Foshee had looked out the courthouse door and seen him on the phone, he needed to stick as close to the truth as possible.

“Yeah?”

“Ex-girlfriend. Wants to hook up.”

Foshee grinned. “You could hook me up.”

“That would serve her right,” he muttered.

Foshee scowled at him.

Brand listened to the DA’s monotonous drone. Crap . In typical lawyer fashion, he was telling the jury what he was about to tell them. Then he’d tell them, then he’d tell them what he’d just told them.

After him, the defense attorney, paid for with Castellano’s money, got to put on his own performance.

And Brand was stuck here sitting next to Foshee, with his garlic breath and his bad teeth.

It was going to be a long day.

THREE DAYS LATER, retired police officer Bill Henderson drove his wife’s van toward Beachside Manor Nursing Home. He’d been surprised to hear from Joe Raines’s girl the other night. Lily had sounded frantic, scared to death. He’d tried to calm her down, but she’d begged him to listen to her.

He shook his head, amazed at what Lily had told him and ashamed at how hard he’d tried to weasel out of helping her. Especially now.

Like he’d told Lily, he’d done his twenty-five years on the force. He was looking forward to a lot of years of sitting out on the water in his little boat, fishing and drinking beer and just being happy to be alive.

He’d decided not to take any more private jobs. Most of them were just this side of sleazy. He didn’t like spying on cheating spouses or rounding up deadbeat dads.

His pension was enough, with his wife’s income from teaching, to keep them comfortable.

He turned onto the street that wound back around the bayous to the grounds of Beachside Manor. Funny name for a nursing home that was nowhere near the beach.

Lily had asked him to go to the nursing home on Friday morning and pick up her father for what she’d termed a “day trip.” She said she’d called the nursing home and given her permission. All he had to do was show photo ID.

“Take him somewhere, Bill. Please. I’ll pay you. Take him up to Jackson to a hotel. Just for a few days, until this trial is over. Then I’ll come get him and we’ll be out of your hair. Please. Do it for a fellow officer. You know he’d do it for you.”

As soon as she’d said those words, Bill had known he was sunk. So here he was, about to abduct a buddy of his who didn’t even know his own name. Like he’d promised Lily, he’d lied to his wife—told her he had to be out of town for a few days on a case.

He’d asked Lily what was going on, but she wouldn’t tell him. He had a feeling he knew. Another reason he’d tried his best to refuse. This had something to do with Sack Simon’s murder trial. Therefore it had something to do with Giovanni Castellano. He sure as hell didn’t want to tangle with Castellano.

The idea made Bill very nervous. He ran a finger under his tight collar and checked his weapon, which he’d stuck in a paddle holster at his back. He rarely carried it anymore, even though he had a permit.

The road to Beachside Manor was asphalt, with a narrow shoulder that quickly dropped off into a swamp. He kept his van toward the middle of the road as he rounded a steep curve.

A car was stopped in the middle of the road, and a woman in a tight skirt and a tighter blouse with the top buttons undone waved both arms at him. She looked hot and harried.

Bill slowed down and pulled up beside her. He lowered his passenger window. “Got car trouble, miss?” he asked.

“I don’t know what’s wrong. It just stopped, right here in the middle of the road. I’m supposed to be at the nursing home to pick up my mother.” She gestured behind her with a hand holding a cigarette.

“Hop in and I’ll give you a ride.” Bill pressed the button that unlocked the doors. As soon as he did, the driver’s door jerked open and a hefty guy stuck a gun into the folds of skin at his neck.

“Wha—?”

“Don’t move, Henderson.”

Bill didn’t move. Sweat popped out on his forehead and under his arms. He should have been prepared for this. Twenty-five years on the force had taught him better than to be caught by the oldest trick in the book.