Dead Wrong

  MARIAH

  STEWART

  DEAD

  WRONG

  BALLANTINE BOOKS • NEW YORK

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Also by Mariah Stewart

  Excerpt from Dead Wrong

  Excerpt From Dead Certain

  Excerpt From Dead Even

  Copyright Page

  From Pat Holsten’s journal:

  “Work like you don’t need the money.

  Dance like no one is watching.

  Love like you’ve never been hurt.”

  And she did.

  I think the Devil will not have me damned,

  lest the oil that is in me should set Hell on fire.

  —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  The Merry Wives of Windsor

  PROLOGUE

  February 2004

  OUTSIDE THE COURTHOUSE, SLEET HISSED SOFTLY, striking the front of the old stone building at sharp angles with muffled plunks. From a narrow first-floor window, Curtis Alan Channing watched water spill from partially frozen gutters to overflow in icy waterfalls onto the frosted ground below. His eyes flickered upward to a sky the color of cinders, its low clouds hovering over the naked trees that lined the main walk leading to the courthouse steps.

  News vans from competing television stations were parked side by side along the one-way street. He stared for a while, hoping to see if one of the pretty young reporters might surface, but no one emerged in the face of the storm other than a cameraman who occasionally poked his head out to check the readiness of his equipment before ducking back into the shelter of the vehicle. Channing wondered idly what event could be of sufficient interest to bring all those media types out so early on such a morning.

  God knows they weren’t there to see him.

  His eyes studied the sky as if he had nothing more immediate on his mind than the storm, but all the while he wondered how he’d managed to get himself into this mess and where it would, ultimately, lead.

  It would be funny, if it had happened to someone else.

  After all, to have successfully flown so low under the radar for all these years that he’d never even been fingerprinted, only to be brought in on an outstanding warrant that was a clear case of mistaken identity after he’d been stopped for blowing a stop sign, well, the irony was just killing him.

  Course, now he had been fingerprinted. He’d have to keep that in mind in the future.

  He shifted slightly in his seat and turned his head in the direction of the door, his ears picking up the sound of running feet. Seconds later, he heard shouts from somewhere slightly distant. Soon it became apparent that there was some sort of ruckus in the hallway beyond the small room where he’d been deposited. He hoped whatever it was wouldn’t interfere with his moment in court. He wanted nothing more than to get this over with and go on his way, wherever that might lead him.

  He glanced at the clock on the wall for the tenth time since he’d been shown into the anteroom off the judge’s chambers to await his hearing. It was almost nine thirty in the morning. He’d been sitting there since eight forty-seven, and he was getting really, really bored.

  He openly studied the young sheriff’s deputy who guarded the door. Couldn’t be much more than twenty-five, Channing figured. Didn’t look like much of a fighter—nor much of a lover, either, he smirked inwardly. He could take this kid blindfolded and with one hand behind his back.

  Which, of course, he would not be fool enough to do. He hadn’t gone all these years without getting so much as a traffic ticket—well, not until Saturday morning, anyway—by being a fool. He wasn’t about to start now.

  No, he’d wait patiently for them to bring him before the judge, he’d explain courteously that he was not the Curtis Channing who was named in that warrant—he was Curtis Alan Channing, not Curtis Andrew Channing—and hopefully the court would check the social security numbers and physical descriptions, acknowledge the error, then see fit to let him walk out the door and go about his business. He would be gracious and charming, of course; set the arresting officers at ease by letting them know that he understood an honest mistake when he saw one and had no intention of suing them for false arrest.

  A man in his position would have to be an idiot to threaten some kind of legal action.

  There was more noise from the hallway, and he met the deputy’s eyes momentarily.

  “What’s going on out there?” he asked.

  The deputy smoothed his brown tie and shrugged his disinterest, as if too cool to speak to a prisoner.

  This kid is green, Channing thought.

  “How long you been working for the sheriff’s department?”

  “Long enough.”

  Uh-huh.

  Before he could comment aloud, the slap-slap-slap of running feet pounded past the door. This time the young deputy did react, turning nervously to the glass panes and craning his neck to see what was going on. There was shouting now, and the door opened unexpectedly. An older deputy leaned in, whispered a few words to Channing’s guard, who nodded vigorously.

  “We’re going to have to move you,” he said, motioning to his prisoner, “just into the next room.”

  Channing stood and shuffled past obediently, curious as to what was going down. There was much commotion in the hallway, where a great number of brown-uniformed deputy sheriffs and other law enforcement types bustled about, some with their hands on their guns.

  They’re on the hunt, Channing thought, and wondered if perhaps one of the other inmates who’d made the ride in with him from the prison that morning had somehow managed to slip past the guards.

  “Here you go, boys,” the older deputy announced as he opened the door to a room that was somewhat larger than the one Channing had occupied. “Got another roommate for you . . .”

  The deputy held the door open as Channing made his entrance and nodded to the two men already within, both of whom he recognized as passengers from the van. Both were shackled like him, hands in front connected to a chain at the waist that connected to leg irons fastened at the ankles. The guard touched Channing in the middle of his back and pointed to a chair that stood against the wall. He moved toward it and sat, ignoring the indignity of being secured to the chair as were, he noticed, the other two prisoners.

  “Behave yourselves, boys. No monkey business. A guard will be right outside. He’s armed and he won’t hesitate for one second to bring you down if you so much as move,” the deputy told them, then stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him.

  “A bit heavy-handed, wouldn’t you say?” Channing mused as the door snapped shut.

  “He’s just trying to intimidate us. There’s not one deputy sheriff in this county who could hit a man from more than ten feet away. They just ain’t that good,” scoffed the man who sat nearest the door. His red hair was fading as it mixed with gray, his white arms and face were covered with pale freckles. He reminded Channing of an aging Woody Woodpecker.

  “Ah, then you’ve been here before,” Channing ventured.

  “Lately, I been here almost as much as I been at High Meadow.”
Woody named the county prison.

  “What d’ya suppose is going on out there?” The third occupant of the room, a baby-faced man—a kid, really—with large round eyes, frowned nervously.

  “They’re playing Where’s Waldo?” Woody told him. “Waldo Scott. He rode in with us in the van this morning. He got himself free somehow and took off. Get it? Where’s Waldo?”

  “No.” The young prisoner—Young Blood, Channing mentally tagged him—shook his head. “I don’t get it.”

  “They’re kids’ books,” Channing explained, though he couldn’t remember how he knew this.

  “Yeah, Waldo runs around in a red-and-white-striped hat or shirt or something, and you have to find him on each 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.