Dead Certain - Mariah Stewart [0]
DEAD CERTAIN
BALLANTINE BOOKS • NEW YORK
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
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
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Other Books by Mariah Stewart
Excerpt from Dead Certain
Excerpt from Dead Wrong
Copyright
For Saint Loretta the Divine—
with love and thanks.
“Judgment for an evil thing is many times delayed some day or two, some century or two, but it is sure as life, sure as death.”
—THOMAS CARLYLE
PROLOGUE
February 2004
Jeez, but he hated this weather. Hated the way the sleet hissed against the window like a big old nasty snake. Hated the way the wind blew, sharp-edged and cold, across the courtyard behind the large stone building where the prison van had stopped to let its passengers out. They’d dropped awkwardly from the side door of the van as custody passed from the deputy sheriffs who’d ridden in with them to the ones who’d drawn courthouse duty that day, and the wind had bitten right through his jacket as if it had fangs.
Three other inmates had made the trip into court with him. A rangy kid who was all arms and legs, acne scars and attitude, a tall quiet man with long fingers and a steady stare, and the whackjob from the next cell block who called himself Dillinger, even though everyone in the prison knew his name was Waldo Scott. A rumor had floated through clandestine channels out at High Meadow, the county prison, that Waldo was going to try to escape this morning.
Vince Giordano was hoping the rumor was true, if for no other reason than to see how he did it and if he’d be successful. Life held so few true amusements these days.
Besides, the guys in his cell block had a pool going.
Giordano had put his money on the law, which was not necessarily a true assessment of his faith in the abilities of the local sheriff’s department. He’d been in and out of the courthouse for more days than he could count between hearings and pretrials, and then finally during the trial itself, followed by a round of appeals. All in all, he figured he’d spent, on average, almost one day in court for every five days he’d spent in High Meadow. He’d gotten to know most of the deputy sheriffs pretty well and hadn’t been much impressed with any of them. Barney Fifes, they called them back at the prison. Barney Fifes in dull olive green uniforms, and about as effective as the hapless television deputy.
But still, Giordano figured, Waldo didn’t stand a prayer of escaping for good. There just weren’t enough places to hide in the old building. The best Waldo could hope for, as Giordano had bet the guy in the next cell earlier that morning, was a few hours of sport while local law enforcement agencies hunted him down.
Giordano shifted in his seat in the small anteroom off courtroom number seven and awaited the arrival of his attorney. Harry Matusek had been expensive, but he’d lived up to his reputation as one of the county’s best criminal defense attorneys. Personally, Vince thought he’d been worth every penny and hadn’t regretted for a minute that he’d sold his house to finance his defense.
What did he need a house for, anyway? He had no family to speak of. He’d personally seen to that on one hot day in July going on three years now.
“Giordano?” The young deputy sheriff poked his head in the door.
Vince shifted only his eyes to look up. He’d seen someone do that in a movie once, and it had made a big impression on him, because it had made the actor appear sinister and cool. He mimicked the move as often as he could.
“There’s going to be a little delay this morning,” the deputy began, then turned his head as someone spoke to him from beyond the door, someone Vince could not see. “Ah, I’ll be right back. . . .” The door closed with a sharp click.