Dead Even - Mariah Stewart [2]
“No.” Lowell told them, and the other two explained about the children’s book where one searched each page to find a certain character, Waldo, throughout the book.
Lowell, who hadn’t spent much time reading as a kid, thought it sounded stupid.
Waldo’s attempted escape—and the odds of his succeeding—was discussed in low voices, and the consensus seemed to be that the three men were placed together temporarily to free up two of the deputies who would be in on the hunt for the escapee. Since all three prisoners in the room were shackled to their seats, the chance that any one of them would join Waldo in his quest for freedom was unlikely.
“What’re you in for?” the red-haired man asked the newcomer.
“I was stopped for going through a stop sign, and it turns out there was an outstanding warrant for a guy with the same name,” he responded, and ignored the redhead’s subsequent sarcastic comment about “manly crimes.” “You?”
“I’m in here pending appeal of a conviction,” the redhead replied.
“For what?” Lowell heard himself ask.
“A domestic dispute.”
“Oh.” Lowell studied the man carefully. That he had seen his face before was a certainty, but he just couldn’t remember where. “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?” the man nearest the window asked.
“Well, see,” Lowell was eager to explain, just as he would once he got into that courtroom, “they’re saying that I stalked this girl. But I didn’t stalk nobody. She was my girl, you know? They got the whole thing wrong.”
“She must have complained about something, for them to charge you with stalking,” the red-haired man noted. “What did she tell the police?”
“She was confused. The cops made her lie,” Archer said. An edginess began to move over him, and he felt it spread through his body.
“What’s your name, son?” the man with the buzz cut was asking.
“Archer Lowell.”
“I’m Curtis Channing,” the man told him.
“Well, Archie . . .” the other occupant of the room began.
Archer saw red.
“Don’t call me Archie. Do not ever call me Archie.”
“Whoa, buddy. Chill. No offense.” He offered what for him must have been an apology. “No need to get all upset.”
“I hate the name Archie.”
Hey, Archie! Cartoon boy! Where’s Veronica? The childhood taunt echoed in his ears.
“Okay, then, you’re Archer, and I’m Vince Giordano.” The third member introduced himself. “Named for my uncle, but we don’t talk no more. Bastard testified against me in court. So much for blood being thicker than water.”
It was then that Lowell recognized him, and it took a major effort on his part not to shrink back. Vince Giordano—the man who had murdered his own children rather than lose custody of them, before turning the gun on his wife—had been very big news locally over the past two years.
“I know who you are. I saw you on all the news channels. I saw when you were arrested . . .” Lowell heard himself saying. He wished his buddy Glenn—small-time con man that he was—could see him now, rubbing elbows with the most notorious killer the county had ever seen. That would show him a thing or two, wouldn’t it?
“Yeah, well, I got a lot of press. The trial got a lot of airtime,” Giordano said.
It appeared to Lowell that, rather than ask about that, Channing chose to change the subject back to the lockdown and the number of media types outside the courthouse.
Archer could not have cared less. The important thing to him was what was not happening inside the courthouse.
“I don’t think it’s fair that I should miss my trial just because they lost someone and can’t find him.”
“Yeah, well, tell it to the judge,” Giordano snapped. “I ain’t too happy about the delay myself. We had a big day planned here. My attorney thinks he can get my conviction overturned.”
“What were you convicted of?” Channing asked.
Lowell, who knew all too well what Giordano had done, turned to see