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Authors: James L. Thane
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another spectator casually surveying the crowd on a beautiful afternoon at the ballpark.
He wasn’t really worried that Amanda might recognize him after all this time. He was thinner now too—in his case by nearly seventy-five pounds—and he had toned up considerably. He’d never been one of those prison head cases who lived in the weight room, striving to become the Incredible Hulk or some fuckin’ thing, and he didn’t have the genes for it anyway. But the crappy prison food had finally tamed his insatiable appetite; he’d worked out on a regular basis; and after sixteen years, he’d morphed into a man who looked nothing at all like the Pillsbury Doughboy that Judge Walter Beckman had once sentenced to life for murder in the first degree.
Just then McClain saw Richard, his tie loosened and his suit coat slung over his shoulder, making his way up the stairs to join Amanda. McClain wondered why in the hell the guy didn’t just lose the tie altogether and leave the suit coat in his Jag. It wasn’t like the temperature was suddenly going to drop thirty-five degrees into the low forties. But the man was conscious of his image, and the coat and tie doubtless made a statement that Richard thought important.
Thirteen years ago, when Amanda married Richard, McClain had wasted a lot of sleepless nights, lying awake in his cell, swearing that if he ever got out of prison, he’d cut Richard’s dick off and stuff it down his throat. But McClain was older now and, he hoped, at least a little wiser.
McClain could hardly blame Amanda for divorcing him. He’d given her plenty of cause even before the night of the murder. And he really couldn’t blame her either for cutting him off completely, both from herself and from their daughter. He could never have imagined Amanda and Tiffani riding the bus out for visitors’day every other week, and in truth he never would have wanted them to. In the end, he couldn’t even blame Amanda for marrying Richard. She saw her chance and she took it, both for herself and for her daughter. What else was the woman supposed to do?
He’d had no direct contact with Amanda or with Tiffani since two days after his arrest, but he had his sources. He understood that Richard loved both his ex-wife and his daughter and that he treated them very well. McClain also knew, in his heart of hearts, that Richard had been a much better father to Tiffani than he ever could have or would have been himself, and he was truly grateful for that. And so in the end, he’d abandoned his dreams of revenge against Richard and focused them on other, more deserving targets.
McClain watched with a profound mixture of longing and regret as Richard settled into his seat next to Amanda. She put her hand on his arm and gave him a small peck on the cheek. Then they both turned to watch as Tiffani moved into the batter’s box.
McClain turned to watch too, and with the count at two and one, the pitcher threw one in low and just outside. Tiffani uncoiled and took a smooth, strong cut at the ball, drilling it into left center field. The outfielder bobbled the ball momentarily, and Tiffani whipped around first base and slid safely into second.
McClain jumped to his feet, cheering and clapping with the rest of the home-field crowd. With a lump in his throat, he watched his daughter come to her feet and brush herself off. At least he’d done one goddamn thing in his life that he could be proud of.
Chapter Twelve
Cross-checking Alma and Robert Fletcher’s phone records against those of Beverly and David Thompson gave us nothing. There had been no calls from the Fletchers’ phones to the Thompsons’ and none from the Thompsons’ to the Fletchers’. The two couples had made no outgoing calls to the same numbers, nor had they received any incoming calls from the same numbers. That accomplished, Maggie and I left the office at four thirty and returned to the street where Beverly Thompson’s Lexus had been abandoned.
We
He wasn’t really worried that Amanda might recognize him after all this time. He was thinner now too—in his case by nearly seventy-five pounds—and he had toned up considerably. He’d never been one of those prison head cases who lived in the weight room, striving to become the Incredible Hulk or some fuckin’ thing, and he didn’t have the genes for it anyway. But the crappy prison food had finally tamed his insatiable appetite; he’d worked out on a regular basis; and after sixteen years, he’d morphed into a man who looked nothing at all like the Pillsbury Doughboy that Judge Walter Beckman had once sentenced to life for murder in the first degree.
Just then McClain saw Richard, his tie loosened and his suit coat slung over his shoulder, making his way up the stairs to join Amanda. McClain wondered why in the hell the guy didn’t just lose the tie altogether and leave the suit coat in his Jag. It wasn’t like the temperature was suddenly going to drop thirty-five degrees into the low forties. But the man was conscious of his image, and the coat and tie doubtless made a statement that Richard thought important.
Thirteen years ago, when Amanda married Richard, McClain had wasted a lot of sleepless nights, lying awake in his cell, swearing that if he ever got out of prison, he’d cut Richard’s dick off and stuff it down his throat. But McClain was older now and, he hoped, at least a little wiser.
McClain could hardly blame Amanda for divorcing him. He’d given her plenty of cause even before the night of the murder. And he really couldn’t blame her either for cutting him off completely, both from herself and from their daughter. He could never have imagined Amanda and Tiffani riding the bus out for visitors’day every other week, and in truth he never would have wanted them to. In the end, he couldn’t even blame Amanda for marrying Richard. She saw her chance and she took it, both for herself and for her daughter. What else was the woman supposed to do?
He’d had no direct contact with Amanda or with Tiffani since two days after his arrest, but he had his sources. He understood that Richard loved both his ex-wife and his daughter and that he treated them very well. McClain also knew, in his heart of hearts, that Richard had been a much better father to Tiffani than he ever could have or would have been himself, and he was truly grateful for that. And so in the end, he’d abandoned his dreams of revenge against Richard and focused them on other, more deserving targets.
McClain watched with a profound mixture of longing and regret as Richard settled into his seat next to Amanda. She put her hand on his arm and gave him a small peck on the cheek. Then they both turned to watch as Tiffani moved into the batter’s box.
McClain turned to watch too, and with the count at two and one, the pitcher threw one in low and just outside. Tiffani uncoiled and took a smooth, strong cut at the ball, drilling it into left center field. The outfielder bobbled the ball momentarily, and Tiffani whipped around first base and slid safely into second.
McClain jumped to his feet, cheering and clapping with the rest of the home-field crowd. With a lump in his throat, he watched his daughter come to her feet and brush herself off. At least he’d done one goddamn thing in his life that he could be proud of.
Chapter Twelve
Cross-checking Alma and Robert Fletcher’s phone records against those of Beverly and David Thompson gave us nothing. There had been no calls from the Fletchers’ phones to the Thompsons’ and none from the Thompsons’ to the Fletchers’. The two couples had made no outgoing calls to the same numbers, nor had they received any incoming calls from the same numbers. That accomplished, Maggie and I left the office at four thirty and returned to the street where Beverly Thompson’s Lexus had been abandoned.
We
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