MARS SAT IN the passenger seat and rubbed his wrists where the cuffs had cut into his skin.
“Thanks,” he said to Decker, who was driving.
Oliver, Davenport, and Jamison were in the backseat.
Decker had said nothing as they had left the courtroom, shoving past the journalists who were sticking mikes and notepads in their faces.
Jamison and Davenport had peppered him with questions as they walked across the parking lot to their car, but he had remained silent. Now Jamison reached over the front seat and tapped him hard on the shoulder.
“Are you going to explain what just happened or am I going to have to get physical with you?”
Decker shot her a glance in the rearview and noted her irresolute demeanor. “I asked Agent Bogart for a favor and he provided it.”
“So this is all on the up-and-up?” asked Jamison, drawing a startled look from Oliver.
She said, “Decker, please don’t tell me I was an unwitting participant in perpetrating a fraud on the court?”
“There was no fraud. Melvin is in our custody. And everything I said to the judge was true.”
“He thought you were an agent,” pointed out Davenport.
“He said that. I never did,” countered Decker.
“But you didn’t correct him either,” she retorted.
“That wasn’t my job, but it doesn’t matter either. Bogart is an agent and he will back me up on this.” He eyed Oliver. “And you did file the lawsuit?”
“Yes.”
“Then we’re good.”
Mars said, “Well, I’m not good if they come and arrest my ass again. You heard what the judge said. If future facts come out then he could let them do that. Another course of action, he called it. And that Jenkins dude was pissed. I bet he’s right now working on something to get my butt back in a Texas prison.”
“I’d be stunned if he wasn’t,” conceded Decker. “We just have to make sure that that doesn’t happen.”
“How?” asked Davenport.
Jamison answered. “By solving the case.”
Decker’s phone buzzed and he answered it, cupping the phone against his ear with his shoulder as he drove toward a sky that was growing dark and promised still more rain. The inclemency of the weather didn’t faze Decker. He had other things on his mind as he listened to the other person on the call. He thanked the person and put his phone away.
“That was the Alabama police. They ran down the rental car, the beige Toyota Avalon with the Georgia plate with the partial number Patricia Bray gave us. It was leased by a man named Arthur Crandall.” He looked at Mars. “Ring any bells?”
“No.”
“Didn’t think so, since it was a false name. The credit card he used was a forgery. The license was probably a phony too.”
“Are we sure it’s the same guy?” asked Jamison.
“They’re trying to verify that right now.”
“What the hell is going on?” wondered Mars.
“Loose ends,” said Decker. “Just loose ends.”
“So the guy we think killed Regina Montgomery after paying them off to have her husband confess is this Arthur Crandall?” said Mars.
“That’s not his real name.”
“Yeah, that I get. But by doing what he’s doing he helped me get out of prison.”
“And as we discussed, that could be because he thinks you have something that can hurt him or whoever he’s working for.”
“But that makes no sense, Decker. Even if I knew something, which I don’t, why not just let them execute me and I take it to my grave?”
Davenport said, “Maybe they need to really get whatever it is they think you have. So they spring you from prison hoping you’ll go and get it.”
“But then why frame me for murder in the first place?” asked Mars.
“Maybe back then they thought that was the best course,” suggested Jamison. “Kill your parents, frame you, and you get sent away for life. That’s really the only explanation that works.”
“No it’s not,” disagreed Decker.
“What, then?” asked Jamison curiously.
“We’re assuming that whoever framed Melvin and murdered his parents is also the one looking now for what was in the safe deposit box. The fact is, we could be dealing with two different sets of people, with dissimilar goals.”
“Jesus,” said Davenport. “Wasn’t it complicated enough?”
“Apparently not,” acknowledged Decker.
He glanced at Mars. “Who was your mother’s doctor?”
“Her doctor? Why?”
“Well, someone had to diagnose her with terminal brain cancer.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Give it some thought.”
“Do you think the identity of her doctor is really important?” asked Davenport.
“Right now, in this case, there is nothing that isn’t important.”