Killer Ambition - [90]

A reporter shouted out, “But this is a big drop. Why didn’t you know about this phone call between Powers and Averly sooner?”

Vanderhorn cleared his throat-a typical stalling tactic of his-and said, “It is our duty to be ever vigilant to the possibility that new information will change the complexion of a case, and to be willing to make any necessary alterations, as we have done-”

Another reporter, smelling blood, chimed in. “Yeah, but he’s asking why you didn’t know about that call-isn’t checking the defendant’s phone records one of the first things you do?”

Vanderhorn drew himself up with a deep breath, and I could tell he was getting ready to bury them in more PR blather-which would only piss them off. I stepped in. “Yes, but the call came from Brian’s phone-not Ian Powers’s.”

There was a moment of complete silence as they all absorbed the new information. Then the questions started flying hot and heavy. “Does that mean Averly wasn’t there?” and “So where was Averly when the murders went down?”

Vanderputz had barely moved to let me reach the mike-heaven forbid he step out of frame-so I was practically standing on his feet as I fielded every question for the next fifteen minutes. And even though he really had no information to give, he didn’t let that stop him from flapping his gums. Every other question, he interceded with brilliant observations like “Investigations are always ongoing” and “Information comes in continuously.” By the time Sandi finally ended the conference, I wanted to grab him by his tie and slap him until my arm fell off. But I was too tired.

54

That evening, as I headed down Broadway toward the Biltmore, my cell phone rang. I thought it might be my soil expert, so I answered.

A fast-talking, excited voice said, “Rachel, it’s Benjamin at KRFT radio-can I put you on the air to answer a few questions about today’s proceedings?”

My face grew hot with anger. I tried to rein it in as I answered, “No, Benjamin. How did you get this number?”

“Rachel, everyone has the number. We just haven’t used it until now.”

Furious, I ended the call on as polite a note as I could muster. My cell rang another five times before I got to my room and turned it off. If I changed my number, would they just get it again? Probably. The only thing I could do was to screen my calls and let every unknown number go to voice mail. Feeling hounded, I went to take a shower. But before going to sleep, I made sure all my friends and witnesses had assigned ringtones.

Graden and I settled on Drago Centro, a fantastic place just a few minutes from my hotel, for dinner that Saturday night. I told him about the siege I’d undergone with the press. “Matter of fact, I just had an idea. Would you record the outgoing message on my cell? Maybe it’ll cool their jets if they hear a male voice when they call.”

“You sure you want me to?” Graden asked, smiling. “It might start a rumor.”

Preoccupied with the case, I needed a minute to understand what he meant. “Why would they know the male voice belongs to someone I’m…uh, seeing?”

Graden held up my phone and clicked the “Record” button. “Hello, you’ve reached Rachel Knight’s phone and this is her boyfriend, LIEUTENANT Graden Hales. You can run, but you cannot hide. If you harass her, I will find you.” He clicked off, then clicked it on again and added, “Thank you. Have a nice day. And don’t leave a message. I wouldn’t if I were you.”

I didn’t know how badly I’d needed to laugh until that moment.

Over the next few days, I checked in with Bailey and talked to Declan about trial strategies in general. But otherwise, I kept my head down and worked.

By the day of the preliminary hearing, I was as prepared as I could possibly be. Clouds had moved in during the night, and the morning air was heavy with the promise of a summer shower. With no appetite for breakfast, I left early, hoping to beat the rain, and took an umbrella just to be on the safe side.

My phone started ringing as I crossed First Street and didn’t stop the entire trip. This time I knew better than to answer. But I noticed no one left a message. Thank you, Graden. I ducked into the courthouse just as the first few drops of rain began to fall, and was early enough to avoid running into the press.

I don’t usually like to wait in court, and whenever possible, I get the DDA who regularly works the calendar in that courtroom to give me a call when my case is almost up. But it’s not a foolproof strategy, and I have found myself in the hot seat for being late more than once. So today I decided to take no chances. I was front and center when the bailiff opened the courtroom doors. Surprisingly, I was the only one. There wasn’t a reporter in sight. Weird. The clerk, Manny Washburn, looked at me with surprise when I walked in.

“Rachel Knight, the first one in court?” He put his hand to his forehead. “I think I feel faint.”

I walked over to his desk. “Must be all that Wite-Out you use on your minute orders. I’m here on the Averly case. Can I get first call?”

“No one’s used Wite-Out since 1980, Rachel. And since you’re the first one in, who else would I give first call to? My mother?” Clerks are often smartasses like this. It’s the natural evolutionary adaptation to being around so many lawyers. “And I know what case you’re here on. I’ve had about fifty calls from the press in the past hour.”