Deadline

“Well, at least she didn’t tell him anything that would arouse more suspicion,” Amelia said. “The opposite, in fact. She only confirmed that you’re a journalist on the trail of a good story.”

“I am that.” He stared thoughtfully into space for several moments, then rapidly punched in a number on his cell phone. “Glenda, love of my life, will you marry me? Okay, how ’bout we just have a hot affair? One-night stand, then. All right, all right, listen. Two things.

“First, Harriet took a call at her desk around nine fifty this morning. I can’t remember the number of her extension, but…Is it any wonder that I love you? Can you get me the number of the caller? God, no, don’t go through her. Go through the main switchboard, and make it casual.

“Second thing,” he paused and took a deep breath. “I need to go to jail without passing go. Can you help me?”

* * *

A female deputy assumed the role of nanny. The boys took to her immediately, especially when she set up a lengthy race track for their many cars. It wound from room to room and even up the staircase. They were enthralled with the makeshift ramps.

Another sheriff’s deputy arrived with groceries to replenish Amelia’s refrigerator and pantry. Having provided for her sons made her feel better about leaving them while she returned to the city with Headly and Dawson.

Headly was interested in seeing what remained of Jeremy’s effects that were still in her possession. “They’re in a strongbox in my apartment,” she told him. “Don’t expect too much. I’ve kept only some things the boys may want when they get older. His marksmanship medals. Things like that.”

Deputies in unmarked cars were in front of and behind her car when they drove off the ferry and made their way through Savannah. To Amelia, the caravan looked obvious, but she supposed the law officers knew what they were doing. Headly was wearing a shoulder holster beneath his jacket, which was both comforting and disconcerting.

The plan was for them to drop Dawson off at the jail visitation center and come back for him after their errand to her apartment.

“I could grease the skids for you,” Headly offered. “Make it more official.”

“Thanks,” Dawson said, “but I want to avoid being ‘official.’ A private citizen is more confidence inspiring.”

“You hope.”

“I hope.” As he got out of the car, he gave Amelia a meaningful look. “Later.”

“Good luck.”

After pausing to make certain that the unmarked cars were still serving as unobtrusive escorts as she drove away, Dawson entered the building where Willard Strong’s lawyer, Mike Gleason, was waiting for him in the lobby, as arranged by Glenda, who had passed herself off as a top-ranking executive at NewsFront. The attorney had fallen for her schmooze, which was as good as any when she set her mind to it.

“I appealed to his vanity, and he fell for it,” she’d told Dawson when she called him back to confirm the appointment.

He’d forgiven her for being unable to obtain more information about Carl Wingert’s telephone call to Harriet. As Dawson had expected, it had come in on a number that was blocked. “Sorry, I couldn’t help you there,” the researcher had said.

“You?

?re still a sweetheart. You got me this meeting, and that’s a coup.”

Now, puffed up with self-importance, the lawyer approached him. “Mr. Scott?”

They shook hands. “Thank you for agreeing to talk to me.”

“With no guarantee of granting you an interview with my client.”

“I hope to convince you that it would be in his best interest.”

“Then you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

Gleason accompanied the snarky comment with a gesture toward a sitting area where they could chat.

He was about the same age as Dawson, nice-looking, and well dressed. But he wasn’t an effective trial lawyer. His cross-examination of Amelia had been disastrous, and he hadn’t recovered much ground by putting his client on the witness stand.

He talked tough, but Dawson guessed that the chest thumping was to compensate for basic insecurity. He was in over his head and he knew it, but he would go down kicking.

“I thought NewsFront had folded.”

It was a mild but intentional gibe. Dawson responded with a bland smile. “We’re hanging in there. One of the few.”