Free All or Nothing by Elizabeth Adler Page B

relief––of the truth. . . .
    Their eyes locked.
    “Go to hell, Giraud. I didn’t do it!”
    Violence flickered between them in the silence. Then Giraud moved away. He walked to the door, turned, stood watching him. “And your wife, Steve?” He repeated the earlier question.
    “Vickie’s great.” There was a break in Steve’s voice as he turned away, retreated to the chair by the empty fire grate. He looked like a man beyond hope now. Or perhaps, Al thought, beyond redemption.
    “Things were good between us. It wasn’t the throes of first love––we’ve been married twelve years––but still good, you know. We suited each other.”
    Al noticed his use of the past tense. On the surface Steve Mallard seemed a pleasant, easygoing, nice–looking guy. But as history had proven, so were a lot of killers. Was he guilty? Al didn’t have that crawling gut feeling that said yes––but only time would tell. One way or the other.
    “Pity about the house,” he said casually. “It sounded perfect.”
    Steve shrugged. “What the hell. We probably wouldn’t have gotten it anyway. Laurie said someone else was interested and we’d have to act fast.”
    Al’s ears pricked up. “Someone else? Like who?” He knew Marla would have made him say “like whom” but he’d been brought up different.
    Steve shook his head wearily. “She didn’t say. I thought it was just a real estate agent gimmick to keep the price up. . . .”
    The shrill ring of the phone split the silence. Steve Mallard leapt as though he had been shot, then just stood there staring at it. On the fifth ring Al picked it up.
    “Yeah. Oh, hi, Mrs. Mallard, it’s Giraud. Yeah, your husband’s right here. You wanna talk to him?” He was about to hand the phone to Steve when Vickie Mallard said something. He drew in a deep breath, still looking at Steve. “Well, I’ll certainly tell him that, Mrs. M. You wanna talk to him yourself? No? Okay, I’ll pass on the message.”
    He put down the phone. “They found Laurie Martin’s car on a remote canyon road. There’s blood on the backseat. The police are pretty sure they’ll find her body in the canyon, they’ve sent in the tracker dogs, got deputies combing the area.” He didn’t take his eyes off Steve. If the man had looked terrible before, now he looked worse. Al noted the vein throbbing in his temple, the bulging eyes, the clenched fists. Steve was a man on the very brink . . . maybe on the brink of that remote canyon, reliving the events that had created his hell. “You sure you don’t want to tell me about this?” he said softly. “I’m on your side, buddy, remember?”
    Steve slumped into the chair as though his legs would no longer support him. Tears brimmed and he put his face in his hands. “There’s nothing to tell,” he said between sobs. “Nothing   .   .   .”
    Al walked over to him, stood silently watching. “You’ll need a different attorney,” he said finally. “Zuckerman’s not going to be able to deal with a murder case. I’ve got somebody I can recommend. Name of Lister. Ben Lister.” He wrote down the name and telephone number, tore off the sheet and placed it on the table next to Steve. “I’ll give your wife a call too, tell her about Lister. He’s a good man. If anybody can help you, he can.”
    Steve lifted his head. “You’re leaving?”
    “’Fraid so, buddy. Gotta get back to the real world. Don’t worry, though. I don’t think you’ll be alone for long. My guess is you can expect company within the next hour.”
    “Company?” Steve’s face was blank.
    “The cops, buddy. Detective Bulworth and his men. No doubt they are going to want to take you in for questioning at this point.”
    “But they can’t . . . you can’t leave me here alone. . . .”
    He was panicked, frantic as a hooked fish. Giraud took pity on him, and besides he really didn’t want him to do anything crazy like make a run for it.
Or kill himself