Read 15 Seconds for Free Online Page A

terminal in the detectives’ bullpen and showed her a head shot from Florida Motor Vehicles. “Apparently the guy caused a ruckus after Martinez pulled him over for running a light. He’s driving a white, rented Caddie. Name of Steadman. Henry. The guy’s a doctor, if you can imagine. Some big-shot plastic surgeon from down in Palm Beach.”
    “We’re sure?” Carrie stared back at the screen. The suspect had a nice face. Bright, intelligent eyes. Wavy, long brown hair. Stylish glasses. A warm smile. Successful, nice-looking plastic surgeons generally didn’t fit the profile of a cop murderer.
    “Damn sure.” The captain nodded firmly. “Bastard just fled the fucking scene.”

Chapter Five
    I drove, accelerator pressed to the floor, in a state between bewilderment and outright panic.
    The front windshield had a spiderweb crack and my right rear passenger window was completely shattered, glass splayed all over my lap. My pulse felt like it was in an atomic accelerator and my heart had crawled so high up my throat I could have reached in and pulled it out. I had no idea where I was heading. Just away . Away from Rowley and those trigger-happy cops.
    I looked at my hands on the steering wheel and they were shaking like branches in a storm.
    Okay, Henry, okay . . . What do I do now?
    It was clear I had to turn myself in, but I had to find a way that wouldn’t end up getting me killed. I ran through all the possibilities of where to go, whom I could trust. And only one person came to mind.
    Mike. Whom I was supposed to be meeting for golf in a little more than an hour!
    He was a lawyer . . . A real estate lawyer, perhaps, but he’d have partners, contacts. I knew he was very well connected in town. He’d know what to do. No one could possibly logically believe that I was a cop killer.
    I thought, if I could simply get to him, he’d be able to negotiate a safe handover. I couldn’t have killed Martinez. I had no motive, no gun . . . ? I didn’t even own a gun! I hadn’t even shot one since . . . I racked my brain. Since camp, for God’s sake! When I was a kid!
    I’d been to Mike’s home once. I remembered that it was in an upscale section of town. Avondale, he’d told me. I was already supposed to meet him there. He’d mentioned that it wasn’t too far from Atlantic Pines. Which meant I couldn’t be too far from him now.
    Meanwhile, I had cops on my tail and I was driving a shot-up car.
    The residential road I was on was coming to an end, leading into a more commercial thoroughfare. I made a right, and anxiously drove a block or two, then pulled into the first business I saw—a Sherwin-Williams paint store—and wove around to a lot behind the store.
    I figured I was safe here for a short while. But I knew I couldn’t go on in this car. It was a mess, and every cop in the city would be looking for it.
    I grabbed my cell and brought up Mike’s number. It went to two, three rings . . . “C’mon, Mike, please , answer!” I was begging. Then, agonizingly, I heard his voice-mail recording. “You’ve reached Mike Dinofrio . . .” the familiar voice came on. “I’m sorry I’m unable to take your call now, but if you—”
    I clicked off. Why the hell wasn’t he answering? I was supposed to check in with him when I reached the hotel. C’mon, Mike, please. . .
    Frantically I tried again. Again, his voice mail. This time I stammered through a harried message:
    “Mike—it’s Henry! I don’t know if you’ve heard, but something crazy has happened. I really need your help. And now! Just call me back, please. It’s vital, Mike . . . and quickly ! Please . . .”
    I hung up and let out a long breath. I rested my head back and closed my eyes. I was safe here—for a while. But sooner or later a customer would drive in. I didn’t know what information had been released on the airwaves, if my car was hot—they surely knew who I was—so I turned on the radio. All anyone had to do was