15 Seconds by Andrew Gross Page A

shooting!”
    Tony Velez, one of the homicide crew, ran up. “In Avondale! This must be what Steadman was just talking about. Victim’s name is Michael Dinofrio. His wife came home from exercise and found him dead at his desk. Two in the chest. His car’s gone. A silver Jaguar. And the kicker is . . . guess who Dinofrio was supposed to be playing golf with right about now . . . ? At Atlantic Pines. Steadman, ” Velez finished, looking around the table.
    â€œI took a call from a cabbie,” Carrie said, suddenly remembering the location, “who claimed he drove someone resembling Steadman from the Clarion Inn near Lakeview to an address in Avondale . . .”
    â€œThat’s about a half mile from where Martinez was killed,” Bill Akers said.
    Frantically, Carrie checked back on the call screen, locating the time of the call and drop-off point. 11:02 A.M . “33432 Turnbury Terrace.” She looked up. “That’s only a block away.”
    Suddenly she knew what Steadman had meant when he said, “You’ll see, there’s more . . .”
    Then Sally Crawford, who’d been tracing Steadman’s call, said loudly, “The phone Steadman just called in on . . . White Fence Capital. It’s a real estate partnership here in town.” She turned to face the chief. “Michael Dinofrio is the CEO.”
    Carrie felt a flush of embarrassment come over her. If there was any doubt before about Steadman’s connection to these murders, there wasn’t one now.
    The son of a bitch just called in on the second victim’s phone.

Chapter Sixteen
    I t took close to two hours, but the trailer’s front door finally opened. Vance saw a woman step out into the night, wearing a tight red halter and a denim jacket hanging from her shoulder, her blond hair all mussed up.
    He watched from his perch in the woods. Good ol’ Wayne, the guy Amanda was supposedly in love with, came out, shirtless and in jeans, with a beer in hand. The girl spun around and pressed up against him and gave him a lingering kiss, Wayne’s hand snaking down her back and onto her shorts until it came to rest on her behind.
    Vance couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it wasn’t too hard to figure out.
    She turned and continued down the steps, a little wobbly, to her car. “You know one thing . . .” she said, turning back, and pointing at Wayne. “Whatever it is you got, it sure does make my register ring.”
    â€œRing-a-ding-ding,” Wayne sang, and took a swig of his beer, the two giggling like fools.
    The girl stumbled to her car and waved as she drove away, passing right by Vance. After a short while, when Vance was sure she wasn’t coming back, he picked up the black satchel from the seat next to him. He got out of his car, lifted the trunk, and took out a heavy lead pipe, the words the responsibility starts now drumming through his mind. Wheat from chaff.
    Just no knowing where it ends.
    He stepped up to the front door, hearing the TV on inside. He knocked.
    It took a few seconds for the door to open. Wayne appeared, with that same shit-eating grin on his face, still holding his beer, surely expecting someone else. “Forget something . . . ?”
    â€œYeah,” Vance said, staring into Wayne’s shocked eyes. “I did.”
    Vance swung the pipe and struck Wayne in the kneecap, probably shattering it right there, and when Wayne buckled on one foot with a yelp, Vance jabbed the butt end into the boy’s jaw, sending him across the floor in a groaning heap.
    Vance shut the front door.

Chapter Seventeen
    â€œW here the hell am I?” the boy moaned, groggily, finally opening his eyes.
    The room was dark. Vance had turned off all the lights. Wayne was hog-tied, his arms behind him, dangling from a crossbeam on the ceiling. He couldn’t move. He could barely even breathe. He just hung