Guilty as Sin Read Free Page B

small monument in native limestone with Doric columns and Greek pediments out front. It dated to the late 1800's, when labor was cheap and time of little consequence. The interior boasted soaring ceilings that most likely raised heating bills, and ornate plaster moldings and medallions that undoubtedly required endowments from historical preservationists to maintain. A restoration was under way on the third floor, scaffolding set against the northeast wall like giant Tinkertoys.
     
    The courtrooms on the third floor were the kind of rooms that called to mind Henry Clay and Clarence Darrow. Between the judges' benches, the jury boxes, and the pews for spectators, a sizable forest of oak trees had fallen for the cause. The wooden floors were worn pale in spots from the pacing of generations of lawyers.
     
    He was well familiar with courthouses like this one, though he had never been anywhere near Deer Lake, Minnesota . Nor would he ever care to venture back here once his mission was accomplished. Damned cold place.
     
    It was a safe bet the Park County courthouse was seldom as busy as it was today. The halls were bustling, not with staff, but with reporters and :ameramen and newspaper photographers jockeying for position in front sf a podium bristling with microphones. He leaned over the second-floor ailing and looked down through the dark lenses of a pair of mirrored nilitary-issue sunglasses.
     
    The kidnapping of Josh Kirkwood had garnered national attention, rhe arrest of Dr. Garrett Wright had only turned up the fever pitch another hundred degrees. All the major networks were represented, their correspondents instantly recognizable. The syndicated tabloid news shows were here in force, as well, their people skirting the periphery like hyenas looking to snatch a juicy tidbit from the big network lions. Forced to scramble for camera angles were the local newspeople. They had been thrown into the big pond and clearly didn't care to swim with the big fish, but there it was. The story was bigger than small-town sensibilities and small-town manners. It was as big as America and as intimate as family.
     
    Good juxtaposition of images. He committed the line to memory.
     
    The scene below was not unlike a movie set waiting for the arrival of the stars. Lights, cameras, grips, technicians, makeup people dabbing the shine off foreheads and noses.
     
    " 'All the world's a stage,' " he mumbled with cynical humor, his voice raspy from too many cigars and too little sleep the night before. The price of schmoozing. You oiled the wheels with good whiskey and smooth talk, easy smiles and expensive cigars—all to be chased the following morning with a handful of aspirin and a gallon of strong coffee.
     
    He turned slowly for a casual glance at the reporters waiting outside the door to the county attorney's offices thirty feet down the hall. No one paid him any mind. He wore no press pass, had not been asked for any ID. He could have been anyone. He could have been a sniper; there were no metal detectors at the doors of the Park County courthouse. Another detail to file away for future reference. The case was the focus of everyone here to the exclusion of all else. Elvis could have been sweeping the floors and no one would have so much as glanced twice.
     
    He counted this tunnel vision as being both potentially useful and a blessing to him personally. He could live without the interference as he got himself in where he wanted to be. Inside. The bird's-eye view. The catbird seat. Into the inner workings of the small-town justice system taking on a big-time case.
     
    The door to the county attorney's offices opened and the reporters started shouting questions, sending up a racket like a pack of baying foxhounds. He straightened from the railing and propped himself up against a marble pillar, careful to remain in its shadow, his hands stuffed into the pockets of the black parka he had bought after getting off the plane in