15 Seconds by Andrew Gross Read Free Book Online Page A

suspect who has fled the scene and remains at large . . .”
    I immediately felt the sweats come over me, the announcer saying how the suspect had been detained over a traffic violation. And how he had fled the scene in a white Cadillac with Florida plates.
    My stomach forced its way up.
    The possible suspect I was hearing about was me!
    â€œThe slain officer, whose name is being withheld, pending family notification, is a decorated, fifteen-year veteran of the force . . .”
    If I wasn’t sick already, that got me there. The guy had been a prick to me—I still didn’t know why he had pulled me over. But there was no reason in the world that he had to die.
    We crossed a bridge and drove past another exit or two, then we pulled off at Riverside Avenue and entered a neighborhood of large, upscale homes. I knew we were close.
    â€œCan you believe that shit?” the cabbie said, trying to catch my eyes in the mirror. “What kind of bastard does that, you know what I mean . . . ?”
    â€œYeah, I know.” I shifted my face away. Please, just get me there.
    We wound around some residential streets. I recognized the area from my time here before. Then I spotted a street sign for Turnberry Terrace. No need for the cabbie to know precisely which house I was headed to.
    â€œThis is fine,” I said, grabbing my satchel. “You can let me off here.”

Chapter Six
    I waited until the cabbie drove off before crossing the street. The homes here were sprawling and upscale—Tudors and colonials with well-manicured lawns and pretty landscaping.
    I knew Mike had done well. He had worked on some big land deals in the past few years. Just being here made me feel a bit more hopeful. Mike would hear my story. He’d be able to negotiate something with the local authorities. In spite of how everything looked, it would be clear: the lack of any motive; the impossibility of how I could have gotten my hands on a weapon; how I’d only ducked into Martinez’s car to check how badly he’d been hurt. Even why I’d fled the scene . . .
    It would be clear I wasn’t the killer.
    A mail truck drove around the circle, stopping at each house, and I waited, one resident stepping out in her bathrobe to take in her mail, until it headed back down the block. Then I found Mike’s house, a stylish, mustard-colored Mediterranean.
    I began to wonder if my identity had been released. Dr. Henry Steadman. Prominent cosmetic surgeon from Palm Beach. Wanted for murder. He fled the scene in a white Cadillac STS. . .
    By now Mike must’ve heard.
    Cautiously, I went up the driveway, praying that I wouldn’t run into Gail, his wife, first and have to explain this all to her. She would probably freak. I knew Gail had her own real estate agency in town. She and Mike had two kids—one away at college. The younger one, I figured, would already be at school.
    One of the three wood-paneled garage bays was open, and I recognized Mike’s silver Jag there.
    I let out a sigh of relief.
    I hurried up to the house and rang the front doorbell, expecting Mike to open the door instantly, but no one did. I rang again, one of those formal-sounding, church-bell chimes.
    Again, no one answered.
    I was about to try one more time when I pushed on the latch and the front door opened.
    I stepped tentatively into the large, high-ceilinged house, facing a kind of spacious living room with a lot of art on the walls, a huge mirror, and an arched Palladian window.
    â€œMike . . . !”
    Through the window, I saw a large, fenced-in backyard with a good-size pool and a pool house in the same architectural style as the main house. I waited for him to come out and called out again, “Mike . . . where are you?”
    Suddenly a tremor shot through me. Surely he’d heard by now. Maybe he hadn’t believed me as much as I thought. I mean, we were old friends, but