Shooting Starr by Kathleen Creighton Page B

Barely aware of what he was doing, he dug his wallet out of his hip pocket and randomly selected some bills, which he thrust at the waitress with a muttered “Keep the change.” Next thing he knew he was outside, gulping air like a netted fish and soaking the September heat into his chilled body. Ninety degrees, it had to be, and it wasn’t warm enough. He felt he was never going to be warm enough again.
    You just don’t know what it is you’ve gone and done.
    He felt as though he might throw up but made it to his truck before the shakes hit him. He climbed into his seat and spent the next five minutes or so fighting for control the way most men of his acquaintance did, those that weren’t smokers: he swore. And swore. And swore some more. When he ran out of cusswords, some of which he’d never used before in his life, he ran a hand over his face and reached for his cell phone.
    â€œCharly?” he croaked when he heard his sister-in-law’s voice. His own was probably unrecognizable, so he added for good measure, “It’s me, C.J. You heard?”
    â€œYeah, I did, sugar, just a little while ago. Troy called me.” Charly’s voice was low and urgent, like a conspirator’s.
    â€œThey said somebody’d been killed, some more injured, but they aren’t saying who. You don’t—”
    â€œNo. I don’t know any more than that, either. I’ve been in court all morning, I just got back in the office a little while ago. There’s supposed to be a press conference at the hospital any minute now.” Her voice turned sharp. “C.J., honey, don’t you go and blame yourself for this.”
    I’m not blamin’ you, Mr. Starr….
    â€œI didn’t believe her,” he muttered, shaking his headlike a dazed boxer. “She told me he’d do it and I didn’t— I thought she was just—”
    â€œShe, who? He, who? Do what?”
    â€œShe told me he was going to kill his wife, but I just thought she was…you know—”
    â€œWho, you mean Vasily? ” Charly lowered her voice even further, as if she thought somebody was going to overhear. “You think that’s who did this? My God, C.J.—”
    â€œWho the hell else?” He spat the words into the phone.
    There was a pause before she said, cautiously at first, “I know the husband is always the first suspect, but that’s assuming Mrs. Vasily was the target, and even if she was—” she was arguing, now, with herself as much as him “—my God, C.J., the man’s a billionaire. A friend of the governor. He’s had dinner at the White House. He’s—”
    He is also a charming and intelligent, violent and dangerous—very dangerous—man.
    â€œI don’t care who he is, Vasily set it up.” C.J.’s voice was stony. “You can bet on it.”
    â€œEven if he did, there’s no way on God’s green earth they’re ever gonna prove—”
    â€œI know.” He cut her off, calmer now, his brain beginning to function again. “Hey, look, Charly—I gotta go. Do me one favor, would you? I’m going to try and find me a news station on the radio, but if you find out anything, could you let me know? Call me on my cell.”
    â€œWhat are you going to do? You’re not fixin’ to go down there now, are you?”
    There was a long pause, and then: “I have to, Charly. I need to find out what’s going on.”
    He heard a sigh. “C.J., you’re just gonna insist on blamin’ yourself for this, aren’t you?”
    The only reply he could manage was a sharp and painful laugh as he disconnected.
    He called his dispatcher and told her she’d need to find another driver to pick up his load, then fiddled with theradio for a few minutes trying to find an all-news station. Antsy and impatient to be on the road, he gave it up and settled for a