15 Seconds. Andrew Gross

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.

      “Mike …!”

      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 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 not exactly close friends. I started thinking, what if he’d left, or even worse, notified the police. What if—

      No. I stopped myself. Jesus, Henry, you’re acting crazy. You’ve known the guy since college. You’re just being paranoid, which was kind of easy right now.

      I couldn’t say I liked the idea of sneaking around someone’s house with half the police in Jacksonville searching for me. Someone could just blow me away with a gun—and it would be entirely legal! I stepped into the foyer, trying to recall the layout, feeling a little edgy.

      “Mike?”

      I turned right and found myself in the kitchen. Some plates on the counter, recently used. A half-picked-over muffin. A jar of almond butter—which made me smile, remembering Mike was always kind of a health nut.

      Suddenly things began to feel a little odd to me. “Mike, where the hell are you …?”

      I went back through the living room. The family room was just as I’d remembered, with pictures of the kids all over and a large Tarkay watercolor of a Parisian sidewalk café.

      Mike’s office was just down a hallway. He had taken me in there on my one visit and showed off his collection of sports memorabilia, his pride and joy.

      The door was half open. Reflexively I knocked and called out again. “Mike? You in there, guy …?”

      To my relief, I saw him sitting in a high-backed, leather chair at his desk, glasses raised on his forehead as if he was looking over a report, wearing a red golf shirt—which accounted for why I didn’t see it at first.

      My first reaction was to blow out my cheeks and go, “Jesus, buddy, am I glad to see you …”

      Then I stopped.

      He was sitting there, except that he hadn’t moved or made even the slightest sign of recognition. His eyes were wide and glassy and staring through me.

      Two dark blotches were on his chest.

      “Oh my God, Mike …!” My legs grew rubbery and I suddenly felt my stomach lurch up my throat. “Oh, no, no, no, no …”

      I ran over. You didn’t need a medical degree to know that he was dead. His pulse was nonexistent; his body temperature was already getting cold.

      “Oh, Mike, Mike …” I said, tears forcing their way into my eyes, and I basically sank, numb and not understanding, into a leather chair.

      I’d known Mike for more than twenty years. Since we were freshmen at Amherst. He was on the golf team. He was one of those glass-half-full kind of guys, who’d give you the shirt off his back. Which was basically what he was doing for me now.

      Or had been about to do.

      I sat there with my head in my hands, looking at him, trying to figure out how this could possibly have happened. My friend was dead! How could anyone have possibly known that I would come here? Or even put the two of us together. How—

      Suddenly it was clear.

      I realized with mounting alarm that two people were now dead. Two people. And that I was the only connection between them!

      I felt the sweats come over me and my insides slowly clawed their way up my throat. Oh my God, Henry …

      Someone was targeting me.

      It seemed crazy, impossible. Who? And why? What could I have done? Just an hour ago I’d been driving into town, thinking that this was going to be one of the best days of my life. Now … Now two people were dead. Brutally murdered.

      And I was the only link between them!

      No, no, this was crazy … It couldn’t be.

      My thoughts raced wildly. I stared at my friend’s lifeless body while tears of grief and utter disbelief made their way down my cheeks. I realized now that I couldn’t explain myself. Not any longer. I’d be looked at as a suspect here as well. In two murders now. The first maybe I could explain … But this one, completely unrelated, my friend, at the place I had chosen to flee to … All they’d have to do was check my phone records to see that I’d just called him. My prints and DNA were probably everywhere.

      Even on his body.

      “Who’s doing this to me?”

      I heard a car drive by, and suddenly I knew I had to get out of there. Now! A housekeeper might show up at any second. Or Gail could come home. My name was already all over the airwaves as a person wanted in connection to a murder.

      How could I possibly explain this one now?

      I ran back to the kitchen and grabbed a cloth and started wiping down anything I could remember I had touched.

      The doors. The coffee mug. Around Mike’s office.

      Him.

      Then I didn’t know if I should have done that. It only made me look as if I was covering up. Made me look guiltier.

      I saw Mike’s cell phone on his desk. I knew it was crazy, but by now mine was probably being monitored by the police and I had to make a few calls. The first one to Liz. She had to know. Oh God, how would I possibly explain this? I felt completely nauseous.

      “Mike …” I said, swallowing, placing my hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, dude. I know you were only trying to help. I know you—”

      I clasped his lifeless hand. What else was there to say?

      I went out through the garage. Mike’s silver Jag was just sitting there. His Callaways leaning against the trunk. Crazy as it was, I had no other way to get out of there.

      And I couldn’t possibly make myself look any guiltier than I already had.

      I found the key on the front divider, and the engine started up.

      I drove out, closing the garage