ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First and foremost, I need to thank someone who has been a major part of my career, pushing it forward behind the scenes, talking me up to booksellers and truly promoting the idea that the work I do is worthy of an audience. Doug Mendini, the sales manager at Kensington Publishing Corporation, has worked doggedly promoting me as an author and a journalist, screaming from the sidelines that my books are much more than your average quickie true-crime pulp paperback. Doug is a generous human being with his time and truly believes in the books he works so hard to get out to the buying public.

Court reporters Ann Rushing and Kelly Alexander were helpful. Birmingham News reporter Carol Robinson made a few things much easier for me. Carol is one of those rare, honest-to-goodness, old-school reporters writing stories simply because she loves the work. I also appreciate the documents Carol sent me and her insight into the daily nuances of Jessica’s trial.

The Bates family and Tom Klugh were tremendous. I am grateful for their courage and also the trust they put in me to share those memories of Alan and Terra, along with those anecdotes that added so much to the narrative.

Jupiter Entertainment producer Donna Dudek was instrumental in helping me gather documents, photos and other research. Donna is one of the most competent and thorough researchers/television producers I have ever met. I cannot thank Donna enough for all the help she has given me throughout the years.

Captain Greg Rector, of the Hoover PD, was especially helpful in setting up interviews and bridging the gap between myself and some of the investigators involved in this case. I owe Hoover PD chief Nic Derzis a special consideration for allowing his fine officers to chat with me about the case. Laura Brignac was extremely helpful. Additionally, I want to thank GBI investigator Kimberly Williams, prosecutor Roger Brown and GBI special agent Tom Davis Jr. Of course, every investigator on this case was helpful, even if I didn’t interview him or her. This was one of those investigations that turned out to be a true team effort in every sense of the word. It took several law enforcement agencies to put together a case—in record time—against Jessica and Jeff McCord. That takes professionalism, tenacity, experience. These are fine men and women. They all deserve my respect and admiration.

I’ve thanked the usual suspects in my previous books. You all know who you are. Without you, I could not do this.

April, Mathew, Jordon, Regina.

I cannot write a book without thanking my readers, who continue to come back book after book. The letters and e-mails I receive are very important to me. I treasure each one of them. Every comment—good, bad or indifferent—is taken into account as I approach each book. I am extremely grateful for every reader. I do this year after year because you keep asking me to do so. I have the best fans in the business!

Enjoy this exclusive preview of M. William Phelps’s next exciting true-crime release!

Kill for Me

A deadly obsession . . . a savage shooting

M. William Phelps

Coming in September 2010 from Pinnacle . . .

Turn the page for a preview of

Kill for Me . . .

1

The killer sat inside the car, eyes trained on the parking lot entrance.

“She’s here,” the killer said into the phone, focused on the car as it entered the lot. It was approaching two o’clock in the afternoon of July 5, 2003. The target had pulled into her regular parking space at the Rocky Point, Tampa, Florida, Green Iguana Bar & Grill, got out, locked her car. Then she walked into the building to clock in for her bartending shift.

Rocky Point is a small island west of Tampa International Airport. It is a busy part of the Tampa Bay region, lots of ritzy hotels and high-end restaurants. There are pristine beaches, featuring hard and tanned bodies, and people mingling about, quite oblivious to what is going on around them. When you think of the atmosphere and ambiance here in Rocky Point, picture the colors that Jimmy Buffett’s songs bring to mind: velvety blue water, yellow sun, white sand, puffy cotton clouds, lime-green drinks with salt around the rims, tiny umbrellas pointed skyward.

“Go get ready,” he said.

The killer hung up the phone, hopped into the backseat. Put on a pair of baggy pants. A large sweatshirt. Baseball cap. Copious amounts of black makeup—“I want you to look like a black guy,” he had told the assassin—and a fake beard that wouldn’t stick in the excessive heat of the day.

“The beard won’t stay on,” the killer said after calling him back.

“Forget it, then. But walk around the premises to see if anybody notices you.”

The killer thought this to be an odd request. But then, over the course of the past several months since they had met, he had made numerous demands that didn’t make much sense. Here, in the parking lot of the Green Iguana, no one knew the killer to begin with. Walk around with a disguise on? Wouldn’t that, in and of itself, draw unneeded attention to the situation ? They had gone through this scenario many times. Heck, they’d even tried to kill this woman once already. Why chance botching the thing again with some sort of crazy strut around the parking lot?

He had, however, trained—some would later say “brainwashed”—his killer well.

“Okay,” the killer said to the request, then got out of the car and took a short walk around the parking lot. It seemed that nobody was interested in a nervous-looking person wearing what was an over-the-top Halloween costume in the middle of summer.

Back inside the car, the killer sat back. Adjusted the seat to get comfortable.

Now it was just a matter of playing the waiting game until the target emerged from the bar.

“Run up to her and shoot,” the caller had said, explaining how he wanted the murder to go down.

Kill her in the parking lot in broad daylight?

As soon as she came out of the building after her shift, he had explained in more detail, the killer was to approach the woman—and, without thinking about it, without hesitation, without a worry that people would see, unload a magazine of bullets into her body. They had been through this part of the murder numerous times. Rehearsed the scenario. Talked about it until they were both blue in the face. That previous attempt the killer had botched—the shotgun had gone off too soon. The plan was abandoned, the evidence destroyed.

Today there would be no mistakes. The killer had a semiautomatic .22-millimeter Ruger pistol. A child could fire it.

Even though he had taught his killer how to shoot the weapon, he was still worried:

You walk up. You fire. You don’t stop until the magazine is empty and the weapon is clicking.

“You look into her eyes!”

In theory, he made taking a life sound so easy.

Sitting, sketching out the plan, looking at the building, where the exits from the bar were located, the killer knew damn well that it was going to be impossible to murder the target inside the parking lot—that is, if getting away was part of the plan.

As the afternoon turned to dusk, the sun casting a brilliant red, yellow and orange glow over Old Tampa Bay, the killer waited patiently, nodding in and out.

Then, as the sun disappeared over the cityscape, the killer came up with an even better plan. Thinking about it, darkness closing in around the car, the killer then fell asleep.

As the target approached her car, unaware that someone had been in the parking lot for the past eight hours, the killer awoke.