An Accidental Woman (28 page)

But she was getting nowhere with the latter, which was a source of frustration and, yes, embarrassment. Mark was correct there, too. Her pride was wounded. It bothered her that she couldn't help Heather.

It also bothered her that her office was a god-awful mess. Cassie knew the Griffin type; she had gone to college and law school with them. Their image of law firms was of the rich, male variety, with fine art, mahogany, marble, and Oriental rugs. Those firms hired assistants who were paid to
type labels and organize files, but Cassie couldn't afford that. Her office was an ecclectic collection of file cabinets, bookcases, and work space, added over the years as the need arose. Her walls were covered with the fine art of three children under the age of seven, and her pens had cartoon characters, pom poms, and other doodads affixed to the ends, gifts from said children. If all that suggested a lack of professionalism, she had never thought twice about it before now.

She loved her office and resented Griffin for making her apologetic. Of course, he must have known that, because he smiled at the chaos of books, papers, and files, and said an amused, “Cool,” before taking the seat Cassie had pointed him toward.

Then she forgot about the office, because Poppy told her what Heather had mouthed the afternoon before.

She wasn't ready for that news any more than she was for Griffin, but it explained many things. Feeling a vast sadness, she hung her head. When she raised it, she let out a discouraged breath. “I suppose it makes sense. If it's true, we need to build a defense.”

“That's what we have to discuss,” Poppy said.

Griffin asked, “Legally, what happens if you admit in court that Heather is Lisa?”

“Immediately?” Cassie had already drawn up a pad and was jotting notes quickly enough to shake the googly eyes of the monster at the tip of the pen. “If we drop our resistance to the charges and waive extradition hearings—she gets shipped back to California.”

“Supposing that happens,” he said. “What's her chance of bail?”

“For a capital case? None. Zero. Waste of breath.”

“Capital case?” Poppy looked horrified. “As in capital punishment?”

“Yes. Not that the prosecutors will necessarily ask for that. They don't have premeditation. But this is still a murder case. There wouldn't be bail, unless we come up with something so strong that it makes everyone think twice.”

“Like what?” Poppy asked.

Having focused on the mistaken-identity angle, Cassie was just beginning to open her mind to other possibilities. “Like Heather having reason
to fear for her life. Like she was threatened, or battered, or raped. By Rob. Or by his father.”

“His father?” Poppy said. “Oh God. I never thought of that.”

“The problem is we'd need a witness,” Cassie said.

“Big
problem,” Griffin injected. “From what I hear, everyone who might have known Lisa has been reached by the DiCenzas. No one's talking. So if there was a witness to anything, he or she is not coming forward, and then there's the PR war. Lisa's lost it, unless we change something fast.”

Cassie sat back. Tossing her pen on the pad, she folded her arms. “What do you suggest?” she challenged.

“A private meeting between Heather and me.”

“Private? Poppy and I are her friends. Micah's her lover. Why would she tell you, and not any of us?”

“Why can a wife tell a therapist things she can't tell her husband? Because there's a neutrality to it, an objectivity. There isn't the fear of censure. Heather loves you all. She cares what you think of her. She may be frightened of what you'll say. Me, I'm nothing to her.”

Cassie had to admit that there was an element of truth in what he said. But he wasn't saying it all. “You're a writer.”

“He's not writing about this,” Poppy said.

“Then what's in it for him?”

Poppy smirked. “Me. He wants to impress me.” The smirk gave way to entreaty. “Cassie, he has resources that we don't.”

“And he'd spend them on Heather? Why?” There had to be a catch.

“Because he has a guilty conscience,” Griffin put in, and proceeded to explain his role in Heather's arrest.

Cassie felt momentarily justified in her distrust of Griffin. “That's swell. Just swell.”

“It's done, Cassie,” Poppy argued. “Water under the bridge. He wants to help. And he has contacts.”

“Like his brother?” Cassie was still having trouble taking in what she'd just learned. If Griffin hadn't shot his mouth off while he looked at a picture in his brother's office, none of this would have happened.

“Like private investigators who owe me favors,” Griffin said. “Rob DiCenza abused women. Lisa sought medical treatment at least twice.”

Cassie arched a brow. “And you can connect those two things? You can tie his battering to her seeking treatment?” She had him there; she could see it in his eyes. “Do you have someone who'll testify to the connection? Because that's what we need. Hearsay is no good, rumor doesn't work, and circumstantial evidence is iffy. I'm telling you”—she widened her gaze to include Poppy—“if you can't get firsthand evidence, Heather would be just as well claiming she isn't Lisa at all.”

“Which brings us full circle,” Poppy said. “Griffin wants to talk with her. Will you set up a meeting?”

Cassie wasn't sure Griffin would get anything more from Heather than the rest of them had. The psychiatrists she had talked with said that if Heather was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, the truth might be buried too deep to be unearthed without significant therapy. Griffin seemed liked a nice enough guy—Cassie had to give him that—but he wasn't a psychiatrist.

So where did that leave them? Micah had no money to give, and Cassie might donate her own time, but she couldn't afford to hire a psychiatrist to dig for Heather's truths. Nor could she afford to hire a private investigator to get those truths another way. If Griffin had a PI friend and a guilty conscience, meaning that he would help out on Heather's case for free, far be it from Cassie to object. If she did, she would be proving Mark right.

Besides, while Griffin grilled Heather, she had plenty to do. Griffin was right about the PR war being nearly lost, and he was smart enough to know it mattered. Before Cassie plotted her legal strategy, she needed to know more about the principals in the case, and that didn't mean Heather or Rob. That meant others who could impact a case—in this instance, the governor, the attorney general, and the assistant attorney general of California, Charles DiCenza and his wife, surely the judge who had been assigned the case. If Cassie knew the personalities she was up against, she could more easily craft an approach.

She had calls to make. Griffin wasn't the only one with contacts. Cassie had law school friends in California who would share what they
knew. She had John Kipling, who had a network of newspapermen who would gladly tell John what they knew. And she had Mark, who was right yet again. She needed to call and let him know. There was no room for pride in this, either.

“When do you want to go?” she asked Griffin as she reached for the phone.

* * *

Just the sight of them brought back the sense of violation he had felt at the time. Pulling up more sharply than he might have, he stepped from the truck and stood there with a hand on the open door.

“That was fast,” he said.

“We figured you needed it.”

“Wrong. You searched the thing and found nothing, just like I said. The only stuff in there has to do with my work.”

“And Lisa's.”

“There's no Lisa here. That's Heather's work.”

“You're playin' with words. Where do you want this?”

Micah didn't budge. “I want it where it was when you took it.”

“Well now, we went through the whole house. Excuse us if we don't recall exactly where this was sitting.”

“Where is the work done?” Micah prompted.

The agents exchanged tempered looks.

Drop it on the porch,
Micah goaded.
Drop the fuckin' thing, and I'll sue you for malicious destruction of property.

He was almost disappointed when they came down the steps and headed around to the back. “Is the door locked?” one called.

“Was it last time?” Micah asked. “Did you even see a lock there?”

When they disappeared around back, he slammed his door and followed only until he could see the sugarhouse. Stopping there, he waited,
and as he did that, two things ran through his mind. The first had to do with a fragment of the conversation they'd just had.

There's no Lisa here,
Micah had said.
That's Heather's work.
And the agent replied,
You're playin' with words.

I'm Heather Malone,
Heather had insisted during that first meeting at the courthouse. It struck him that she'd been playing with words, too. She might truthfully say she was Heather Malone now, though she might have been someone else fifteen years ago—which led to the second thing that hit him. He felt a sudden, intense desire to see what was in that knapsack.

He stood with his hands on his hips until the agents emerged. They walked past him without a word and slid into their car. He watched them back around and drive off, and would have gone straight to the woodpile in the sugarhouse the instant the car was out of sight, if another car hadn't passed it on the way in. This one was a small Chevy that had to be a dozen years old. It was well kept, though. Everything about Camille Savidge was well kept.

Pulling up on the near side of his truck, she rolled down her window. She shot a quick glance behind and asked, “Is everything all right?”

He grunted. “They returned the computer. Didn't even argue much. My guess? The insides are gone. Wiped clean.”

Camille held up a handful of disks. “I can fix that. And I can do whatever accounting you need.”

Anyone else, and he would have just turned and walked off. But a man didn't do that with Camille. She was too decent a person. So he said, “I'm okay,” and prayed that she would leave.

“Can you restore these yourself?”

“Nah. I'll work the way I used to.”

“But if you don't know what's on the disks—”

“I'll manage.”

“How?”

Anyone
else, and he would say something crude. But a man didn't swear at Camille. As civilly as he could, given the impatience he felt, he said, “I'll
manage,
Camille. Can we talk about this another time? I have to work.”

“Did Heather leave a hard copy of what's on these disks?”

“I don't know. I'll find out.”