Burn 2 (2 page)

“I know,” F
iona continues in that annoying ‘I’m way better than you’ manner of hers. “So she is penciled in after all. As in an appointment? Well, will wonders never cease. Sure we’ll do lunch later, doll. Catch ya later.”

She puts down the phone.

“Looks like you do have an appointment with Mr. Dresschler after all.” She gestures to an open door. Her mannerisms are still reluctant, abrupt. “If you’ll just wait there in the meeting room, he will be right with you shortly.”

“Thank you.” Abby unclenches her fists. I will not get mad, she promises herself. Getting mad is not going to help Devon here.

She seats herself at the long table in the meeting room and waits. Fiona doesn’t offer her any refreshments, nor does she expect the blonde receptionist to.

Helmut Dresschler barrels in all too soon before she has time to collect her thoughts.

“Abby?” He holds out his hand. He is a florid-looking man who is probably one hundred pounds overweight. He is tall, but his height doesn’t make up for the jowls and paunch that show on his face and midriff. “It’s nice to see you again after all these years.”

Abby gets up from her chair and shakes his hand.

He looks her up and down to size her up. There is nothing appreciative in his eyes. If anything, his expression is one of wariness. With good reason, Abby supposes.

“Do you have the money ready, Mr. Dresschler?” she inquires politely.

“Ah . . . these things take time to mobilize, Abby.”

She knows he would say something like this, of course. Any
thing to keep her waiting so that her father can arrive in New York to get her. Helmut Dresschler would have called him, of course, despite her threats that he would be violating her confidence. But she is ready for that too.

Devon’s freedom is more important than mine.

“Nonsense,” she says firmly. “I know how these things work. You mobilized a million dollars for my father in record time. I just need enough to post bail for someone I know.”

“Bail?”

Abby hesitates. Naturally, it would mean Helmut Dresschler would be privy to everything pertaining to Devon’s case. But it is worth it, she convinces herself. The specter of Devon behind bars is more terrifying than anything her father can do to her. And as surely as death itself, her father is on his way to get her.

“Yes,” she says
, lifting her chin so that she appears more confident than she feels. “I need the money for bail. And you’d better get me the money, because I intend to hire Pat Chalmers to defend my boyfriend on a Murder One charge.”

The police interrogation room is
a standard one – clean white walls, clean metal table, four metal chairs, and a two-way mirror which is not supposed to appear like a two-way mirror to the detainees inside.

Pat Chalmers is pacing
up and down the room like a caged bear. She is thirty-three years old. Attractive. Graduated top of her class in Harvard Law. Known as ‘The Black Mamba’ for her killer instincts. Her brief and case notes sit on the desk, unopened.

A defense lawyer s
uch as her does not come cheap, and her latest client does not even know she exists, for the moment. His valiant teenage girlfriend is outside, waiting for Pat to talk to him.

The door finally opens.
Pat swings her head to appraise her client. He is being brought in by two officers, and his wrists are in cuffs. She is surprised to note how strikingly handsome he is. And how young. Twenty years old, or so it says on his bio.

“Those won’t be necessary.” She points to his cuffs and levels her razor-sharp blue eyes at the police officer closest to her. “I don’t think he’s going to violently assault me.”

“It’s a necessary precaution, Miss,” the officer says. “Your client has been charged with murdering a woman in cold blood. You don’t want to take the risk.”

“Let me be the judge of that. Take those handcuffs off my client, please, Officer – ” She eyes his nametag “ –
Vasicek.”

Officer Vasicek grimaces as he produces a stick key and unlocks the handcuffs shackling Devon
Fisher’s wrists. Devon’s expression is one of relief as he quickly raises his eyes to meet her gaze. He has startling eyes, she observes. Yellow-green and flecked with cerise and gold. He has well-shaped cheekbones as well.

At least he is extremely pleasant to look at, she thinks.
The last client she represented was not exactly picture perfect, being afflicted with neurofibromatosis. Additionally, he was guilty as sin. Her clients do not have to be innocent for her to represent them, and she isn’t quite sure where Devon Fisher stands in this regard.

“Please, have a seat.” She gestures at an empty metal chair in front of the desk.

“If you need anything, just holler,” Officer Vasicek says. He has unblinking eyes, like a frog’s.

“I certainly will,” she says, and waits until
the two officers exit and lock the door behind them. Then she sits opposite Devon Fisher, who studies her as if she is a particularly rare species of bird. Good thing too, because this gives her the opportunity to inspect him.

He
really
is very good-looking, she decides. If she were younger, he would be just the sort of boy she would go for in college. Nothing serious, mind you, but a summer fling with plenty of sex thrown in would definitely be in the offing.

“Devon Fisher?” she says, holding out her hand.

After a moment’s hesitation, he takes it. They shake hands formally and uncomfortably.

“Who are you?” he blurts out.

“I’m your attorney, Patricia Chalmers. Your girlfriend, Abigail Holt, hired me to defend you.”

“My attorney?” He blinks. He obviously never had an attorney before, nor had he ever thought he would need one.

“Yes.”

“I didn’t do it
.” His cheeks flush.

“I’m sure you didn’t
.” This is her usual line with clients when she meets them in the holding cell. “Now, would you like to tell me what exactly happened that night?”

He doesn’t say anything for a while. She lets the silence between them weigh heavily.

Then she leans over and says, “You have to tell me the truth. Even if you did kill her, you have to tell me the truth, or I won’t be able to defend you – whether you did it or not.”

“I didn’t kill her,” he says with heat.

“Then tell me exactly what happened.”

He changes tact. “How do you know Abby?”

She is surprised. But she senses that he needs some answers from her before he will proceed. He needs to trust her.

“I don’t really know her. I am a friend of her accountant, Helmut Dresschler. I guess she must have heard
of me from him.”

Her reputation precedes her, of course.
Especially since she has a ninety-nine percent acquittal rate.

“How does she know this . . . H-Helmut Dresschler?” He stumbles over the name.

Inwardly, she whistles. So Devon Fisher doesn’t know anything about his girlfriend.

“He has been her family accountant for years.”

“Her family needs an accountant?”

She is amused. He obviously is foreign to the concept of having an accountant
as well as an attorney.

“Many middle-class families
engage accountants to do their taxes,” she explains. “Although Abigail Holt is from a family that would be considered far above middle class.”

“Oh?” He looks skeptical. “Then who exactly is she?”

She wonders whether or not to tell him. But then he wouldn’t be able to trust her if she keeps this from him.

“Abigail Holt is the heiress to the Holt
family fortune,” she replies.

Devon appears stunned.

“Fortune?” he says.

“Yes. The Holts of Louisiana are valued to be worth
approximately several hundred million dollars. They own sugar cane plantations and sugar mills, among other things.”

His eyes are going round.
He isn’t faking it either, she can tell. This is news to him. Now she finds herself wondering about their relationship. Abby obviously chose to keep her past life a secret from him. But why?

Pat says gently, “But we are not here to talk about Abby, Devon.
We are here to talk about you and what happened that night.”

He takes in a deep breath. His eyes arrest hers, and a sort of acceptance comes over them.

“OK,” he concedes.

“How do you know Rachel Krieg?”

He pauses. She senses that this is very hard for him.

He says reluctantly, “She is my client.”

“Client?”

“I’m an artist, but to make ends meet, I moonlight as a male escort.”

His complexion turns slightly pink.

This is the first time she has heard of it. Abigail Holt certainly didn’t give her much to work with, only that she should ‘defend him at all costs, and please get him out of there on bail’. It was a desperate plea from a desperate teenage heiress.

She nods to encourage him to continue. He certainly has the looks for it, she judges. No doubt he would be a premium escort, able to command his price.
She wonders if he does men as well as women. A beautiful boy like him would be able to charge upward of a thousand dollars, especially if he is into the kinks.

“How long have you known Rachel Krieg?”

“About a year, give or take a couple of months.”

“Do you go to her apartment regularly?”

“Yes.” He gives a short laugh. “She’s one of my regulars. We always meet at her apartment where she has her – ”

He hesitates.

“Go on,” she presses him. “Everything is important to your case.”

“Where she has her
playroom.” He looks abashed.

“Define playroom.”

“It’s where she has her bondage furniture. Her whips and chains and leather and stuff.”

“Is she into BDSM play?”

“Yes.”

“
Is she a dominant or submissive?”

Every word out of Devon’s mouth comes out as though
he has to personally drag it out himself. “She is always the dominant. She likes to tie me up to the furniture and whip me.”

“She gets off that way?”

“I guess.”

“Is she married?”

“Not as far as I know. She doesn’t have a boyfriend either, although there was once – ” He pauses, and then gathers himself to continue  “ – she brought a guy home with her when we were having a threesome with her friend, Claire. So the three-way became a four-way.”

Claire. Pat jots down the name.

“What is this guy’s name?”

Devon frowns. “I’m not sure. She never gave me his name, and I don’t
think anyone mentioned it that night either.”

“Did he
have sex with you?” Pat says carefully.

“Yes.”

“Would you be able to identify him if you saw a photo of him?”

“Yes.”

“So what happened the night of the murder?”

“I had an appointment with Rachel.
I took the subway to her Soho apartment, as usual.”

“What time was it?”

Devon frowns. “About ten. Ten fifteen.”

“Go on.”

“I waited there at the lobby for a while. There was apparently some problem with the elevators.”

“A problem?” Pat’s ears prick up.

“Yes. The doorman had to punch in a manual override code to let me into the cab.”

“I see.” Pat scribbles something down on her case notes.
“What is the doorman’s name?”

“Horsch
.” Devon grimaces. “He doesn’t like me.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“Because he knows I’m a gigolo and he thinks I’m lower than navel lint.”

Navel lint. How quaint. Pat suppresses her urge to grin.

“What happened when you got up there?”

“Her apartment is No. 22 on the twenty-second floor.
I always thought there was some significance to that, though I never found out what. Maybe she likes the combination of numbers. Maybe it’s a New Age karmic thing. I ring the doorbell, as always. After a few minutes, she opens the door.”

“So you saw her when she was very much alive?”

“Yes, she was.”

Devon stops to recollect his thoughts. Pat watches his face carefully. Rachel Krieg’s body
is at the coroner’s now, and they soon would have her time of death.

Devon goes on, “
She was dressed in a mauve silk robe. She told me to come in. I did. I headed for the playroom, as I always do, undressing as I walked.”

“Was anyone else in the apartment?”

“Not that I know of.”

“
Are you sure?”