Johnston - I Promise (31 page)

Delia hung up the phone. “I have to go home.”

“Reporters are calling the house?” Marsh asked.

“Two TV crews are squatting on the doorstep!” Delia paced the kitchen agitatedly. “What am I going to do now?”

“Are you asking for my advice?”

Delia lurched to a stop as Marsh stepped in front of her.

“If you’re asking, here’s my suggestion,” he said. “Don’t go home. Head straight for New York.”

“Right now? Tonight?”

Marsh nodded. “The sooner we get to the bottom of Sam Dietrich’s secret, the sooner we can show that Dietrich has a private reason for complaining about your work.”

“What about the investigation that’s being launched against me?” Delia said bitterly. “Exposing Sam isn’t going to stop that.”

“Why wouldn’t it?” Marsh said. “If nothing else, it’ll turn the spotlight on Sam instead of you.”

“What about the charge that I’m tough on criminals because I have a private ax to grind?”

“Do you?”

Delia stood stunned, staring at him. “How can you ask me that?”

Marsh kept his gaze locked with hers. “Why are you so tough on criminals, Delia? Isn’t it possible you’re punishing a lot of other men for what Ray John did to you?”

“How can you even suggest—”

“Before you protest too loudly, think about it.”

“I’m a good judge,” Delia said defensively.

“I’m not saying you aren’t. I’m only asking you to look inside yourself and ask honestly whether your strict pronouncements from the bench might not be influenced by what happened to you, by the fact you were once a victim yourself.”

Delia felt tears stinging her eyes and nose. “I’m fair. Criminals should be punished.”

“Because Ray John never was?”

Delia stared at Marsh, gritting her teeth to keep her chin from trembling. She had always known she wanted a role protecting the good guys from the bad guys, well aware that Ray John’s behavior was what had motivated her to pursue a legal career. But had she been doing more than merely punishing criminals? Had she been avenging herself, as well, through all those harsh plea bargain arrangements, all those tough sentences?

She looked up at Marsh, the agony of acknowledging such a failing apparent in her eyes.

Marsh’s arms closed around her, and she leaned her head on his shoulder. She felt Marsh’s lips against her temple, reassuring, supportive.

“What if it’s true?” she whispered. “What if I’ve been penalizing all those criminals for what Ray John did to me and Rachel? What can I do about it? I can’t go back and change anything now.” She swallowed with difficulty past the lump in her throat. “Maybe I don’t deserve to be a judge. Maybe I should hand in my resignation.”

Marsh took her by the shoulders and separated them. He smiled down at her. “Not before you prove yourself innocent of all charges. Not before you prove that Sam Dietrich’s complaints originate from attempts to hide criminal behavior of his own.”

“I’ve just told you I may be guilty of what they say!” Delia protested. “I’ve been giving out the harshest sentences I can.”

“There’s no law against that,” Marsh pointed out.

“Yes, but—”

“Have you ever committed any illegal act, taken a bribe, solicited one, bargained under the table—”

“Of course not!” Delia replied indignantly.

“Sweetheart, nothing else matters. Every one’s human. We all act from different motives. Yours only matter if you let them push you into doing something beyond the legal limits. You’ve never done that.”

“But I let my feelings influence my decisions.”

“Name me one judge who hasn’t,” Marsh said. “You’re no different from anyone else. Personalities make a difference. You told the public when you campaigned that you intended to be tough on criminals. All you’ve done is keep that promise.”

“But my reasons—”

“Are your own,” Marsh said. “What’s important is that you understand the motives for what you do, not that they be revealed to everyone else. It’s the suggestion of impropriety that got the attorney general involved. They’re not going to find any, are they?”

“No.”

Marsh’s arms folded around her again. “Then nothing else matters.”

Delia gave a tear-choked laugh. “I can’t believe you just talked me out of resigning. I thought you wanted me to resign!”

“I do,” Marsh said. “But I want it to be because you choose me. Not because you’re forced into it.”

Delia raised herself on tiptoes to kiss Marsh on the lips. “Thank you, Marsh.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“You’re trusting me to choose a future together. I’d say that’s everything.”

His mouth came down to claim hers. They were both out of breath by the time he released her.

“Lord,” he said, his heart thumping crazily, “if we don’t get out of here soon, we’re going to end up back in bed. Let me call Billie Jo before you talk to Rachel again and explain what we’re doing. Then I’ll call the San Antonio airport and find out when the next plane leaves for New York.”

“There’s no need for me to go back to the Circle Crown to pack,” Delia said. “I have whatever I’ll need in my apartment in New York.”

“Good,” Marsh said. “All we have to do now is expose whatever it is Sam Dietrich’s trying so hard to hide.”

Chapter Eighteen

Delia felt like screaming. Everywhere they turned in Brooklyn, she and Marsh had found a dead end.

Jaime Perez was dead, killed in a hit-and-run accident. Franklin Harris’s parole officer hadn’t seen him for three months. He thought Harris might have taken off for Florida, where he had relatives. Rosa Torres had been making regular visits to her parole officer, but he had no idea where she was if she wasn’t at her address in Flatbush. He suggested Delia and Marsh try Sunset Park near the BQE—the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway—after dark. Rosa had been picked up for hooking there in the past.

Delia was walking arm in arm with Marsh along the famous Promenade in Brooklyn that had the best view of the Manhattan skyline across the East River—the one most people saw on postcards. Their late afternoon pace was leisurely. Their conversation was not.

“I’m going with you,” Delia said.

“Sunset Park after dark is no place for a woman.”

“Rosa Torres will be there.”

Marsh rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean. Let me go get her and bring her somewhere—”

“I’m going, and that’s final.”

“You are the most stubborn—”

“Please, let’s not argue anymore,” Delia said, stopping and turning to face Marsh. “Let’s just enjoy the time we have together.”

She had often dreamed of walking the Promenade with Marsh, dreamed of having him kiss her as the sun slipped below the horizon. This wasn’t exactly the way she had pictured them together—they had spent the past half hour of their walk debating the merits of who should interview Rosa Torres—but it might be as close as she was ever going to get. Her arms slid up around his neck, and she leaned into him. “Kiss me, Marsh.”

She didn’t have to ask twice. Marsh’s mouth came down to capture hers. His arms tightened around her possessively. “God, Delia. I want you. Right now.”

Delia smiled and shook her head. “The sun’s going down, Marsh. We don’t have time—”

“I know,” he said urgently. “Time is running out. I can feel you slipping away from me.”

She took his face between her hands. “I’ll always love you, Marsh.”

He tore himself free. “Damn it! That’s not enough! I want us to have a life together. I want us to have a child of our own.”

Delia’s eyes widened. “You do?”

Marsh seemed stunned by what he had said. He put a hand to his temple and shook his head. “I don’t know where that came from.”

He met her gaze, and she recognized the longing there. “I do,” she said. “I’ve had the same dream.”

His arms slid back around her. He cupped her bottom and nestled her between his widespread legs. “What did you see?”

She resisted the urge to arch into him. “A son who’d grow up tall like you.” Her thumb caressed his face. “With the North chin.”

Marsh smiled. “Of course.”

“With my black hair. And eyes that are gray like yours, but lighten when he’s happy to a blue the shade of mine.”

“Blue eyes,” Marsh said definitely. “Because he’d always be happy.”

Delia was having trouble keeping the wistfulness out of her voice. “It’s too late for dreams like that, Marsh.”

“Why?”

“I’m thirty-six years old.”

“That’s not too old.”

“I like having a career.”

“No one said you had to give up working. Lots of other women manage both.”

“It isn’t easy.”

“I’d help.”

She raised a skeptical brow. “With diapers? Two o’clock feedings? Sore throats and chicken pox?”

“I’ve changed a diaper or two in my time,” he defended himself. “And stayed up all night with a sick child.”

“I forgot you’ve been through this before.”

His arms tightened around her, and he whispered in her ear, “Not with you. Not with a child of ours. I want that, Delia. So bad it hurts.”

“I want it too.”

Delia snuggled her cheek against Marsh’s chest and glanced across the river at the New York skyline. Even in all its nighttime glory, it didn’t hold a candle to the stars in a vast Texas sky. “We’d better go,” she said. “We don’t want to miss Rosa if she gets to the park early.”

“Marry me, Delia.”

She looked up at Marsh, saw the light from across the river reflected in his eyes. She made a wobbly attempt at a smile. “I love you, Marsh. I always have, and I always will.”

It wasn’t an answer. And it was.

She stepped back from his embrace, letting the distance grow between them emotionally as well as physically. “We’d better go,” she repeated.

He didn’t say anything else. Didn’t plead, didn’t argue, didn’t bargain. She saw a muscle in his jaw working, knew he was grinding his teeth. Saw the tension in his back and shoulders. Saw the despair reflected in his eyes.

They didn’t speak again as they walked briskly toward the park. It was a dreary, frightening place in the dark. Shadows became slinking forms. Sounds became guttural voices.

Marsh slipped an arm around her waist protectively as they walked slowly, carefully through the park, searching the faces of the women, looking for the one that matched the picture Rosa’s parole officer had given them.

It was ludicrously easy to spot her. She was standing under one of the few streetlights. Her skirt was short, her jacket black leather, and she was wearing immensely high heels. Her bleached blond hair was tied in a topknot and stringy bangs fell onto her forehead and into her eyes. She wore surprisingly little makeup. Despite the stated age of eighteen on her record, she looked thirty.

“Rosa?''

The woman took one look at them and ran. Marsh grabbed her arm to stop her, and she screamed. His hand quickly covered her mouth. She stabbed at him with her high heels, and he gave a pained grunt and grabbed at her legs to immobilize her.

“Rosa, please stop fighting,” Delia said. “We aren’t here to hurt you. I’m Judge Carson. Do you remember me?”

The woman stopped struggling, but her chest was heaving, and her dark eyes were wild with fear.

“I’m going to take my hand from your mouth,” Marsh said. “We aren’t going to hurt you. We just want to talk to you. Don’t scream.”

Marsh slowly removed his hand. Rosa remained silent but wary, tensed to flee.

“I’m going to let you go,” he said. “Don’t run, or I’ll come after you.” Marsh stepped back a foot, ready to catch her again, if necessary.

Rosa stood trembling, but still.

“We only want to ask you some questions,” Delia repeated.

“I don’t have time for questions,” Rosa said. “I gotta work.”

Marsh reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty. “How much time will this buy?”

“Ask your questions,” Rosa said, tucking the money in her deep cleavage.

“Would you come with us somewhere we can talk privately?” Delia said.

“Where?” Rosa asked, her eyes narrowing as she looked from one to the other of them.

Delia and Marsh had scouted earlier and found a small bar not far from the park, which Delia named. “We can walk there,” she said. “It’ll only take a few minutes.”

“I’d rather talk here,” Rosa said.

Delia looked around her. The movement of shadows in the dark felt ominous. Surprising that Rosa felt safer here. Delia supposed it was all a matter of perspective. “All right,” she conceded. “Let’s move out of the light.”

“I like it in the light,” Rosa said, her chin tilting up. “You want to talk? Talk.”

Delia glanced at Marsh, and he nodded.

“It’s about Sam Dietrich,” Delia began.

“Who?”

“The Brooklyn district attorney.”

“Oh, yeah. What about him?”

“We wondered if . . . if he might have been a client of yours.”

Rosa looked from Delia to Marsh and hooted. “Shit, no. The man, he likes boys.”

Delia’s eyes goggled. “He’s a homosexual?” Of all the things she had imagined, that was not one of them.

“Naw. He likes
boys.
You know, little boys. The man is a pre-vert, you know? Lets them suck his d—”

“We get the picture,” Marsh interrupted. “How do you know the DA likes boys?”

“Jaime Perez told me,” Rosa said, snapping her gum, comfortable now that she realized she wasn’t the focus of their questions.

“How do you know Perez?” Marsh asked.

“He’s a cousin of mine,” Rosa said.

“How did Perez know about Dietrich’s penchant for boys?” Delia asked.

“His what?” Rosa asked.

“That he liked boys,” Marsh said.

“Oh. He seen him with one,” Rosa said. “He was dealin’ dr—walkin’—in the same alley where the DA was doin’ it in his car. He recognized him ’cause he seen the man in court.”

“Did you use that information to coerce the DA into giving you a lighter sentence?” Delia asked.

“Hey, lady, I ain’t gotta say nothin’!” Rosa said.

Marsh frowned at Delia, and she glared back.

“We’re not after you,” Marsh said to Rosa.

“Maybe
you
ain’t a problem,” Rosa said to Marsh. “But the judge here, she’s got a reputation, you know?”