Keep No Secrets (35 page)

He's trusting you won't try to warn her."

"Does his tip include information that I've seen her? Or is it limited to the fact of her being around?"

"He wouldn't get that specific."

"Even if I 'cooperate' as he says—

though I'm not sure exactly what that means to him—my name will still get drawn into it. If it hasn't already."

"Most likely. And there's another problem, too, one we both knew could arise. I can't represent you during the questioning. Dodson was my client first.

There's no way to get around the

conflict."

"Earl . . ." Jack sighs. Earl's right; they did both know this could happen. Jack simply hoped it wouldn't. "I don't trust anyone else."

"I can give you some names."

Jack gives a bitter laugh. "Oh, believe me, I know the names."

"You need to have someone with you when he questions you."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. A man who represents himself has a fool for a client, right?" He bends over and rubs his forehead.
Fuck
. "I'm screwed."

"Can you convince her to come in for questioning on her own? That's the only way I see to spin this in your favor."

Can he? And more importantly, if he thinks he can, will he, knowing what he now knows about the letters?

"I'd try myself," Earl adds, "but I don't think she'd listen to me. More

importantly, I don't want to do anything to jeopardize my ability to represent you on Celeste's charges."

"Call him back and tell him I'm in a meeting or something. Tell him I'll talk to him, but you have to buy me some time.

I'll see what I can do."

"Do you know where she is?"

"Maybe." He glances in the direction of the Ritz. "Just buy me some time, Earl.

I'll call you back soon."

He ends the call before Earl argues or questions him more.

As he walks back to the hotel, he calls Information for the number of the front desk.

"I'm trying to reach a guest there, Ayanna Patel?" he says once connected, using his best
I'm just a clueless caller
voice.

"She told me her room number, but I seem to have misplaced it."

"One moment, sir." After a pause, the operator adds, "That's Room 312. I'll connect you."

He hangs up before the connection is completed.

Jack stands outside Jenny's room. He wonders if she's seen the news, and whether she'll open the door once she knows it's him. He wonders if she's even in there.

He covers the peephole and is

reminded of when she did the same to his hotel room door at a Bench and Bar conference the summer he first ran for DA. Her gesture then was a playful one; his now is far from playful.

He knocks with his other hand.

Nothing.

He knocks again. When she still

doesn't answer, he calls the hotel a second time and asks to be connected to Room 312. She picks up but doesn't say anything.

"Let me in."

"I don't know what you mean."

She thinks I brought the cops
. "I'm alone.

You have my word."

She laughs bitterly.

"Je—Ayanna, look, you either trust me, or you sit in there and hope I don't guard the door while I call Gunner. I'd say only one of those two options is good for you right now."

After a moment of silence, she says,

"Remove your hand so I see it's you."

He does as asked. He hears the

deadbolt turn and then the door opens.

She no longer wears the sari. Instead, she's back in her gold sweatpants and a gray sweatshirt so oversized that the sleeves cover all but the tips of her fingers. Her hair is loose but uncombed.

He sees a spent tissue clutched in one hand. When he meets her angry red eyes and sees the dried tears on her cheeks, his heart feels as if it's ripping apart. He fights it, tells himself it's all an act.

She yanks him in and slams the door closed. Before he speaks, she pushes the flaps of his coat open and frantically begins to frisk him.

"What are you doing?"

Ignoring his question, she roughly pats his chest and stomach and then slips her hands under the coat to the sides of his waist and his back. He pushes her away when she goes for the crotch of his trousers. "Stop it!
What are you doing?
"

"Are you wearing a wire?" she demands, and moves in again to check his pants legs.

He steps back. "No, of course not!"

She doesn't follow, but she screams,

"How could you? You told me you believed me!"

"It wasn't me. I just heard from Earl that they received a tip. I don't know how but it wasn't me."

"You're a liar! You left your brother's house and went straight to Gunner, didn't you?"

"No, I—"

"You think because you heard one half of a conversation that you've got it all figured out!" With open palms, she pushes against his chest. "You have no idea how wrong you are! You have no idea what it would mean if they lock me up again! You think the system—"

"Jenny, calm down." He grabs her shoulders. "You're hysterical."

"Let go of me!" She wriggles out of his grip. "You told me you believed me!" she says again, but at least she's not hitting him.

"I had
nothing
to do with it."

"Then why are you here, Jack? Huh?

Tell me. If you're not
leading them straight to
my door
" —He simply shakes his head at her mocking his words— "then what are you doing here? Tell the truth for once.

Did you cut a deal? Me in exchange for your charges being dropped?"

Go to hell
, he wants to say. The truth, he wants to say, is that he can trace the reason for every lie he's ever told back to her, one way or another.

Yet even as they exchange glares, each assessing the other, each trying to read meaning into what the other has left unsaid, another truth is dawning on him: He won't do what he came here to do. No matter what she might have done—even if she's been lying to him, even if everything has been an act,
even if she
murdered Maxine Shepard
—he won't try to talk her into turning herself in. And he
won't
lead them to her door. He simply isn't capable of handing her over to the system and hoping justice is served.

He lowers his voice and says, "They want to question me about you and they're threatening to take it all public if I don't come in willingly." Instinctively, he almost reaches for her hands but stops himself. "You need to leave. Right away."

The anger on her face is replaced by shock as she understands what he's saying.

"But—"

He covers her lips with the tips of his fingers. "Don't say anything. Just listen."

She nods, but her eyes fill with tears. "I have to tell them the truth, so when I tell them I don't know where you are, I need for
you
to make sure it
is
the truth. Do you understand?"

"Yes. Okay, okay." She quickly surveys the room as if calculating how long it will take to gather her belongings. "I don't know where to go. They're bound to look for me at Brian's again, and this time they'll look harder."

"How much time do you need?"

"I don't know." She swipes at her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. "Twenty minutes?"

If his heart ripped at seeing the evidence of past tears on her cheeks, seeing them fall fresh is breaking it wide open. He looks away, forcing himself to ignore it all, and reaches for the doorknob. She grabs his arm, but her actions are gentler now.

"Jack, please don't tell them about the letters." Did she just confirm his suspicion that she sent them to herself? "I can't tell you why, not now, there's no time, but please promise me that."

"
Now
is all we have, Jenny. If there's something you want me to know, you need to tell me. If I contact you again, it will be at their request." He hopes she understands the unspoken warning. "And you can't contact me, either," he adds. "If you show up in a tunnel again, they'll be watching."

"The letters," she says quietly. "Please, just promise me you won't mention the letters."

Open the door. Open the door and leave
.

"Good luck, Jen."

And somehow, he opens the door and leaves.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

ON HIS DRIVE BACK downtown, Jack

calls Earl from the car.

"Let Gunner know I'm ready to talk, but it has to be at my office. If I walk into the police station right now, all hell will break loose."

In typical Earl Scanlon fashion, the response is a brief "I'll meet you there"

and the conversation is over.

Jack expects the press to be waiting on the courthouse steps. Sure enough, the cameras have already been set up and the reporters are poised with microphones in hand. As he pushes through, they

bombard him with questions.

"Mr. Hilliard, were you aware Jennifer Dodson had returned to St. Louis?"

"Do you know whether she returned to town because of the recent appellate court decision in the Shepard murder case?

"Has she contacted you?"

"Have you seen her?"

"Does she plan to defend herself against Alex Turner's insistence that she is responsible for Maxine Shepard's murder?"

"Does her return have anything to do with the rape charges against you?"

"Do you think Jennifer Dodson is guilty of Maxine Shepard's murder?"

"Do you agree with those who say your personal issues have become too much of a distraction for you to do your job?"

"Will you be resigning?"

He remains stone-faced through it all, even the last question. He knows a segment of the city's population thinks he should have been thrown out of office long ago, both for his relationship with Jenny, and because he wasn't upfront about his views on capital punishment.

He always found it sad—and ironic—that between those two transgressions, his relationship with Jenny caused the more rabid uproar.

He remembers his first day back at work after he'd testified at Alex’s trial, how hard it was to walk through the crowd on the courthouse steps to reach the podium at the top, where he

addressed the city. Like walking through a gauntlet. Some had come to show their support, but most were there to castigate him for all he'd done. They screamed at him and he absorbed it all. He knew he deserved every bit of their rancor.

He took his second chance seriously.

He began the arduous climb back by publicly expressing his contrition. His words bounced like rubber off most of the people in the audience, but a few applauded, providing the little fuel he needed to keep going. A few days later, some of his previous detractors publicly recanted their condemnation of him and agreed to wait and see if his future actions would match his words. He made sure they did. He fought to restore his reputation in the community as hard as he fought to restore his marriage. For the most part, he succeeded. He knows Claire is responsible for a large part of that success, for refusing to leave him, even though she faced her own criticism for her decision. Her grace under pressure was not only a model, but a constant source of strength for him.

He accepted as the price of his sins that some would never trust him again. The renewed call for him to step down doesn't surprise him, not with Celeste's

allegations and now Jenny's return. What
does
surprise him is that, for the first time, he wonders if perhaps he should.

Even though five o'clock has long since come and gone, Jack steps off the elevator to find Earl in the reception area surrounded by several of the assistant DA's who once worked under him. They scatter like partiers at a drug bust when they see Jack.

"Gunner will be here shortly," Earl says on the way to Jack's office. "He doesn't want to arouse interest, so he'll slip in through the back when he gets a chance. The delay will give us a few minutes to talk privately."

Jack motions at the chair behind his desk. "Why don't you take the position of honor? I don't really feel deserving of it just now."

Earl sighs but doesn't argue. "Did you have any luck with Dodson?"

"I learned only today that she was staying at the Ritz," Jack begins as he hangs his overcoat on the back of his office door. Earl's eyebrows rise at Jack's mention of the Ritz. "But she's no longer there, and I have no idea where she was headed."

All true.

"Did you try to call her?"

"Since she left the Ritz? No, but I will if you want me to." Also all true.

Earl studies him—he obviously

suspects he's not getting the full story—

but he declines the offer. "Wait and see what Gunner wants. In the meantime, you need to think about what you'll do if you're asked to step down. I have no doubt the request is coming."

"Do you think I should?"

"Well, let me ask you." Earl picks up a pen and twirls it like a miniature baton.

"If you consider everything that's happened since the night you drove Celeste home, or rather, everything you've done, do
you
think you should? If every step you've taken was somehow made public, do you believe your constituents would agree they were the right steps to take?"

"If I answer no, does that mean ipso facto I should resign? Is that the litmus test you applied to your decisions when you had this job?"

Earl's nostrils flare. He lets the pen fall to the desk and leans forward. He doesn't welcome Jack's sarcasm. "Tell me, where were you on Christmas Eve, Jack?"

The question catches Jack off guard.

"Excuse me?"

"I tried to call you that night. When I didn't get an answer, I called your house.

Claire said you'd gone out but that she'd give you the message.
On Christmas Eve,
she claimed you'd gone out
. I didn't have the heart to ask her where. I never heard back, so I tried you again the next morning. Still no answer." Earl crosses his arms. "So what happened?"

"Claire wasn't too pleased with the evidence being leaked. That's what happened. We argued and I left."

Earl rises. He's not a tall man, but he carries a muscular heftiness that has always made him appear much larger than his five feet, six inches. He half-stands, half-sits on the wide sill and looks down on the city below. His silence is unnerving. Jack braces himself for the subtle psychological interrogation he knows is coming, the same type his former boss once used so successfully as a prosecutor.