Sawyer, Meryl (12 page)

"How could I," she muttered to herself. "How could
you desert me? That's the question."

Brent's "undying love" was merely an illusion. She had
to accept the fact that she was all alone. He wasn't going to come. He'd never
loved her, not the way she'd needed to be loved. With true love came trust.
Unconditional trust.

If he'd truly loved her, Brent would have trusted her. He would
have known without having to be told that she was innocent.

"I need to use the telephone," Royce told the matron
when she finally got her attention.

"You're number sixty-seven," the woman said as she
shuffled back to the post where a videotape of last week's soaps was playing.

It was another three hours before her number was called. She
dialed Wally, then rested her head against the wall where every inch was
covered by graffiti. She listened to her uncle's recorder. The matron was
concentrating on the TV, so Royce covertly dialed Val's number only to get her
machine too. She tried to keep the frantic tone out of her plea, but heard it
anyway.

"I'm still in jail. I don't know what's happened to Uncle
Wally. I need your help."

It wasn't until well after dinner, almost twenty-four hours since
her arrest, that the matron bawled, "Royce Anne Winston."

She hurried along the visitors' wing, each room the size of a
restroom stall with video monitors hanging from the ceiling, electronic
sentinels. She stepped into the visitors' cubicle, expecting Uncle Wally and
halted.

Not Mitchell Durant. The matron gave her a shove and slammed the
steel door behind Royce. Mitch stood at a table hardly bigger than his
briefcase.

"Your friends retained me to represent you." He motioned
to the chair on her side of the table. "They haven't been able to locate
your uncle."

She dropped onto the seat, knowing her situation was worse than
she'd imagined. Val and Talia knew how she felt about Mitch. They would never
have hired him unless— "How bad is it? Why haven't they formally charged
me?"

Mitch took the seat opposite her, his attitude detached,
professional, without any hint of compassion. "Abigail Carnivali is
milking your arrest to get as much free publicity as possible. She's running
for DA next year, you know. She loves headline felonies and isn't going to file
charges until your forty-eight hours are up."

Dear Lord, she
was
in hell. It shouldn't be happening, but
it was actually comforting to see Mitch Durant. "Then what?"

"You'll be formally charged and bail set. There's already
been too much publicity in this case to release you on your own recognizance.
I'll need your passport and loan info on your house to meet bail
requirements."

"I don't have much equity in the house," she said, her
voice surprisingly calm. She hadn't slept in two nights now and found she had
trouble concentrating on what he was saying as they settled the details of
arranging bail and getting her passport.

"I'm worried about my uncle," she told Mitch as the
matron escorted her from the visitor's room. "Please, check on him."

As Mitch had predicted it was almost midnight the following
night—just short of forty-eight hours—before she was formally charged with
grand theft. Mitch quickly satisfied the bail requirement by surrendering her passport
and the deed to her heavily mortgaged home.

Clad in the beaded gown that had once made her so proud, she stood
in the release bay, looking for Wally. During the proceedings she hadn't been
able to talk to Mitch, but she assumed Wally would be waiting for her. Mitch
walked in, his briefcase in one hand. The shadow along his jaw said he hadn't
been home since early that morning.

"Did you call Shaun Jamieson? What did he say about
Wally?"

"No one's seen your uncle since the auction." His hand
on her waist, he guided her down a deserted corridor. "Where are we
going?"

"Out the service entrance. The press is in front."

Wise move. A brief glimpse in the mirror as she'd changed out of
her prison jumpsuit had confirmed the worst. Hair hanging in unkempt hanks.
Dark circles that had cost Richard Nixon an election. The only reporter she
wanted to see was her uncle.

In the back alley a group of homeless men were guarding Mitch's
expensive Viper. He gave them money, then helped her into the car. Her dress
rode up, exposing more of her thighs than she would have liked, but she was too
tired to care. The last time she'd had a full night's sleep had been the night
before the auction—almost seventy-two hours ago.

She settled into the glove-leather seat, the supple curve cradling
her like welcoming arms. She closed her eyes and didn't open them until the
sports car stopped. Expecting to be home, she was startled to find Mitch had
parked in front of Joe Mama's Pizza.

"I'm starving," Mitch announced. "I've been waiting
for your release since four." Inside, the aroma of pizza reminded her how
terrible prison food had been, and she ordered calzone and black coffee while
Mitch had a combination pizza—no anchovies. She sipped her coffee and ate the
calzone left over from the Stone Age.

"Get some sleep," Mitch said between bites. "We'll
get together tomorrow and decide how to proceed."

She took a head-clearing breath, so groggy she couldn't
concentrate. She'd hoped to postpone this discussion until later, but saw it
wasn't possible. "You know how little money I have. I can't afford
you."

"I'm willing to reduce my usual fee. This case is going to
generate a lot of publicity. That's worth more than money" —he gave her an
odd look—"to a man planning a political career."

The fires of ambition she'd carelessly overlooked when they'd
first met years ago had become a conflagration, but she had no intention of
letting him use her to further his career. "I appreciate what you've done,
but I don't think it would be a good idea for you to continue to represent
me."

"Why not? You won't find anyone better."

"True, but you know how I feel about you."

"You hate me." He flashed his ruthless grin. "We
can build on that."

"Very funny, Mitch. You know what I mean."

"Tell the truth. You're afraid of spending time with me,
afraid you'll fall in love with me."

"What? Don't be ridiculous. I want a lawyer I'm comfortable
with—someone I respect."

The word
respect
detonated on impact. In the frigid depths
of his eyes she saw unadulterated anger and maybe even hurt. He had her back in
the car without giving her a chance to finish her coffee. They drove toward her
home in silence charged with a cross-current of anger.

She half wished she could modify what she'd said. She was grateful
for what he'd done—although she was certain her friends had paid him well—but
she didn't respect him after what had happened with her father. How could she
possibly work with him?

"Let me out here," she said as he drove up in front of
her house. "I have a key hidden around back. I can get in." They'd
kept her Judith Leiber bag and its contents as evidence.

"I'll make sure you're safe inside."

Too exhausted to argue she led him around to the back and switched
on the outside lamp. It flooded the small garden with bright light, revealing
clusters of cheery pansies and a weeping willow.

Below the tree was an empty rabbit hutch. It was wobbly with age,
but she couldn't bear to throw it out. Like all of her father's woodworking
projects it was far from perfect, but they'd made it together years ago. Then
Papa had taken her to select a lop-eared bunny she'd named Rabbit E. Lee.

The pet store had failed to mention how long rabbits live, and Lee
had been frisky the day she'd kissed him good-bye and left for college,
entrusting his care to her father. Older, slower, but just as loving, Lee was
still alive after college when she'd lived in her own apartment. By then,
though, he was her father's pet. Papa would sit under the tree writing his
column in longhand, feeding Lee carrots.

But the gunshot that killed her father might as well have pierced
Lee's heart too. It was almost as if the bunny knew Papa had killed himself.
From the moment that shot had rung out, nothing could persuade Lee to eat.
Royce had tried; God knows she'd sat by the cage, tears in her eyes, begging
Lee to take a carrot for her father's sake. But he kept staring up at the attic
where Papa had taken his life.

A week later Rabbit E. Lee died, his eyes still open, still
staring at the attic window. The vet claimed it was old age, but Royce knew
better. He'd died of a broken heart. She'd closed up the house and left for
Italy the next day.

She gazed out into the darkness. Somewhere in the city was another
little girl standing by her daddy's side "helping" him build a bunny
hutch. Her young heart was swelling with love that would last a lifetime as she
made herself a promise: Someday she'd marry a man just as wonderful as her
daddy.

Something snapped inside Royce's chest. Brent. The man she'd
thought was so much like her daddy had been nothing more than a cheap
imitation. How could he have deceived her? Why hadn't she seen how shallow he
was, how much he wanted to please his parents?

"The key?" Mitch prompted, reminding her that he was
standing beside her, waiting.

He'd killed her father as surely as if he'd pulled the trigger.
She wanted to hit him, or scream, but she was overwhelmed with sadness. Nothing
could bring back Papa just as nothing could change Mitchell Durant.

"It's under here." She lifted a planter her father had
made so the key could fit underneath. Nothing. "Did you have Val get my
passport?" He nodded. "She must have been so upset, she forgot to put
the key back."

"Perhaps she put it under one of the other pots."

"No. It was on a special Zodiac key ring that had my
sign—"

"Scorpio. It figures."

She was bone weary, too tired to be baited by his sarcasm.
"My father made the key ring to fit under this planter." She took off
her shoes; her toes were screaming for mercy. "I'll climb—"

A thunderous crash and the sound of splintering glass was followed
by shouts of "Police" as the lights inside her house came on.

"My God," she cried, "they've broken down the front
door."

"Get your hands up! Now!" Mitch's hands shot into the
air.

Common sense told her to reach high, her shoes in one hand. God
knows, she didn't want to be mistaken for a criminal and be shot in her own
backyard. "They had no right to break into my home."

"This isn't a social call. It must be the Narcotics Unit with
a no-knock warrant. If they knock, the stash goes down the toilet."

"I don't"—she started to protest, but the back door flew
open and guns were leveled at them. She'd watched similar scenes on TV, but
that didn't keep her knees from turning to putty.

"Durant? That you?" called an officer, obviously
surprised.

"Yeah, and this is Royce Winston. You better have a warrant
and an affidavit to back it up." Mitch reached out his hand, but Royce
waited until the guns were holstered before lowering her shaky arms and
clasping her shoes to her chest.

Mitch read the warrant, then turned to her. "It's
valid."

She sank down on the back step. Dear God, what now? Inside, glass
shattered and along with it her eggshell composure. She rested her head on her
knees, hugging her legs to keep from screaming. This couldn't be happening to
her. But it was.

Mitch sat beside her. "They're looking for drugs."

She lifted her head. "I don't have any drugs."

"The judicial system sucks the big one. I'm the first to
admit it, and the first to exploit it. But one thing that's still sacred is our
right to privacy. Hell, every cop in the city knows where the drug lords have
their caches, but they can't troop in without a search order. When they get
one, it's because they're dead nuts certain to find what they're looking for.

"This search warrant's affidavit says it was issued on the
word of an unnamed informant whose reputation is good enough to convince a
judge to allow the search."

"Unnamed? Anyone could make up anything—"

"Judges don't take the word of an unreliable informant and
they have to protect them by not revealing their names." He took out a
business card and scribbled on the back of it. "Here's the name of a
lawyer. You don't have to worry about him. All he chases is ambulances. Call
him as soon as they take you to the station. You're so exhausted, you're liable
to confess."

Mitch hustled down the path toward the front of the house where
he'd parked the car. "Okay, buddy," he muttered to himself.
"You're long on hormones and short on common sense."

She didn't "respect" him—whatever that meant. Yessir,
she'd won. Award her a black belt in verbal karate. He was so blasted mad, he
could strangle her. Even if he'd been a bastard—hey, he wasn't admitting
anything—she should at least respect his ability.

But Royce hadn't a clue how much trouble she was in. Like most
yuppies her idea of a felony was a dent in her BMW. Just wait, sweet cakes.