Sawyer, Meryl (14 page)

"Why'd you get a divorce?" Paul asked.

"That's none of your business."

Obviously the wound was still fresh. He hoped that accounted for
Val's defensiveness. He didn't want her to be the one responsible for Royce's
troubles.

"Val, do you have any idea how a defense attorney builds a
case? Mitch will have to persuade the jury that there's a reasonable doubt
Royce is guilty. He does that by casting suspicion elsewhere. He's going to
have to put witnesses on the stand who support his case. Very likely, he'll
call you."

"My divorce has nothing to do with this case."

"The prosecution could come up with an angle. That's why I'm
here doing a thorough background analysis. You refused a substantial settlement
when your husband divorced you. Why?"

She gave him more lasagna, clearly considering whether or not to
answer. "My husband left me for someone else. They'd been seeing each
other—behind my back—for years. I was angry. I had no intention of taking money
so he wouldn't feel guilty."

"You'd rather live like this than accept what was rightfully
yours?"

"He can keep his damn money. I don't need it or him."

Wow, Paul thought as he took another bite of lasagna. She's
carrying a mule load of emotional baggage. He changed the subject. "What
do you do for Global Research?"

"Global is a fancy name for the Tomaine Tommy's burger chain.
I'm a spy. I visit the various franchises to make sure there's TP in the
restrooms, the fries aren't soggy, the help smiles—that sort of thing."

Paul was familiar with her job. All the major chains had people
checking on their franchises. And if a problem was found the spy would return
day after day to determine the extent of the trouble. That took someone who was
extremely deceptive and skilled at disguises.

"I've been a PI for years. I've learned people have great
instincts. I've saved a lot of time by pursuing those leads first. What's your
gut feeling about who took the jewels?"

"Great," Mitch said, as he stood in the cramped phone
booth and listened to Paul finish telling him about his interview with Valerie
Thompson. "No one can agree who put the jewels in the purse."

"A crime of opportunity," Paul responded. "Who
could predict Royce would leave her purse at the table? But this drug deal took
planning and cash. I doubt Royce's friends have the money."

"But don't rule it out. Get as many people on this as it
takes, and keep me posted."

Mitch hung up, then called information for Gus Wolfe's number. It
was well after midnight, so the phone rang several times before the policeman
answered.

"It's Mitch Durant. You owe me one. Remember?"

"Yeah... I remember." Wolfe sounded pissed.

"A search warrant was issued for Royce Winston's home. The
informant's name on the affidavit is confidential. I want that name."

"Well, hell... you know I don't work in Narcotics."

"You've been on the force for years. You must have a Narc
buddy who'll tell you the informant's name."

Mitch hung up without giving Gus a chance to argue, then he walked
through the swinging doors into the prison offices.

Jewel Brown looked up from the duty roster she was scheduling and
saw Mitch Durant coming her way. She wasn't surprised. He often dropped by and
left cigarettes or candy.

The other attorneys oiled the boys out front to be certain they
were given the first available visiting room, or to get hustled through the
jail's metal detectors, but Mitch was smarter than the rest. He made certain
the gang in the back got their share.

Mitch sat on the edge of her desk next to her computer terminal.
"Here are two tickets to the Giants game. I can't go, but maybe someone
around here can use them."

"Thanks." Jewel pushed the tickets aside as if seats
behind home plate weren't pure gold. She hated baseball, but her son and one of
his no-account friends would be in pig-shit heaven. He might even help her with
the laundry.

"I need some information," Mitch said. That's what Jewel
liked about Mitchell Durant. Another attorney would jive you to sleep, then ask
for help. "What can you tell me about a prisoner named Maisie? I don't
know her last name but—"

"Shit, everyone knows Maisie Cross. That bull dyke's been in
an' outta here two dozen times for clockin' 'caine. Cain't never raise bail, so
we're always stuck with her until her trial."

Mitch frowned. If Maisie was a veteran of a cruel prison jungle,
Royce was no match for her. "I need a favor."

"Shoot." Jewel was pleased to be able to help. Mitch had
never asked her for anything. Not that she felt guilty for taking so much from
him. Everyone knew lawyers were rollin' in dead presidents.

"I don't want Royce Winston assigned to Maisie's cell."

"Sure 'nuf. When she's booked, the computer will find her a
bunk on B level. It has windows."

"Great." Mitch smiled, looking relieved. "One more
thing—what can you tell me about Helen Sykes?"

Jewel punched a few keys. "She's outta here. Yesterday
morning." She saw Mitch expected her to say more. "She's a
hubba." The lowest of whores, hubbas screwed—anytime, anywhere—not for
money but for coke.

He rubbed his forehead. "Then she's a snitch."

"How could the cops know to plant a snitch so fast?"
Mitch asked Paul the following morning. "Unless they were tipped."

Mitch stared out the plate-glass window of his seventeenth floor
office at the expanse of the bay. Clouds draped the Golden Gate Bridge, leaving
only the tips of the tall pillars visible above a bank of pewter-colored clouds
swollen with rain.

"Sounds like someone called the DA's office from the St.
Francis," Paul offered.

Mitch had kept in contact with a clerk in the DA's office since
he'd left years ago. Insurance. Mitch reached her and explained what he wanted.
She agreed to get the information and call him back.

Mitch hung up, dead certain the DA's referral service would have
the answer. To insure their safety attorneys in the DA's office never listed
their numbers or addresses. The office referral service handled after-hours
messages. The clerk returned his call just minutes later, and Mitch switched on
the speaker phone.

"Ward Farenholt called at eight minutes after eleven the
night of the auction. Abigail Carnivali took the call."

"Carnivorous," Paul said after Mitch had thanked his source
and made a note to send her a gift certificate from Saks. "But why the
snitch if Carnivorous was going for a search warrant?"

"Abigail thought Royce could talk her way out of the charges.
Why would she have deliberately opened her purse? She sent in a snitch to make
her case. Then the informant surfaced and implicated Royce in a drug
deal."

"Makes sense. Got a line on the informant?"

"I should hear soon."

The day passed slowly, but not as slowly as it must be passing for
Royce, Mitch realized. Gus Wolfe didn't call with the informant's name. Late
that night—Royce had been in jail for another twenty-four hours—Mitch waited
for Royce in a prison visiting room.

She dropped into the chair opposite him, her face leached of
color. Even her green eyes looked paler, almost sunken behind dark circles.
"Any word on my uncle?"

He took a paper out of his briefcase. "No. Here's a missing
persons report. Has to be signed by the next of kin." He gave her his pen.
Her hand trembled as she signed her name. "I don't think anything's
happened to your uncle. Paul got into his house. Wally had returned from the
auction and changed his clothes. Shortly after midnight he withdrew three
hundred dollars from the instant teller. His car's missing. Looks like he's
taken a trip except that the paper expected him in on Monday, and he didn't
show."

"That isn't like Uncle Wally. He's steadfast, someone you can
count on. That job is his life. He wouldn't not show up without calling. I'm
certain something's wrong."

"Paul's looking for him and now the police will be looking
too." He put the paper back in his briefcase. "How are you
doing?"

She lifted her eyes from the table to meet his; for once they
weren't filled with hate. "It's better this time. I'm allowed visitors,
and the matron comes to get me to use the telephone even when I haven't
asked."

"Don't discuss the case with Talia or Val," Mitch
cautioned.

"I haven't, but it's difficult. They're my friends."

The next morning Mitch called the DA's office and asked to speak
to Abigail Carnivali. It was a courtesy call. In most cases attorneys discussed
bail. It cut down on the time spent in court, where everything was already
backlogged.

"Mitch, how've you been?" Abigail crooned as if this
were a social call, but he knew she hated him and had since the moment he'd
declared he'd never marry her. Damn straight, she'd do her best to fry Royce
just so she could make a fool out of him.

"I'm great. How are things with you?"

He let her rattle on about her trip to the Cayman Islands with her
current lover—another notch on her bedpost. The eternal search for justice made
everyone in the DA's office hornier than hell. Okay, anything made lawyers
horny. He hadn't been any exception.

He'd resisted for several years, then let Abigail seduce him. He'd
assumed it was her power trip, because she'd dropped one hotshot lawyer after
another. But then she'd wanted to get married. Why me? For damn sure his luck
sucked the big one.

She came up for air and he said, "I have no intention of
running for DA."

Silence, then, "I wasn't worried. Anyway, after the Winston
trial no one will be able to beat me."

"Actually, I was calling about Royce Winston's bail."

Another silence. She loved them. "Let 'em squirm," she
used to tell Mitch. "Bail?" she said, as if it were some foreign
word.

Mitch checked his watch. "Your forty-eight hours will be up
soon. Between photo ops and TV interviews about the case, I suggest you think
about bail."

"I'll get around to it... sometime."

A pit bull litigator, but on an intellectual plane all Abigail
appreciated was trendy restaurants and designer clothes. When she wasn't in the
office, she haunted Saks. Honest to God, what had he ever seen in her?
Ambition. A career. But not a real life. A reflection of himself. And he hated
it.

"While you're getting around to a bail request, shit can
Helen Sykes's statement. If you make me waste my time tearing that hubba snitch
apart in court, I promise you, I will run for DA." A bullshit bluff, but
she didn't know it. Mitch had no intention of running for any office. Ever. How
could he? His past would be front page news.

"Mitchell Durant, don't you dare threaten me. As it happens,
I don't need her statement, but if I did—"

"Don't piss me off. Pull out a bail schedule and let's work
on this now." Mitch was worried they wouldn't locate Royce's uncle. With
the new charges she'd need Wally's help to post bail. Abigail confirmed his
suspicions.

"What?" he yelled. "That's way too high for bail in
this case and you damn well know it."

"She's a threat, Mitch," Abigail's voice was all sugar.
"What can I do? It's my responsibility to protect society."

"You bitch." He slammed down the receiver.

When was the last time he'd lost his temper? But he could see it
coming: Abigail would ask for the moon and Royce wouldn't be able to raise it.
Nothing looked worse than a defendant who couldn't make bail. The media would
love it. Abigail could get more free publicity for her political campaign.

And Royce would rot in jail. Or worse. Royce seemed to have the
inner strength she'd need to get through this. But never forget her father
committed suicide. She might, too, if things got bad enough.

Royce lay in her bunk, awake but hardly conscious of where she
was. Even the woman sitting beside the cell's toilet, flushing it for the
hundredth time and staring into it as if it were a crystal ball, didn't quite
register. It was as if she'd retreated to some distant part of her body. Or
better yet, had moved out of it to another place. Sleep deprivation, she told
herself, finding it hard to hold even that thought for more than a moment.