Sawyer, Meryl (27 page)

Well, well. Her intuition had been correct. That's why Mitch had a
phony birth certificate. She tried to imagine his parents. They must have abused
him. Otherwise he would have asked them for his real birth certificate. What
about the scars and his deaf ear? What had happened to Mitch?

She fished for more information. "It couldn't have been too
much fun wandering around Arkansas."

"Alabama."

"That's right. I get all those states mixed up." So he'd
grown up in Alabama, not Arkansas. And he'd joined the Navy in some small town
in Tennessee. Had he run away and wandered through the South until he was old
enough to join the Navy? Did his commitment to the homeless have something to
do with his past? She pumped Jason, but didn't find out anything else.

"You know about girls, don't you?" Jason flushed and she
suspected this was what he'd come to talk to Mitch about.

"Sure. I was one once. Why?"

"I jus' wondering what it means when a girl keeps walkin' by
your locker but never says nothin'."

"It means she likes you but she's too shy to say hello. She
probably thinks you won't talk to her."

Jason digested her observation in silence.

"Is she cute?" Royce prodded.

He shrugged. "Sorta."

Royce was tempted to remind him that he was no movie star.
"Try saying hello first." How was it today's kids thought they were
all grown up when in truth they were as insecure as teenagers had always been?

"If she turns out to be interesting you could ask her to go
to
Rocky Horror Picture Show.
That's always a kick." The weird
movie had become a cult phenomenon. All that audience participation, the
dancing in the aisles. The crazies. Two shy kids wouldn't need to fumble around
for conversation.

"Really?" He smiled for the first time.

"Yeah. Remember to bring lots of rice to throw."

The word
throw
brought a devilish gleam to Jason's eyes.
"Great. Thanks a lot."

She got Jason out the door before the buses stopped running.
"Mitch would appreciate it if you don't tell anyone— not even your
mother—that you saw me here."

Jason trotted down the path and tossed "Okay" over his
skinny shoulder.

Royce headed upstairs to Mitch's office, followed by Jenny, and
heard the telephone ring and transfer to the answering machine. Mitch's voice
came over the line.

"Royce, where in hell are you? If you're there, pick
up." Mitch sounded frantic.

Royce sprinted into the office and grabbed the phone. "I'm
right here. What's wrong?"

"Goddammit, where have you been?"

"I was walking Jenny." She decided to tell him about
Jason later. He was in no mood to hear someone knew where she was.

"I want you to do
exactly
what I tell you.
Exactly."

"All right." Her antennae had detected more than just
another bit of bad news. Mitch wasn't easily rattled.

"Turn on the burglar alarm. Spend the night right there. And
don't let anyone in."

"Why?"

"I'll explain it to you when I get home. The jury has reached
a verdict. Gotta go."

"Just tell me—" Damn him! He'd hung up. What was wrong?
Was she in danger?

"What a jerk," Royce complained to Jenny as she trudged
downstairs to set the burglar alarm. "Mitch never tells me anything."

At the sound of her master's name Jenny wagged her tail and licked
Royce's hand. It was her way of reminding Royce to pet her. She stopped and
rubbed Jenny's chest the way she'd seen Mitch do. Having a dog was great. The
only pet she'd ever had was her bunny, Rabbit E. Lee. If she ever got out of
this mess, she'd get a dog.

A noise came from the back of the house. "What was
that?" she whispered to Jenny, but the retriever had gone still, her nose
pointed toward the dark kitchen.

Had she turned out the light? Royce didn't remember, but she had
no trouble recalling Mitch's warning.
Don't let anyone in.

The feeling she was in danger returned. It was the same panicky
feeling she'd had that night in the bathtub. Someone
was
trying to kill
her.

She tiptoed to the fireplace and grabbed a poker, thinking how
frequently she was able to predict something was wrong. She'd told Mitch she
didn't have premonitions, but now she wondered. Certainly she didn't make the
sensational predictions that the tabloids loved, but she often sensed things
before they happened. Especially lately.

With Jenny at her heels Royce silently moved across the huge
kitchen. The dog growled, a low warning deep in her throat. Royce stopped,
clutching the poker. The moonlight from the window revealed the pantry door was
ajar. It hadn't been that way when she'd said good-night to Jason.

Royce hesitated. Should she dial 911? What if it was nothing and
the police found her at Mitch's? He'd be furious. Damn him. He should have told
her more. Then she'd know what she was up against.

Jenny charged past Royce into the pantry. Frenzied barking echoed
from the small room. Royce raised the poker with one hand and switched on the
light with the other. Jenny was standing inside the pantry barking at Oliver.

Royce dropped the poker, cursing her nerves. "You stupid cat.
Look what you've done."

Oliver had clawed his way into a fifty pound bag of dog kibble.
The bag had fallen over, which must have made the noise she'd heard. Kibble was
strewn across the pantry.

It wasn't enough that the beast kicked kitty litter to Chinatown
twice a day. Now this. The damn cat had eaten so much kibble that his already
bloated tummy looked like the
Hindenburg.

She went to the back door and armed the sophisticated alarm
system. It took a lot of sweeping, but she finally cleaned up the mess. This
time when she shut the pantry door, she made certain it was secure.

"I have an overactive imagination," she told Jenny on
the way upstairs.

Thanks to Mitch's obsession with space the second floor was an
office and a huge master suite the size of a polo field. She'd ventured into
the bedroom one time—just for a peek. Now she flipped on the light and studied
the room.

Beige carpeting so thick she couldn't see her toes surrounded a
king size bed with a headboard of rich mahogany that matched the nightstand and
chest of drawers. The only picture in the room was an oil of a bayou.

Was there a bayou in Alabama? She didn't think so. Had Mitch spent
time in Louisiana too?

Her curiosity got the best of her and she opened his walk-in
closet. "I'm betting it's a mess," she said to Jenny, and the
retriever wagged her tail in agreement as the door swung open and revealed a
before shot for California Closets.

Really! How did you account for a man who appeared to be frozen in
the anal stage, yet in reality was alarmingly disorganized? To look at his home
or office you'd think Mitch was compulsively neat. Everything had its place,
but just open a drawer or closet.

Jenny nosed through the pile of dirty clothes on the closet floor
and found sweatpants. She dragged them to the edge of the bed and plopped down
on them. No question about it, Jenny loved Mitch. And he was crazy about her.
He would sit at his desk, pen in one hand, the other stroking Jenny.

Royce took a T-shirt that didn't look too dirty off the closet
floor to sleep in. Nestled down in the bed she inhaled deeply and smelled
Mitch's spicy after-shave on the pillow. Or was it coming from the shirt? It
didn't matter. She found the scent oddly comforting and slightly arousing. She
hugged the pillow, anticipating another sleepless night, another night of
wondering who and why.

She came awake with a start, not certain if hours or just minutes
had passed. Someone was standing beside the bed. This time it wasn't her
imagination. The dark shape was hovering over her. She unleashed a scream that
could have been heard across the bay. He jumped back, caught off-guard, and
Royce vaulted out of bed.

The lights flipped on. "Shut up, Royce."

She spun around and saw Mitch. Relief and anger waged a war. Anger
won. "You sneaky bastard. You scared me."

"A bastard, huh? I'd never deny it." He smiled, doing a
slow pan of her from head to toe. A tide of heat washed over her as she
realized Mitch had targeted her breasts. She didn't have to look to know how
well she filled out his T-shirt. Or that her nipples were erect.

She crossed her arms in front of her chest. "Why are you
here?"

"Verdict's in. I said I was coming home." His eyes
scorched a trail down her bare thighs to her toes and up again, coming to rest
on her lips. "Get back in bed."

"With you here? No way."

"I've been holding my client's hand for the last forty-eight
hours straight. I just drove from Sacramento. I couldn't get it up if I
tried."

She didn't believe him for one minute. Look at him. He was
mentally taking off what little she wore. Still, there were deep shadows under
his eyes and lines etched into his brow. How well she remembered that bone-deep
fatigue. What was so important that he hadn't stayed the night and rested?

"Remember, you promised to do exactly what I said. Now, get
in bed and I'll explain what's happening."

Reluctantly she climbed between the sheets and sat up, making
certain the comforter covered her. Mitch stretched out on top of the bed.
Uhh-ooh. She didn't trust him—or herself, for that matter.

"We located Linda Allen."

"The informant. Thank God," she said with a sigh of
relief. Finally, something had gone right. "Now we can find out the
truth."

Mitch looked down and traced the herringbone pattern on the
comforter with his fingertip. "She's been murdered."

For a second Royce was tongue tied. How could something like this
happen? She'd been hoping and praying. And believing that the truth would save
her. "I was counting on her to lead us to the person behind this. Do you
know who killed Linda?"

"The police don't have any suspects."

Oh, God, could things get any worse?

"Paul and I think Linda was killed to keep her from telling
the truth about you." He touched the pillow behind her head. "It's
possible your life may be in danger."

"Why? I'm as good as dead already."

But the premonition she'd had earlier hung over her: Someone was
trying to kill her. Maybe she wished they would kill her. Turning the screws
like this was mental torture. The little time she'd spent in jail was a glimpse
of her future—a bleak, ugly future with creeps like Maisie Cross hounding her.

He moved nearer, closing the small space between them, and gazed
intently at her, his face now just inches from hers. She was uncomfortably
aware of how much bigger he was than she. Normally, her body would have had its
usual shameless physical reaction, but she was too shell shocked by his news.

"Royce, I won't tell you this isn't a setback, but we can
overcome it."

"How?" She knew she sounded like a petulant child, but
couldn't help herself.

"By continuing the investigation." He adjusted his
pillow and she had to admit he looked bone weary. "Remember, there's no
perfect crime. Every perp screws up sooner or later."

His confidence boosted her spirits a bit. "You're right. But
do you really think I'm in danger?"

His eyes skimmed down her body, barely concealed by the
lightweight comforter. She was in danger, all right.

"It's possible. This is such a weird case that it's hard to
tell what's going on. There may be a bigger picture here—a hidden agenda—that
we haven't discovered yet. But let's not worry about it tonight," he said,
clearly indicating his mind was on her, not the killer. "Paul is having a
security system installed in the apartment. And you're not to go out alone."

Prison. She was already in prison. Her nightly walks had been so
special. Suddenly she thought of her beloved pet, Rabbit E. Lee. Often she took
the bunny out of his cage and he hopped with glee, kicking up his heels. How
Lee must have cherished those moments of freedom. How trapped he must have felt
in his cage.

Trapped and lonely. Thank heavens her father spent time with him.
No wonder Lee had simply given up when her father had died. He hadn't responded
to her pleas for him to eat because Royce had never understood him. His
frustration, his loneliness. Oh, Lee, I'm so sorry.

A silent scream ripped through her. It was all she could do not to
cry. Someone had extinguished the small hope she'd harbored that Linda Allen
had the key to this puzzle. And her freedom, her chance for a happy life.

Mitch brushed a strand of her hair off her shoulder. The defeated
expression on his face mirrored her thoughts. He'd been counting on Linda
Allen, too, hadn't he?

Her sense of despair went beyond tears. But why was he so upset?
Maybe his case had gone badly. Immediately contrite for her selfishness, she
asked, "Did you win your case?"