Sawyer, Meryl (30 page)

Recalling his troubled youth, she wondered if he weren't talking
about himself as much as her. True, things were better. The interview had been
a tremendous success. Her brief statement had been played hundreds of times.

The latest poll showed far fewer people believed her guilty thanks
to a media consultant who'd dished out info about her to the press, who
embellished every word. Was the public so gullible that they'd now believe she
wasn't a fortune hunter but a hardworking intellectual who watched nature
documentaries when she wasn't writing poetry or reading philosophy?

Well, maybe. Miracles did happen. Judge Ramirez had granted a
delay, something even Mitch had sworn was a long shot.

"When did you see the light, Mitch?"

"The day I joined the Navy, I—" He stopped, obviously
caught off-guard. "I'm talking you, not me. Guess what Paul found on the
property inventory of Linda Allen's room?"

By the triumphant gleam in his eyes something important had been
discovered in the informant's room, but what?

"The missing key to your house." He clinked his glass
against hers. "To the light."

There is a God, Royce thought, realizing just how important this
was. "Her sworn statement said she met me at a party, and I told her to
come to my home. She claimed I opened the door and let her in."

"Obviously, someone gave her the key or told her where it was
hidden. I didn't have a prayer of tearing her statement apart until now."
He leaned closer and cupped her chin with his warm hand. "Not a word of
this to anyone—not even Wally."

"But if you're going to use the key as evidence, don't you
have to let the DA's office know?"

"True. But we've already exchanged documents." He sipped
his champagne. "Christ! That's a paper blizzard. Now, there's a project
for the Nature Nazis—the mountains of paper generated by depositions,
discovery, witness lists. Forget the spotted owl. Entire forests vanish every
year in the so-called pursuit of justice. Hell, there's one hundred and
thirty-seven pages on your friend Talia. The testimony she'll give boils down
to a couple of sentences: You didn't have any money and threatened to rob a
bank to pay for your wedding."

Talia's name evoked a feeling of sadness and disappointment. Sure,
Talia had come to see her at the courthouse and she called—faithfully—every
evening. But she was still dating Brent, claiming to be trying to help her.

"Won't Abigail see my key on the property inventory?"

"Yes, but no one described the special key ring your father
made. When I send her the additions to the evidence list, I'm going to conceal
the key among several other items." He poured himself more champagne and
motioned for her to finish her glass. "Abigail will miss it because she'll
be concentrating on the addition to our witness list—our star witness."

"Who's that?" she asked, smiling. His excitement was
contagious.

"The FBI's top perp pro. You know, an expert who puts together
a profile of the perpetrator. They've been amazingly accurate, especially about
serial killers. This case was giving me so much trouble," Mitch confessed,
"that I flew him out even before we received the inventory."

Royce gazed into her champagne glass, the tiny bubbles bursting
against the rim. Her preconceived ideas about Mitch were being destroyed like
the bubbles floating to the surface. Obviously, he'd been extremely worried
about how to defend her. How could she hate him when he was doing so much to
help her? She was touched—and frustrated. Nothing on earth was worse than not
being able to help yourself.

"What did the perp pro say?"

"Just what Paul already figured. The killer tried to make
Linda Allen's murder look like a drug hit by using a Mac-10 semiautomatic, but
she was shot at close range, a mistake a pro wouldn't make. A Mac bullet
fragments on impact. There wasn't enough of Linda's head left to put in a
Baggie. The killer had to be covered with her brains."

Royce gagged, but Mitch had seen enough violence to make him
immune. He went right on talking.

"She was hiding in a one-room dive in Chinatown's worst area.
If anyone saw the killer in bloody clothes, they aren't talking, but we know
she let him in."

Her glass was empty even though she didn't remember drinking it.
"Him. So it's a man?"

"The perp pro isn't sure. More women have been committing
crimes. If they kill, they usually do it with a gun."

A woman, Royce silently reflected. She couldn't imagine Eleanor or
Caroline or even Talia shooting Linda at point-blank range. But then, she
hadn't been able to imagine herself in prison either—until now. Anything was
possible.

Mitch moved closer as he poured her more champagne, his thigh now
touching hers. She struggled to ignore the pulse of sexual tension that
suddenly surfaced. She had to keep her mind on her problems.

"Paul discovered Ward Farenholt has a mistress," Mitch
said.

"Really? Brent never mentioned it, but maybe he doesn't know.
He's not as close to his father as he is to his mother." She took a sip of
champagne, mulling over this new information. "In a way I'm not surprised.
Ward is polite to Eleanor, but he's cold."

"Since the money is hers, he's taken extreme care to hide the
fact that he's having an affair. Only an expert like Paul picked up the subtle
clues."

Royce was intrigued and elated. She had two of the best in her
corner. She'd fight her way out of this mess yet. "What clues?"

Mitch chuckled. "Paul's a big believer in sifting through the
trash. He found several cash receipts for items that Ward purchased from
Victoria's Secret."

"Really?" Royce giggled. "I can't imagine stodgy
old Ward in Victoria's Secret. Well, Paul must be right. Ward certainly wasn't
buying anything for Eleanor in that shop."

"Right. We figure his mistress is a younger woman."

"Didn't Linda Allen work for an elite escort service?"
Royce asked, and Mitch nodded. "She claimed to have met me at a society
party, right? Well, couldn't she have met Ward at a party? If she traveled in
those circles, it's certainly possible."

"True," Mitch agreed. "But nothing in her hideout
links her to Ward."

"Didn't you tell me the place had been ransacked? Maybe Ward
removed any incriminating evidence."

"Possibly. I've always thought Ward was behind this. I had the
perp pro take a look at the whole case. He says the crime was well planned over
months, maybe years. The work of a diabolical mind. He said find the motive and
we'll solve the case."

She should be able to solve this. She'd always been the top of her
class. She'd been a Phi Beta Kappa, for God's sake. But the too familiar
feeling of frustration and helplessness returned. She didn't have a clue. But
there was a killer out there. Who knew why he was doing this to her or what he
might do next?

Mitch seemed to have reached the same conclusion. "I don't
want you to move home. You may be in danger if the killer can find you."

"Forget the murderer. He isn't going to kill me. Just make
sure I don't go to jail. That's death to me."

"You're not going to prison." There was such confidence
in his voice, so much authority that she almost believed him. Mitch stood and
held his hand out to her. She instinctively realized without knowing the
details of his past that he'd been through hell. He'd endured. He'd survived. And
triumphed.

"Forget about prison for now." Mitch smiled. "Let's
get some dinner. Put on a wig and we'll go to North Beach. No one will notice
you there."

Mitch was right. San Francisco had defined the sixties and had
never forgotten its roots. Nowhere was this more apparent than in North Beach
with its leather boutiques, head shops, and ethnic cafes and coffeehouses. Now
that tie-dye and bell bottoms had staged a return, it was like being caught in
a time warp where past and present merged, creating a new reality.

No heads even turned when they walked into Vaffanculo. The Italian
café had clouds of fake ivy hanging from the ceiling and walls plastered with
Roman street signs. In the middle of the room lit only by candles planted in
bottles of Ruffino was a fountain that sent a trickle of water over its rocks
and sounded, not like the a soothing stream, but like someone gargling.

"Know what
vaffanculo
means?" Royce whispered as
they sat down at a small table in the darkest corner of the café.

"Nope. I thought it was the owner's name—or a place in
Italy."

Royce loved knowing more than Mitch. It was hard to get one up on
him. "It means go screw yourself."

Mitch chuckled, then said, "Great. I'll have to remember
that."

"Don't tell me you're going to have pizza," she said
after Mitch ordered a carafe of Chianti. He nodded and she couldn't help
thinking how adorable he was. Don't soften, she warned herself. "Tell me,
when do you eat all that spinach you keep in the freezer?"

"I mix it with salsa and have it for breakfast."

"Yuck! It's a wonder you're so healthy." There was no
denying he was in prime shape. She'd never been quite as aware of a man's body
as she was of his.

"I might try something else if you'd fix me breakfast every
morning." He gave her a smoky look that would have sent most women into a
core meltdown.

"I'm on a diet, remember? Just Slim Fast for me."

"It isn't working."

"I'll have you know I've lost thirteen pounds."

His eyes dropped to her breasts and she cursed herself for wearing
the halter-top sundress. "We have to be careful how we dress you. Suits
like the one you wore to court won't make you look so top heavy." He still
hadn't taken his eyes off her chest. Why did he always do this to her when they
were discussing something important? "The jury will see you sitting down
most of the time. We don't want you to look fat to them."

"I didn't realize so much went into image," she said,
and he lifted his eyes to meet hers. About time.

"Most experts would have dressed Amy Fisher in a school girl
dress with a wide white collar to play up her youth, her innocence, not the
grown-up power suit she wore. Your case is the reverse. We want you to look
professional, so when you're on the stand, the jury will believe you."

"That's why they're drilling me so hard—to make sure the jury
believes me. Wouldn't it be better if I just told the truth in my own
words?"

The waiter arrived with the Chianti and took their order. Royce
had a salad again. Naturally, Mitch wanted pizza— hold the anchovies.

"What do you think most cases come down to?" Mitch
asked.

She shook her head. Her perception of justice had changed
dramatically since her arrest. Was there justice in America?

"The battle of the expert witnesses. Hell, if you look hard
enough and are willing to pay enough, you will find an 'expert' to testify to
anything. How do you think I found that vet? I told the Nature Nazis if they
wanted to spring the cougar to find a vet sympathetic to their cause. I needed
a nearsighted cougar."

He's a realist, she thought. But was this justice? What if you
couldn't afford someone like Mitch, who swam so well with the sharks because he
was one?

He leaned closer, radiating a virility that she was powerless to
ignore. "It's the system, Royce. If I don't defend these people, someone
will. If you want to be angry, be angry with the courts. Judges allowed these
'experts' to testify. No one else can waltz into a courtroom and draw
conclusions. They can only state the facts—what they saw or heard.

"Eleanor Farenholt can't say she
thinks
you're
paranoid from too much cocaine because you had a hissy-fit over the lettuce in
the washer. She can only say what happened—no conclusions. But trust me,
Abigail will haul in experts to say that type of behavior is symptomatic of
heavy drug use."

"You're forgetting the drug test I passed."

"No, I'm not. Their expert will challenge the way the lab
processed the sample or some other bullshit."

Their food arrived and Royce gazed at her bowl of lettuce,
downhearted.

"Don't worry. We'll have impressive experts. In the end the
jury will be judging you. Your job is to convince them you're telling the
truth."

Royce knew she shouldn't have come to the nightclub with Mitch.
Being alone with him in a pitch-black club filled with snuggling couples wasn't
her brightest idea. But she honestly couldn't face another evening by herself.

"Want a drink?" Mitch asked.

"Champagne and Chianti—I'm beyond my limit."

Mitch looked around. "I don't see a table and there's no place
at the bar either. Guess we should dance."

The dance floor was a semicircle hardly bigger than a bath mat.
Directly in front of it was a stage with its crimson velvet curtains drawn. A
quartet stood off to one side playing a waltz.

What on earth are you doing? Royce asked herself as she stepped
into Mitch's arms. He didn't pull her any closer than was proper, but his warm
hand planted squarely on her bare back felt too good, his powerful body too
comforting. As he danced his thighs brushed hers through the cotton skirt.
Uh-oh.