Genuine Lies

by Nora Roberts

  he ate the brownies Julia served with coffee using a fork, and not once during the long, repetitive evening did he loosen his tie.

  But Paul had also noted that Lincoln’s eyes had sharpened when told about the notes, and that a look of pure pleasure had come into them when Delrickio’s connection had been explained.

  When he left, he didn’t look like a man who had been up for nearly twenty-four hours straight, and had bid them good night as politely as if they’d just enjoyed a friendly dinner party.

  “I suppose it’s none of my business.” Paul shut the door and turned back to Julia. She braced, resenting the fact that she would have to explain herself again, remember again. “But I just have to know.” He walked over to her, brushed the hair from her face. “Did he hang up his clothes and fold his socks before you made love?”

  The giggle surprised her, the comfort she found when she rested her head on his shoulder didn’t. “Actually, he folded his clothes and rolled his socks.”

  “Jules, I have to tell you, your taste has improved.” A quick, nipping kiss, and he picked her up to carry her toward the stairs. “And after you’ve had about twelve hours sleep, I’ll prove it to you.”

  “Maybe you could prove it to me now, and I’ll sleep later.”

  “A much better idea.”

  Even putting Brandon on the plane, knowing he was tucked away thousands of miles from the eye of the storm, didn’t console her. She wanted her child back. She wanted her life back.

  She met with Lincoln every day, sat in the suite he’d booked and drank black coffee until she was certain she could feel it burning a hole in the center of her gut. She talked to the detective he’d hired—another intrusion in her life, another person to pry apart the tenuous threads on what had been her privacy.

  It was all so ordered—the files, the lawbooks, the busy ringing of the phones. The unbroken efficiency of it began to lull her. Until she saw a headline, heard a broadcast. Then she was tossed back into the fear of it being her name, her face, her life under the public microscope. And her fate in the hands of justice, whose blindness was not always a boon for the innocent.

  Paul kept her from going over that thin edge. She didn’t want to lean. Hadn’t she promised herself that she would never depend on anyone for her happiness, for her security, for her peace of mind? Yet, just the fact that he was there gave her the illusion of all three. And because she was terrified it was an illusion, she backed away, quietly slipping inches of distance between them until there was a foot, a foot until there was a yard.

  He was exhausted himself, discouraged by the fact that his connections at the precinct weren’t bringing him any closer to the truth. Frank had let him come along when he’d questioned Lyle again, but the former chauffeur had refused to budge on his story to see, hear, and speak no evil.

  The fact that Drake’s finances were in a mess didn’t implicate him in Eve’s death. More, the fact that she had given him a large amount only weeks before she was killed worked in his favor. Why would he kill the golden goose?

  Paul’s single interview with Gloria had only made things worse. With tears and trembling, she admitted to arguing with Eve on the day of the murder. Guilt poured out along with the words. She had said terrible things, then had left in a rage, speeding home to confess the entire business to her shocked husband.

  At almost the same moment Julia had discovered Eve’s body, Gloria had been weeping in her husband’s arms, and begging for forgiveness.

  Since Marcus Grant, the housekeeper, and the curious poolman had all heard the sobbing Gloria at one fifteen, and the drive from estate to estate couldn’t be managed in under ten minutes, it was impossible to tie her to the murder.

  Paul still felt the book was the key. When Julia was out of the house he would listen to the tapes over and over again, trying to find the one phrase, the one name that would open the door.

  When she came home, wired from another session of rehearsing her testimony with Lincoln, she heard Eve’s voice.

  “He directed with a whip and a chain. I’ve never known anyone to use less finesse and get more results. I thought I hated him—did, actually, throughout the movie. But when McCarthy and his slimeball committee went after him, I was outraged. That was the main reason I joined Bogie and Betty and the others in their trip to Washington. I’ve never had any patience with politicking, but, by Christ, I was ready to fight tooth and nail then. Maybe we did some good, maybe not, but we had our say. That’s what counts, isn’t it, Julia? Making sure you’re heard goddamn loud and goddamn clear. I don’t want to be remembered as someone who sat on the sidelines and let other people clear the way.”

  “She won’t be,” Julia murmured.

  Paul turned from his desk. He’d been listening so intently, he almost expected to see Eve sitting there, telling him to light her cigarette or open a bottle.

  “No, she won’t.” He switched off the tape to study Julia. In the past week, she’d rarely let him see that pale, haunted look. It was there, always there, just beneath the mask of control. But whenever that mask began to crack, she closed in on herself and away from him. “Sit down, Julia.”

  “I was going to make some coffee.”

  “Sit down,” he repeated. She did, but on the edge of the chair, as if she would spring up any moment if he got too close. “I got a subpoena today. I’m going to have to testify at the hearing tomorrow.”

  She didn’t look at him, but focused on a point somewhere between them. “I see. Well, that isn’t unexpected.”

  “It’s going to be rough on both of us.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. Actually, I was thinking, as I was coming back this afternoon, that it might be best, easier, if I moved to a hotel—until this is all over. My living here is giving the press a lot of ammunition, and only adding more strain to an already impossible situation.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “That’s fact.” She rose, hoping for a grateful exit. She should have known better. He only stood and blocked her way.

  “Just try it.” Eyes narrowed and dangerous, he wrapped his hands around her lapels and yanked her forward. “You’re here for the long haul.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that I might want to be alone?”

  “Yeah, it occurred to me. But I’m part of your life, and you can’t shut me out.”

  “I may not have a life,” she shouted. “If they bind me over for trial tomorrow—”

  “You’ll deal with it. We’ll deal with it. You’re going to trust me, goddamn you. I’m not a ten-year-old boy you have to protect. And I’m sure as hell not some spineless prick who’ll let you carry the whole load while I run off to my own tidy life.”

  Her eyes went to smoke. “This has nothing to do with Lincoln.”

  “The hell it doesn’t. And don’t ever compare us in that sharp little brain of yours again.”

  Her face wasn’t pale now, nor was her breath even. The flash of temper meant more to him than a dozen words of love. “Let go of me.”

  He lifted a brow, knowing the gesture was derisive. “Sure.” He released her, stuffed his hands into his pockets.

  “This has nothing to do with Lincoln,” she said again. “And it has nothing to do with you. It’s me. Get that through your surplus of testosterone. I’m the one whose life is on the line in that courtroom tomorrow. You can beat your chest and howl all you want, that’s not going to change. I haven’t got that many choices left, Paul, and if I want to walk out of that door, that’s just what I’ll do.”

  “Try it,” he invited her.

  Incensed, she whirled around. He caught her before she’d reached the stairs. “I told you to let me go.”

  “I haven’t finished beating my chest or howling.” Because he was dead sure she’d take a swing at him, he cuffed her hands behind her back. “Hold it. Dammit, Jules.” Faced with a tumble down the stairs, he shoved her back against the wall. “Look at me. Just look. You’re right about choices.” With his free han
d he forced her head up. “Do you want to walk away from me?”

  She stared into his eyes and saw that he would let her. Maybe. And if she turned away now from this, from him, she would always regret it. Survivors lived with their mistakes. Hadn’t Eve told her that? But there were some you couldn’t afford to make.

  “No.” She pressed her mouth to his, felt the heat and the strength. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” His kiss grew more avid, more needy. “Just don’t walk away from me.”

  “I’m so scared, Paul. I’m so scared.”

  “We’re going to make it right. Believe it.”

  For a moment she could.

  Drake was feeling like a million dollars. Or at least a quarter million. Within twenty-four hours he’d have the cash in his hand and the world at his feet. He was dead sure Julia would go to trial, and, with any luck, be convicted. Once that happened—and with money in the bank—he figured it wouldn’t be to hard to get his piece of Eve’s estate. He resented Paul getting half, but he could live with it. With a good lawyer Drake was sure he could cop Julia’s share.

  The law wouldn’t let her touch it. And anyway, where she was going, she wasn’t going to need it.

  All and all, things had worked out fine.

  Pleased with himself, he turned the stereo on blast and settled down with a racing form. By the weekend he was going to have a nice little stake to take to Santa Anita. He’d play it conservative, but with a few thousand on the nose of the little filly he had a tip on, he could finesse that first payment into the big time.

  Of course, his backer didn’t know it as only a first payment. Drake hummed along with Gloria Estefan and figured he could milk his source for plenty over the next year or two. By then, his inheritance should come in. After that, he was taking off. Riviera, Caribbean, the Keys. Anywhere where the beaches, and the women, were hot.

  He picked up a glass of champagne. The Dom Pérignon was an early celebration. He had a date to meet a sexy little number at Tramp, but the action wouldn’t start for an hour or two.

  Christ, he felt like dancing. While he tried out a little conga, wine sloshed over his fingers. Gleefully, he licked it off.

  He thought about ignoring the doorbell when it rang, then chuckled to himself. It was probably the lucky lady of the evening. Who could blame her for wanting to start things off early? Instead of meeting at the club, they would get things going here and now.

  When the bell rang again, he brushed his hand over his hair, and on a whim unbuttoned his shirt. He had the champagne glass in his hand when he answered the door. Though it wasn’t tonight’s lucky winner, he toasted his guest.

  “Well now. I didn’t expect to see you until tomorrow. But that’s fine. Just so happens I’m open for business. Come on in. We’ll do this over a glass of champagne.”

  Grinning to himself, he led the way back to the bottle. It looked like he wasn’t celebrating early after all. “What do you say we drink to dear Julia?” He poured a second glass right to the rim. “Dear cousin Julia. Without her, we could both be standing in some deep shit.”

  “Maybe you’d better check your own shoes.”

  Drake turned, thinking that a great joke. He was still laughing when he saw the gun. He never felt the bullet that plowed between his eyes.

  Spectators and press crammed together on the courtroom steps. Julia’s first test of the day would be to walk through them. Lincoln had instructed her on how to do that. To walk briskly, but not to appear hurried. Not to bow her head—it looked guilty. Not to keep her head back too far—it looked arrogant. She was to say nothing, not even the ubiquitous “no comment,” no matter what questions where hurled at her.

  The morning was warm and sunny. She’d prayed for rain. Rain might have kept some of the curious and accusing inside. Instead, she climbed out of the limo into a cloudless southern California day. With Lincoln on one side and Paul on the other, she moved into the wall of people who wanted her story, her secrets, or her blood. Only the fear that she might stumble and be swept away by them helped her ignore the painful clenching in her stomach, the uncontrollable trembling of her legs.

  Inside there was more air, more space. She shuddered off the nausea. It would be over soon. Over and behind her. They would believe her, they had to believe her. Then she would be free to start her life again. Free to take that one slim chance on making a new life.

  It had been years since she’d been in a courtroom. From time to time during summer vacation, she’d been allowed to watch her mother or father work a jury. They hadn’t seemed like her parents then, but larger than life. Actors on a stage, gesturing, manipulating, strutting. Perhaps that was where she’d gotten that first spark to take to the stage herself.

  But no, she thought. That had come through the blood. That had come through Eve.

  At a signal from Lincoln, Paul leaned closer, took both of Julia’s hands in his. “It’s time to go in. I’ll be sitting right behind you.”

  She nodded, her fingers creeping up to touch the brooch she’d pinned to her lapel. The scales of justice.

  The courtroom was jammed. Among the faces of strangers she saw the familiar. CeeCee sent Julia a quick, encouraging smile. Beside her niece, Travers sat rigid, her face set and fierce. Nina stared down at her linked fingers, unwilling or unable to meet Julia’s eyes. Delrickio, flanked by his steely-eyed guards, studied her impassively. Gloria’s eyes gleamed with tears as she twisted a handkerchief in her hands and huddled under her husband’s protective arm.

  Maggie, her lipstick chewed off until it left only a thin line of red around her mouth, looked up, then away. Kenneth leaned over her to murmur to Victor.

  It was that look, that tortured, grieving look that had Julia faltering. She wanted to stop, to scream out her innocence, her rage, and her terror. She could only move forward and take her seat.

  “Remember,” Lincoln was saying, “this is only a preliminary hearing. It’s to determine if there’s enough evidence for a trial.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said quietly. “It’s only the beginning.”

  “Julia.”

  She tensed at Victor’s voice and made herself turn. He’d aged. In a matter of weeks the years had caught up with him, pulling down the skin under his eyes, digging lines deep around his mouth. Julia put a hand on the rail that separated them. It was the closest she believed either of them could come to reaching out.

  “I don’t know what to say to you.” He pulled air into his lungs and let it trickle out. If I had known, if she had told me … about you, things would have been different.”

  “Things weren’t meant to be different, Victor. I would have been sorry, very sorry, if she had used me to change them.”

  “I’d like to—” Go back, he thought. Thirty years, thirty days. Both were equally impossible. “I couldn’t stand behind you before.” He looked down, lifted his hand, laid it on hers. “I’d like you to know I’ll stand behind you now. And the boy, Brandon.”

  “He’s—he’s missed having a grandfather. When this is over, we’ll talk. All of us.”

  He managed a nod before his hand slid away from hers. “All rise!”

  A buzzing filled her ears when the courtroom rose to its feet. She watched the judge stride in, take his place behind the bench. Why, he looks like Pat O’Brien, she thought foolishly. All ruddy and round and Irish. Surely Pat O’Brien would know the truth when he heard it.

  The D.A. was a wiry, energetic-looking man with sideburns of gray on his close-cropped hair. Obviously he didn’t take the warning about sun exposure seriously, for his tan was deep and smooth, making his pale blue eyes gleam in contrast.

  He had the voice of an evangelist. Without hearing the words, Julia listened to it rise and fall.

  Reports were placed in evidence. Autopsy, forensic. The pictures, of course. As Julia watched the prosecutor present them, the image of Eve sprawled on the rug froze in her mind. The murder weapon. The suit Julia had worn tha
t was streaked with a rusty-looking stain that was dried blood.

  She watched the experts take the stand, then step down. Their words didn’t matter. Lincoln obviously thought differently because he would rise and object from time to time, and he chose his own carefully in cross-examination.

  But the words didn’t matter, Julia thought. The pictures said it all. Eve was dead.

  When the D.A. called Travers, she shuffled up to the stand as she had shuffled her way up and down the hallways of Eve’s home. As if she were reluctant to expend the energy it took to lift one foot, then the other.

  She’d scraped her hair back and was wearing a plain, working-class dress of unrelieved black. She clutched her purse with both hands and stared straight ahead.

  Even when the prosecutor led her gently through the early questions, she didn’t relax. Her voice only became more harsh as she explained her relationship with Eve.

  “And as a trusted friend and employee,” the prosecutor continued. “Did you have occasion to travel with Miss Benedict to Switzerland in …” He reviewed his notes before he stated the date.

  “Yes.”

  “What was the purpose of this trip, Ms. Travers?” “Eve was pregnant.”

  The statement caused a ripple of murmurs through the spectators until the gavel was struck.

  “And did she have a child, Ms. Travers?”