by Nora Roberts
He looked at the boy, hardly aware that the four of them were standing, silent and tensed. He searched for some sign, some physical trait that would have run from him into the child he’d never seen, or wanted. That was human nature, and his own ego.
But he saw nothing of himself in the slight-framed, tousel-haired child. And it relieved him, swept away the traces of guilt and apprehension that had snuck into him during the flight west. The boy was his—Lincoln had never doubted it—but was not his. His world, his family, his conscience were safe in that brief moment it took him to look, appraise, and reject.
Julia saw it all—the way his gaze landed on Brandon, hovered fleetingly, then dismissed. Her arm tightened around her son to shield him from a blow he couldn’t have felt. Then relaxed. Her son was safe. Any lingering doubts that she should tell him his father’s name faded away. His father was dead, to both of them.
“Lincoln.” Her voice was as cool and reserved as the nod of greeting she offered. “It was good of you to come so far so quickly.”
“I’m only sorry about the circumstances.”
“So am I.” Her hand slid over Brandon’s shoulder to rest at the tender nape of his neck. “Brandon, this is Mr. Hathoway. He’s a lawyer who used to work with Granddad a long time ago. He’s come out to help us.”
“Hello.” Brandon saw a tall, stiff-looking man with shiny shoes and that dopey aren’t-you-a-big-boy expression some adults put on whenever they were introduced to a kid.
“Hello, Brandon. I don’t want you to worry, we’re going to take care of everything.”
He couldn’t stand it. In another moment Paul was certain he would deck the man for being so detached. “Come on, kid.” Paul held out a hand. Brandon took it willingly. “Let’s go upstairs and see what kind of trouble we can get into.”
“Well then …” Lincoln took a seat, not even glancing around as Brandon clattered up the stairs. “Why don’t we get started?”
“It really didn’t mean anything to you, did it?” she said quietly. “Seeing him didn’t mean a thing.”
He lifted his fingers to the perfect Windsor knot in his tie. He’d been afraid she’d manufacture some sort of scene. Of course, he was prepared for it. “Julia, as I told you years ago, I can’t afford to entertain an emotional bond. I’m very, very grateful you were mature enough not to go to Elizabeth, regret you were too stubborn to accept any financial help I offered, and pleased that you’ve achieved the kind of success where you don’t require it. Naturally, I feel I owe you a great deal, and am deeply, deeply sorry that you find yourself in a position where you require my services.”
She began to laugh—not the thin, edgy laugh of hysteria, but a full, rich chuckle that had Lincoln baffled. “I’m sorry,” she said as she dropped into a chair. “You haven’t changed. You know, Lincoln, I wasn’t sure what I would feel, seeing you again. But the one thing I didn’t expect was nothing.” She let out a little sigh. “So, let’s shovel away the gratitude, and do what has to be done. My father had the greatest respect for you as a lawyer, and since his opinion weighs heavily with me, you’ll have all my cooperation, and for the time it takes to put things right, my complete trust.”
He merely nodded. Lincoln appreciated good, solid sense. “Did you kill Eve Benedict?”
Her eyes flashed. He was surprised to see such deep and volatile anger spark so quickly. “No. Did you expect me to admit if I had?”
“As the daughter of two of the best attorneys I’ve ever worked with, you already know it would be foolish to lie if you want me to represent you. Now then …” He took out a blank legal pad and a black Mont Blanc pen. “I want you to tell me everything you did, everyone you spoke with, everything you saw on the day Eve Benedict was murdered.”
She went through it once, then again. Then, led by his questions, a third time. He made few comments, only nodded from time to time as he jotted down notes in his neat, precise hand. Julia got up only once to refill his glass, and to pour one of her own.
“I’m afraid I haven’t had much time to acquaint myself with the evidence against you. Naturally, I notified the D.A., and the investigating officer that I would be your attorney of record. I was able to secure a copy of certain reports from the prosecutor before I came here, but only glanced at them in the cab.”
He paused, folding his hands in his lap. She remembered he had always had that same quiet, tidy manner. It, plus the sadness in his eyes, had first attracted a romantic, impressionable teenager to him. Now, though the gestures were the same, the sadness had been replaced by shrewdness.
“Julia, are you certain you unlocked the door to enter the house that afternoon?”
“Yes, I had to stop and look for my keys. Ever since the break-in I’d been much more careful about locking up.”
His eyes remained level, his voice even. “Are you quite sure?”
She started to respond, then stopped and sat back. “Do you want me to lie, Lincoln?”
“I want you to think very carefully. Unlocking a door is a habit, an automatic sort of motion that one might assume one did. Particularly after a shock. The fact that you told the police you unlocked the front door, and all of the other doors were locked from the inside when they arrived on the scene, is very damning. There were no keys on the body, no extra keys found around the house. Therefore, either the door was unlocked to begin with or someone, someone with a key, let Eve in.”
“Or someone took Eve’s key after they killed her,” Paul said from the stairs.
Lincoln glanced up. Only the faintest tightening around his mouth revealed any irritation at the interruption. “That is, of course, one angle we can try to pursue. Since the evidence points in the direction of a crime of passion and impulse, it may be difficult to convince a judge that someone was in the house with Eve, killed her, then had the presence of mind to take the key and lock up.”
“Then again, that’s your job, isn’t it?” Paul walked over to the bar. His fingers moved to the bourbon, backtracked, and settled on club soda. The temper he was holding back didn’t need the kick of liquor.
“It’s my job to give Julia the best possible defense.”
“Then I’m sorry to make it more difficult for you, Lincoln, but I unlocked the door, with my key.”
He pursed his lips and reviewed his notes. “You don’t mention touching the murder weapon, the fireplace poker.”
“Because I don’t know if I did or not.” Suddenly weary, she dragged a hand through her hair. “Obviously I did or my fingerprints wouldn’t have been on it.”
“They might if you’d built a fire within the last week or two.”
“I hadn’t. The nights have been pleasant.”
“The weapon was found several feet from the body.” He took a file out of his briefcase. “Are you up to looking at some pictures?”
She knew what he meant, and wasn’t sure of the answer. Bracing herself, she reached out. There was Eve, crumpled on the rug, her face still so breathtakingly beautiful. And the blood.
“From this angle,” Lincoln was saying, “you see the poker is lying over here.” He leaned forward to touch a finger to the print. “As if someone had thrown it there, or perhaps dropped it after backing up from the body.”
“I found her like that,” Julia whispered. Her own voice was muffled by the roaring in her head, the quick, deadly illness in her stomach. “I went to her, took her hand. I think I said her name. And I knew. I got up, stumbled. I picked it up—I think—it had her blood on it. And on my hands. So I threw it down because I had to do something. Call someone.” She thrust the picture away and rose unsteadily to her feet. “Excuse me, I have to say good night to Brandon.”
The moment she’d rushed up the stairs, Paul turned on him. “Did you have to do that to her?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. And worse before it’s over.” In an economic move, Lincoln turned over a page on his pad. “The prosecuting attorney is a very determined, very capable man. And like all men elected t
o office, ambitious and aware of the value of a celebrity trial. We’ll have to show a plausible alternative from every scrap of physical evidence he has. We’re also going to stuff reasonable doubt down the throats of not only a judge, a jury if it comes to that, but the public at large. Now I realize you and Julia have a personal relationship—”
“Do you?” With a slow, grim smile, Paul sat on the arm of a chair. “Let me spell it out for you, counselor. Julia and Brandon belong to me now. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to break several small, vital bones in your body for what you did to her. But if you’re as good as I’ve heard, if you’re her best chance to get through this, then whatever you ask me to do, I’ll do.”
Lincoln relaxed his grip on his pen. “Then I’d suggest the first thing be we forget about what happened between Julia and me more than a decade ago.”
“Except that,” Paul said, and smiled again. “Try again.”
Lincoln had seen more pleasant smiles on felons he’d convicted. “Your personal feelings about me will only hurt Julia.”
“No. Nothing’s going to hurt her again. Including you. If I’d thought differently, you wouldn’t have walked through the door.” With his eyes still on Lincoln’s he pulled out a cigar. “I’ve worked with scum before.”
“Paul.” Julia spoke quietly as she came downstairs again. “That won’t help.”
“Clearing the air always helps, Julia,” he contradicted her. “Hathoway knows that while he has all of my disgust, he also has all my cooperation.”
“I came here to help, not to be judged for a mistake I made over ten years ago.”
“Be careful, Lincoln.” Julia rounded on him before she could stop herself. “That mistake is upstairs, sleeping. I’m accepting your help not only for my own sake, but for his. He’s been fatherless all his life. I can’t bear to think of him losing me too.”
Only a faint flush rising up from his knotted tie to his cheeks indicated she’d hit any mark. “If we can all keep our personal feelings out of this, we have a much better chance of seeing that doesn’t happen.” Satisfied the subject was settled, he moved on. “You both knew the deceased, were privy to the workings of her household, her friendships, her enemies. It would be helpful if you told me everything you could about those close to her. Anyone who stood to gain by her death, financially, emotionally.”
“Besides me?” Julia said.
“Perhaps we’ll start with you, and Mr. Winthrop. Just a brief sketch, if you will. I’ve arranged for a suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel, where I’ll be working. Meyers, Courtney, and Lowe have agreed to lend me two of their clerks, and my own secretary will be flying out tomorrow.” He checked his watch, which he’d already changed to West Coast time, frowned. “We’ll need more in-depth interviews once I’ve set up. First thing Monday I’ll petition for a postponement of the arraignment.”
“No.” Chilled, Julia began to rub her hands over her arms. “I’m sorry, Lincoln, but I can’t stand the idea of dragging this out.”
“Julia, I’ll need time to structure your defense. With luck, we can keep this from going to trial.”
“I don’t mean to be difficult, but I have to get it over with. Postponements only give more time to sensationalize. Brandon’s old enough to read the paper, see the newscasts. And I … to be frank, I can’t stand much more waiting.”
“Well, we have the weekend to think about it.” Or, Lincoln decided, to turn her around to his way. “For now, tell me about Eve Benedict.”
By the time Lincoln left it was nearly two A.M., and Paul had developed a grudging respect for his thoroughness. He might have found the attorney’s organization and neatness irritating. Lincoln always turned over a new sheet of paper for each change of topic, 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 r
eason 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?”
