Twilight Whispers

by Barbara Delinsky

  “Good defense man—”

  “Dramatic as hell—”

  Jordan looked from one man to the other. “He’s confident that we have a good chance in court. The evidence is circumstantial. There’s plenty of room for planting doubt in the jurors’ minds.”

  Lenore’s high voice followed his words. “Trial? Everything will come out in a trial. What Mark was doing—”

  “It’s out now,” a blustery-faced Gil reminded her. “You can be sure that every paper in the country will have front page articles in the morning.” He turned his scowl on Jordan. “The press eats up this kind of thing.”

  Jordan said nothing. He could still see the flare of the flashes, feel the thrust of microphones under his nose, hear the endless questions. The knot in his stomach tightened.

  “How can they do that?” Lenore asked, much as Katia had once done.

  Natalie was equally worried. “How can you possibly get a fair trial with that kind of publicity?”

  “A gag motion. That’s what we need,” Jack instructed Jordan.

  “VanPelt’s already filed for it.”

  Gil was bristling. “The question is how much damage has already been done. Thank God they didn’t give you any trouble with bail. That surprised me.”

  Jordan shrugged. “I don’t have a record. Given that and who I am, they had no choice.”

  “What happens now?” Jack looked from Jordan to Gil—which was ridiculous, since Gil’s expertise in law was strictly on the corporate level—and back.

  Jordan was the one to answer, having been well tutored by his attorney. “The arraignment today was in the district court, but that court doesn’t have jurisdiction over murder cases. Normally there’d be a probable cause hearing in the Boston Municipal Court to see about binding the case to the higher court, but the prosecutor will probably waive it and go directly to the grand jury for a superior court indictment. When that takes place, probably in a couple of weeks, I’ll be arraigned again.”

  “And a trial date?”

  “Set within a month or so after that.”

  “Then we have time,” Jack mused. “We have to get an investigator on the case. Some bastard’s out there having a good laugh for himself. If the goddamned cops can’t find him we’ll have to do it ourselves.”

  Standing before them was growing harder for Jordan by the minute. “Look,” he said with a tired sigh, “VanPelt will be on top of all that. We have to work with him. He knows what he’s doing. Right now I think I’d like to go upstairs. It’s been a long day.” Still holding Katia’s hand, he turned and headed for the stairs.

  “We’ll get you out of this, Jordan!” his father called after him. “Everyone’s coming over tomorrow morning—Nick and Peter and Laura and Anne, even Emily from New York. We’ll figure out something.”

  “More than that,” Gil added in a voice laced with fury, “we’ll see that whoever’s responsible gets his ass kicked to hell!”

  “Fine,” Jordan murmured to himself, but he was too drained to do anything but see that one foot followed the other up the stairs. When he and Katia reached the room that had been Jordan’s as a boy—where they had stayed on the eve of their wedding six nights before—he drew her in, closed the door and sagged back against it.

  The head he had held with dignity through the nightmare of a day dropped forward. The shoulders he had held straight slumped.

  At that moment, when dozens of other emotions could easily have been dominating her mind, Katia was aware of feeling nothing but a tremendous pride in her husband. She came close to him and combed the dark hair from his forehead with her fingers.

  “You did well, Jordan,” she said softly. “You endured it all as no other man could have. You showed them the stuff you’re made of, and you showed me, even though I’ve known it all along. I was very proud to be there by your side.”

  “Oh God, Katia,” he moaned, then leaned forward and wrapped his arms around her. “Oh God.…”

  His entire body was shaking. Katia held him tighter.

  “You have no idea how humiliated I felt.” His whisper was a hoarse one, rife with the same pain that continued to shake his body. “Being handcuffed … led into the station … fingerprinted … having mug shots taken with that … that identification thing in front of me … You have no idea … no idea.”

  Wrapping an arm around his back, Katia steered him to the bed. She sat close beside him, never once letting go. “Cavanaugh was suffering, too, not that that’s any solace.”

  He moaned again, this time wrapping his free arm around his stomach. Katia was worried that he was going to be sick he looked so pale.

  “It hurts, damn it,” he managed through gritted teeth. “I knew it was coming. I sensed it in my gut. But knowing didn’t help. Nothing could have prepared me for that.”

  She stroked his face, feeling as helpless as he. “But it’s over. That part, at least.” She kissed his shoulder. “Can I get you anything? Are you hungry?” VanPelt had had dinner brought to his office, but Jordan hadn’t eaten a bite.

  He shook his head.

  “How about some aspirin?”

  He nodded.

  Reluctant to leave him, she kissed his forehead, then hurried down the hall to the bathroom, returning moments later with the pills and a glass of water. Jordan had taken off his blazer, a pocket of which held the tie he had stuffed there while they had been with the lawyer, and he was working on the buttons of his shirt. While he took the aspirin, she released the remaining buttons, then pulled back the bedspread while he finished undressing.

  Only after she saw him crawl into bed and stretch out with a groan did she start undressing herself. Moments later, she slid beneath the sheets.

  His eyes were closed, his features tight. She was wondering if he would be able to relax enough to sleep when he extended an arm to her in invitation. Without pause she tucked herself against him, satisfied when he closed the gate around her.

  She kissed the soft spot adjacent to his armpit that she so adored. “I love you, Jordan.”

  With a wrenching moan he tightened his hold on her. She could feel the beat of his heart reverberating through his body; its strength remained dominant over the ordeals of life, and it was but another thing to love about him. Brushing her cheek against his chest, she began to press soft kisses to his skin.

  “Mmm … better than aspirin…” he murmured.

  “It’s the power of love.” She drew herself over him. Her kisses spread, open and moist on the dark swirls of his chest hair, the corded column of his neck, the slightly raspy but thoroughly appealing contours of his jaw and the smoother, more gentle lines of his face. They held no pity, only love and desire, but it was perhaps the indignities he had suffered that day and the way he had weathered them that made her want to show the phenomenal strength of that love and desire.

  It wasn’t difficult. Touching Jordan had always affected Katia deeply. Now, knowing that he was her husband, knowing that she was free to express her feelings, she let herself go without restraint.

  Her hands roamed widely and with purpose, caressing his hard body. Very slowly, as her fingers worked the muscled expanse of his chest, the lean plane of his stomach, the roped sinews of his thighs, she felt the tension of the day fade. Very slowly, as her mouth went the way of her hands, she felt a different tension begin to build. His skin grew heated. Anchoring his fingers in her hair, he hoarsely whispered her name. His breath came more rapidly and his muscles began to quiver.

  “I love you,” she vowed against his stomach, “I love you.…”

  When she slipped lower and took him into her mouth, he caught in a ragged breath. Her sandy hair swirled lightly over his groin, but it was the deeper sensation that brought his hips straining upward. Her tongue worked wonders, erasing all thought from his mind but the one that mattered most—that Katia was his wife, accepting him fully. Her lips added to the sweet torment, proclaiming her the ultimate lover as well. His muscles grew taut and trembled
with restraint; what she was doing was so intimate, so intense that, looking down at the gentle movement of her head, he knew the immediacy of explosion. A low, raw sound came from his throat seconds before he bucked back into the mattress.

  With a single deft movement he drew her up and flipped her over, then surged forward into a fluid penetration. He plunged more deeply with each stroke, and with each stroke she felt more possessed. His mouth muffled her cries of delight, swallowing her breath, offering his own in exchange.

  Katia realized then that their marriage would always be a two-sided affair. As much as she wanted to give that night, Jordan did too. It was his need, and she accepted it, loving him to distraction, soaring with him to the far reaches of passion. And when they had finally returned to earth and caught their breath, they settled snugly against one another, as was meant to be.

  They didn’t sleep, but lay quietly for a time. At last Jordan murmured a broken, “Thank you, sweetheart.”

  “No thanks necessary.”

  “They are. You were with me today. You stood by me. I feel guilty as hell putting you through—”

  Her hand covered his mouth. “Don’t say it. I wouldn’t have been anywhere else.”

  He tickled her fingers with his tongue until they retreated in self-defense. Then he slanted her a one-eyed glance. “Not even on a honeymoon in the Caribbean?”

  “Nah. It’s too hot there now.”

  “Then London? Or Paris? Or Sydney, Australia?”

  “Australia? I’d love to go there one day.”

  Jordan wanted to say that she would get there, that he would take her there, but he couldn’t get the words out.

  Katia knew what he was thinking. She also knew that to protest his thoughts would cause him more anguish than it was worth. He was tired and tense and very pessimistic at the moment. He would feel better in the morning. He would feel better once VanPelt crystalized a plan of attack. And she would feel better once Jordan felt better, because the one thing she couldn’t do was allow herself to think of what might happen if he was actually convicted.

  Chapter 17

  Cavanaugh sat alone at home that night feeling like death. What he had been forced to do that day had gone against every instinct he possessed. For the first time in his life he truly despised his job. He also despised himself, because he was sure that Jordan was innocent, yet he hadn’t been able to prove it. And now, theoretically, he was out of the case. Aside from testifying during the hearings and trial to come, his job was done.

  He couldn’t blame the commissioner for being pleased; it was a feather in Holstrom’s cap to have an arrest in any murder case, and he wasn’t involved deeply enough with this one to feel what Cavanaugh did. The same held true for the DA, who would only be doing his job by prosecuting the case.

  But Ryan bothered Cavanaugh. The pleasure in the man’s eyes that day had been enough to turn his stomach. How could someone take pleasure in seeing a human being humbled as Jordan had been? How could any man, much less a policeman, gloat that way? But it was consistent with everything else Ryan had done regarding the case. Since the day the bodies had been found he had been itching to arrest a family member. If it hadn’t been Jordan it would have been one of the others. Ryan had been so sure that they were involved. How had he been so sure? How had he known the tapes existed? And why had he been so damned eager to rush the arrest?

  They were questions with no answers, which frustrated Cavanaugh beyond belief.

  His gaze skirted the apartment. It was quiet and still. Jodi had flown to Atlanta two days before to be with her mother, who was in the hospital with a broken hip after an automobile accident. It occurred to Cavanaugh, suddenly and with some surprise, that he would have really liked to talk his feelings out with Jodi. She could assure him that he had done everything he could. She could help him put things into perspective.

  But she wasn’t there. He was on his own as he had always been. The fact that for the first time it bothered him was interesting. Maybe he was getting old, or mellow. Then again, maybe Jodi, with her independence, her intelligence and her warmth, had simply wormed her way into his life as no other woman, including his ex-wife, had done. He should be annoyed, he told himself, but he wasn’t. At least not on that score.

  Which left the matter of Jordan’s arrest. Cavanaugh tried to imagine what Jodi would say if she were there. Yes, she would say that he had tried his best, but she would go further. She would ask about his feelings toward his job. She would talk about commitment—not so much to that job, per se, but to general beliefs. She would explore the issue of John Ryan in search of the possible motivation or justification for his behavior. She would tell Cavanaugh that if he had serious doubts about Jordan’s guilt he should do something about it, rather than sit around the house like a … mummy.

  He smiled fleetingly. Yes, that was what she would say. And she would be right. He couldn’t formally reopen the case, but he damn well could keep his eyes and ears open, and he damn well could continue to ask questions on his own. The answers had to be somewhere. They had to be.

  * * *

  Natalie suffered as much in the days that followed as Jordan and Katia. She ached for them. She had suspected that Jordan had been in love with Katia for years, and though she still didn’t know what had kept them apart, she had never seen such a radiant bride and groom on the day of their wedding. They were good for each other. They were both mature, as perhaps she hadn’t been when she had married Jack, and they were both financially secure. They had all the things going for them that she hadn’t had. To have it all snatched from their hands was a twist of fate of the cruelest sort.

  She also ached because she knew with profound conviction that Jordan was totally innocent of the charges against him. She was his mother. She had raised him and knew him well. Where Mark had been more elusive, Jordan had always been there in every sense of the word. Jordan had loved Mark; they might have argued, but Jordan loved him. For Jordan to be accused of any murder was obscene; for him to be accused of Mark’s murder, let alone Deborah’s, was insane.

  Then too she ached as only a mother could when told her child had been involved in something as horrible as child pornography. She still couldn’t believe it. Nor could she understand it. She had to accept that it was true, since Jordan had seen it firsthand, but she spent hour upon hour wondering where she had gone so far wrong with Mark.

  Finally she ached for Jack, because she knew that he was hurting too. He had begun to come to her as he hadn’t done in years. He had canceled the business trips that had been on his schedule and went into the office for no more than four or five hours a day. The rest of time he was home, more often than not choosing to sit in the very room where she was. They talked more than they had in ages, about the children and the grandchildren, and, yes, about Mark and about what Jordan was facing. It was, indeed, what they all faced, because despite their differences Jordan was Jack’s son. His indictment was an indictment on Jack as well as Natalie.

  Though Natalie wished that the closeness she and Jack were finding was caused by anything but the present circumstances, she was grateful nonetheless. She and Jack were both getting older. Too often she had looked back on the years and seen stark voids where her relationship with her husband was concerned. She knew there had been other women and it had hurt from time to time, but the needs she had now were emotional, not sexual. When it came to her husband’s company, she found that she wasn’t a prideful person. She didn’t care why he had returned to her, just that he had.

  And, yet, with all this pain tearing at them, Natalie and Jack seemed to be taking the situation better than anyone else.

  Lenore worried. She tried not to do it—she had been better in the past few years—but she couldn’t help herself. Deborah’s death had been bad enough, but Jordan being accused of it was the twisting of the knife.

  Her children had taken Jordan’s indictment even harder than they had taken Deborah’s death. Laura was drinking more; Lenore cou
ld see history repeating itself and she didn’t know what to do about it, so she did nothing but worry. When Emily was in Dover she stormed about the house in a perpetual dramatic rage, which Lenore would have been unable to handle under any circumstances much less the tormenting ones of the present, so she simply wrung her hands each time Emily passed. Peter vascillated between fury that someone could possibly think Jordan a murderer and shock at the ramifications for his own personal career; Lenore agreed with both, so she wasn’t much help at offering comfort.

  More than once in those tense days immediately following the indictment she headed for the living room bar, but on each instance she stopped just short of it. She didn’t want to drink. When she drank she felt ill, and when she felt ill she went to her room, and when she did that her husband was justified in thinking the worst of her.

  It mattered to her what Gil thought. After that day in the attic years before, when Natalie and Cassie had managed to talk her out of despondency, she had decided that they had been right in suggesting that she had given Gil cause to seek company elsewhere. Not long after that she had started to work in Gil’s office—albeit the Boston, rather than the Washington one, and only several afternoons a week—but something very strange had happened. It wasn’t that Gil began to look at her differently, but that she began to look at herself differently. She wasn’t stuffing envelopes or typing letters; she was greeting people. Granted, many of the constituents who stopped in came with problems that she farmed out to Gil’s paid staffers, but even then she felt she was doing something constructive.

  Unfortunately, she hadn’t yet managed to fully transfer her improved self-image to the home front. She wasn’t needed there. Cassie took full control of the house. Gil took full control of the finances. The groom took full control of the stables, the groundsman took full control of the property. There didn’t seem to be anything she could do at home to exert herself. And in the present situation, with the rest of her family so full of opinions and emotions, she took her customary place in the background. And worried.