by Tracy Wolff
Besides, as things stood now, she did know he was a convicted rapist, and that was something she didn’t think she could ever get past—no matter what he said.
“Vivian, what are you talking about? I swear, I barely know who you are anymore. It’s all that work you do at the shelter—it’s changing you.”
“I certainly hope so.” Vivian gently steered her mother toward the first floor.
“And not for the better.” Her mother stepped off the escalator and into her favorite part of Saks—the purse department. “What do you think of this one?”
She held up a boring beige bag that looked just like a million others she had in her closet. “It’s fine.”
“Hmm, well, maybe.” Lillian considered it for a second, then put it back. “And don’t think I don’t know that’s where you’re running off to this afternoon.”
“Where?” Vivian asked, mystified as she tried to follow the conversation.
“That little shelter of yours with all those miserable women. I called your assistant this morning and she said your whole day was free. So if your afternoon appointment isn’t related to the firm—”
“You checked with Marcy?”
“Of course I did.” She paused over a gray bag, trailed a finger down the leather. “You never tell me anything.”
“Well, my appointment does relate to the firm. It’s for the pro bono case Richard assigned me.”
“Ah, yes. The boy murderer who has you on the news every night.” Her mother picked up another bag, black this time. “How is Richard, by the way?”
“Richard’s fine. And Diego isn’t a murderer.”
“Of course he is, dear. You know, we should have him over to the house soon.”
“Diego?” She deliberately misunderstood.
“Richard.” Her mother’s lips twisted in disapproval. “You know how your father likes him.”
“I do, yes.”
“Of course, his new wife is a bimbo, but I suppose I can endure. For your sake.”
“Don’t invite him for my sake, Mom. I’m doing fine on my own.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Partnerships are made at the dinner table, darling, not in the office. And since you insist you don’t want a husband, I assume you’re aiming for a partnership at the firm.”
“Maybe.”
“Hmm, well then, you definitely need my help.”
“And why is that?”
Her mother looked up from the bag she was perusing and pinned Vivian with the look that had been making her squirm since she was two years old. “Because, dear, everyone knows Richard doesn’t take on very many pro bono cases, and the ones he does take, he only gives to lawyers he expects to fail. It’s his little way of weeding out those lawyers who aren’t measuring up.”
She smiled. “Now where did you say you wanted to go for lunch?”
CHAPTER NINE
IT WAS OVER AN HOUR LATER before Vivian was able to escape from her mother’s clutches, and she was still reeling from the bombshell Lillian had delivered.
Was her mother right? Vivian wondered as she climbed into her car. Was that why the firm took so few pro bono cases? She tried to think of the last one she’d heard about them accepting. It had been a couple years back. A pretty cut-and-dry drunk driving case, if she remembered correctly. She wasn’t sure which lawyer had argued it, though. She remembered he’d lost because the evidence had been stacked against him.
Janssen. That was it. Janssen had argued it, she finally realized, as she pulled out of the mall’s parking lot. He was still with the firm.
Yeah, but he hadn’t made junior partner despite being at Stanley and Baker for fourteen—or maybe it was fifteen—years.
But that didn’t mean Richard was doing the same thing to her. She was a good lawyer, had won all but three cases in the years she’d been at the firm. She’d handled some of the top divorces in the city, had brought in a lot of revenue.
Ugh. She hit the steering wheel. This was crazy. When was the last time she’d believed the vitriol her mother spouted? So why was she letting it get to her now? The whole thing was ridiculous.
Yet a little voice in the back of her head that refused to shut up kept asking why a divorce attorney had been assigned a murder trial. It was a question she couldn’t answer.
By the time she got to the hospital, her nerves were stretched tight. The fact that she still hadn’t hashed things out with Rafael only stressed her out more. Part of her wanted to believe him when he said he was innocent, but another part of her was afraid. Afraid of making the same mistakes so many of the women she worked with made. Afraid of trusting him and getting hurt.
That fear didn’t negate the feelings he aroused in her, though. She’d lain awake half the night thinking about the feel of his lips on hers and wondering if any man who asked so sweetly if he could kiss her and held her so tenderly while he did so was really capable of rape.
Taking a few deep breaths, she struggled to get over her frustration and hurt so that she could do her job. After all, Diego was a hell of a lot more important than her mother’s careless nastiness or Vivian’s problems with Rafael.
But when she got to Diego’s hospital room, her frustration exploded into full-blown anger. Though she was ten minutes early, the cops were already there, and Rafael looked less than happy. It only got worse when the one closest to her glanced up and she realized she was looking at Detectives Turner and Barnes, even though they weren’t the ones who had caught the case when Diego had been admitted last week.
Ignoring all of them for a moment, she took in Diego’s bruised and battered form. If possible, he looked worse awake than he had while asleep, the misery in his eyes somehow making the bruises and broken bones look that much more horrifying.
She went to him, squeezed his uninjured hand. “How are you doing, Diego? You feeling up to this?”
“I think so.” His voice was low, his eyes averted.
“All right then. Let’s get this show on the road.” She sent him what she hoped was a reassuring smile, then pinned the men across the room with the most intimidating look she had in her repertoire.
“Hello, gentleman.” She kept her voice cool. “I trust you haven’t been here long, as I made it perfectly clear that you were not to speak with my client without me present.”
“He’s the victim, Ms. Wentworth.” It was Turner who answered her—as usual. “We just wanted to get a statement.”
“Interesting that they sent the detectives who arrested Diego for homicide to get that statement.”
“We were the only ones available this afternoon.”
“I bet. So I assume you have some questions, Detective Barnes.” She deliberately addressed the younger cop. “Let’s try to keep it brief, as my client’s been victimized enough recently, don’t you think?”
“It’s not like we’re here to beat a confession out of him,” Turner blustered.
“Well, that’s a good thing, isn’t it? As I don’t think there’s much left on my client to break.” She stared down her nose at the timeworn detective, before glancing at Rafael for the first time.
He nodded to her from his position on the other side of the bed, and she smiled at him before turning away. This was the first time she’d seen him since they’d argued the other night, and the impersonal look he gave her only made her more uncomfortable.
She made sure none of her inner turmoil came out in her voice when she spoke. “All right then, let’s get on with this.”
“So, Diego, did you get a look at who did this to you?” Barnes asked the first question.
“No. I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?” Turner took over.
“It’s kind of fuzzy. I remember it being dark.”
“But the doctors say you were attacked in the morning—it was light out.”
“Your questions sound an awful lot like accusations, Detective Turner,” Vivian interjected.
“I was just wondering why he had such
a hard time seeing if it was daylight?”
“I think—I think they put a bag over my head. I remember having a hard time breathing, trying to rip something off my face.”
“What kind of bag?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Well, that’s convenient, isn’t it?”
“Watch yourself, Detective Turner.”
“So, how many guys do you think there were?” Barnes again.
“I’m not sure. Three, maybe four.”
“Is there anything you are sure of, Diego? Because if so, feel free to speak up anytime.”
“My client sustained a serious head injury, Detective Turner. If you would like, I’m sure I could get his doctor in here to discuss memory loss of traumatic events.”
“No, I think I get it.”
“Are you sure? I can ask when her rounds are.”
“I said it’s fine.”
Vivian glanced at Rafael, then wished she hadn’t. His arms were folded across his chest and it appeared he was having a difficult time keeping his mouth shut.
“Shall we move on?”
Turner nodded. “So, where were you when this happened?”
“Close to school. I’d stopped at Mamacita’s, picked up a bagel and an apple for breakfast, then I started walking up Leavenworth.”
“That’s close to where your girlfriend lived, isn’t it? Reliving the good old days?”
“That’s it!” Vivian snapped furiously. “May I remind you, gentleman, one last time, that my client is the victim here. You’re here to find out who attacked him, not to pump him for details on any other cases. And certainly not to taunt him.”
“Other cases?” Turner finally exploded. “He killed his pregnant girlfriend! If you ask me, this beat down barely scratches the surface of what he deserves.”
“Well, if that’s how you feel, perhaps you should send another detective out here to take his statement. I want the people who did this found, and if you won’t take the investigation seriously, I’ll find someone who will.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It wasn’t meant to be. Why? Are you afraid of something?”
“Hey, now…” Barnes stepped in. “Let’s stay on task.”
“Defending Diego is my task, Detective Barnes.”
“And why is that?” Turner’s eyes swept over her in an insulting manner. “What makes a woman like you defend pond scum like this? I’d expect better from you, Ms. Wentworth.”
He put an obnoxious emphasis on the Ms., one that, combined with his rude perusal, made her want to forget about playing nice.
“Don’t talk to her like that.” Rafael spoke up for the first time, his voice more threatening than she had ever heard it, and she could tell instantly that it got the cops’ backs up.
“I can handle this, Mr. Cardoza. Please let me do so.”
He didn’t say another word, but the frown he sent her way said he wasn’t happy. Not that she cared. She wasn’t particularly impressed with him for jumping to her defense, either.
“Do you have any other questions?” Once again she spoke to Barnes, who was by far the least offensive of the two.
“Definitely.”
“Then I suggest you ask them before I lose my patience.”
Turner turned back to Diego, a malevolent look on his face. “Are you sure you were on Leavenworth? You were found three blocks up on Polk.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. I know I was walking to school.”
“Really? You weren’t walking down Polk, scoping out the apartments there?”
“Why would I be looking at apartments?”
“I don’t know—lots of pretty girls over that way.”
“Detective!”
He ignored her. “Maybe you’re missing Esme and are looking for a new victim—er, replacement.”
“No!”
“Exactly what are you getting at, Detective Turner?” Vivian demanded.
Barnes answered for him. “We talked to some people who said they saw a guy who looked a little like Diego peeping into some windows near the corner of Polk and Turk.”
“So we were wondering if maybe this beat down wasn’t a result of your little voyeuristic habit?” Turner smirked. “Maybe you looked in the wrong window, pissed off the wrong brothers.”
The emphasis he put on the last word bothered Vivian, but before she could explore why, Diego cried, “I’ve never—I wouldn’t—That’s not true!” He was visibly agitated, grimacing with each expulsion of sound.
“Okay, that’s enough. My client’s tired, Detectives. We’ll have to pick this up another day.” Yeah, when hell froze over.
“We have a few more questions—”
“Well, that’s a shame, Detective Barnes, because it doesn’t look like they’re going to get answered today.” Without breaking eye contact with the officer, she handed Diego the button for the morphine drip that was supposed to help him control pain. He took it gratefully and began to press the button. A few moments later he drifted into an uneasy sleep.
“Goodbye, Detectives.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a business card. “And the next time you want to set up an appointment to speak with my client, you’ll need to do so through me.”
Turner stared at her for long seconds before finally reaching forward and taking the card. His fingers brushed hers, and they were as cold and clammy as his personality. “I’ll do that, Ms. Wentworth.” He glanced back at the bed. “Your client has a lot to answer for. Expect my call.”
Rafael stepped forward then, bristling with aggressiveness. The detectives responded in kind, and Vivian tried to step in before what little cordiality was left went south. “My client is the victim,” she repeated for what felt like the hundredth time.
“Your client is going down,” Turner responded. “And taking everyone around him with him. I’d watch yourself, Ms. Wentworth. That weapons charge didn’t come out of nowhere. This kid has a nasty habit of taking his temper out on women who can’t defend themselves.” His eyes cut to Rafael. “But then, he’s following in some pretty big footsteps on that front, isn’t he?”
The cop’s intimation was so obnoxious that she expected to have to hold Rafael back. But when she glanced at him, she realized he’d shut down—had turned completely emotionless at the reference to his prison time.
“We’ll be in touch,” Turner called from the hallway.
“I’ll look forward to it,” she answered, keeping her polite, fake smile in place. Inside she felt sick, as if the blow they’d aimed at Rafael had hit her as well.
The second the cops were gone, she turned to him. “Don’t listen to them.”
But he was already halfway down the hall, walking away from her—and the unspoken accusations that hung in the air between them—as fast as his long legs could carry him.
HE FELT AS IF HE WAS going to explode. As if his brain was on fire and he was going to spontaneously combust right there in the middle of Saint Francis Hospital.
“Rafael, wait,” Vivian called, but he didn’t slow down. He didn’t want to be around her right now, couldn’t stand to look in her eyes and see her contempt. And he sure as hell couldn’t stand the idea of talking with her about his past again.
He hated people like those cops, men who, at best, cared more about what they thought they knew than they ever would about the truth. Men who were inflexible about seeing the other side of the story.
It was two cops like that who had arrested him without evidence all those years ago, who had railroaded him right into prison, on the words of a vindictive girl, for a crime he hadn’t committed.
The fact that these two guys knew about his past—and had used it against him in front of Vivian—only made him more upset.
“Am I going to have to chase you through this whole damn hospital or are you going to be reasonable?” Her voice echoed down the hallway after him. “Rafael?”
He continued to ignore her, as he headed into the stairwell. Being re
asonable wasn’t in his bag of tricks for the day. But about halfway down the second set of steps, he stopped dead, realizing that he’d left Diego alone and undefended.
Shit, he was a bigger basket case than he’d thought.
Knowing he had to go back up, he stood there for a minute and tried to compose himself. It didn’t work.
Vivian met him on the landing between floors, her eyes dark with unexpected concern.
Feeling more insecure than he liked to admit—not to mention embarrassed as hell that Vivian had seen those cops humiliate him—Rafael used the same defense he’d been using for his entire adult life: a good offense.
“Those guys were assholes. I didn’t like what they were saying about you and Diego. So sue me.”
“Rafael.”
“Vivian.” He mimicked her tone.
“We need to work with them.”
He laughed sarcastically. “They don’t want to work with us—and they never have. They’ve had it in for Diego from the minute they got him in their sights for Esme’s murder. You think it’s a coincidence that they got assigned this case?”
“Of course not. But that’s the point.” She was speaking in a furious whisper, and he had to bend his head to hear her words. She wore flats today instead of her usual skyscraper heels, which put her mouth about seven inches below his own, and her voice wasn’t carrying. “They’re looking for an excuse to make as much trouble for Diego as they can. Don’t give it to them.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, they don’t need an excuse to make trouble.” He bent closer, crowded her a little with his body, knowing it was a bad idea even as he did so, especially after the way she’d responded the last time they’d been alone together.
She stuttered over her answer as his shoulder brushed against hers. It made him wonder if she was afraid—or aroused.
“T-true, but it never pays to antagonize the guys with power.”
“I think I know that better than most.” He drew a finger gently down her cheek, testing her response.
