by Unknown
It hurt to see him struggling to be stoic and adult; once more, Mary questioned the delicate judgment involved in having Paget represent her. In a flat voice, Carlo asked, ‘Is it too late to tell him?’
‘For some things, far too late.’ Mary paused. ‘Whatever my reasons then, Carlo, I have very good ones now. Please just accept that.’
Carlo nodded slowly. ‘Okay.’
Mary watched him wonder. She had not known how hard it would be to forfeit her son’s trust, how deeply he had captured her. But she must leave Carlo with at least one parent to be proud of.
‘There is one thing,’ she said, ‘that I do need you to know about.’
It seemed to reach him. ‘You’re my mother,’ he answered. ‘Whatever you need to say to me, it’s all right.’
By instinct, Mary shrank from thinking of herself in terms of need. But it was better for Carlo to think she needed him than to understand that it was his needs that were driving her. She put her hand on his. ‘There’s a tape,’ she said, ‘of me talking to a psychiatrist. Mark Ransom had it.’
Carlo had not yet learned Paget’s pose that surprise was beyond his emotional range; alarm and confusion crossed his face before he found composure. ‘Does the D.A. know?’ he asked.
‘Yes. They think that’s why I killed him.’ She paused. ‘There’ll be a recess tomorrow or the next day. For a conference in chambers, while your father tries to keep the tape out of evidence.’
‘So Dad already knew?’
‘Now he knows. But only because they found it.’ Mary kept her voice level; don’t show him how hard this is, she told herself, or how scared you are of what Marnie Sharpe could do. ‘It concerns my time as a lawyer,’ she finished. ‘Things I’m deeply ashamed of.’
‘But to kill over it? That’s what they think?’
‘The tape would ruin my career.’ Mary gave a thin smile. ‘I seem to have given some people the impression that would be enough.’
Carlo shook his head; Mary could not tell whether it was in disbelief that anyone would think that or at what she had just told him.
‘That isn’t enough,’ she said softly. ‘Not to murder someone.’
Carlo was silent for a time. ‘And the things Dad doesn’t know . . . ?’
‘Belong to me.’
Carlo was staring at her hand, still on his. Then he turned it, so that her hand rested in his palm, and closed his fingers around her.
His silent simple gesture brought Mary close to tears. ‘While Chris is trying to defend me,’ she said quietly, ‘there are certain things he doesn’t ask and things he doesn’t need to know. What I wanted you to know is that his problems as a lawyer are far worse than you can see. Worse, even, than he may know.’ Her voice grew softer yet. ‘For that you can blame me.’
Mary saw his perceptions shift again, a kind of relief running through him. Realized, with sadness and satisfaction, how much this boy’s sense of himself had come from Christopher Paget.
‘He’s been a good father,’ she said. ‘Hasn’t he?’
‘Yes. He has.’
To Mary, he seemed glad of the change of subject, and to know that he could speak well of Paget without offending her. As for her, she felt exhausted – anything was a better subject than the things she could not tell anyone, Carlo most of all.
‘Does Chris have any kind of social life?’ she asked. ‘I really have no idea.’
Carlo’s look mingled surprise with a certain amusement. ‘Do you mean a woman? Or just going to cocktail parties and stuff like that?’
‘Women, I suppose.’ Mary paused. ‘I just wonder what he’s been doing with himself all these years.’
‘He doesn’t tell me much. But there are always one or two women around, usually good-looking and smart and with great jobs. He just never seems to get attached to them.’ Carlo shrugged. ‘Maybe some of it is that he’s a parent, and a lot of the people he’s gone out with don’t have kids. But there’s a part of him I think they never really get to see.’
‘Like me, I’m told.’ Mary smiled. ‘If you asked either of us to get in touch with our feelings, we’d probably need a map.’
Carlo gave her a mischievous look. ‘Then for all either of you knows, you’re still in love.’
Mary laughed. ‘He’s not that out of touch,’ she said in a facetious tone. ‘And the part of me I know about can’t stand him.’ She paused again, voice softer. ‘It’s funny, though. When I first knew Chris, I thought he was the most arrogant man I’d ever met, as strong-willed as I was, and certain of his own rightness. He seems so much more human now, more aware of his own flaws – even when he’s being an absolute bastard.’ She smiled a little, shaking her head. ‘The strange thing is, instead of liking that, it makes me a little sad. Like we’ve both gotten older.’
Carlo reflected for a moment. ‘It’s hard to think of him as older. To me, he’s always looked the same. Ever since I first came here.’
His last phrase, outwardly careless, seemed to ask Mary why she had let him go. She searched for something else to say. ‘What was Andrea like – his wife?’
‘I don’t remember much, except that I thought she looked kind of like you.’ He considered a moment and then shrugged; it seemed a teenage gesture of incuriosity, dismissing things that had nothing to do with him. ‘I think they just kind of drifted apart.’
Mary nodded. Carlo had been young enough, and Paget sensitive enough, that the boy had never blamed himself. ‘Perhaps he’ll find someone else.’
‘I don’t know.’ Carlo seemed to reflect. ‘The one I think he really likes is Terri, and she only works for him. Besides,’ he added, as if this closed the subject, ‘she’s got a husband and a five-year-old kid.’
Mary smiled. It was surely not her place to say what instinct told her: that Teresa Peralta was falling in love with Christopher Paget, husband or no, and whether or not Terri would ever permit herself to face that. ‘Chris and Terri can still be friends, you know. It doesn’t have to be passion.’
He gave her a wry look. ‘Now you sound like Dad. Listen to him sometimes, and sex doesn’t matter at all. Especially for me.’
Mary laughed. ‘That’s not how I remember Chris.’ The thought stopped her, and then other images ran through her mind – a night in Washington, an afternoon in Paris – much more bitter and more lasting. She stifled them, recaptured her smile. ‘We were a disaster as a couple,’ she said. ‘But when it came to picking a father for you, I did pretty well.’
Carlo raised his water glass. ‘Then here’s to all of us.’ He paused, then added, ‘I know you’re going to win, Mom.’
What she could not tell him, Mary thought, was that winning and losing had many faces. That when she had awakened the night before, sweating yet cold in a room that at first she did not recognize, her nightmare had been not of prison or disgrace but of Carlo Carelli Paget, listening to the tape they must never find.
Mary touched her glass to Carlo’s. ‘To all of us,’ she said. ‘And, most of all, to you.’
Chapter 4
The room service waiter was a dapper Hispanic in his mid thirties, Paul Aguilar, with a black mustache, slicked-back hair, and a confident smile. The act of testifying before the world seemed not to bother him at all.
‘Can you identify,’ Sharpe asked, ‘the woman you saw with Mr Ransom?’
Her manner was relaxed; Paget guessed that she had worked with Aguilar extensively, and that he made a good witness.
‘The defendant, Miss Carelli.’ Aguilar straightened in his chair, pointing at Mary. ‘Even without seeing her on television, Miss Carelli would be hard to forget.’
‘How gallant,’ Mary murmured to Paget. On the other side of him, Terri watched Aguilar intently; Paget sensed that he already concerned her.
‘Once Mr Ransom let you in, what happened next?’
‘The usual thing. I asked him where to place the champagne bucket, and he said the coffee table. So I put it there in front of Miss Carelli.’
‘Nothing, except to thank me.’ He smiled, as if in pleasure at this brush with the famous. ‘She seemed very nice.’
‘Was there anything unusual in her manner?’
‘No. She was just like I’d expect her to be.’
‘And how was that?’
‘Classy.’ Aguilar seemed to wrinkle his nose at the word. ‘That’s not exactly what I mean. Very poised, very relaxed, like someone who always knows what to do.’
Sharpe, Paget realized, was asking Aguilar to paint a word picture of a woman at ease, self-possessed and unconcerned. He made the snap judgment not to object.
‘Did she seem worried about anything?’
Aguilar’s shrug said that the thought had never occurred to him. ‘Not that I saw.’
‘Or unfriendly to Mr Ransom?’
‘No.’ He gave a smile of bemusement, as if still deciphering Ransom’s death. ‘She didn’t look hostile at all. I thought they were friends, spending a few hours alone.’ He smiled again. ‘In my business, you see that a lot.’
On the bench, Masters frowned. ‘He’s making this seem like a date,’ Mary whispered to Paget.
Paget turned to her slightly, still watching Masters. ‘I’d make it look worse by complaining,’ he whispered back. ‘Let’s hope that this guy hangs himself.’
‘Did Mr Ransom say anything?’ Sharpe was asking.
Aguilar nodded vigorously. ‘I said something to him about how much I liked his books. So he told me that compliments like that were what kept him writing. He made me feel good I’d spoken up.’ He gave a sheepish smile. ‘I’m a room service waiter, you know. It’s not my place to push myself on people.’
With one innocuous question, Paget thought, Sharpe had made both Ransom and Aguilar seem more human. He felt Mary tense beside him.
Sharpe paused for a moment, as if preparing some ultimate thrust. ‘During this time,’ she asked, ‘did you happen to notice whether the sitting room blinds were closed or open?’
‘Open. Definitely.’
‘And how are you so sure?’
Aguilar smiled. ‘Because I remember Mr Ransom had a nice view of Berkeley, across the bay. So I looked out, imagining I could see my cousin’s old house.’ He turned, explaining to Masters, ‘I used to spend a lot of time with him. My cousin, I mean.’
Caroline Masters nodded. To Paget, her expression said that Aguilar’s charm was lost on her; quickly, Paget adjusted his impression of how far he could go on cross.
‘Before you left,’ Sharpe continued, ‘did Mr Ransom do anything else?’
‘He signed the check, of course.’ Aguilar smiled again. ‘Then he gave me a nice tip, clapped me on the back, and winked.’
‘He winked?’
‘Yes. Like to tell me he was lucky.’ He spread his arms, as if to affirm the pleasure of life itself, the understanding of one man for another. ‘You know, that he’s alone with this beautiful woman and feeling good.’
Masters’s frown had deepened. She turned to Aguilar. ‘Are you sure he didn’t have something in his eye?’
Aguilar looked puzzled, as if Judge Masters did not appreciate this moment of shared humanity. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It was a wink.’
‘I see,’ Masters said in her flattest voice. ‘Go ahead, Ms Sharpe.’
Sharpe gazed at her for a moment. When Terri turned to him, Paget whispered, ‘I don’t think Caroline will be checking into the Flood very soon. At least not without bringing her own champagne.’
But Sharpe was moving closer to the witness, with an air of expectancy Paget did not like. ‘Before you left,’ she asked quietly, ‘did either Mr Ransom or Ms Carelli say anything else?’
Aguilar nodded. ‘Yes. Miss Carelli did.’
‘And what did she say?’
Aguilar turned to Mary, as if Sharpe had trained him to do so. Softly, he said, ‘To hang out the privacy sign.’
Sharpe paused, letting the moment sink in. There was a first faint murmur in the courtroom, and then Sharpe asked, ‘Did Ms Carelli say why?’
‘No.’ A rueful shake of the head. ‘If a woman wants to be alone with a man, I don’t ask why.’
Sharpe nodded, as if he had said something profound. Then she turned to Masters. ‘No further questions.’
Masters was gazing at Mary. As Masters looked away, Paget whispered to Mary, ‘Is that true?’
Mary still watched Masters. ‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘It is.’
Paget turned from the witness, listening as Johnny Moore bent forward from the first row, whispered his advice. Nodding, Paget stood and then walked toward Aguilar. ‘Good morning,’ he said pleasantly.
Aguilar nodded; the impression was of a relaxed and friendly man in a service business, meeting another member of the public. ‘Good morning, sir.’
‘Was it morning,’ Paget asked abruptly, ‘or afternoon when you went to Ransom’s suite?’
Aguilar blinked. ‘Morning, I think. Late morning.’
‘And you worked from seven to five that day, correct?’
‘That’s my usual shift.’
‘That covers breakfast, lunch, and early dinner, correct?’
‘Yes.’
Paget gave him a curious look. ‘Have you any idea how many rooms you visited that day?’
‘No.’
‘A lot?’
Aguilar furrowed his brow. ‘A fair number.’
‘If I told you that my investigator had checked the room service slips with your name on them and counted forty-three, would that seem out of line?’
‘No. I keep busy – it could have been that many.’
‘Other than Mr Ransom’s suite, can you describe the occupants of any other rooms you served that day?’
‘No.’ Aguilar paused. ‘It was fresher then. You know, the first time I talked to the police.’
‘But you also talked to my investigator, Johnny Moore, two days later. Is that correct?’
‘I remember Mr Moore. Yes.’
‘And do you also remember Mr Moore asking the same question I just did: whether you recalled anyone else you served that day?’
‘I guess so.’
‘And your answer was the same, wasn’t it – you didn’t remember anyone else, did you?’
Aguilar folded his arms. ‘I guess I didn’t. These people were celebrities.’
Paget moved close, ignoring the last sentence. ‘Nor,’ he asked softly, ‘did you remember whether anyone else had the shades up or down, did you?’
Aguilar began to look unhappy. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Mr Ransom’s room was the one I remember.’
Paget nodded. In a tone of sudden understanding, he said, ‘Because you recalled looking out at Berkeley.’
Aguilar leaned forward, as if eager to seize on the reason Paget had given him. ‘That’s right.’
‘Do you make it a habit to look out at Berkeley? That is, when you get the chance?’
‘When I think about it.’ Aguilar smiled. ‘The views in the Mission District, where I live, aren’t so hot.’
Paget smiled back. ‘Do you happen to recall,’ he asked pleasantly, ‘how many rooms you visited that day that had views of Berkeley from the tenth floor or above?’
Aguilar stared at him. ‘No.’
‘Twelve rooms,’ Paget said in the flat voice of authority. ‘And three suites. All with views of Berkeley. Does that sound right to you?’
Aguilar paused, giving him a trapped, wary look. ‘Could be.’
‘Must have been quite a nostalgic day for you,’ Paget observed.
‘Your Honor,’ Sharpe called out. ‘That wasn’t a proper question, and this has gone too far.’
‘It wasn’t,’ Masters agreed, ‘and this has. Move it along, Mr Paget.’
The judge did not, Paget saw, look particularly annoyed. ‘Are you still quite sure,’ he asked Aguilar, ‘that Mr Ransom’s shades were open?’
‘Yes.’
‘Becau
se it is one of fifteen rooms you saw that day with a scenic view of Berkeley?’
‘No.’ Aguilar’s voice was emphatic. ‘Because of Miss Carelli.’
‘Miss Carelli.’ Paget stretched out the name. ‘Yes, she does seem to have captured your imagination.’
Paget lent the last three words a faint sardonic edge. Caroline Masters caught it, he saw; a fleeting smile came and went. But Aguilar did not seem to follow him.
‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘I remembered her.’
‘How long were you in that room, Mr Aguilar?’
Aguilar shook his head. ‘No way I can recall.’
‘You’re trained, are you not, to get in and out of a room quickly?’
‘Yes. People like their privacy.’
‘And all you had to do in this case was set down an ice bucket and two glasses, is that right?’
‘And have Mr Ransom sign the check.’
‘A simple job, right?’
‘I would say so.’
‘So that if you told Mr Moore that you had been in Mr Ransom’s suite for about a minute and a half, would that still sound right?’
Aguilar paused. ‘I guess so,’ he finally said.
‘So that your testimony for Ms Sharpe this morning is based on roughly ninety seconds in one of forty-three hotel rooms you visited that day. Is that correct?’
Aguilar’s mouth set in a stubborn line. ‘I remember what I saw.’
‘And what you saw, you believe, was that Ms Carelli seemed “relaxed”?’
‘Yes.’ Aguilar nodded. ‘She seemed comfortable with Mr Ransom.’
Paget stared at him. ‘Did they actually say anything to each other?’
Aguilar looked from Paget to Johnny Moore, sitting next to Carlo in the front row. ‘Not that I remember.’
‘Or say anything to you about each other?’
‘No. Not that.’
‘Or touch each other?’
Aguilar stared at him. ‘No.’
‘Or even smile at each other?’
‘No.’
‘In other words, each of them talked only to you, and smiled only at you, and yet you concluded they were “relaxed” with each other.’
