by Misty Evans
It would have been easy to just let go. To experience Beck again and maybe recapture some of the intense connection they’d shared twelve years earlier. So much had happened since then and they weren’t horny college students anymore.
Different time. Different place. And now they had to face each other after they’d almost bumped privates the night before. How to handle it, she hadn’t decided. Pretending it never happened could be an option.
So not her style, but her priority needed to be winning Beck’s case. If she did that, he’d be free. And maybe, just maybe, after that they’d…
No. She wouldn’t go there. Thinking about a future with Beck meant distractions and she owed him being at the top of her game.
One step at a time.
She’d have to remember that.
“Good morning.” She crossed her arms and leaned against the door frame. “Smells great in here.”
Beck swiveled away from the stove, pausing for a few seconds as he took in her body language. “Morning.” He waved the spatula in his hand. “I…uh…figured you could use a good meal.”
Only five feet separated them, but a weird tension crowded the small space. Beck’s kitchen wasn’t big enough for them and all their baggage. No kitchen would be.
What am I doing? Smart Jackie again.
Lonely Jackie blew out a breath.
“Sounds good,” she said. “Can I help?”
His gaze moved down her body, over her blouse and slacks that comprised her work uniform. The only thing missing was her blazer. She’d draped that over the back of the couch after coming downstairs.
Beck gestured with the spatula. “You can do toast. Bread is in the drawer.”
Thankful for something to do, she went to work at the toaster.
“Jackie, we should—”
Refusing to face him, she held up her hand. “I know. Just…not yet. Please. We’ll talk about it later.”
Someone tapped lightly on the back door and Jackie said a silent thank you for the timely interruption. Beck peered out the window over the sink.
“Great,” he said.
“Who is it?”
“Monroe.” He moved to the door, popped the lock and went back to the stove.
Monroe pushed through, bringing that crazy zinging energy with him. She’d only met the man once, but he tended to electrify a room, and not necessarily in a good way.
“Hi, Mitch,” she said. “You’re still here.”
“Yeah.” He pointed at Beck. “You got problems.”
He’d just figured that out?
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
Mitch waggled his thumb. “I am. Company out front. Reporters. A lot of ‘em.”
“Shit.”
Dammit. She’d anticipated press inquiries via the phone, but a camp-out? So soon? She punched the cancel button on the toaster and headed for the front window. The blinds were still closed and rather than alert them of her presence—how the hell would she explain that when they hadn’t seen her walk in?—she peeped through them.
News vans lined both sides of the street while vehicles dodged reporters sheltered under umbrellas and cameramen jockeying for any opening that would best their competitor. Bodies and various equipment crammed the sidewalk from two doors down in either direction. Someone was interviewing a woman on a porch across the street.
Jackie let go of the blind, turned back and found Beck in the kitchen doorway.
“How bad is it?”
“I’ve seen worse.”
Then again, her perspective, given the sensational case she’d just won, might be skewed.
Beck huffed. “That bad, huh? Maybe we can sneak out the back? Have someone pick us up on the next block.”
Not a chance. “We’re not running. It sends the wrong message. I’d rather face it and maybe get ahead of the prosecution.” She pointed to the door and met his eye. “We’re going to walk out there and I’ll do the talking. Got it?”
Even if he didn’t understand it, too bad. At this point, nothing good could come of him making a statement. Something she hoped, given his law enforcement experience, he’d accept.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
Excellent. A smart man. But she’d known that about him from the first night she’d met him. It was, in fact, one of the traits that drew her to him. Her ultimate downfall when it came to Beck.
Back in the kitchen Mitch had helped himself to bacon and the toast she’d walked away from. “Mitch,” she said, “can you help us? When we open the front door, they’ll swarm. You can go out first and create a path for us to get to the car.”
Mitch shrugged. “Sure. I’m good at being the muscle.” He turned to Beck, offered a sarcastic grin. “Anything for you, buddy.”
“Fuck off, Monroe. But, thank you.”
“You’re welcome. This bacon is good. Maple?”
Beck sighed.
“Save the bacon,” Jackie said. “I want to get outside and deal with these reporters. Get our message out there before the other side does. Let me get myself together and we’ll do this.”
She left the kitchen and grabbed her blazer from the sofa on her way to the powder room where she’d check her hair and lipstick. More than that, she needed a few minutes of quiet to get her thoughts in order.
These moments didn’t happen often. The ones where a slight slip of the tongue could send a case shooting off in another direction. Or get her client a life sentence.
Focus.
“Stick to what you know,” she whispered to her reflection. “You’ve got this.”
She slid her shoulders back, Marianna DelRay style, and drew air through her nose. Taking a second to center herself, she visualized the front door opening, the rush of reporters, the bursting lights, all of it enough to trigger her nerves if she hadn’t been here before.
Shark Jackie.
“I’ve got this.”
After one last tug on her blazer sleeves, she turned, threw the door open and marched into the living room where Monroe and Beck waited. Beck held her briefcase in one hand and an umbrella in the other. He handed over her briefcase while Monroe moved to the door.
One hand on the knob, he paused and looked back. “You both ready?”
Beck nodded.
“Let’s go,” Jackie said.
Monroe swung the door open and a commotion erupted from outside. Shouting voices, the slap of feet on wet pavement, someone swearing, all of it creating chaos. Beck quickly popped the umbrella up and Jackie held it while he locked the door. Monroe led the charge, hustling to Beck’s car sitting in the driveway.
“Mr. Pearson,” Connie Butler from the NBC affiliate yelled, “what do you have to say about the blood found on your coat sleeve?”
Crap. The blood evidence. Damned cops already starting with leaks to the press.
Might as well deal with that bit of nastiness straight away.
Jackie halted in the middle of the front walk, apparently surprising Beck who kept moving. Fat, pounding drops of rain pelted her—there went her carefully primped hair—for a few seconds before Beck realized he’d left her behind. He retreated, once again sheltering her from the deluge. Still, her hair, the armor she’d sprayed in place, was trashed. Forget it. She’d do this looking ratty. The message would still be clear.
“Ms. Delray,” someone said, “have you been here all night?”
You’ve got this.
Shark Jackie faced one of the cameras, her practiced sly grin in place. “You folks aren’t nearly as inconspicuous as you’d like to think. I spotted you on my way over and slipped through the back door. And, Connie, to answer your question, Mr. Pearson has nothing to hide. The blood on his sleeve included. It’s public knowledge Mr. Pearson spent time with the victim the night she died due to a charity event. She cut her hand on broken glass and Mr. Pearson rendered basic first aid to stop the bleeding. That’s how the blood got there. Think about it. If Mr. Pearson committed this crime, he’d have blood all o
ver that jacket. Not just a few drops on the sleeve. If the prosecution intends on trying my client for murder, they’d better present more than easily explainable evidence.”
Another round of shouts sounded, an absolute bombing of questions mixing with the slap of pounding rain, but Jackie was done. She’d given them their sound bite, managing to call out the opposition for leaking evidence. When she went to court, she’d rail about it, maybe get them a scolding from the judge to start things off right.
One thing was for sure. Based on the number of people currently on Beck’s front lawn, they had a heater of a case. Normally Jackie’s dream come true.
Not this time. This time, all eyes were on them. On her. Which meant being a whole lot more careful when it came to the personal nature of her relationship with the accused.
Eight
“Wow.”
Jackie sat in the passenger seat of Chessie’s Caddie, her eyes glued to a stately brick Colonial as they pulled around the curving driveway.
She’d known the home values in Potomac were no joke, but this baby had to be at the higher end of the scale.
“I bet it’s 10,000 square feet,” she said.
“Close, 9,600. I checked the stats before I picked you up. Six bedrooms, five bathrooms and a guest house around back.”
A low whistle sounded from the back seat where Beck had squeezed himself to the floorboard. He hadn’t been happy about being left out, but they couldn’t be dragging the murder suspect along on interviews.
Plus, after the Reiki-gone-wrong fiasco the evening before, his hands all over her – all over – she needed him out of her range of sight. And not distracting her.
Even looking at him challenged her. Physically and emotionally. Her out-of-character and completely spontaneous hookup with him twelve years ago taught her hard lessons. The first being that a casual sexual encounter changed her life. She couldn’t allow herself to be that careless. Or vulnerable.
Particularly with Beck and the flood of lust he sparked in her. Proving his innocence meant his lawyer – namely her – needed to be focused.
Not horny.
When it came to this interview with Rachael Travathian, the best Jackie could do was compromise and allow him to listen in via the microphone tucked into her jacket pocket. Annabelle had no family they could talk to, outside of Byron, so the next step was to check out Dikko under the guise of talking to Annabelle’s friend. A friend who just happened to be at the same bachelor auction.
Chessie pulled around to the front, forgoing the side area with the three-car garage and a wide expanse for parking. A flashy red sports car – possibly a Ferrari, but what did Jackie know? – sat in front of one of the garage bays.
“Nice ride,” Chessie said.
“Any idea what they paid for this house?”
“It was listed for five mill three years ago. I’ll dig around and see what the actual selling price was.”
“That’s okay. I was just curious.”
Decorative clusters of columns accented the covered porch, each with four posts that gave the home an elegant, intimidating feel.
Maybe that’s what the Travathians wanted. For anyone who entered their world to feel the full brunt of their wealth. And try to keep up.
The front door opened and a woman wearing a maid’s uniform – unbelievable – stood in the entry staring out at the strange car in the driveway.
“Jesus,” Chessie said. “The help answering the door? It’s like a scene from Gone With the Wind.”
Beck let out a snort and Jackie fought the urge to look back. “Beck, stay in here, out of sight. God help us if anyone walks up and checks out this car.”
Jackie exited, adjusting her jacket sleeves before turning back for her briefcase. “Hello,” she called. “My name is Jackie DelRay. I’m here to see Mrs. Travathian. I called earlier.”
“Yes, she’s expecting you.”
Chessie made his way around the car and motioned Jackie ahead. They climbed the brick stairs where large pots of overflowing flowers greeted them. The pots alone had to be $500. Selling helmets to the government must have been profitable.
I’m in the wrong line of work.
The woman ushered them into the first room on the left. Not quite a living room, but large enough to fit an upholstered sofa with two giant wing backed chairs. Her mother’s house had a room like this. Mom called it the quick-stay room. Cozy enough to entertain a few guests she didn’t necessarily want staying and close enough to the front door to shuttle them out in a hurry.
“May I get you anything?” The woman asked. “Coffee? Water?”
“I’m fine. Thank you.”
“I’m good,” Chessie added.
“Please have a seat. Madam will be with you in a moment.” The woman offered a little bow before taking her leave and Jackie fought the eyeroll. How effing pretentious could these people be? And this poor woman had to put up with this nonsense.
“Frankly, my dear,” Chessie muttered, “I don’t give a damn.”
She nudged him with her elbow. “No kidding. Still, knock it off with the Gone with the Wind crap.”
He pointed to the sofa. “Let’s take the sofa.”
“Why?”
“From there we can see the door. Psychological advantage. She can’t see what’s coming behind her.”
Power play. Excellent. “I do love you, Chesley.”
Before Chessie could unleash one of his smartass comments, a tall woman, maybe early forties, with sleek auburn hair and glowing skin, entered. The glow may have been courtesy of her expertly applied makeup because up close, her shadowed eyes indicated a lack of sleep.
They stood and she held her hand out.
“Hello. I’m Rachael.”
“I’m Jackie DelRay. This is my associate, Chesley.”
Early in her career, Jackie learned referring to her investigator as an associate provided a better chance of loosening lips. People tended to clam up at his actual title.
“Please, sit.” Rachael smoothed her pristine pencil skirt, giving them a view of her ample cleavage under the extra undone button on her blouse.
Hopefully, Chessie wouldn’t need oxygen after this. Jackie glanced at him and his smirk was more nice-try-lady than lust.
Rachael eased into the chair and did some minor wardrobe adjusting before settling in for their chat.
“Thank you for seeing us,” Jackie said.
“Of course. You said it was about Annabelle.” She set her hand on her chest, closed her eyes and breathed deep. “I still can’t believe it. We were just together.”
Maybe she did have a little Scarlett O’Hara in her. Jackie waited for her to open her eyes, but when the woman continued to sit in some sort of grief-inflicted meditative state, Jackie forged ahead. “I understand you attended the charity auction with Annabelle.”
Rachael’s eyes fluttered open, focusing on Chessie as she dragged her hand down her chest and across one breast. Oh, she liked to rile men up, didn’t she? Some women were like that. Jackie had never been one of them. She was lucky not to have spinach in her teeth.
“I did,” Rachael said. “We were friends and enjoyed doing things like that together.”
“How did you meet?”
Might as well clarify that, in case they’d been friends prior to marrying their spouses.
“Our husbands. They were in the military together. They’ve remained friends all these years.”
“I see.”
Chessie shifted in his seat, drawing Rachael’s attention. “Did Annabelle seem upset at the auction? Anything bothering her?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary. The divorce was taking its toll. They were fighting a lot.”
“About?”
“Money, of course.”
Of course. “They were having trouble coming to a settlement?”
“Yes. I never asked for particulars. So crass. But she did mention there were issues related to jointly-owned stock.”
A chi
me sounded and Jackie glanced to the hallway.
“That’s the garage door,” Rachael said. “My husband is home.”
“Hon?” a man called.
Beck better have stayed down and out of sight when Travathian pulled up the drive. Then again, if he’d checked out the Caddie and seen Beck, he wouldn’t be coming in the side door. He’d be busting in the front.
Maybe they’d get lucky and have a two-fer with Mr. Dikko Travathian and his wife.
“In here, baby.”
Seconds later, a man strutted into the room and Jackie instantly recognized his dark features from the photos they’d found on the internet.
“I didn’t realize we were expecting guests,” he said to Rachael.
“Darling,” she said “this is Jackie DelRay and her associate, Chesley. They’re investigating Annabelle’s murder.”
When Jackie and Chessie made a move to stand, he held his hand up. “Not necessary.” He shook their hands. “I’m Dikko Travathian. You from homicide?”
Uh, no. “I’m an attorney,” Jackie said. “Beckett Pearson is my client.”
The temperature in the room dropped twenty degrees, but the Travathians, well, these people were no slouches. Rachael pushed her shoulders back.
“I…” Rachael cleared her throat. “I assumed you were from the prosecutor’s office. You didn’t specify.”
True. When Jackie had called, all she’d said was she was a lawyer. She just hadn’t mentioned for whom.
And really, she had no answer for the socialite.
Mr. Travathian cleared his throat. “Doesn’t matter. How can you defend that son of a bitch?”
Ah, the cocktail party question, as it was known in the world of defense attorneys. “Mr. Travathian, if you were unjustly accused of a crime, wouldn’t you want an attorney?”
“Whatever,” he said.
Jackie unbuckled the front clasp of her briefcase and retrieved a copy of the photo of Byron, Dikko, and the President. “Mr. Travathian, do you remember where this was taken?”
He snatched the picture from her. “Jesus. I haven’t seen this in years. Yeah, I remember. It was a get-together.”
