Books by Nora Roberts

by Roberts, Nora

  At the moment, his jacket was off, his white shirt-sleeves rolled up his sinewy forearms. His tie was askew and he reached up to straighten it as Deborah entered.

  "Deborah, always a pleasure to see you."

  "Good to see you, Mayor. Hello, Jerry."

  "Have a seat, have a seat." Fields gestured her to a chair as he settled back against the cushy leather of his own. "So, how's the Slagerman trial going?"

  "Very well. I think he'll take the stand after the noon recess."

  "And you're ready for him."

  "More than."

  "Good, good." He waved in his secretary as she came to the door with a tray. "I thought since I'm making you miss lunch, I could at least offer you some coffee and a Danish."

  "Thank you." She took the cup, exchanged idle conversation, though she knew she hadn't been sent for to drink coffee and chat.

  "Heard you had some excitement last night."

  "Yes." It was no more than she'd expected. "We lost Ray Santiago."

  "Yes, I heard. It's unfortunate. And this Nemesis character, he was there, as well?"

  "Yes, he was."

  "He was also there the night the antique store on Seventh blew up." Steepling his fingers, Fields sat back. "One might begin to think he was involved."

  "No, not in the way you mean. If he hadn't been there last night, I wouldn't be sitting here now." Though it annoyed her, she was compelled to defend him. "He's not a criminal—at least not in the standard sense."

  The mayor merely lifted a brow. "In whatever sense, I prefer to have the police enforce the law in my city."

  "Yes, I agree."

  Satisfied, he nodded. "And this man…" He pushed through the papers on his desk. "Montega?"

  "Enrico Montega," Deborah supplied. "Also known as Ricardo Sanchez and Enrico Toya. A Colombian national who entered the U.S. about six years ago. He's suspected of the murder of two drug merchants in Columbia. He was based in Miami for a while, and

  Vice there has a fat file on him. As does Interpol. Allegedly, he is the top enforcer on the East Coast. Four years ago, he murdered a police officer, and seriously wounded another." She paused, thinking of Gage.

  "You've been doing your homework," Fields commented.

  "I always like a firm foundation when I go after someone."

  "Hmm. You know, Deborah, Mitchell considers you his top prosecutor." Fields grinned. "Not that he'd admit it. Mitch doesn't like to hand out compliments."

  "I'm aware of that."

  "We're all very pleased with your record, and particularly with the way the Slagerman case seems to be going. Both Mitch and I agree that we want you to concentrate more fully on your litigation. So, we've decided to take you off this particular case."

  She blinked, stunned. "I beg your pardon?"

  "We've decided you should turn your notes, your files over to another D.A."

  "You're pulling me?"

  He held up a hand. "We're simply beefing up the police investigation. With your caseload, we prefer to have you turn over your files on this to someone else."

  She set her cup down with a snap. "Parino was mine."

  "Parino is dead."

  She shot a glance at Jerry, but he only lifted his hands. She rose, fighting to hold her temper. "This sprang out of that. All of it. This is my case. It has been all along."

  "And you've endangered yourself, and the case, twice already."

  "I've been doing my job."

  "Someone else will be doing it, this part of it, after today." He spread his hands. "Deborah, this isn't a punishment, merely a shifting of responsibilities."

  She shook her head and snatched up her briefcase. "Not good enough, not nearly. I'm going to speak with Mitchell myself." Turning, she stormed out. She had to struggle to maintain her dignity and not give in to the urge to slam the door behind her.

  Jerry caught up with her at the elevators. "Deb, wait."

  "Don't even try it."

  "What?"

  "To soothe and placate." After jamming the Down button, she whirled on him. "What the hell is this, Jerry?"

  "Like the mayor said—"

  "Don't hand me that. You knew, you knew what was going on, why I was being called in, and you didn't tell me. Not even a warning so I could prepare myself."

  "Deb—" He laid a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off. "Look, not that I don't agree with everything the mayor said—"

  "You always do."

  "I didn't know. I didn't know, damn it," he repeated when she only stared at him. "Not until ten o'clock this morning. And whatever I think, I would have told you."

  She stopped pounding her fist against the Down button. "Okay, I'm sorry I jumped all over you. But it's not right. Something's not right about all this."

  "You nearly got yourself killed," he reminded her. "When Guthrie came in this morning—"

  "Gage?" she interrupted. "Gage was here?"

  "The ten-o'clock appointment."

  "I see." Hands fisted, she whirled back to the elevator. "So he's behind it."

  "He was concerned, that's all. He suggested—"

  "I get the picture." She cut him off again and stepped into the elevator. "This isn't finished. And you can tell your boss I said so."

  She had to bank her temper when she walked into court. Personal feelings, personal problems had no place here. There were two frightened young women and the justice system depending on her.

  She sat, taking careful notes as the defense counsel questioned Slagerman. She blanked Gage and his handiwork out of her mind.

  When it came time for cross-examination, she was ready. She remained seated a moment, studying Slagerman.

  "You consider yourself a businessman, Mr. Slagerman?"

  "Yes."

  "And your business consists of hiring escorts, both male and female, for clients?"

  "That's right. Elegant Escorts provides a service, finding suitable companions for other businessmen and women, often from out of town."

  She let him ramble a few moments, describing his profession. "I see." Rising, she strolled past the jury. "And is it in—let's say the job description—of any of your employees to exchange sex for money with these clients?"

  "Absolutely not." Attractive and earnest, he leaned forward. "My staff is well-screened and well-trained. It's a firm policy that if anyone on staff develops this kind of a relationship with a client, it would result in termination."

  "Are you aware that any of your employees have indeed exchanged sex for money?''

  "I am now." He aimed a pained look at Suzanne and Marjorie.

  "Did you request that Marjorie Lovitz or Suzanne McRoy entertain a client on a sexual level?"

  "No."

  "But you're aware that they did so?"

  If he was surprised by her train of questioning, he didn't bat an eye. "Yes, of course. They admitted to it under oath."

  "Yes, they were under oath, Mr. Slagerman. Just as you are. Have you ever struck an employee?"

  "Certainly not."

  "Yet both Miss Lovitz and Miss McRoy claim, under oath, that you did."

  "They're lying." And he smiled at her.

  "Mr. Slagerman, didn't you go to Miss Lovitz's apartment on the night of February 25th, angry that she was unable to work, and in your anger, beat her?"

  "That's ridiculous."

  "You swear that, under oath?"

  "Objection. Asked and answered."

  "Withdrawn. Mr. Slagerman, have you contacted either Miss Lovitz or Miss McRoy since this trial began?"

  "No."

  "You have not telephoned either of them?"

  "No."

  Nodding, she walked back to her table and picked up a stack of papers. "Is the number 555-2520 familiar to you?" He hesitated. "No."

  "That's odd. It's your private line, Mr. Slagerman. Shouldn't you recognize your own private telephone number?"

  Though he smiled, she saw the icy hate in his eyes. "I call from it, not to it, so I don't have to re
member it."

  "I see. And did you, on the night of June 18, use that private line to call the apartment where both Miss Lovitz and Miss McRoy now live?"

  "No."

  "Objection, Your Honor. This is leading nowhere." Deborah shifted again, facing the judge and leaving the jury's view of Slagerman unobstructed. "Your Honor. I'll show you where it leads in just a moment."

  "Overruled."

  "Mr. Slagerman, perhaps you could explain why, according to your phone records, a call was placed from your private line to the number at Miss Lovitz and Miss McRoy's apartment at 10:47 p.m. on June 18?"

  "Anybody could have used my phone."

  "Your private line?" She lifted a brow. "It's hardly worth having a private line if anyone can use it. The caller identified himself as Jimmy. You are known as Jimmy, aren't you?"

  "Me and a lot of other people."

  "Did you speak to me on the phone on the night of June 18?"

  "I've never spoken with you on the phone." She smiled coolly and moved closer to the chair. "Have you ever noticed, Mr. Slagerman, how to some men, all women's voices sound alike? How, to some men, all women look alike? How, to some men, women's bodies are for one purpose?"

  "Your Honor." Defense counsel leaped to his feet. "Withdrawn." Deborah kept her eyes level with Slagerman's. "Can you explain, Mr. Slagerman, how someone using your private line, using your name, called Miss McRoy on the night of June 18? And how when I answered the phone, this person, using your line and your name, mistook my voice for hers, and threatened Miss

  McRoy?" She waited a beat. "Would you like to know what that person said?"

  Sweat was beading on his upper lip. "You can make up whatever you want."

  "That's true. Fortunately we had a tap on Miss McRoy's phone. I have the transcript." She turned over a sheet of paper. "Should I refresh your memory?"

  She had won. Though there were still closing arguments to take place, she knew she had won. Now, as she stormed through the Justice Building, she had other business to tend to.

  She found Mitchell in his office, a phone to his ear. He was a big bull-chested man who had played linebacker in college. Pictures of him in his jersey were scattered on the wall among his degrees. He had short red hair and a sprinkling of freckles that did nothing to soften his leathered looks.

  When he spotted Deborah, he waved her in, gestured toward a chair. But she remained standing until he'd completed his call.

  "Slagerman?"

  "I've got him nailed." She took a step closer to the desk. "You sold me out."

  "That's bull."

  "What the hell do you call it? I get pulled into the mayor's office and get the brush-off. Damn it, Mitch, this is my case."

  "It's the state's case," he corrected, chomping on the end of his unlit cigar. "You're not the only one who can handle it."

  "I made Parino, I made the deal." She slapped her palms down on his desk so they were eye to eye. "I'm the one who's been busting my tail over this."

  "And you've been overstepping your bounds."

  "You're the one who taught me that trying a case takes more than putting on a pin-striped suit and dancing in front of a jury. I know my job, damn it."

  "Going to see Santiago alone was an error in judgment."

  "Now, that is bull. He called me. He asked for me. You tell me what you'd have done if he'd called you."

  He scowled at her. "That's entirely different."

  "That's entirely the same," she snapped back, certain from the look in his eyes that he knew it. "If I'd screwed things up I'd expect to get bumped, but I haven't. I'm the one who's been sweating and frying my brains over this case. Now when I get a lead, I find out Guthrie chirps up and you and the mayor keel over. Still the old boys' network, is it, Mitch?"

  He stabbed the cigar toward her face. "Don't pull that feminist crap on me. I don't care what way you button your shut."

  "I'm telling you, Mitch, if you pull me off this without good cause, I'm gone. I can't work for you if I can't depend on you, so I might as well go out on my own and take on divorce cases for three hundred an hour."

  "I don't like ultimatums."

  "Neither do I."

  He leaned back, measuring her. "Sit down."

  "I don't want—"

  "Damn it, O'Roarke, sit."

  Tight-lipped and fuming, she did. "So?"

  He rolled the cigar between his fingers. "If Santiago had called me, I would have gone, just like you. But," he continued before she could speak, "your handling of this case isn't the only reason I've considered pulling you."

  "Considered" took her position back several notches. Calming a bit, she nodded. "Well, then?"

  "You've been getting a lot of press on this."

  "I hardly see what that has to do with it."

  "Did you see this morning's paper?" He snatched it up from his desk and waved it in her face. "Read the headline?" Because she had, and had winced over it already, she simply shrugged. Darling Deb Swept Through City In Arms of Nemesis.

  "So, some cab driver wanted his name in the paper, what does that have to do with the case?"

  "When my prosecutors start having their names linked with the masked marauder, it has everything to do with everything." He popped the cigar back in his mouth, gnashing it. "I don't like the way you keep running into him."

  Neither did she. "Look, if the police can't stop him, I can hardly be responsible for his popping up all over the place. And I'd hate to think you'd take me off a case because some jerk had to fill his column."

  Personally Mitch hated the weasely reporter. And he hadn't cared for the strong-arm tactics the mayor had used. "You've got two weeks."

  "That's hardly enough time to—"

  "Two weeks, take it or leave it. You bring me something we can take to a jury, or I pass the ball. Got it?"

  "Yeah." She rose. "I got it."

  She stormed out, past snickering associates. A paper was tacked on the door of her office. Someone had used magic markers and highlighter pens to draw a caricature of Deborah being carried in the arms of a lantern-jawed, muscle-bound masked man. Under it was a caption. The Continuing Adventures Of Darling Deb.

  On a snarl, she ripped it down, balling it into her pocket as she stomped out. She had another stop to make.

  She kept her finger pressed to the button of Gage's doorbell until Frank pulled the door open.

  "Is he in?"

  "Yes, ma'am." He stepped back as she pushed past him. He'd seen furious women before. Frank would have preferred to have faced a pack of hungry wolves.

  "Where?"

  "He's up in his office. I'll be glad to tell him you're here."

  "I'll announce myself," she said as she started up the steps.

  Frank looked after her, lips pursed. He considered buzzing Gage on the intercom and giving him fair warning. But he only grinned. Surprises were good for you.

  Deborah didn't bother to knock, but pushed open the door and strode in. Gage was behind his desk, a phone in one hand, a pen in the other. Computer screens blinked. Across from him sat a trim, middle-aged woman with a steno pad. At Deborah's unannounced entrance she rose and glanced curiously at Gage.

  "I'll get back to you," he said into the receiver before lowering it to the cradle. "Hello, Deborah."

  She tossed her briefcase onto a chair. "I think you might prefer to have this conversation in private."

  He nodded. "You can transcribe those notes tomorrow, Mrs. Brickman. It's late. Why don't you go home?"

  "Yes, sir." She gathered her things and made a fast, discreet exit.

  Deborah hooked her thumbs in the pockets of her skirt. Like a gunfighter hooking thumbs in a holster. He'd seen her take that pose in court. "It must be nice," she began, "sitting up here in your lofty tower and dispensing orders. I bet it feels just dandy. Not all of us are so fortunate. We don't have enough money to buy castles, or private planes or thousand-dollar suits. We work on the streets. But most of us are pretty good at our jobs,
and happy enough." As she spoke, she walked slowly toward him. "But you know what makes us mad, Gage? You know what really ticks us off? That's when someone in one of those lofty towers sticks his rich, influential nose in our business. It makes us so mad that we think real hard about taking a punch at that interfering nose."

  "Should we break out the boxing gloves?"

  "I prefer my bare hands." As she had in Mitchell's office, she slapped them down on his desk. "Who the hell do you think you are, going to the mayor, pressuring him to take me off this case?"

  "I went to the mayor," he said slowly, "and gave him my opinion."

  "Your opinion." She blew a breath between her teeth and snatched up an onyx paperweight from the desk. Though she gave careful consideration to heaving it through the plate glass at his back, she contented herself with passing it from hand to hand. "And I bet he just fell all over himself to accommodate you and your thirty million."

  Gage watched her pace and waited until he was sure he could speak rationally. "He agreed with me that you're more suitable to a courtroom than a murder scene."

  "Who are you to say what's more suitable for me?" she whirled back, her voice rich with fury. "I say it, not you. All my life I've prepared myself for this job and I'm not having anyone come along and tell me I'm not suitable for any case I take on." She snapped the paperweight back on the desk, a hard crack of stone against stone. "You stay out of my business, and out of my life."

  No, he realized, he wasn't going to be able to be rational. "Are you finished?"

  "No. Before I leave I want you to know that it didn't work. I'm still on this case, and I'm staying on. So you wasted your time, and mine. And lastly, I think you're arrogant, officious and overbearing."

  His hands were fisted beneath the desk. "Are you finished?" he asked again.

  "You bet I am." She snatched up her briefcase, turned on her heel and headed for the door.

  Gage pushed a button under the desk and had the locks snap into place. "I'm not," he said quietly.

  She hadn't known she could be more furious. But as she spun back to him, a red haze formed in front of her eyes. "Unlock that door immediately, or I'll have you up on charges."

  "You've had your say, Counselor." He rose. "Now I'll have mine."

  "Not interested."