Charade

by Sandra Brown

  “Characters?”

  “Yeah,” he said with embarrassment. “I’ve been doing some writing.”

  “No shit?” She seemed impressed. “Going to write a tell-all book about the inner workings of a big city police department?”

  “Fiction, actually. But based on my experiences.”

  “Having any luck?”

  “Publishing you mean?” He shook his head. “That’s a long way off. If ever.”

  “You’ll make it.”

  “I don’t know. My career track record’s not so good.”

  “I have every confidence in you.” Then she asked, “You seeing anybody?”

  “You mean a woman?”

  “Unless you’ve switched gears,” she said dryly. “Of course a woman.”

  “No, I haven’t switched gears, and no, I’m not seeing anybody. Nobody special.”

  She gave him a critical once-over. “Maybe you should. Your wardrobe leaves a lot to be desired. It could stand a woman’s touch.”

  “What’s wrong with my clothes?” He glanced down and could find no fault with the manner in which he was dressed.

  “To begin with, that shirt hasn’t seen the hot side of an iron.”

  “It’s clean. So are my jeans.”

  “Looks to me like when you left the force, you got lazy and sloppy.”

  “That’s what comes with being my own boss. I dress for comfort, and if I don’t feel like shaving, I don’t.”

  “You’re scrawny as a scarecrow,” she observed.

  “I’m trim.”

  Skeptical, she raised her eyebrows.

  “Okay. One of those Mexican bugs got hold of me while I was down there. Puked till there was no tomorrow. Haven’t regained my weight yet.”

  Her baleful stare said she wasn’t buying it.

  “Look, I’m fine,” he insisted. “Sometimes I forget to eat, that’s all. I start writing at dusk, and it’s dawn before I realize I didn’t have supper. Opting for sleep over food is a hazard of my new profession.”

  “So’s alcoholism, I hear.”

  Alex quickly averted his head and said testily, “I’ve got it under control.”

  “That’s not what I hear. Maybe you ought to back off some.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Look, asshole, I think of myself as your friend. And you ain’t got all that many to brag about.” She sounded both annoyed and concerned. “Honey, I hear you’re having blackouts.”

  The goddamn courthouse grapevine. He wasn’t even one of the players anymore, yet his name still caused juicy gossip. “Not in a while,” he lied.

  “I only mentioned your love affair with Johnny Walker because I’m worried about you.”

  “Then you’re the only one around here who is.” Hearing what sounded like self-pity in his voice, he let down his guard a notch and softened his expression. “I appreciate your concern, Linda. I know I went a little crazy after all that shit came down, but I’m okay now. Honest. Squelch any rumors you hear to the contrary.”

  The bailiff regarded him skeptically but let the subject drop. “So what brings you here today?”

  “Just trying to scare up an idea for a book. The upcoming Reyes trial might have possibilities.”

  The bailiff’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Any particular reason why you picked the Reyes trial when you’ve got all these others to choose from?”

  Alex had been closely following the intriguing case for several months. “It’s got all the ingredients for a titillating novel,” he said. “Illicit sex. Religious overtones. Lovers caught in the act by an enraged husband. A baseball bat for a weapon—much more dramatic than a bullet from a Saturday night special. Blood and brains on the wallpaper. A body on its way to the morgue.”

  “A body not quite dead.”

  “Brain dead,” he argued.

  “That’s a medical call, not a legal one,” she reminded him.

  “Reyes’s lawyer contends that he didn’t actually kill the victim because the heart was being kept alive for harvesting.”

  “Harvesting,” Linda said scornfully. “Leave it to the doctors to make it sound more like a goddamn cotton crop than a human heart.” Alex nodded. “Anyway, a whole legal can of worms has been opened up. If the stiff wasn’t really a stiff when they harvested the heart, is Reyes really guilty of murder?”

  “Fortunately you or I don’t have to decide,” Alex said. “It’ll be up to the jury.”

  “If you were on the jury, which way would you go?”

  “I don’t know because I haven’t heard all the evidence yet. But I intend to. Do you know which courtroom has been assigned?”

  “Yeah, I know.” She grinned, revealing extensive gold bridgework. “What’s it worth to you?”

  Any courthouse employee could have given him the number of the courtroom, but he played her game. “A few beers at quitting time?”

  She smiled. “I was thinking more along the lines of dinner at my place. And then…Who knows what?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Steak, potatoes, and sex. Not necessarily in that order. Admit it, Alex my boy. That’s the best offer you’ve had today.”

  He laughed, not taking her invitation seriously and knowing that she hadn’t intended him to. “Sorry, Linda. Can’t tonight. Previous plans.”

  “I’m no beauty queen, but don’t let my looks deceive you. I know my way around the male anatomy. I could bring tears of gratitude to your eyes. Swear. You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  “I’m certain that’s true,” he said solemnly. “You’ve got enormous sex appeal, Linda. I’ve always thought so.”

  Her smile widened. “That’s pure bullshit, but you were always good at slinging it. Sometimes you even make me believe it. That’s why I think you’ll succeed as a writer. You’ve got a real knack for making people believe anything you tell them.”

  She nudged his arm. “Come on, handsome. I’ll escort you to the courtroom. They’ll start jury selection soon. Try not to make a nuisance of yourself, okay? If you get drunk and disorderly and they kick you out, I won’t take responsibility for you.”

  “I promise to be on my best behavior.” He drew an imaginary X over his heart.

  The bailiff snorted. “Just like I said, pure bullshit.”

  The murder trial of Paul Reyes had generated much public awareness and curiosity. Alex had to arrive at court earlier each day to get a seat. Reyes’s family and friends took up much of the available seating.

  The prosecutor heavily relied on the testimonies of the first policemen on the scene, which was described in lurid detail. When the jury members were shown the 8 × 10 glossy photos, they shivered.

  Defense counsel had organized a phalanx of co-workers and friends, including a priest who testified to Reyes’s good character. Only his beloved wife’s adultery could have driven him to commit such a violent act.

  The jury heard the testimonies of paramedics, called to the scene by Reyes himself. The victim had a pulse when they arrived, they said. The emergency room doctor determined that there was no brain activity but kept the heart and lungs alive with machinery until permission could be obtained to harvest organs and tissue. The surgeon who performed the retrieval procedure testified that the heart was still beating when he extracted it.

  This testimony caused a furor in the courtroom. The judge rapped his gavel. The assistant D.A. tried, but failed, to look unconcerned. In Alex’s opinion he should have gone for a manslaughter charge instead of murder. Murder implied premeditation, which in this case couldn’t be proved. Most damaging to Reyes’s case was that the survivor of the attack was unavailable to testify.

  Despite these setbacks, the D.A. delivered a brilliant summation speech, urging the jury to bring in a guilty verdict. Whether or not the victim died at the moment of impact, Paul Reyes was responsible for another human being’s death and should therefore be found guilty.

  The defense attorney had only to remind the members of the jury, again
and again, that Paul Reyes was in jail when the victim had actually died.

  The case was turned over to the jury after three days of testimony. Four hours and eighteen minutes later it was announced that the jury had reached a verdict, and Alex was one of the first to return to the courtroom.

  He tried to gauge the jurors’ moods as they filed in, but it was impossible to guess their decision by their blank expressions.

  The courtroom fell silent as the accused was commissioned to stand.

  Not guilty.

  Reyes’s knees buckled, but he was bolstered by his jubilant attorney. Relatives and friends surged forward to embrace him. The judge thanked the jury and dismissed them.

  Reporters were eager to get statements, but Reyes’s attorney ignored them and ushered him up the center aisle toward the exit. When Reyes reached the end of Alex’s row, he must have sensed Alex’s stare.

  He stopped suddenly, turned his head, and, for a split second, their eyes connected.

  Chapter Six

  May 1991

  Eat. Sleep. Breathe. These life-sustaining functions were now done by rote. Why bother? Life no longer had purpose.

  There was no solace to be found—not in religion, meditation, work, exhausting physical exercise, or raging fits. All had been tried as a means of easing the wrenching pain of loss. Yet, it prevailed.

  Peace was unattainable. Each breath was laden with sorrow. The world had been reduced to a tiny sphere of abject misery. Very little stimuli penetrated the encapsulating grief. To one so steeped in bereavement, the world seemed monochromatic, soundless, flavorless. The grief was so severe, it was paralyzing.

  The untimely death had been unjust and infuriating.

  Why had this happened to them? No two people had ever loved as deeply. Their love had been rare and pure and should have endured for years, then extended beyond death. They’d talked about it, pledged everlasting love to each other.

  Now, the immortality of their love was impossible because the cache where it was stored had been extracted and given to someone else.

  Ghastly, that postmortem vandalism. First robbed of life, then robbed of the core of existence, robbed of the chamber where that sweet spirit had dwelled.

  Now somewhere, inside a stranger, that beloved heart was still beating.

  Moans echoed softly in the small room. “I can’t bear it another day. I can’t.”

  Although the loved one lay dead in a cemetery plot, the heart lived on. The heart lived on. That was a haunting preoccupation, tenacious in its grip, shackling and inescapable.

  The surgeon’s scalpel had been swift and sure. Painful as it was to accept, what had been done was irreversible. The heart continued to live while the spirit was unfairly doomed to eternal incompleteness. The soul would search endlessly and in vain for its home, while the still-beating heart continued to mock the sanctity of death. Unless…

  There was a way!

  Suddenly the keening ceased.

  Breathing became agitated and choppy with excitement.

  The mourner listened to the rioting, fleeting, galvanizing thoughts suddenly unfurling.

  The idea came alive, took shape, divided, expanded, rapidly, like an ovum just fertilized. Once born, it frolicked inside a brain that for months had been stagnant with despair.

  There was a way to achieve release from this unbearable torment. Only one way. One solution that swiftly evolved from that single cell of an idea and suddenly was fully formed. It was converted into words that were whispered precisely, with the reverence of a disciple to whom a divine mission has been revealed.

  “Yes. Of course, of course. I’ll find that dearest of hearts. And when I do, mercifully and with love, to reunite our spirits and give us peace, I’ll stop it.”

  Chapter Seven

  October 10, 1991

  Cat Delaney circulated through the ballroom like a bright butterfly, lighting briefly to chat with one group of party-goers before flitting off to the next. Everyone with whom she spoke was dazzled by her verve and vivacity.

  “She’s incredible.”

  Dr. Dean Spicer, who’d been proudly observing Cat from the sidelines, turned toward the man who had extended the compliment. Dean had been Cat’s date to countless social affairs, and he knew many of the people with whom she worked. However, this tall, distinguished gentleman was a stranger to him.

  “Yes, she is rather incredible,” he replied conversationally.

  “My name’s Bill Webster.” Dean introduced himself as they shook hands. “Weren’t you Ms. Delaney’s cardiologist?”

  “Initially,” Dean said, pleased that his name had been recognized. “Before our personal relationship got in the way.”

  Webster smiled with understanding, then returned his gaze to Cat. “She’s a charming young woman.”

  Dean wondered who Webster was and why he’d been invited to this network-sponsored, black-tie gala to commemorate the one-year anniversary of Cat’s transplant.

  Executives from network affiliate stations were there, along with commercial sponsors, members of the news media, talent agents, actors, and others who had a vested interest in the success of Passages.

  Curious about Webster, Dean asked, “How’d you recognize my name?”

  “Don’t underestimate your notoriety, Dr. Spicer. You’ve become almost as famous as your companion.”

  “Fan magazines,” Dean said with a self-effacement he didn’t truly feel. He enjoyed the public recognition he received for being Cat Delaney’s “significant other,” as a Hollywood gossip columnist had recently labeled him.

  “The publicity generated by the tabloids hasn’t detracted from your renown as a cardiologist,” Webster told him.

  “Thank you.” He paused. “I only wish I could give all my patients as good a prognosis as Cat’s. Her recovery has been remarkable.”

  “Are you surprised?”

  “Not at all. I expected it of her. She’s not only an exceptional patient but an exceptional individual. Once she made it through the first difficult weeks of recovery,” Dean continued, “she resolved to live to a ripe old age. She’ll make it, too. Her greatest asset is her optimism. She’s the pride of the entire transplant program at our hospital.”

  “I understand she’s a very vocal proponent of organ transplants.”

  “She speaks on behalf of donor awareness and frequently visits the transplant patients who are waiting for organs. When they get down, she encourages them not to give up hope. They look upon her as an angel.” He chuckled and smiled affectionately. “They don’t know her as well as I do. She has the fiery temper redheads are noted for.”

  “In spite of her temper, you’re obviously an admirer.”

  “Very much so. In fact, we plan to marry soon.”

  That wasn’t entirely the truth. He planned to marry Cat. She continued to hedge. He’d asked her many times to move into his Beverly Hills home, but she still resided in her beach house in Malibu, claiming that the ocean was therapeutic, vital to her spiritual and physical health. “I draw strength just from gazing at it.” She also maintained that her independence was essential to her well-being.

  The independence issue was a flimsy excuse for them not to marry. Dean certainly didn’t intend to shackle her to the kitchen stove once she became his wife. In fact, he wanted her to continue her career. The last thing he needed was a hausfrau.

  They dated each other exclusively. No ghosts from past relationships haunted either of them. Upon her full recovery, he’d been delighted to discover that they were sexually compatible. Each was financially secure, so it wasn’t a matter of unbalanced earning capacity. He could see no viable reason for her continued refusal of his proposals.

  He’d patiently deferred to her wishes, but now that her transplant was considered a total success and her stardom was firmly reestablished on Passages, he intended to apply more pressure for a commitment.

  He had resolved not to give up until Cat Delaney was wholly his.

&nb
sp; “Then congratulations are in order,” Webster said, raising his glass of champagne.

  Dean returned Bill Webster’s smile and clinked glasses.

  While listening to an advertising executive wax poetic about her incredible courage—he’d never before actually touched someone who’d had a heart transplant—Cat was looking beyond his shoulder at Dean and the man to whom he’d been talking for the last several minutes. She didn’t recognize him; her curiosity was aroused.

  “Thank you so much for all the cards you sent during my convalescence.” As unobtrusively as possible, she pulled her hand from the ad exec’s clasp. “Please excuse me now. I just spotted a friend I haven’t seen in a while.”

  With the practiced ease of a diplomat, she negotiated her way through the crowd. Several people tried to engage her in conversation, but she paused only long enough to exchange pleasantries and respond to congratulations and compliments.

  Because she had looked so bad for so long before her transplant, she felt quite justified in her conceit over how fantastic she looked tonight. Her hair had regained its luster, although the steroids she’d had to take immediately following the surgery had turned it a darker, but no less vibrant, shade of red. For tonight’s festivities, she’d swept it into a topknot designed to appear haphazard.

  Her eyes, described as “laser beam blue” almost every time her name appeared in print, had been artfully enhanced with makeup. Her skin had never glowed so healthily. She was showing it off in a snug-fitting black sequined minidress that left her arms and back bare.

  Of course, the dress had a high neckline that fastened halter-style at the back of her neck. She hadn’t wanted to expose her “zipper,” the scar that ran vertically from the hollow of her throat to the center of her breastbone, where the ribs separated. Every item in her wardrobe had been chosen to conceal that scar. Dean insisted that it was hardly detectable and fading more each day, but she could still see it clearly.

  She knew that the scar was a small price to pay for her new heart. Her self-consciousness about it was undoubtedly a holdover from childhood, when she’d often been wounded by thoughtless or cruel comments by her classmates. Illness had made her an object of curiosity then, just as being a heart transplantee did now. She had never wanted to spark pity or awe in other people, so now she hid her scar carefully.