Charade

by Sandra Brown

  Her dark eyes began to shimmer with fresh tears. “Ms. Delaney seemed like such a nice lady. I’d seen her on TV, helping those kids. She was good to Michael at that picnic.”

  “What picnic?”

  “Irrelevant,” Alex snapped. “Let her tell her story, why don’t you?”

  “I’m not the one who keeps interrupting. You are.” Hunsaker signaled for Kismet to continue.

  “I didn’t want Cyc to bother Ms. Delaney. But I was so happy to know that maybe Sparky’s heart had saved the life of someone like her. And the way she stood up to Cyc gave me courage. So I decided to stand up to him, too.”

  “Except that she had no money, no transportation, and no one to call for help,” Cat interjected. “If she had tried to run away, she wouldn’t have gotten very far before he found her.”

  “And he’d have hurt me and probably Michael,” Kismet said. “I knew my only chance was to outsmart him. So this morning, I…” She swallowed convulsively.

  Cat placed her arm around her. “Go on, Patricia,” she urged gently. “You’re almost finished.”

  Kismet nodded. “I gave Michael a downer last night so he’d sleep late this morning. That was wrong, I know, but I couldn’t…I didn’t want to risk him seeing…I got Cyc all turned on, you know? I had to pretend that I liked it. I had to convince him that I’d gone back to being the way I was before I fell in love with Sparky.” She began to cry in earnest.

  “You did what you had to do, Patricia. No one in this room is in a position to judge you.”

  Cat’s soft, understanding, woman-to-woman tone shut out Alex and Hunsaker as effectively as the closing of a steel vault door. Kismet had used sex to barter for her life. A few men might be able to empathize. But it really took another woman to comprehend the utter debasement of that.

  At that moment, just being a man made Alex feel guilty by association. He wondered if Hunsaker felt as he did. Probably not. Hunsaker was too thick-headed to grasp anything that abstract. But at least he had the sensitivity to look away and remain quiet until Kismet had composed herself enough to continue.

  “Afterward, I convinced Cyc to drive me here and let me have a go at Ms. Delaney. I said I’d use Michael, since she really cared for him. Cyc didn’t like the idea, but I argued that since he hadn’t gotten money from her with threats, he ought to let me try and play on her sympathy. He finally gave in.”

  She pulled Michael closer to her. “That walk from the curb to the front door seemed to take forever. I was scared stiff Cyc would catch on to my plan before I reached the door.”

  When she turned to Cat, her expression bordered on worshipful. “I don’t know what I’d’ve done if you’d slammed the door in my face. I can never repay you.”

  “I only want to see you and Michael safely away from that brute.”

  “Do you wanna press charges?” Hunsaker asked Kismet.

  “Yes.”

  “You sure? Sometimes you gals chicken out when it comes right down to it.”

  “She’s not going to chicken out,” Alex said testily.

  “And I certainly won’t,” Cat said. “He threatened my life and theirs if I didn’t give him money. That’s extortion. I’ll testify against him. You can depend on it.”

  “But you’ve got to find him first,” Alex said to Hunsaker. “In the meantime, we’ve guaranteed Ms. Holmes and Michael a safe place to live.”

  The detective came to his feet. “There’s a lot of paperwork involved. Will y’all be able to come to my office this afternoon and give your statements?” They agreed on a time. “I’ll put out an APB for George Murphy. I’ve got a description of him and his Harley. We’ll have him in custody in no time.”

  “You won’t find him,” Kismet said with quiet certainty. “He’s got dozens of places to hide. There’re people who’ll hide him. You won’t find him.”

  Alex was afraid she might be right, but he kept this grim opinion to himself. If and when Cyclops was captured, it would likely be attributed to the biker’s carelessness rather than to the efficiency of the police.

  Hunsaker, on the other hand, made boisterous promises that Cyclops would soon be in police custody. “You relax and let us handle everything from here on, little lady.” He ruffled Michael’s hair. “Cute kid.”

  “Thank you for coming,” Cat said as he lumbered to the door.

  “You never figured out who was sending you those mysterious clippings?”

  “I’m afraid not. That’s what I was after when I stirred up this hornets’ nest. Of course, I’m glad I did. Patricia and Michael have been liberated.” Alex realized that as a sign of respect, Cat now referred to Patricia only by her real name. Kismet was a thing of the past.

  “Have you received any more crank mail since you came to see me?” Hunsaker asked.

  “No.”

  “There you go,” he said, pleased with himself. “You’ll probably never know who sent it. I figured all along that it didn’t amount to anything.”

  Cat had better manners than Alex could fathom. In spite of Hunsaker’s gross condescension, she graciously thanked him for his time and assistance.

  “I forgot to tell you,” he said to Cat after closing the door on the detective. “While we were waiting for Hunsaker to get here, your taxi came. I tipped the driver ten bucks and sent him away.”

  “Thank you. I’d forgotten all about it.”

  “Will you still be going to California?”

  “Not until I’m certain that Patricia and Michael are in a safe place. I called Sherry—she’s working on it.”

  She arrived half an hour later. “I’ve found a house I think you’ll both like,” she told Patricia and Michael. “There are three other women and their children living there, along with a full-time counselor. Two of the children are near Michael’s age, so he’ll have playmates. You’ll have your own bedroom and bath and all the privacy you want. But you’ll eat with the other families and be expected to do chores.”

  Patricia couldn’t believe her good fortune. She was overwhelmingly grateful and cried unabashedly. “I’ll be glad to do anything. I’ll do my chores and everybody else’s, so long as Cyc can’t find us.”

  Shortly, they gathered at the front door to say their goodbyes. “You’ll be safe,” Cat stressed to Patricia. “If you need anything, or just want to talk, call me. You’ve got the number I gave you?”

  “In my pocket.”

  Cat, who’d been holding Michael during the exchange, hugged him tightly, then passed him to his mother. “I’ll want to visit you soon, if it’s all right.”

  “Yes,” Patricia said eagerly. “We’d like that, wouldn’t we, Michael?” He nodded shyly.

  Cat was getting choked up. “Goodbye for now. Sherry will take good care of you.”

  “I’ll walk you to the car,” Alex offered when he noticed that Patricia look fearful of going outside. “Might not be a bad idea to double back and take a circuitous route to make certain you aren’t being followed,” he suggested to Sherry.

  “In situations like this, that’s standard operating procedure,” she said with a smile.

  He stepped onto the porch and, after scoping out the immediate area, gave them the all clear. Patricia held back and clasped Cat’s hand. She spoke earnestly and swiftly, as though if she didn’t rush the words, she might never have the nerve to speak them.

  “You’re such a good person. So kind to people. Sparky was the only other person I’ve known who was like you. I think you must have his heart.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Work was Cat’s panacea. Even while suffering a serious heart condition, she’d worked grueling hours on Passages. When depressed, she worked. When happy, she worked. In her present predicament, she sought respite in work.

  She had called Jeff Doyle earlier, explaining why she wouldn’t be in until after lunch. “I’ll fill you in on the details when I get there.”

  He held her to that promise. In the privacy of her office, he listened to her story
with mounting disbelief. “My God, Cat. This George Murphy sounds like a barbarian. He could have killed you.”

  “Well, he didn’t.”

  “Why don’t you stick to your plan to go to Los Angeles? Maybe you should leave town for a few days.”

  “I’ve already called Dean and canceled the trip.”

  To go to California now would be the coward’s way. It wouldn’t be very confidence-inspiring to Michael and Patricia if she assured them of their safety from Cyclops, then hightailed it to the West Coast. She’d decided that instead of running away to escape, she would bury herself in work.

  “At least take the rest of the afternoon off,” Jeff urged. “We’ll catch up.”

  “No. This is where I need to be. Did I miss anything important this morning? Bring me up to date, and let’s get busy.”

  She returned calls, dictated a score of letters, and scheduled two location shoots with the production crew for the upcoming week.

  “For the Wednesday shoot, I’ve made arrangements with the same old cowboy who brought the pony ride to Nancy Webster’s picnic,” Jeff told her. “He loved the kids and said he’d be glad to help us anytime, free of charge.”

  “That’s great. The kids’ll love it. Michael certainly did.”

  “Cat, what you did for him and his mother…” Jeff let it hang until she looked up at him inquisitively. “It really was terrific of you to take such a personal interest.” He hesitated. “Do you think you got Michael’s father’s heart?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t want to. I would have helped any woman and child trapped in similar circumstances. It’s enough for me to know that they’re safe and have been given a fresh start.”

  After delivering them to the shelter, Sherry had called to report that Patricia and Michael had been cordially welcomed by the other battered families living there.

  “Patricia’s already volunteered to earn extra money for the shelter by stringing beads,” Cat told Jeff. “She sells them to a vendor in the Marketplace. Over time and with some training, I think she could become quite an artist.”

  “Without you, she’d never have had the chance.”

  Cat gnawed her lower lip thoughtfully. “If Sparky had survived the accident, their lives might have taken a different turn. They might have separated from the bikers’ gang when they learned she was pregnant with Michael.

  “They’d have reared him together, with love and caring. She might have developed her artistic skills. I’ve been told that Sparky was extremely intelligent, interested in literature and philosophy. He might have become a teacher or a writer.”

  “That’s a rosy fantasy, Cat. It probably wouldn’t have happened that way at all.”

  “But we’ll never know, will we? Because Sparky died.”

  “And someone else lived,” Jeff said softly.

  She glanced up quickly, yanking herself away from her disturbing thoughts and clearing the emotional knot from her throat. “Yes, someone else lived.”

  Later that afternoon, Jeff poked his head into her office. “Mr. Webster just called from upstairs. He wants to see us.”

  “Right now? I’m up to my armpits in paper.”

  “He said it can’t wait. Any reason why he should be upset?”

  “Did he sound upset?”

  “Very.”

  She hadn’t seen Bill for several days. When his unsmiling secretary escorted her and Jeff into his office, he showed a marked lack of cordiality. “Sit down, please.”

  Once they were seated on the leather sofa, he gestured toward his other guest. “This is Ronald Truitt. As you know, he’s the entertainment columnist for the Light.”

  So, this plump, fortyish nerd with the receding hairline was Ron Truitt, her journalistic nemesis, the critic from hell.

  He was having a nicotine fit. A pack of Camels was in his shirt pocket. He patted it periodically, as though to reassure himself that the cigarettes were still there, even though he couldn’t smoke them.

  He was trying to appear at ease and nonchalant, but he wasn’t doing a very good job of it. His legs were bouncy, he fidgeted nervously, and he blinked too frequently.

  Cat didn’t acknowledge Truitt but turned to Bill. “What’s going on?”

  “As a professional courtesy, Mr. Truitt came to warn me about the contents of his column appearing in tomorrow’s newspaper. I thought you deserved to be warned of it, too.”

  “Warned? That has an ominous ring to it.”

  “Unfortunately, the column has ominous overtones.”

  “Regarding Cat’s Kids?” Jeff asked.

  “That’s right.” Bill turned to the journalist and signaled that he had the floor. “I’ll let you speak for yourself, Mr. Truitt. But it should be stated beforehand that everything said in this room is off the record.”

  “Sure.” Truitt sat up straighter and, unnecessarily, flipped open a spiral pad to consult his notes. Cat recognized playacting when she saw it.

  “I got a call late this morning,” he said, “from a man who called himself Cyclops.”

  “Cyclops called you?” Cat exclaimed.

  “Then you know him?” Bill asked.

  “Yes. His real name is George Murphy, and he’s wanted by the police. Did he tell you where he was calling from?”

  “No.” Truitt’s grin was brittle. “And he said you’d probably turn the tables and try to make him out the bad guy.”

  “He is the bad guy. He’s guilty of a list of crimes as long as my arm, starting with child abuse and ending with extortion.”

  “Maybe,” Truitt said. “But he’s alleged that you’re no saint.”

  “I never claimed to be,” Cat snapped. “But that’s beside the point. Don’t you have anything better to write about than a name-calling contest between me and a coke-snorting biker who’s being sought by the police?”

  “This is somewhat more serious than a name-calling contest,” Bill said. “You see, Cat.” He paused, then dropped the bomb. “Mr. Murphy has accused you of child molestation.”

  She was too astonished to speak. She gaped at Bill, then looked at Truitt.

  “That’s right,” he said. “Cyclops told me that you had sexually molested his stepson during a picnic at Mr. Webster’s house.”

  “He doesn’t have a stepson,” she rasped.

  “A kid named Michael?”

  “Michael’s mother is not married to Mr. Murphy. Legally, he’s not the boy’s stepfather.”

  “Well, anyway, he raised the question of whether his kid was the only one you’ve molested. You certainly have an opportunity to take advantage of many.”

  “I can’t believe this.” She gave an incredulous laugh. But no one else was smiling, especially not Webster. “Bill, say something. Surely you don’t think—”

  “What I think is irrelevant.”

  She turned to the journalist. “Surely you’re not going to print this. First of all, it’s ludicrous. Second, without corroboration you’d be leaving yourself open to a libel suit of astronomical proportions.”

  “I’ve got corroboration,” he said confidently.

  Again she was flabbergasted. “From whom?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say. My second source chooses to remain anonymous, but I assure you that he or she is in a position to know what they’re talking about.”

  “He or she doesn’t know anything!” she cried. “How’d you come across this second source?”

  “I started nosing around, talking to people.”

  “You’re making a serious mistake, Mr. Truitt,” Cat said evenly. “If you print that column, it could cost you and your newspaper dearly. Anyone who knows me, knows that I do everything within my limited power to rescue children from all forms of abuse—physical and sexual as well as psychological and emotional. If George Murphy wants to accuse me of something, he should make it something more credible.”

  “But you’re in an excellent position to win the trust of many children, aren’t you, Ms. Delaney?” Truit
t asked.

  “That’s a despicable implication and I refuse to honor it with a response.”

  He scooted to the edge of his seat, a shark who smelled blood and was moving in for the kill. “Why’d you give up a successful career as a soap opera star to do a local program like Cat’s Kids?”

  “Because I wanted to.”

  “Why?” the reporter persisted.

  “Well, not so I’d have a source of children to molest!” she shouted.

  “Cat.”

  “Well, that’s what he’s getting at, isn’t he?” She shouldn’t be yelling at Jeff. He was only trying to calm her down. After taking a moment to compose herself, she spoke to Truitt in a softer, more reasonable voice. “I gave up my former career because I wanted to do something meaningful with the rest of my life.”

  He made a comical grimace of skepticism. “Let me get this straight. You gave up an enormous income, stardom, and fame for far less money and four measly minutes of airtime each week?” He shook his head. “It just doesn’t wash. Nobody’s that noble.”

  Cat wasn’t about to discuss her motives. They were intensely personal. Furthermore, she didn’t owe this mean-spirited, chain-smoking hack any explanations. She wanted to throw that into his smug face, but for WWSA’s sake, she responded more diplomatically.

  “You have nothing whatsoever to substantiate this ridiculous accusation. Cyclops is hardly a credible source. He’s not even articulate.”

  “I have two sources, remember? The other one is quite credible and articulate.”

  “Your sources are a reputed criminal and someone who doesn’t even have the guts to come forward and accuse me to my face.”

  “Woodward and Bernstein started with less and ended up frying an administration and making history.”

  “Charity prohibits me from pointing out how far you are from a Woodward or a Bernstein, Mr. Truitt.”

  He merely grinned, flipped down the cover of his spiral pad, and stood. “If I turned my back on a story this hot, I’d be drummed out of the press corp.”