So why was she so glad to see him?
She couldn’t deny that part of her had missed him. Missed him and missed that kiss. There was something between them. She couldn’t ignore it. But she couldn’t welcome it either, could she? Not with so much at stake.
But she’d given so much of herself to her work. Did she really have to give this, too?
Yes. Yes, I do.
Back in the kitchen, she said, “When did you start taking cooking classes?”
“I didn’t.”
“So where did you learn to make chicken parm?”
He flourished a folded sheet of printer paper. “The Internet.”
“You’ve never tried the recipe before?”
“Nope. Never cooked anything more complicated than a grilled cheese sandwich.” He lifted a pan, examined the Teflon surface, then filled it with marinara sauce and placed it on a burner.
“You’re joking.”
“Oh, and I almost forgot.” He reached into the duffel bag and pulled out a long cardboard box. Inside was a bottle of white wine. “Better put this in the fridge, let it start to chill.”
Her conscience would not permit her to leave him here to prepare their dinner while she watched TV, so she hung around the kitchen and watched. It wasn’t easy. Jack managed to splash raw egg on her wall, get bread crumbs in his hair, even drop a slice of provolone cheese between the refrigerator and the wall—all the while apologizing profusely, mopping up his messes as best he could with one hand while cooking with the other.
She lifted his marinara-stained recipe from the counter and searched in vain for an indication of source. “Who wrote this? A famous chef?”
Jack shrugged. “Some lady. She posted a bunch of recipes to her Web site.” He yanked a handful of paper towels from the roll, squirted anti-bacterial soap and water on it, and attempted to clean the raw chicken juices he’d left on her cutting board. “So tell me about jury selection. Did it go smoothly?”
She sighed and leaned against the wall. Her day in court had seemed endless, and she’d spent most of it on her feet. Her back throbbed. It was nice to have someone to come home to and talk about it with. “You mean aside from being forced to inhale Gil Goldhammer’s industrial-strength cologne? I guess it went as well as expected.”
“What’s that mean?” He wiped his hands on the apron.
“Goldhammer did his best to load the jury with unmarried, working-class men. A construction worker, a tow-truck driver, a painter. I guess he figures they’ll identify with a fireman. I don’t know. In a case like this, I’m not convinced you can predict the makeup of the ideal jury.”
“What types did you favor?”
“Parents. I figured the idea of a man who butchers families in their homes would strike a chord with them. Also young women. I’m hoping they identify with Kristen when she tells her story.”
“I wonder if Frank will testify this time?”
Jack’s use of Ramsey’s first name irked her. “Let’s not talk about the case. I don’t want to start arguing, spoil the evening with a fight.”
“You’re right. Better to spoil it with really bad Italian food.”
She laughed. “Uh-oh.”
Jack used a spatula to transfer the chicken parmigiana cutlets from the pan to two plates. The breadcrumbs had blackened and the cheese looked watery.
“Maybe it will taste better than it looks,” she said.
The wine, at least, was delicious. But because Jack’s chicken parmigiana tasted like burnt shoe leather, they made do with the spaghetti and a bag of Chex Mix for dinner. Jessie didn’t mind. Before long they were both tipsy and laughing.
“To the law.” Jack raised his wineglass and clinked it against hers. “A noble institution.”
“For someone burnt out on law, you sure seem to love talking about it.”
“Well, it’s the only thing we have in common.”
Maybe it was the wine buzzing in her head, but his words stung. After their walk, she had thought they had a lot in common. “Come on, Jack. That’s not the only thing.”
He sipped his wine. “You’re right. For one thing, we’re both very committed people. You’re committed to your work, and I was committed to a mental hospital.”
“Hilarious.”
“And we’re both very good-looking. Don’t forget that.”
“That’s key,” she said, taking a long sip from her own glass.
“Right.”
She shook the bag of Chex Mix and said, “You done?”
“Yeah. I guess we should clean up.” He gathered their plates and stood. At the same time, she made a decision. There was something here, something real between them, and ignoring it would be a mistake. She wasn’t willing to make that mistake.
Before he could walk to the kitchen, she stood, pulled him closer to her, and kissed him. His eyebrows arched in surprise, but then she felt his smile as he returned the kiss. It was as good as their kiss over the Schuylkill River. Better. She pressed her lips against his, then flicked her tongue against his teeth, into the warmth of his mouth. He dropped the plates and they clattered on the table. His arms wrapped around her.
“I’m ... confused,” he said.
“Just go with it.” She pulled back for air, feeling a giddy smile on her face.
He said, “If this is the wine—”
“It’s not the wine.”
“What about the appearance of impropriety?” he said.
She looked up into his eyes. “We’re going to need to be careful. Discreet. At least until Ramsey’s trial is over.”
“I can be discreet,” he said.
“Good.”
“And careful.”
“Yes.”
“You know, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping something like this would happen. I picked cooking because it’s a romantic hobby.”
“Did Dr. Brandywine tell you that?”
He laughed and shook his head. “My own brilliant idea. I just wanted to kiss you again.”
“Are you satisfied?”
He grinned. “Not remotely.”
26
The next morning at work, Jessie tried without much success to keep the stupid smile off her face. It wasn’t the sex—she’d never been the type of woman who believed a roll in the hay imparted some mythical glow—but it had been a long time since she’d woken up with a man beside her, a long time since she’d begun her morning with a kiss, and she was feeling happy. Even the e-mails that greeted her when she logged in to her computer—e-mails that promised tedious meetings, assignments she had no time for, and repeated requests from Warren for progress reports on the Ramsey trial—could not dispel her mood.
Elliot Williams’s appearance in her doorway, however, did the trick.
This was the first time she’d seen him since he’d stormed out of Ramsey’s PCRA hearing. She braced herself for a confrontation. “Hi, Elliot.”
“Do you have a minute?” Surprisingly, he sounded chipper.
“Sure.” She pointed to the second chair in her office.
He sat down. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what happened at Ramsey’s hearing. About how you took over.”
“I told you. I was only doing what I felt was necessary to prevent Ramsey from succeeding. I’m sorry it didn’t work out the way either of us wanted it to.”
He dismissed her apology with a wave. “You did the right thing. I was too inexperienced, didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t realize that at the time, but looking back on it now, I do.”
“Okay.” She wasn’t sure where this conversation was heading, but her skeptical mind predicted that he would soon be requesting a favor.
“I think there’s a lot you could teach me.”
“You’ll learn everything yourself. That’s how it works. Start in Appeals or Municipal Court, then things get a little more interesting in the Juvenile Unit, and then in the Felony-Waiver Unit, you’ll really hone your skills. By the time you reach the Trial Division
, you’ll know your way around the CJC and you’ll be a pro at dealing with cops, witnesses, judges, everyone. Trust me.”
“I know that’s the way the office is set up, but I was hoping that, informally, you could be a kind of mentor for me.”
Stalling for time, she looked at her computer monitor. She really had nothing against the kid, but the Ramsey trial was going to be hard enough without adding mentoring to her list of challenges. Not to mention having a top-secret relationship with Jack. “I’ve got a lot on my plate right now, Elliot.”
“I know.”
“I mean, maybe we can have lunch together once in awhile and I’ll give you some pointers, but....” She let her voice trail away, hoping he would take the hint.
“Have you started working on your opening statement yet? For Ramsey?”
She had planned to polish it this morning before appearing in court on other matters. She turned to her computer and loaded what she had done the day before. “I have a rough draft. Needs some more work.” And then she would have to memorize it—juries always responded better to speeches that were spoken instead of read.
Elliot craned his neck to see the screen. “Would you mind printing a copy for me? I’ve never had the chance to study an opening statement before. And then we can talk about it over lunch one day. You know, to kick off the mentoring?”
Right now, the only kicking she wanted to do was kick him out of her office so she could get back to work. But he looked so eager and sincere, she couldn’t bring herself to say that. Besides, good intentions or not, she had embarrassed him during the hearing. Giving him a little attention now could only be good karma, not to mention ingratiating to her boss.
“I guess that would be alright.” She hit the print button. “Just be careful with the document. I wouldn’t want anyone else to see it.”
He smiled. “Who would I show it to?”
“If you discover any great wisdom in it, make sure you tell me so I don’t revise that part.”
“You got it.”
She stared at him—his smiling face, his relaxed manner. “You seem ... different,” she said.
“Really?”
She nodded. “Less tense. More—I don’t know—friendly.”
He laughed. “I was thinking the same thing about you.” He stretched his arms and yawned, then stood up, walked to the printer in the hallway, and returned with the document. “All right, I’ll tell you the truth,” he said. “I met a girl. I guess it’s changed my outlook. I was kind of depressed before. Now I feel good about things. I know, I’m a walking cliché, right?”
But he looked pretty happy to be one.
“Good for you, Elliot. Balancing professional responsibilities with a personal life isn’t easy. Maybe you should be my mentor instead of the other way around.”
“You’re not involved with anyone?”
She felt an unpleasant churn in her stomach, whether from shame, guilt, or both, she didn’t know. “I guess I’m still looking for the right man,” she said.
“I hope you know him when he shows up.” He tapped the document in his hand. “Thanks. I really appreciate this.”
27
For a man who had created a successful business and then sold it for millions of dollars, Michael Rushford’s house was comparatively modest—a four bedroom colonial in the upscale Philly suburb of Chestnut Hill. As Rushford’s nurse led him toward the staircase, Leary noticed some antique furniture in the hall—Leary’s mother was an admirer of antiques, and he recognized them when he saw them—but these pieces appeared to be Rushford’s only indulgence. The lion’s share of Rushford’s money had gone either to his medical bills or the Foundation.
Rushford’s private nurse—an attractive, petite brunette named Natalie Baron—led Leary up a curving stairwell to the second floor. She treaded silently and Leary found himself trying to do the same. The house was so quiet that he could hear the hum of machinery above them.
“Mr. Rushford has a lot of trouble sleeping.” Natalie tilted toward him on the stairs to whisper close to his ear. “But I told him you were coming and he said it would be okay to wake him.”
“I appreciate it,” Leary said with a nod. It was generous of the dying man to agree to meet with him, especially to discuss a murder investigation that had supposedly closed over a year ago.
“Mr. Rushford was very fond of Dr. Dillard and wants to help you in any way he can.”
Leary remembered Rushford saying something similar during his first investigation, although to Leary’s ear, he had not sounded particularly sincere. At the time, Leary had wondered if Rushford could even have identified Bob Dillard by sight. But he smiled at the nurse and said, “I remember.”
“Oh yes, I forgot you’ve met Mr. Rushford once before.” She touched his arm, halting his ascent. “Just so you’re prepared, his condition is significantly worse.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. The bedroom door was open. Inside, an array of medical equipment surrounded a king-size bed. Michael Rushford lay stretched out above the sheet. His limbs looked painfully scrawny and feeble. An oxygen mask was fixed to his face.
Natalie walked to the side of the bed and put her hand on Rushford’s shoulder. He woke instantly, opened his eyes and looked at her. She removed the oxygen mask, placed it on the machine it was connected to, and switched off the machine. Then she arranged the pillows against the headboard and helped Rushford lift himself into a sitting position. Leary watched all of this from the doorway, feeling like an intruder in a private moment.
Rushford’s eyes wavered from the nurse to Leary. “Come in, please.” His voice, although it rattled out of his throat and barely carried across the room, had retained a cadence of authority. For a brief moment, Leary could imagine the wasted man—whose pajamas seemed to cover only bones—commanding a boardroom full of executives.
Leary approached the bed, extended his hand. Rushford’s grip was weak, but he shook it. “Welcome, Detective Leary.”
Natalie placed a wooden, high-backed chair close to the bed—it was another antique, Leary thought, possibly from the Edwardian period, and he felt almost guilty sitting on it. She retreated to the door, but instead of leaving them, sat in a chair beside the doorway and folded her hands in her lap.
“Mr. Rushford, I’d like to ask you some questions about Bob Dillard.”
“It was a tragedy, what happened to Bob and his family.” Rushford’s voice was barely more than a breath. Leary had to lean forward to hear him.
“Yes, it—” Leary stopped, watched Rushford’s face. In his years as a homicide detective, Leary had earned a reputation for his skill in the interrogation room. He had a knack for seeing past people’s disguises. Now, he had the sudden intuition that Rushford was wearing one. Just as he had during his initial investigation, Leary sensed insincerity. “It was a brutal crime.”
Rushford nodded. “How can I help?”
“I’m trying to learn as much as I can about Bob Dillard.”
“If you talked to people at the Foundation, you know he was a workaholic.” Rushford smiled as if at a fond memory. “He was very dedicated to his research. Unfortunately, his dedication cost the Foundation millions of dollars and years of lost time.”
“What do you mean?”
“He had a habit of taking his work home with him. His mind was always on his research and he liked to have his notebooks at hand. After his murder, Bob’s briefcase couldn’t be located.”
“The Family Man always takes a souvenir,” Leary said, remembering. It had been one of the holes in his case, a point that Ramsey’s lawyer Jack Ackerman had hammered at the jury over and over again. Leary had searched every location Ramsey had an attachment to—his house, the firehouse, his childhood home—but had found none of the personal items that had been taken from the scenes of his crimes. Including Bob Dillard’s briefcase.
“Bob’s lab notebooks must have been in that briefcase, because they were not in his lab or in his house,” Ru
shford said. “Now, all that knowledge, all that progress, is lost.”
“Didn’t Dr. Dillard keep backup files, copies, some record of his work?”
“He was supposed to. But Bob had a mind that ran on a single track. Everything else, he let slip.”
Leary studied the man’s face. His words sounded like bullshit—what kind of scientist doesn’t back up his notes?—but Rushford spoke with such genuine regret, it was hard to believe he was lying. “You said these were handwritten notebooks? He didn’t transcribe his work into digital form? That doesn’t make sense, unless he worked completely alone, with no interaction or aid—”
“He preferred to work alone. Only a handful of high-ranking people at the Foundation even knew what he was doing.”
“Okay. But what about the Foundation’s computers? Wouldn’t he need to enter the data to run scenarios or build theories?”
Rushford shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“But you knew what he was working on, right?”
Rushford studied him, his expression turning wary. “Yes.”
“I heard somewhere that human embryonic stem cells could be the key to treating ALS,” Leary said, holding the man’s gaze.
“Somewhere?” Rushford grimaced. “I’ll have to remind Dr. Tiano of the dangers of wild speculation.”
“You must be familiar with the studies done in China.”
“I’m familiar with them. Unfortunately, such experiments have been outlawed in our country by narrow-minded religious zealots.”
“That must be very frustrating for you.”
“Yes, it is.”
Leary leaned back in his chair as he imagined a secret lab—separate from the Foundation but funded by Rushford—where Dillard might have conducted his research. Rushford certainly had enough money. And might a man like Bob Dillard keep his notes handwritten and in one place, if he were performing that type of research? Research that could have saved lives, but that also could have put him and his patron in prison, and the Foundation out of business? It was a crazy idea. Wild speculation, to borrow Rushford’s phrase. But what if it was true? How close might Dillard have been to a breakthrough that might have extended—or even saved—Rushford’s life?
Jessie Black Legal Thrillers Box Set 1 Page 13
