Finger Prints

by Barbara Delinsky

  “Who says?”

  “Fitzgerald says. Dray says. I say.”

  Fitzgerald was the state’s attorney general, Dray a justice of the Superior Court. Greg Reilly had come to the U.S. marshal’s service with a load of clout in his back pocket. “You’ve seen him in action?” Sam asked.

  Greg nodded. “Very smooth. Very sharp. Brilliant defense.”

  “And his character?” Sam’s voice spoke of his concern. Greg picked up the ball.

  “I know who to call. Where can I reach you?” He’d been on the verge of asking if Sam was still at Carly’s house, but had caught himself just in time. The innuendo might have ticked Sam off again. Hell, he’d only been kidding before. He knew Sam was in love with his wife. He had eyes and ears and was vividly aware of those soft calls every day at four.

  “I’ll reach you,” Sam replied, then gave a short, “Thanks,” before hanging up the phone. Returning to the living room, he sat down across from Carly.

  “Well…?” she asked, tempering a fine line of tension.

  “We’re working on it.”

  “Do you know anything, other than that he’s a lawyer?”

  Sam shrugged. “Not much. I know he’s handling more and more criminal work. That’s why he looked familiar. Several months back, he defended a member of the governor’s cabinet on charges of embezzlement. His face was all over the evening news.”

  “Did he get an acquittal?”

  Sam scowled. “Yes.”

  “But you think his client was guilty?”

  “From where I sat,” which was only at his desk reading the newspaper, “yes.”

  “Then how did he get off?” It was a question born more of indignation than innocence.

  “Very simply. The prosecution didn’t have solid enough evidence to convince a jury beyond the shadow of a doubt. There wasn’t any witness like you to make its case.”

  The terse reminder of her predicament brought furrows to Carly’s brow. “Is Ryan a danger to me? Do you think he might have some connection to Culbert?” More likely Culbert, a high-placed political blackguard, than a lowly thug like Barber. Perhaps both. She wanted to believe neither. “He wasn’t terribly threatening just now, even if he did give me a scare downstairs.”

  “Downstairs?”

  Only then did it occur to her that Sam knew nothing of the blockbuster end to her fiasco. “I, uh, ran into him in the courtyard,” she began, feeling foolish all over again. “I mean, literally ran into him when I thought I was being chased. I’d looked over my shoulder and wasn’t watching, and wham. He caught me and kept me from falling.” Recalling the events, she gave an involuntary shudder. “My first thought was that he was part of a brilliant scheme, that he’d been waiting right there to catch me. You know, the lamb being, in this case, chased to the slaughter? But he let me go as soon as I’d regained my balance. He was as harmless then as he seemed just now. Wasn’t he?”

  Pondering her vulnerability, Sam felt the full weight of his responsibility. How in the hell could he know about Cornell? If the guy were a faceless shoe salesman or the obscure manufacturer of computer parts, he might feel more confident. But a fairly visible criminal attorney might easily be the target of Gary Culbert’s maneuvering. Culbert had been a state legislator before greed had taken over. Though none would admit it now, Sam was sure that he still had friends in high places. And friends in Illinois high places had friends in other high places who could feasibly make calls and pull strings and find weaknesses in a man as the grounds for blackmail. What were Ryan Cornell’s weaknesses? He was human. Surely he had some, aside from a knack for locking his keys in his car.

  Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but in his gut Sam agreed with Carly. On the surface, Cornell seemed innocent enough.

  “I’m sure he is,” he said, forcing a smile. Carly was already on edge. There seemed no point in feeding her dark imaginings. He would, however, stop at the office before heading home. With Cornell apparently already installed in the apartment just below hers, Sam wanted fast answers on this one. “We’ll check things out. I don’t want you to worry.” He glanced at his watch. “I should be going.”

  Pushing herself up from the sofa, Carly walked him to the door. “Thanks for coming, Sam. I guess I did need someone to talk with.”

  He threw an arm around her shoulder and gave her a parting squeeze. “You get some rest, you hear?”

  “I will. See ya.”

  With a final smile and a thumbs up sign, he was gone. Carly very deliberately bolted herself in and activated the alarm, then turned to clear the cups from the kitchen table.

  In that most innocent of ways, Sam was good for her, she mused. He exuded the kind of confidence she needed, yet it wasn’t a blind, macho thing. He was thorough. Ryan Cornell would be carefully scrutinized. If there were any possible connection between him and either Gary Culbert or Nick Barber, it would be found. And what then, she asked herself as she had so many times before. What if it was learned that her cover had been breached? She sighed, laying the cups and saucers in the dishwasher and closing its door. Another name? Another place? It could go on forever. She didn’t think she could bear that.

  It was like chicken pox, she mused, flipping off the kitchen light, doing the same to all but one of those in the living room, the one she’d leave burning all night, then seeking the haven of her bedroom. As a child she’d been exposed year after year, waiting to get ill, and by the time she’d reached her teens she’d begun to pray for the inevitable if only to eliminate the fear. Now, at times, she felt the same, half wishing Culbert would come after her as he’d threatened. At times, she simply wanted it over! But then, she’d never caught the chicken pox.

  Lifting the bell-shaped lid of a round rattan basket, she retrieved her needlepoint, took refuge in the fortress of her corner chair with the phone in arm’s reach, and began to carefully weave a silk-tailed needle through the network of ultrafine mesh. It was to be a Christmas gift for her father, a hand-painted canvas of wheat fields at sunset that, when covered with silk and framed in bronze, would capture the vibrant reds and the golden tones that so spoke to her of home. From the time she’d first spotted the piece in a shop on Newbury Street, she’d felt drawn to it. Even now, as she pulled the thread from front to back with slow, even strokes, she felt more peaceful than she had all day.

  From the start, she’d found needlepoint to be therapeutic. She recalled vividly her introduction to it. She’d been sixteen at the time, a high-school senior living through the tension of college boards, applications and admissions. When she’d noticed the small eyeglass case in the window of the store in downtown Omaha that Saturday afternoon, it had appealed to her instantly. Not only was it practical, with her three pairs of glasses floating around the house at any given time, but the design had been too right to resist. A robin perched on a tiny branch—she’d loved it. How clearly she remembered the saleswoman’s reaction.

  “You’ve done needlepoint before, have you?”

  “No.”

  “No? Then perhaps you ought to consider another design. This particular piece is quite delicate. It takes a lot of skill.”

  “I know how to sew. And knit. I can do it,” she’d responded without hesitation. The thought of learning a new craft excited her. It would be something to divert her mind from the unsureness of the future.

  The saleswoman had been far from convinced. “Did you look at the pillow kits on that shelf? They’re perfect for a beginner.”

  But Robyn Lyons had known what she wanted. “I’ll take the robin,” she’d said gently but firmly. “If you have a good instruction book, I’ll take that too. If you don’t, I can get something from the library.”

  She’d left the shop that day with not only the eyeglass case, a supply of Persian yarn and needles and a how-to-book on basic stitchery, but a full stock of determination. In her wake she’d left one saleswoman smug in the conviction that the piece would be a disaster. When her young customer returned a week later,
needing nothing more than instructions for blocking her skillfully completed work, the saleswoman had been duly put in her place. And when Robyn had proceeded to purchase a second piece, this time an Aran Isle pillow requiring no less than six different stitches, the saleswoman became the eager teacher. It was the start not only of a hobby that had carried Robyn Lyons through light times and dark, but of a close friendship as well. Sylvia Framisch saw her protégé only during college vacations after that first year, though the two kept faithfully in touch. Long after Robyn had married, she continued to return to the shop during visits home. In turn, Sylvia knew just which canvases to order with Robyn in mind.

  Shifting to tuck her legs snug beneath her, Carly wondered how Sylvia fared. She missed her warmth, the friendly talk. It wasn’t the same—the elegant New-bury Street shop she now visited once a month or so for supplies. Or perhaps it was she—Carly—who had changed. Robyn had been more outgoing, making friends easily. Carly was, of necessity, more cautious.

  Perhaps Sam was right, she told herself. Perhaps she did need to spread her wings further. But it was hard, when she was always on her guard lest she say or do something to betray her true identity. Was loneliness something she’d have to learn to live with? Or would she, in time, feel comfortable enough with Carly Quinn to be able to open up?

  There was more, though. It wasn’t just loneliness or distrust that caused her to put distance between herself and friends and acquaintances. There was fear. Raw, recurrent fear. Memories of an inferno, a gun, a look of sheer hatred, a threat ground out by a violent soul. Though cloaked at times, the past was ever present.

  Sam had asked if she’d explored the Boston area. Yes, she’d done her share of cursory sight-seeing. And she’d gone on occasional jaunts with friends from school. But most often she went out only when necessary, such as to go to the market, the cleaner, the drug store, the library. At other times it was simply safer staying home.

  Hearing Sam’s disagreement as though he were there, she shook her head sadly. No one could understand why she felt the constant need to glance over her shoulder. No one could understand why she stood far enough back from the trolley tracks to prevent someone’s coming from behind and shoving her in front of an oncoming train. No one could understand that tiny flicker of doubt each time she turned her key in the ignition of her yellow Chevette, or why, when sitting in the midst of downtown traffic, she would check twice, three times within minutes to be sure the doors were locked. No one could possibly understand why she would pay more to park in an open-air lot rather than parking for less in a dark, enclosed garage.

  No one could possibly understand these things, or feel the mindless terror that prompted them. The gun, the threat, the sudden conviction that death was imminent—even Sam could only begin to sympathize. After all, he wasn’t the one being hunted!

  Take Ryan Cornell. In other circumstances, she might have thought it exciting to have such an attractive man living nearby. Now she could only wonder whether his gentle facade hid another kind of man. What if he had been hired to find her? What if he’d taken the apartment below her with the purpose of penetrating the wall she’d built? What if…what if Gary Culbert had conjured a far more subtle, far slower, more painful means of revenge?

  In his downtown office, Sam cradled the phone against his ear. “Sid? Sam Loomis calling. Sorry to bother you so late but I need information.” Sid Aronski was one of the court officers with whom Sam had a working relationship—a lunch now and then, a bottle of whiskey at Christmas, in exchange for information.

  “Who you after?”

  “Ryan Cornell.”

  “Cornell?” There was a note of surprise. “What’s he done?”

  “That’s what I want to know. What has he done?”

  “Beats me,” the court officer returned with a shrug, pushing the cat off the worn hassock to make room for his feet. “Besides win maybe nine cases out of the last ten he’s tried.”

  “That good?”

  “That good.”

  “Any monkey business with juries?”

  “Cornell? Are you kidding? He’s straight.”

  “Know anything about him personally?”

  “Naw. He’s a private guy. Doesn’t open up like some of them.”

  “No lady friends sitting in the back rows drooling?”

  “Not that guy. He’s got this lady lawyer who assists him sometimes. And the she-reporters love him. Funny, though, but I can’t remember him ever showing any interest. In the courtroom, he’s got one thing in mind. Getting his client off. He’s good at it. Too good. Many more goddamn felons back walking the streets, and we’d do better to lock ourselves up for protection.”

  Sam had spent more than his share of time listening to Sid Aronski’s philosophy. He didn’t have the patience for it tonight. “Is the guy married?”

  “Maybe…no…hell, I dunno.”

  “Okay, Sid. Thanks. You’ve been a help. We’ll have lunch sometime soon, yeah?”

  “You know where to find me.”

  Sam had no sooner hung up when he punched out another number. As it rang, he glanced at his watch. It was getting late. He’d really feel bad about disturbing her.

  “Hello?” came a groggy voice.

  He’d done it. “You were sleeping.”

  Jennifer Blayne stretched, then blinked and looked around her in surprise. “Sam? Is that you?”

  “It’s me. Hey, Jen, I’m sorry. I thought maybe I’d catch you just before—”

  “God, I’m glad you called.” She sat up quickly and thrust a thick mane of hair back from her eyes. “I fell asleep out here on the sofa, fully dressed, every light on in the place.”

  “You must be exhausted.”

  “It’s been one hell of a week. Between the chemical spill and the Chelmsford murders and that little kid who was pinned under the truck, the station’s had me running all over creation.”

  “That’s success.” Jennifer Blayne was one of the most visible and popular members of the Channel 4 Eyewitness Team.

  “Hah! That’s insanity.” She yawned. “And you too. What are you doing working at an hour like this?”

  “Trying to learn what I can about Ryan Cornell.”

  “Ryan Cornell?” Sam imagined that her voice warmed just a bit. “What about him?”

  “What do you know?”

  “I wish I could tell you all kinds of spicy little tidbits like the kind of shaving cream he uses or the color of his briefs. Unfortunately, I can’t.”

  Sam cleared his throat and drawled, “No problem, Jen. I really don’t care what color his briefs are.”

  “What do you care about?” she returned more quietly, letting the reporter take an edge over the woman.

  “That depends. How well do you know him?”

  “I’ve interviewed him. I’ve seen him at receptions now and again.”

  “Is he married?”

  “Not now.”

  “But he was?”

  “Yes.”

  “Recently?”

  “A year or two ago.”

  “Is he strapped for alimony?”

  “Ryan?” She laughed softly. “Ryan’s doing fantastically well. And besides, his wife is money. She doesn’t need his. Oh, I assume he’s giving her something, but it can’t be anything hefty.”

  “Child support?”

  “Uh-uh. No kids.”

  “Does he date?”

  “So I’m told,” she replied.

  “What do you mean? You’ve never seen him with a date?”

  “Nope.”

  “Think he might be gay?”

  The laughter that met his ears this time was a helpless outburst. “Ryan Cornell? Oh, Sam, you’re barking up the wrong tree. Ryan Cornell is quite a lover. That I got from a colleague of mine who went out with him once. Just once. No, there’s nothing wrong with him in the lust department.”

  “Then what is wrong with him?”

  “He’s a private person. He’s very self-contained
.” Her voice grew more pensive. “He’s just come off a bad marriage and seems to want to avoid any kind of commitment to a woman. I honestly think that he’s happy enough being a good lawyer. You know,” she argued, only half in jest, “sex isn’t everything. There are those of us, Sam Loomis—”

  “Uh-huh,” he cut her off with a smile, unable to resist teasing her for a minute. “You don’t have to rationalize, Jennifer. I’m not about to pass judgment on you. If you’re tired of being a sex object, that’s your problem. If you’re swearing off men—”

  “Now, did I say that? I know that it’s against the rules for you to tell me why you’re asking all these questions, but I’ll tell you this. If you’re planning on taking Ryan Cornell into custody and need a playmate for him, I’ll volunteer.”

  “He turns you on?”

  “In many ways. He’s a real nice guy.”

  Sam smiled, feeling more relieved by the minute. “And that’s your final word?”

  “It is.”

  “Go back to sleep.”

  “You bet. Take care.”

  His smile lingered as he hung up the phone. Jennifer Blayne was a sweetheart; Ryan Cornell could do much worse. But the issue wasn’t Ryan and Jennifer, was it? It was Ryan and Carly. Grabbing the receiver once more, he stabbed at the buttons.

  “Greg?”

  “Yeah. Good timing. I just got through talking with Mertz.”

  “State committee?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’ve you got?”

  Greg Reilly proceeded to give him a skeletal dossier on Ryan MacKenzie Cornell. By the time he’d finished, Sam was satisfied. “Thanks, Greg.” The genuine warmth in his tone said far more.

  “No problem,” Greg said, feeling eminently pleased. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. Have a good weekend.”

  “You mean you’re calling it quits?” he teased gently. “Hell, Sam, it’s only ten-thirty. I know you’ve been working since eight this morning, but—”

  “Aw, shut up.” Sam chuckled, deciding that the kid had his moments. “See ya.” He pushed the disconnect button, then punched out a final call.