Finger Prints

by Barbara Delinsky

  Sending a “who in the world could that be” look Ryan’s way, she went to the intercom. “Yes?”

  “Carly, it’s Tom Cornell. Is my brother there?”

  Carly paused for a minute, then couldn’t quite suppress a grin. She made sure to keep her back to Ryan and Sheila. “He’s here. Want to come up?”

  “You bet.”

  She pressed the release, then opened her front door. Only then did she turn back toward the living room. Ryan was wearing a maddeningly innocent expression. Sheila seemed more on edge than ever.

  It was to the latter that Carly addressed herself, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Relax. You’ll like Ryan’s brother, Sheila. He’s nice.”

  Within moments, the tall, blond-haired man appeared at the door, greeting Carly with a warm hug—which she hadn’t expected but which she supposed she should have, given the strength of Ryan’s feelings and the fact that he was sure to have told his brother he was practically living with her—and casting a gaze toward Ryan, whose message on Tom’s answering service was simply that he should stop by sometime after four-thirty. He was about to ask what he’d wanted when his gaze fell on Sheila. He stood very still for an instant before daring to dash a pleased, if questioning, glance at Carly.

  Taking his arm, Carly led him down into the living room. “Tom, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Sheila Montgomery. Sheila, Tom Cornell.”

  Eyes glued to Sheila, Tom walked around the low tables, took Sheila’s hand and raised it to his lips in as courtly a greeting as Carly had seen. She snuck a glance at Ryan to find that he too was amused, then focused back on Sheila, whose eyes were round and more lively than they’d been all afternoon.

  “This is a pleasure,” Tom said, his voice smooth as velvet and every bit as alluring.

  “For me too,” Sheila breathed. “I’ve seen you before.”

  “Twice.”

  “You remember?”

  “I remember.”

  Ryan cleared his throat. “I didn’t know you’d be by today, Tom,” he said with a meaning the other couldn’t miss. “Have a seat. Would you like some sherry?”

  “Sherry?” Uncomprehending at first, Tom dragged his gaze from Sheila’s face to the glass in her hand. “Ah, no. No thanks.” Then he shifted his gaze to Carly. “Don’t have any beer, by chance?”

  With a suspicious look, Carly redirected the question to Ryan, who accommodated her by tossing his head toward the kitchen. “Let me take a look,” she said, turning. Sure enough, a six pack sat at the bottom of the bag Ryan had brought. He’d come prepared, she mused, tugging one of the cans free and returning to the living room. “It’s not quite as chilled as it should be.”

  “No problem.” Taking the beer from her, Tom smiled. His attention was quickly back on Sheila, whose own had never left him. From where she was sitting Carly could feel the electricity between the two and wondered if it had been the same between her and Ryan. Had been? Continued to be. She didn’t wonder; she knew. Even now, when she met his gaze and he winked, she felt the charge.

  Much later, together in bed, Carly and Ryan would laugh at how it had been. Proud of themselves for having brought together two people so very obviously attracted to each other, they hadn’t minded that they’d felt utterly superfluous during that time in her apartment. Nor had they minded when they’d had to excuse themselves to dress for a dinner date. Deftly taking the hint, Tom and Sheila had left…together. It was perfect.

  Fourteen

  sHEILA SAT AT HER DESK THE FOLLOWING MONDAY feeling strangely disconcerted. She half wished she’d been assigned to the courtroom; at least then she’d have had something to keep her mind busy. As it was, blank report forms lay before her. She took the first, rolled it into the ancient typewriter that had come with her closet of an office—it galled her to think of being on the fifteenth floor without even the tiniest window—struck several keys and promptly chipped a fingernail. Muttering a choice oath, she snatched the paper from the typewriter, crumbled it into a hard ball and slammed it into the wastebasket. Then she sat back in her chair and attempted to file her wounded nail into an acceptable shape.

  After a minute she despaired of that and let her hand fall. It came to rest against the purse hanging on the back of her chair. Instinctively her fingers curled around the fine leather, and she pulled the soft pouch onto her lap. It was lovely, as well it should be, she mused, given the amount she’d paid for it. Though a large satchel had always been part of her outfit, she’d never had one quite as nice. A small smile curved her lips. The car was nice, too, a bright, new, shiny Mazda, the sporty model she’d admired from afar for so long. Driving it this weekend, she’d felt elegant, special, important…not that she’d had all that much time to drive around.

  Her thoughts turned to Tom and her smile grew more poignant. Tom Cornell was something else—very different from the men she’d known, oozing with sexuality yet restrained and respectful. They’d gone to dinner together on Friday night, to the theater on Saturday. Though she’d been awed by the latter, Tom had taken it all in stride, seeming to enjoy her enjoyment as much as the play itself. On Sunday he’d taken her out for brunch, then back to his house where he’d shown her his computer with the enthusiasm of a young boy. Computers had always bored her; she’d never understood their workings and therefore had found them thoroughly intimidating. But Tom’s enthusiasm had been catching. Under his patient tutelage, she’d sat at the keyboard responding to prompts, giving commands, making the machine do remarkable things. Together they’d created a game on it, then spent hours playing it. She’d had fun.

  And Tom Cornell hadn’t even made love to her.

  “Sheila?” Her head shot up. Greg Reilly was leaning around her half-open door. “Busy?”

  She threw a disparaging gaze at the papers on her desk. “I should be, but I’m not. These things are hard to get into.”

  He straightened and came in. “Case reports? I know the feeling. Things are pretty slow at my desk too. Must be Monday mornings. Wanna waste a little time with me?”

  He didn’t need to coax her further. “Sure,” she said, pushing the papers back on her desk in a symbolic gesture. “Why not.”

  He grinned and propped a thigh on the desk corner. “So, how’s it going? We missed you while you were away.”

  “Come on,” she chided. “Anyone can do what I do.”

  “Not the way you do it. Sam put Henshaw on the Plymouth County case; she came near to brawling with our witness.”

  Sheila chuckled. “Theresa Rossi is a handful. One week with her was plenty. I’m glad I was away. Poor Henshaw.”

  “How was your trip, anyway?”

  “Great.”

  “Do you miss living in Chicago?”

  She shrugged indifferently.

  “How do you like Boston?”

  “I like it. It’s cozy.”

  “Cozy. That’s a new one.”

  “It’s an easy city to get around,” she explained impassively. “Not overwhelming like New York.”

  “Have you had a chance to meet people here?”

  “A few.”

  “Anyone special?” He phrased it in the way of an interested suitor feeling out the competition. When she simply shrugged again, he changed the subject. “So.” He sighed. “How’s your apartment?”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Warm enough? Some of those landlords get pretty stingy with the heat.”

  “It’s fine.”

  He sensed a wariness in her and wondered if he’d lost his touch. Fearing that he was trying too hard, he relaxed and let his gaze fall quite naturally to the soft wool dress she wore. It was loose fitting and simple, with a boat neck and wing sleeves; its red color set off her black hair and pale complexion well. “I like your outfit. Is it new?”

  She smoothed the gentle fabric, then tipped her chin up with a hint of defiance. “I went on a shopping spree last week. I felt I deserved something new and bright to carry me through the drab winter mo
nths.”

  “You never look drab, Sheila. I have to say that for you. The office has never been more colorful.”

  Looking into his eyes, she couldn’t help but wonder just what had brought him into her office. Yes, his gaze was warm, but not in the way of typical male appreciation. He’d never been terribly solicitous before. There had never been the slightest spark between them. He was the right age and very definitely good-looking, but he had always been standoffish, Sam’s assistant in every sense. His sudden interest made little sense.

  Unless, she thought with a jolt, unless he suspected….

  “You’re kind to say that,” she said demurely, then took on an expression of worry. “I only wish Sam felt that way. He distrusts me for some reason. I have no idea why.”

  “He doesn’t distrust you,” Greg improvised. “He’s just a tough guy to get to know. He plays by every rule. Believe it or not, it was months before I saw him crack a smile.” That was the truth.

  “Really? But I thought you two were close.”

  “Not at first. It was political pull that got me in here. He resented that.”

  Where his studied attempts at flattery had gotten him nowhere, this honest confession seemed to break through Sheila’s reserve. Her expression opened and she angled back more comfortably in her seat.

  “How did you get him past it?”

  “By working my tail off.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.” She shook her head. “I’m doing the best I can. It doesn’t seem to faze him.”

  “It fazes him. Believe me. He’s noticed.”

  “Hmmph. Could’ve fooled me. He seems angry every time I come near him.” She widened her eyes innocently. “Do you think he’s got something against the Chicago office?”

  “Nah.”

  “Then it has to be me.” She looked dejected. “I’m doing something wrong.”

  “You’re new. That’s all. Give it time.”

  Give it time. That was what they all said, she mused. Give it time, and you’ll meet Mr. Right. Give it time and you’ll make it up that ladder. Give it time and you’ll have all those things dreams are made of. Well, she’d tired of waiting.

  “So there’s hope?” she asked, going along with the game.

  Before Greg could respond, a knock came at the door, followed seconds later by the appearance of the very man under discussion. “Greg, here you are. Got a minute?”

  Greg knew well enough to jump. He’d seen that tense look on Sam’s face only once or twice before; it meant trouble.

  “Sure.”

  Sam was gone as quickly as he’d come. At the door, Greg gave Sheila a parting wink, then made a beeline for his office.

  Sam stood before the window, head bowed, fingers rubbing his forehead. When he heard Greg’s footsteps, then the door closing, he turned.

  “What’s up?” Greg asked.

  “I’ve just had one hell of a go-round with John Meade in Chicago. He wants Carly Quinn back there for a couple of days. I tried to get him to come out here but he won’t.” He gave a weary sigh. “I’m going to take her.”

  “You?” Normally such a job would fall to one of the underlings in the office. As chief deputy, Sam was in demand.

  “Yeah. She’ll be really upset at having to go at all; the least I can do is to soften it up some. She likes me and trusts me. It might help.” Allowing Greg no time to comment, he raced on. “Mazur and Stenmar will keep overall track of things. I want you to cover my desk though. And you’d better watch Judge Feldstein; if she gets any more threats, we’ll have to put someone on her.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Everything else is pretty well set. If all goes well I can be back by Wednesday night.”

  “Isn’t it risky—your going with her? If someone sees you together and makes the connection….”

  Even in as little time as he’d had, Sam had thought it all out. Actually, he’d thought it all out before, when the trip to Chicago had been no more than a vague possibility. “We’ll be together without being together. She won’t have to know me, but I can keep her in sight all the time. Someone from Hoffmeister’s office will meet the plane in Chicago and take over from there. When I’ve seen that she’s in good hands, I’ll find my own way to the state’s attorney’s office.” He shook his head and raised troubled eyes heavenward in a plea for strength. “She is not going to like this. Not a bit.” Lowering his gaze, he murmured, “Neither is Ellen, for that matter.”

  “Ellen will understand.”

  “Yeah. Unfortunately, Wednesday is our daughter’s birthday. It’s gonna take a whole load of understanding!”

  There wasn’t much Greg could say on that score. He’d met Ellen only once, just before Christmas. Though he and Sam had grown closer in the past weeks, he wasn’t exactly in a position to offer personal advice. All he could do was to reassure Sam that he’d be on top of everything crossing his desk, which he promptly did. He was rewarded with an appreciative nod.

  “When will you be leaving?”

  Sam had already scooped up his blazer and was tossing it over his shoulders. “As soon as I can get home to pack a bag and pick up Carly.” He grimaced. “She’s not gonna like this….”

  “Some great novels are semiautobiographical. Jonathan, tell me what you see of Hemingway in A Farewell to Arms.”

  Jonathan, a rangy sixteen-year-old at the gawky stage, looked down at his notes. His deep voice came with deliberation. “I think that the war part is his. Didn’t he fight in World War I?”

  Carly sat on the front of her desk with her legs crossed at the ankles. “Uh-huh.” She said nothing more, waiting patiently for an elaboration. It was Deborah, attractive and poised, who spoke up.

  “The love story is fictitious. He didn’t get married until after the war, and that marriage ended in a divorce.”

  Carly nodded. “That’s true.”

  “But he had been in love,” one of the other boys argued. “He remarried before the book came out.”

  A third, Brendan, joined the fray. “Sure, and his father packed it in the same year.”

  “‘Packed it in’?” Carly gave each word its due.

  Brendan shrugged. “Killed himself. Maybe Hemingway had a fixation on death. To kill Catherine off that way—” The bell rang and there was a moment’s hiatus.

  Carly rose. “That’s it. For tomorrow, think about the tragic quality of that last chapter. A theme. Two pages. And there will be a full test on Friday.” At the last there were several sighs and a muffled moan, then all sound of complaint was lost in the gathering of books and papers and the slow dispersal of students.

  Carly, too, closed her notebook and set her book atop it before stooping to get her bag. When she stood, she caught her breath. Sam was standing at her door.

  “Sam! What a nice surprise!” Then she noted his expression. “Uh-oh, what’s wrong?” But she knew; she knew.

  “Meade called this morning. He wants you in Chicago.”

  “Oh, no…” she whispered.

  “Just for a day or two. He wants to go over everything with you in hopes of avoiding that new trial.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  “Now? I can’t leave now, Sam!” she exclaimed, then looked frantically around. “I teach. I can’t just—” she gasped “—just take off!”

  He came closer and spoke very gently. “You have to. You haven’t any choice.”

  All color drained from her face. It was bad enough running out on her job…. “But what about Ryan?”

  “What about him?”

  “I…he…we’ve been practically living together. If I just disappear, he’ll be hurt and angry and suspicious. I can’t leave him without an explanation. What’ll I say?”

  Tucking her books into the crook of his elbow, Sam grasped her arm and guided her toward the door. There wasn’t any time to waste; they had little more than an hour to make their plane. “You’ll leave a note and say that an emergency’s come up at ho
me and that you’ll call him. Now, should you speak with the headmaster?”

  Carly stared dumbly at him, then looked straight ahead, seeing nothing of the corridor through which he propelled her steadily. “The headmaster. Uh, yes.” Forewarned as she’d been, the turn of events was no easier to accept. She couldn’t believe what was happening. Her life had been so pleasant….

  An hour later she sat on the plane. Beneath the wide brim of her hat, her hair was pulled straight back into a sleek chignon. She wore dark glasses over her colorless contacts. Only after the craft was airborne did she remove the hat and glasses. Her bright blue eyes stunned Sam; even anxiety-clouded, they were brilliant.

  “Sorry I couldn’t do better for clothes,” she whispered, a wry twist to her lips. “I threw out all my Robyn things last summer. Gauzy blouses, floppy blazers—they were too artsy, too whimsical for Carly Quinn.”

  “You’ll do fine,” he murmured appreciatively. “I can’t believe how different you look. Two things—eyes and hair—it’s amazing.”

  “I feel strange.”

  His eyes widened in alarm. “Sick?”

  Frowning, she tapped her head with her forefinger. “Crazy. Like I’m playing an absurd game. You know, charades or something.”

  He eyed her sadly. “It’s no game, hon. But it’ll be okay. Trust me.”

  She did trust him, and given the upset this trip was bound to be, she needed every bit of help she could get. “Thanks for coming, Sam.”

  “No problem.” He raised a finger to his lips and tossed his head meaningfully toward the rest of the plane.

  Nodding her understanding, Carly turned her head toward the window where only the clouds could see her heartache. “RYAN?” Clutching the phone, she spoke timidly.

  “Carly! My God, what happened? I couldn’t believe it when I found your note! Is it your dad?”

  She hated herself for what she was doing but felt, and not for the first time, that she was controlled by others. “Yes.”

  “His heart?”

  She cringed. If all was well, as she assumed it was, John Lyons was playing golf with his brother in Phoenix. She’d called him there a few days earlier, before Ryan had come home from work. “Yes. His heart.”