Susannah shook her head in exasperation. "Her teachers would notify her parole officer if she was cutting classes. So would her therapist. Believe me, Matt, Judy isn't turning tricks."
"Maybe not personally," Matt agreed. Apparently, the matchmaker is pimping for teenage runaways. "Maybe she's recruited Heather, and other girls like her, to do the dirty work."
Susannah just stared at him, unable to believe what she was hearing. He'd met Judy. He'd met Heather. How could he think either one of them would do what he was suggesting? How could he just believe the worst of them like that?
"You're way off base here, Counselor," she said icily. "Judy isn't turning tricks and she hasn't recruited Heather to turn them for her. End of discussion."
"Dammit, Susannah, you can't just bury your head in the sand. There's a reason The Personal Touch is being investigated. And Judy Sukura is part of that rea-"
"Investigated?" Susannah interrupted, shock and incredulity evident in her voice. "The Personal Touch is being investigated?"
Matt bit back a curse. He hadn't meant to tell her that. Strictly speaking, he shouldn't have told her. It was unethical to discuss a case under investigation with anyone outside the DA.'s office, even if you weren't working on it yourself. But maybe it was for the best. Maybe she'd listen to reason if she knew how serious it was.
"The Personal Touch is under investigation as a possible front for prostitution."
Susannah just stared at him, openmouthed with shock.
"I haven't had a chance to check it out thoroughly because I've been in court all day but, according to what I know so far, you and Eddie Devine are suspected of using the dating service as a cover for running a string of underage girls. Runaways, like Heather."
"Do you believe that?"
"No, of course not," Matt said, insulted that she would even think that of him. "Don't be silly. I know you don't have anything to do with it."
"But you think it is going on and you think Judy's involved in it."
"Yes," he said honestly. "I think Judy's involved in it up to her eyebrows."
"And Heather? You think Heather's involved in it, too?"
Matt hesitated, remembering the teasing sway of the girl's hips as she'd preceded him up the stairs, the sexy pout she'd turned on him. See anything you like? she'd said. "Maybe," he admitted reluctantly.
"How about Helen?" she said then, goading him. "Is Helen involved?"
"Susannah." He reached out to put his hands on her shoulders. "I know you're upset, but—"
She backed away from him, taking herself out of his reach. "Upset doesn't even begin to cover it," she said with dangerous calm. "I'm incensed. Enraged." She curled her hands into fists. "I'm so mad I could spit. Dammit—" she blinked furiously, fighting back hot tears of rage "—how could you, Matt? How could you believe that garbage about Judy and Heather? How could you believe I'm so stupid I wouldn't know if something like that was going on right tinder my nose?"
"Not stupid," Matt said gently. "Naive."
"Oh, excuse me. Naive," she sneered, her inflection making a curse of the word.
"Now, Susannah," he began placatingly, but she cut him off.
"All it took was just a hint of... of—" she groped for a word "—impropriety and everyone's instantly presumed guilty. Without question. Without a doubt in your mind. Guilty as charged."
"Now, wait just a minute, Susannah. I never said you were guilty of anything but—"
"—but being naive. I know." As far as she was concerned, calling her naive was just a polite way of saying she'd been stupid—and she didn't like either word. "I knew it wouldn't work," she said, as much to herself as to him. "Right from the minute we met, I knew it. And then I went ahead and let myself get involved, anyway. I let my—" She broke off and turned away from him, blindly reaching out to fiddle with the placement of a glass paperweight on her desk. "I think you'd better go," she said, fighting the urge to hurl it against the wall. "Before one of us says—" or does "—something we'll be sorry for."
"This isn't over, Susannah. It isn't something you can just sweep under the rug and ignore, hoping it will go away. It won't go away." He put his hands on her upper arms and turned her around. "And, just so we're clear, neither will I. So don't think you're going to use this as an excuse to break it off between us."
Susannah kept her head turned away. "Don't you have to be back in court this afternoon?" she said, refusing to look at him.
Matt stood there for a second, holding her in front of him, his hands on her arms, wondering whether to shake some sense into her or kiss her senseless. Either one would have been highly satisfying at that moment. But she was right, he did have to be back in court.
"Susannah." He shook her lightly when she continued to ignore him. "Susannah, look at me."
Grudgingly, she lifted her gaze to his.
"We'll finish this discussion later tonight."
"No, we won't," she said mulishly. "I have a client party tonight. I'll be very busy."
"All right, tomorrow, then," he said with exaggerated patience, as if she were a fractious child. "In the meantime, I don't want you to do or say anything to anybody. Don't talk to Judy or Heather about any of this. And if Eddie Devine should come around again, for God's sake, don't try to confront him. He could be dangerous. Is that clear?"
"Are you speaking as a concerned friend and lover?" she asked snidely. "Or is this an order from an officer of the court?"
Matt wondered which one she'd be more apt to listen to. "As the man who's going to marry you," he said firmly. Then, ignoring her stiffness, he pressed a quick, hard kiss on her mouth before he left.
Susannah threw the paperweight at the closed door and burst into tears.
* * *
"I know we had an agreement, Heather," Susannah said. "And I really hate to ask you to do this, but do you think you could help out at the party? Helen went home early with a sick headache, or I wouldn't ask you."
"Can't Judy do it?"
"She'll be here right after her computer class. But since this is our first evening dance party I'd really like to have an extra hand."
"What would I, like, have to do?"
"Nothing too taxing," Susannah assured her. "Greet people at the door and then pass the hors d'oeuvres on a tray. You'll be finished by nine-thirty. Ten at the latest. And I'll pay you five dollars an hour."
The flash of mercenary interest in Heather's eyes was quickly overshadowed by a teenager's instinctive caution. "Like, what's the catch?"
"You have to wear a dress."
"A dress?"
"You can borrow one of mine if you want to."
"Yeah?" Her expression brightened. "Cool. Which one?"
"Any one you want. Within reason."
"Yeah?" Heather said again. And then she tilted her head, eyeing Susannah consideringly. "You all right, Suse?" she asked. "You look a little down?"
"I'm fine," Susannah lied.
But Heather wasn't so easily put off. "Fight with the ambulance chaser, huh?"
Susannah shrugged.
"Helen said she heard you guys 'having words' this afternoon. And there's, like, a dent in the plaster next to your door. What'd you throw at him?"
"A paperweight," Susannah admitted. "But I missed."
"Too bad," Heather commiserated. She hesitated, clearly wanting to say more, also clearly uncomfortable about it.
"What?" Susannah urged.
Heather shrugged. "I, ah, guess this means he's not going to help me with my case, huh?"
"No, of course not," Susannah assured her. "Whatever happens between Matt and me has nothing to do with you. He's already filed a report with the juvenile authorities on your behalf. He isn't going to rescind it just because he and I had a disagreement."
"Yeah?" Heather said hopefully.
Her petition for emancipated-minor status was vitally important to her, no matter how hard she pretended it wasn't. She'd started running away from home when she was twelve, when her
father's physical abuse—and her mother's downtrodden acceptance of it—had finally became too much for her to handle. Each time she'd been returned by the juvenile authorities until the last time, when she'd threatened to kill herself if they made her go back. She now faced living in an institutional environment or with a foster family until she turned eighteen. But she'd been on her own too long to easily accept someone else's authority, even for two years. She'd been about to run away again when Susannah told her about the possibility of becoming an emancipated minor. The chance that it might actually come to pass was the only thing that kept Heather from disappearing into the streets again.
Susannah crossed the room and took Heather's face in her hands. "I promise you," she said. "No matter what happens between me and Matt, he'll do everything he can for you."
She hoped like hell she'd just spoken the truth.
* * *
At seven-thirty that evening everything was ready for the party. The champagne was cooling in a small silver tub on the sideboard. The hors d'oeuvres were temptingly arranged on silver trays. Vintage Frank Sinatra alternated with Tony Bennett on the music system. And Heather Lloyd was wearing a dress.
It was one of Susannah's simpler dresses, a short-sleeved, scoop-necked French challis with tiny ivory flowers scattered over a chocolate-brown background. A row of tiny pearlescent buttons ran from the neckline to the ballet-length hem. Heather wore them undone to mid-thigh with ivory leggings underneath to save her from immodesty and her heavy black boots to preserve her independence. She'd left the pentagrams and crosses off her ears without being asked, replacing them with small delicate studs also of her own design.
"You look charming," Susannah said, meaning it sincerely. Heather was young and pretty enough to look charming in practically anything she wore.
"And you look really hot," Heather replied, eyeing Susannah's long purple dress with undisguised approval.
It was perfectly plain and perfectly fitted, long-sleeved and slightly off the shoulder, with a touch of Lycra to make it cling to every slender curve from shoulder to midcalf. Her ankle-strap high heels and sheer panty hose matched it exactly, creating a long, unbroken line of color. A pair of amethyst and crystal drop earrings Heather had made for her and her wild red hair were her only accessories.
"Are you, like, expecting the ambulance chaser, Suse?"
Susannah shrugged. "No," she said. But it never hurts to be prepared, just in case. "I just had the urge to dress up a little tonight. It always makes me feel better when I'm depressed."
"You still, like, upset about the fight you guys had?"
Susannah shrugged again and went to answer the front door.
By eight o'clock the party was in full swing. The champagne was flowing. The hors d'oeuvres were fast disappearing. The mellow, crooning voice of Frank Sinatra had been replaced by Big Band dance tunes. And a spry gentleman of seventy-one was teaching Heather the swing step.
Judy arrived at eight-forty-five, dressed in her usual unrelieved, sophisticated black.
"How's it going?" she asked Susannah as she stowed her schoolbooks in the kitchen and donned a ruffled white apron.
"Even better than I'd hoped," Susannah said, giving her a hand as they replenished the hors d'oeuvres trays. "Teri Bowman and Harold Whitley are hitting it off, just as I thought they would. And Sarah Moore has had two invitations to dinner already." She smiled brightly, pleased with the success of her idea. "I knew she'd be a hit with the fellas if I could just get her to loosen up a little."
"Looks like Heather's a real hit, too," Judy commented with a wry smile.
Susannah laughed softly. "I know. You could have knocked me over with a feather. I didn't expect her to be quite so enthusiastic about helping out. But she's been a big help."
"Well," Judy said, picking up the refurbished platter of hors d'oeuvres, "it looks like the party's a success, then," she said over her shoulder as she left the kitchen.
"A big success," Susannah echoed, wondering why she wasn't more elated.
But she knew why. The party might be a rousing success but what good was that if her business got closed down on some trumped-up prostitution charge?
Or, maybe, she admitted to herself as she watched Judy move among the guests with her silver tray—just maybe—the charges weren't trumped up at all. When the party was over and all the guests were gone, she was going to have to force herself to ask some hard questions.
* * *
At nine o'clock the doorbell rang.
"Heather, would you get that, please," Susannah called over her shoulder, busy refilling champagne glasses for her guests after a particularly strenuous cha-cha had rendered them all in need of refreshment.
"Sure thing, Suse," Heather said, disappearing through the arched doors into the foyer. She was back a second later. "Ah, Suse?" she said, sticking her head around the edge of the parlor door. "Could you com'ere a minute?"
"Who is it?"
"I really think you, like, need to come out here."
Still holding the champagne bottle in one hand, Susannah headed for the door. "Yes?" she said, smiling at the man standing in the doorway.
He flashed a badge at her. "Ms. Susannah Bennington?"
"Yes?" Susannah said, the beginnings of alarm snaking up her spine. "What is it? Is someone hurt?"
"No, ma'am." He slipped the badge back into his coat pocket and produced a folded sheet of paper, all in one smooth move. He unfurled the paper with a practiced snap of his wrist. "I have a warrant to search the premises, ma'am."
"A search warrant?" Susannah echoed. "Why?"
"Vice." He stepped inside, beckoning behind him for his backup. Half a dozen uniformed officers suddenly swarmed into the room. "You and everybody in the house are under arrest."
Chapter 10
The ringing telephone woke Matt from an uneasy sleep, one disturbed by too many cups of reheated coffee, too much printed legalese, and frustrating, arousing, elusive dreams of a slender, red-haired woman who ran ahead of him in a circus parade, always just out of reach. He rolled to a sitting position on the sofa, sending the case file he'd been reading sliding to the floor, and groped for the cellular phone. In his hasty search, he knocked a pile of folders off the coffee table and onto the carpet, before finally wrapping his fingers around the instrument. He stabbed at the Talk button three times before the red light came on and the ringing stopped.
"What?" he barked into the receiver, more than ready to take his bad mood out on whoever had been unwise enough to make him or herself available.
"Matthew?"
"Mom?" Matt rubbed a hand up over his face and through his hair. "What is it?"
"I think you'd better turn on the television, Matthew," his mother said, her soft, even tones failing to hide the note of anxiety in her voice.
"The television?"
"Channel Two," she said. "The eleven o'clock news report."
Without taking the phone from his ear, Matt reached for the remote control and aimed it at the television. He punched it on. Two clicks brought him to the proper channel.
"Former San Francisco debutante, Susannah Bennington, owner of The Personal Touch dating service, is being held in connection with an alleged prostitution ring involving female minors. She was arrested at her Pacific Heights home earlier this evening. Two of her employees, convicted prostitute Judy Sukura and an unnamed minor female, were arrested with her. Several of her alleged customers were also taken into custody at the same location, where a wild party was in progress at the time of the arrests. We take you now, live, to the scene."
Matt sat bolt upright on the sofa. "Good God," he breathed as the scene shifted from the newsroom to the street outside of Susannah's house.
"Behind me, in this quiet Victorian house, in this pleasant, well-to-do section of the city, an alleged prostitution ring has been operating under the guise of a genteel dating service. The owner of this dating service, Susannah Bennington, is the daughter of Roger Bennington, founder and o
wner of Bennington Plastics, and Audrey Stanhope Bennington Harper, one of our city's most active civic leaders. Neighbors say that Ms. Bennington has always been 'a little different' and often had 'strange characters' going in and out of her establishment."
"But I never thought much of it," said another talking head, obviously the aforementioned neighbor. "San Francisco has a lot of strange people in it."
The on-location reporter signed off, the scene shifted to the outside of the police station and the news anchor began to give a description of the scene—but Matt wasn't listening.
He watched, shocked and disbelieving, as Susannah was helped from the back seat of a police car. She was wearing a slinky, shoulder-baring dress, spike heels and a pair of stainless-steel handcuffs. Her hair was wild, half falling in her face, giving her a wanton look. Her chin was well up, her carriage as haughty as a queen's despite the handcuffs. Her face was set in stubborn, unyielding lines, two spots of color flaming high on her cheekbones. Her brown eyes were huge in her pale face, wide and frightened despite her brave front.
Judy Sukura slid out of the back seat after her, wearing some kind of sexy maid's uniform. Beneath the sleek, sophisticated hairstyle and expertly applied makeup, her face was expressionless and cold, making her look as hard as nails.
In contrast, the "unknown minor female" being helped out of a second police car looked even younger than the sixteen Matt knew her to be. Her green eyes were defiant, her mouth was sulky, her slender shoulders were hunched in a way Matt already recognized as defensive and self-protective. The position caused the front of her pretty flowered dress to gape, exposing more of her chest to the cameras than it should have, and managing to make her look sexy and innocent at the same time.
"Matthew, are you there?"
"Yes, Mom," he said, his gaze glued to the television screen. "I'm here."
"Do you know what this is all about?"
"Not really," he hedged, automatically shielding what he knew of the facts. Despite his lapse this afternoon with Susannah, it was his usual procedure. A case under investigation wasn't supposed to be discussed until the investigation was complete. Apparently, this investigation was more complete than he'd thought, since they were already making arrests.
All Night Long Page 14
