"Objection!" Abigail Carnivali shot out of her chair as if spring loaded. "Your Honor, I have merely answered media questions without impinging on Miss Winston's right to a fair trial."
Sweat sealed Clarence's shirt to his chest. Oh, boy, a legal shoot-out at the OK Corral. What should he do? He rapped his gavel several times although the room was silent. Royce Winston suddenly appeared less dazed, truly alarmed, her eyes fastened on him.
The pack of slavering dogs from the local media glared at him. He recognized Tobias Ingeblatt, who was seated directly behind Royce Winston. Clarence's wife believed every word the man wrote, unashamed that her vision of the world was shaped by what she read in supermarket checkout lines. Clarence couldn't stifle a smile, imagining the headlines: judge sidle invokes gag order.
Power. He could spend a whole year in night court, bored shitless with a litany of drug charges and stoned hookers. This was his chance to become a name overnight.
"I agree with the defense council. I refuse to allow any defendant's rights to be jeopardized. All parties in this case are hereby ordered to refrain from discussing it." He wasn't positive he had the wording right, but close enough.
Durant looked over his shoulder at the disgruntled press and Clarence hesitated. Was he supposed to toss them out now? The only person he'd ejected so far had been a drunk who'd thrown up just as he'd pled not guilty.
Clarence whacked the scarred top of his desk with the gavel. "Bailiff, clear the court. The prosecution may continue."
Abigail Carnivali rose, obviously caught off balance. "Your Honor, in view of the enormous amount of cocaine found in the defendant's home and the threat she poses to society, the state is requesting bail be set at one million dollars."
"Jesus," Clarence muttered under his breath. He had the suggested bail chart right under his elbow. This was excessive.
"Your Honor," Abigail continued, "we have reason to believe Miss Winston may leave the country. After all, she has lived abroad before and has relatives in Italy."
Royce needed sleep so badly, she felt drugged, all her energy now consumed by the effort to stay awake. She struggled to concentrate as Abigail gave the court the reasons for the astronomical bail. Why, she'd never be able to raise that. Even if she found Uncle Wally, he didn't have that much money. She gazed at Mitch; his remarkable profile gave no clue to what he was thinking. Why hadn't he told her there would be a bail problem? Trust me. Who did he think he was kidding?
"Your Honor." Mitch rose, papers in his hand. "May I approach the bench?"
Judge Sidle peered over his half-glasses, uncertain for a moment. "Yes."
"I've prepared a list of defendants charged with possession of narcotics for sale arraigned within the last year. Not one of them received this steep a bail despite the fact that many of them are repeat offenders and known drug lords. Many are foreign nationals who could return to South America in an instant."
Royce tensed, anticipating Abigail's response. How could any woman be that beautiful, that confident, that cold? She reminded Royce of a black widow. Mitch walked toward Abigail and handed her a sheaf of papers. Their eyes met and Royce found it difficult to believe they'd once been lovers. They seemed more like prizefighters squaring off before the opening bell.
Had they loved each other? Royce refused to dwell on it; not now, not with so much at stake. Instead, she studied Judge Sidle, whose Adam's apple was bobbing like a yo-yo, thinking he seemed far less confident than either attorney. Had he ever been inside a jail? Did he know what he'd be doing to her if he insisted on a bail she couldn't raise?
"Since when," Mitch continued, his voice cool, forceful, "do known drug dealers get a break and citizens never before charged with any crime get more than the maximum?" He glanced pointedly at Abigail. "Your Honor, I'm grateful you had the wisdom to eject the press. What would they say about the assistant DA's favoritism to drug interests?"
Royce bit back a smile as the polished Abigail Carnivali turned the color of an eggplant. Don't get excited. This wasn't over yet. They haggled until Judge Sidle decided on a modest increase over the existing bail.
"I've got a bail bondsman standing by," Mitch told her after Judge Sidle had retreated into his chambers. "We're using your BMW for collateral."
"Why didn't you tell me there'd be a problem with bail?"
"Were you afraid, Royce?" His blue eyes flashed a challenge. "Didn't I tell you to trust me?"
"I have a right to know when there's a problem."
"If there'd been a problem, I would have told you."
Royce was still fuming as she changed out of her prison jumpsuit and into her beaded dress. But she had to admit, Mitch was good. He'd outmaneuvered Abigail, playing on her ambition to maintain a good image with the press to further her political career.
She conceded it was a relief to have Mitch representing her. Normally, she wasn't the insecure type, and Mitch would have been her last choice. But these weren't normal circumstances.
Exhausted, emotionally stripped—frightened, she was being pummeled by an unknown adversary. She needed Mitch. Still, jerk that he was, he infuriated her, harping on trust, throwing it in her face. He'd let her sweat it out on purpose.
Mitch was waiting when she emerged, and he hustled her down the back stairs rather than make her face the hordes of reporters waiting in the halls. She expected his Viper to be parked out back, but instead Mitch helped her into a van. The graphics on its side read GODZILLA'S PIZZA—BUY TWO GET ONE FREE.
The van's interior looked like a space station, with more electronic gear than she'd ever seen. "What is this?"
"A surveillance van," Mitch explained as he touched the driver's shoulder. "Meet Paul Talbott. He's heading the investigation for your defense."
Royce remembered the name from her research on Mitch. "Hello." She assessed him quickly before he said, "Hi," and turned away to gun the idling engine. Sandy hair, friendly blue eyes, body like a linebacker's.
Mitch sat beside her. "Pizza vans, phone company trucks —common sights in every neighborhood. No one suspects when Paul's conducting an investigation. If Paul tells you to do something, do it. Paul speaks for me. Sometimes I'll be away on a case."
"I'm willing to cooperate with both of you, but I insist on knowing what's going on." She leveled what she hoped was a furious glare at Mitch, but the surge of adrenaline she'd experienced in court was beginning to wear off. She felt punchy, weak. "This is my future—not some game."
Mitch put his hand on her shoulder, and she had to admit it felt warm, reassuring. "Okay, let me explain what's going to happen. Paul is driving us to an apartment where you'll stay—"
"I want to go home." Heaven—her own bed. There was a mystery here, she knew, but she was beyond exhaustion, intellectually incapable of solving the puzzle or even lending a coherent thought to the process. But with just a little sleep she'd be herself again. If only she could sleep.
"You can't go home. The police are still inventorying it as a crime scene. Even if you could go there, reporters would be on you like locusts. They're a pack of self-anointed moral mascots led by that ass, Tobias Ingeblatt."
"Part of our job is going to be to reverse the tide of negative publicity," Paul said over his shoulder. "Contrary to what you may think, the public perception of a defendant often affects the jury's verdict."
"Until your trial the media isn't going to see you. No one is except the defense team," Mitch added.
"I have to see my friends and"—she sucked in a head-clearing breath of air. How could she have forgotten?—"Uncle Wally. Have you learned anything?"
"Looks like he took a trip to me," Paul responded. "Any ideas where he might have gone?"
"No. I can't imagine him taking a trip without telling the editor at the Examiner."
She worried about her uncle as the van left the brightly lit streets for elegant Presidio Heights with its classical Beaux Arts homes nestled between immaculate Victorians. They drove down a back alley and used a remot
e control to open a single-car garage typical of the area.
Inside, Mitch helped her out as Paul said, "I'll pick up Gerte and come back for you."
They're a good team, she realized, smooth, efficient. Mitch put his hand on the back of her waist and guided her up a narrow flight of stairs to an apartment over the garage that had obviously once been servants' quarters for the main house she glimpsed on the other side of a small garden. Beyond it she saw the bay and knew the main house would have a million-dollar view.
"We've stocked the kitchen and have what you'll need in the bathroom. The clothes will have to do until I get the police to release yours." Mitch opened the door and flicked on the light, revealing a small living room and kitchenette. The furniture, in muted shades of aqua, looked brand new but feminine. Mitch tossed his briefcase on the dainty coffee table. "The bedroom's in there. Get some sleep and I'll wait for Paul to bring Gerte."
"Who's Gerte?"
"She'll stay here and make sure no one bothers you."
She was still a prisoner, Royce decided, almost opening her mouth to argue, but decided Mitch was right. She was so exhausted, she couldn't concentrate. She didn't have the strength to fight off tenacious reporters like Tobias Ingeblatt. "I need to take a bath. The showers in the jail don't have hot water—unless you're first in line."
Mitch flopped down on the sofa. "Go ahead."
The small bedroom had a double bed with an eyelet dust ruffle and an antique nightstand. Again everything looked and smelled new. It was even more feminine than the living room. A dozen downy toss pillows in various shades of aqua were arranged against the scalloped headboard shaped like a seashell. The aqua towels in the adjacent bathroom were new, too, but the old fashioned ball-foot tub reminded her that this was one of the city's oldest neighborhoods as well as one of its most prestigious.
The cabinets held more than she'd need for a short stay. "How long did Mitch say I'd be here?" she asked out loud, hoping the noise would clear her muzzy brain. But her groggy mind couldn't formulate an answer. She turned on the taps and poured a stream of bath salts into the deep tub. She undressed and tossed the beaded gown into the waste-basket. "Talk about bad memories."
There was a terry robe on the hook on the back of the door. She had faith that she'd find suitable clothes in the bedroom closet. Obviously, someone had gone to a great deal of trouble.
She was in the tub, neck resting against the rim, her hair tossed over the side to keep it dry, when she thought about locking the door. She wasn't comfortable being naked in the tub with Mitch just outside. Her mind finally registered what her eyes must have seen when she'd noticed the robe. The lock had been removed, leaving small holes and a mark.
Several disjointed thoughts occurred to her before her exhausted brain settled on the obvious. "Mitch thinks I'm going to kill myself," she said to the bank of bubbles tickling her chin. "That's why Gerte's staying with me." She put her hands on the rim of the tub, set to get out and tell Mitch that she'd never do such a thing. But all her energy had been sapped. "It isn't worth the effort."
Bone weary, she closed her eyes, glorying in the luxury of the privacy of a hot bath—and the quiet. It was never quiet in the county jail. Someone was always talking or crying. It was never dark, either, she recalled, seeking refuge in the darkness behind her lids. Heaven.
Her mind drifted and she went into a dreamlike trance. She pretended to be at home again, standing in the living room she'd known all her life. So very real, she mused, comforted by familiar surroundings. Home.
But why was it dark? So very dark. Pitch-black, shapes were discernible only by varying degrees of darkness. Why wasn't the light on? She reached for the switch, feeling the cool plaster of the wall beneath her fingers. Nothing.
Something disturbed her, making her wary. The concealing darkness hid an evil presence she could almost feel. Something evil. No. Someone evil.
Someone else was in the room with her. Breathing heavily. Like a wild animal she sensed mortal danger and reacted instinctively. She spun around, charging toward the door, her mind screaming, "Escape or die!"
A glint of light shot at her, a reflection of the streetlight through the hexagonal window in the front door. A knife. Its blade gleamed a pure, hateful silver in the eerie light of the full moon. A deadly knife.
This was no ordinary knife, she realized, debilitating fear overwhelming her. Before she could escape, the cold steel blade found her jugular. Her only chance was to scream loud enough to attract the neighbors' attention.
The keening cry made her flinch. Her eyes snapped open, the shrill wail still echoing in the tiled bathroom. She wasn't at home.
She was—where was she? For a moment her brain stalled. Oh, yes, at some apartment Mitch had found. Safe.
"A dream." She gasped. "Thank God."
"But you're not safe," she said to herself. "This is a premonition." Someone would try to kill her.
Mitch burst through the door. "What the hell's going on?"
She put her hand to her throat where the knife had been, dead certain she could feel blood, but there was nothing on her fingers. Still, she'd been warned.
"Royce, why did you scream? The neighbors will call the cops."
She sagged back, head against the rim of the tub, unaware the bubbles didn't quite conceal her breasts. "It's the only way."
Mitch studied her a moment, and she vaguely noticed he'd taken off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. His cuffs were rolled back to the elbow, revealing strong forearms. He flipped the lever on the tub. "Get out."
It took several seconds to comprehend the tub was quickly draining. She'd be sitting stark naked in bubbles. "I dreamed someone was trying to kill me."
Mitch handed her the terry robe, then turned away for a moment. She stood, up to her shins in bubbles. Before she could tie the belt, he lifted her out of the tub. Her feet hit the cold tile and she almost collapsed, fear and exhaustion overwhelming her.
A thought nagged at her. There was something strange— different—about the house, something didn't fit. She was so weary that she was intellectually incapable of solving the mystery.
"Mitch, I'm serious"—he was rubbing her briskly now, drying her off with the robe, the oddest expression on his face—"someone is trying to kill me."
He stopped and looked into her eyes. The intensity of his gaze was enough to take most women's breath away. He freed her long hair trapped beneath the robe's shawl collar and fanned the damp strands across her shoulders. "Angel, listen to me."
The intimate tone of his voice brought her up short. Angel? We're in hell, aren't we?
"You haven't slept much in almost a week, have you?"
Angel. The word kept ringing through her mind. "No."
"Without sleep the mind plays tricks and induces paranoia. It's the best way to brainwash a person. Always has been."
"But it wasn't a dream exactly, it was a premonition."
"Do you get them often?"
"No. This was the first time."
"It was just a nightmare, Royce. That's all."
"No, it was a warning," she protested as he guided her into the bedroom. There was something very strange about the dream. Something was wrong. Still, her mind couldn't focus on what it was.
"They've killed Uncle Wally." She had no idea what made her say it, but she knew it was true. Just as she knew she'd face a psychopath with a knife.
Mitch didn't answer, instead he yanked back the covers, then eased her down on the bed. "We'll talk about it tomorrow."
"You don't believe me." She had the feeling he was concentrating more on the deep V of her robe than what she was saying. "Someone's after me."
Mitch sat on the bed beside her and touched her cheek with the pad of his thumb. "Only Paul and I know where you are. Gerte, the woman staying with you, is tough. Her family invented the SS. She comes with a black belt—and a Magnum."
He put his arm around her, bringing her against the solid strength of his chest. She was astoni
shed at how safe he made her feel, even though she knew he was wrong. Someone had killed Uncle Wally. She'd be next.
But for now it was comforting to have someone strong, someone who'd thought about her protection—even before she knew she was in danger. She tested the idea. "I'm safe." Safe with Mitch. This had to be hell.
His lips brushed her forehead; she was too groggy to decide if it had been an accident or if he'd kissed her.
He started to rise, but she grabbed his hand. "Get some sleep. I'll be nearby preparing for court tomorrow."
She couldn't stop herself from reaching for him, his broad form silhouetted against the light from the living room. He leaned toward her, and her hands grasped his muscled shoulders, slid around his neck, and clung.
"Don't leave me." Her words were muttered against the curve of his neck. "I'm afraid."
His arms circled her waist. "I won't let anyone hurt you." His hands caressed her tangled hair, then gently kneaded the base of her neck. "I promise."
"Mitch." His name was really a sigh, an exhausted expression of her relief and growing sense of security. As she said his name, her lips brushed the hollow of his neck. His hands froze, no longer soothing her. "Hold me," she whispered against his warm skin.
"Royce." He pulled back a fraction of an inch.
But she refused to let him go. The grip of mind-numbing fear had eased. Still, being in his arms felt right, safe. Affectionate by nature, she'd always enjoyed cuddling. He held her snugly, rocking ever so slightly. She allowed one hand to slide down to the opening of his shirt and touch the whisk of chest hair, brushing the skin beneath. Before she knew it, she was sensuously stroking the wall of his chest and the strong muscles that greeted her fingertips.
"Royce," he repeated, his intake of breath sharp.
Exhausted, frightened by her dream, she still sensed he wanted her as much as she needed him. A fair trade, she bargained, unwilling to face the night alone. She tilted her head back and offered him her lips, vaguely aware the robe had opened, revealing even more of her breasts.
Sawyer, Meryl Page 11
