Sawyer, Meryl

by A Kiss in the Dark

  Royce stood in front of the massive desk, cluttered with computer printouts from the wire services, as Sam read her article. A hard-boiled editor, Sam was notorious for rejecting what he considered to be inferior articles. Wordlessly, he read the pages, his bald head tilted downward. After what seemed two lifetimes he looked up.

  "No changes. Run it." His voice was terse, as it usually was, but Royce detected just the slightest sheen of tears in his eyes.

  CHAPTER 30

  "The photograph of Mitch with his mother reproduced beautifully, didn't it?" Val asked Paul as they sat at his kitchen table reading the paper.

  "Yes," Paul agreed, but his attention was on the article. It took several minutes to read what was on the first page and turn to the inside columns where the story continued.

  "Royce is extraordinarily talented," Val commented, tears in her beautiful hazel eyes. 'I want my mama. Don't take my baby. What am I going to do here all alone without my little boy?' I swear, Paul, even though I know the story, it still makes me cry."

  "I understand, darling. No one can read this article without seeing Mitch as a hero, not the scumbag Tobias Ingeblatt depicted. Thanks to Royce."

  Val dabbed at her tears with the tip of a napkin. "Do you think Mitch will forgive Royce?"

  Paul wanted to say yes, but he loved Val too much not to be honest with her. And, despite his earlier reservations, he sincerely liked Royce. He understood why she'd investigated Mitch. Still, he didn't want Val to give Royce false hope.

  "I spoke with Mitch last night while you were at your brother's. He's moving his mother to a more secure facility. He asked me to change the locks on his house and the security code. He doesn't want to see Royce. I doubt he'll change his mind."

  "That's not fair."

  "He's been hurt, Val, deeply. Time is the only cure, and it may not make any difference. When Royce asks you, be truthful with her. Tell her to be prepared to wait."

  "All right," Val reluctantly agreed. "Did Mitch say anything else?"

  "He hardly talked. I told him I found out Caroline had a cleaning service clean her carpet and furniture the morning she was killed. Evidently, she was putting her home on the market and wanted it in top shape."

  "Really? Where was she moving?"

  "No one seems to have any idea. If the cleaning service hadn't come forward, we wouldn't have found out." Paul leafed through the pages of the newspaper, not reading, just glancing at articles. "I convinced the police to send the chair where the killer sat to the FBI. Remember that soft laser process I told you about?"

  "The one that lifts prints off surfaces where it's usually impossible to get a print."

  "Yes." Paul couldn't help smiling; he didn't think Val would recall that conversation. She had been terribly distracted the day he'd told her about soft lasers, but she always paid attention to everything he said. "The killer's prints will be on the brocade."

  "Why bother? Gian Viscotti has already been arrested."

  "True, but just in case..."

  "In case what? Don't you believe Gian killed Caroline?"

  Paul studied the photographs of Caroline's funeral that the Examiner had chosen to run on the back pages. Brent and Eleanor were clinging to each other while Ward stood alone. Clearly they were all grief stricken, but Ward's tortured expression mesmerized Paul. He looked as if he'd just lost his only daughter.

  "Paul, answer me. Is Gian guilty? Or is the killer still at large?"

  "I think they've got Gian nailed," Paul responded, although he wasn't entirely convinced. Something wasn't right. But what?

  He pointed to the picture of the Farenholts. "Tell me what you see, Val."

  She stared at the photograph for a long time, then she touched Ward Farenholt's face with a sculpted nail. Tears filled her eyes. "That's me when David dies."

  Royce waited in the shadows of the building opposite the Golden Gate Pet Clinic. Val had told her that Paul would be driving Mitch in one of the security vans to pick up Jenny. Royce needed to see Mitch and try to convince him to forgive her. She knew he'd returned to the city last night, but he wouldn't answer his doorbell and he'd changed his telephone number.

  In the days since her article appeared, the public's perception of Mitch had altered radically. Not only had her article cleared his name, it had made him a living legend. But had it done her any good? No. He didn't want to see her. He might never change his mind.

  Dusk had fallen when the pizza delivery van Paul used for surveillance pulled up at the clinic's front door. Mitch got out, leaving Paul at the wheel, and Royce crossed the street where she could talk to Mitch as he helped Jenny into the van.

  A few minutes later he came out the door with Jenny hobbling along beside him. Her leg was in a cast and her chest fur shaven and covered by a large bandage. Jenny noticed Royce before Mitch did. She whined and wagged her tail. Mitch halted, glaring at her.

  "Is your mother all right?" Royce asked.

  "Do you really care? If you'd given a damn, you wouldn't have—"

  "Try to understand. I was desperate. I love you. I never meant to hurt you. And I certainly never meant to cause trouble for your mother."

  Mitch led Jenny to the van and slid open the door. He gently lifted Jenny into the back and closed the door.

  "Mitch, remember my father's funeral? You told me you'd made a mistake and you were sorry. I know how you felt. I shouldn't have allowed Wally to check into your past. I'm sorry."

  He stared at her a moment, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed. "And what did you tell me at the funeral, Royce?"

  She didn't want to remember how blindly furious she'd been, but she couldn't lie to Mitch. Not now. "I said if you didn't leave, I'd hack off your balls with a rusty machete."

  "Then you know exactly how I feel." His voice was low, yet it held an undertone of contempt and the ring of finality. "I hurt someone you adored, and now you've destroyed the small start my mother had made on a normal life. How do you expect me to feel?"

  Inside the van Paul looked at Mitch as he climbed into the passenger seat, leaving Royce standing on the curb, forlornly gazing at him.

  "What are you waiting for?" Mitch snarled. "Let's get the hell out of here."

  Paul gunned the engine and bullied his way into the early-evening traffic, noting the grim expression on Mitch's face. Once he would have kept silent, but Val, bless her, had taught him the value of communicating.

  "Did you read Royce's article about you?"

  It took Mitch a long time to say, "Yeah. I read it."

  Paul didn't let Mitch's irritable tone stop him. "She saved your career, you know."

  Mitch kept staring forward, one arm hung over the back of the seat to reassure Jenny, who was on the floor behind him. "What do you want to bet that Royce wins a Pulitzer for that story? That's all she's after—fame and money."

  "Come on, Mitch. You don't really believe that. Can't you see how much Royce loves you? Forgive her, Mitch."

  Mitch spun around in his seat. "You're supposed to be on my side."

  "I am on your side. I want you to be as happy as I am, that's all."

  "You don't understand a damn thing."

  Paul wheeled the van into a red zone in front of a fire hydrant. He put the car in park, then turned to Mitch. "Explain it to me."

  Mitch hesitated and Paul knew how he felt. They had been friends for two decades, but they'd never shared their innermost feelings. Yes, Mitch had known how devastated Paul had been when he'd left the police force, but they hadn't discussed the emotional side of the crisis. Mitch had told him to get off his ass and get on with his life. A dose of macho bravado wasn't going to help Mitch—not now.

  Finally Mitch sighed, staring straight ahead. "I expected Royce to trust me, to know I wasn't behind her problems. But even after I'd asked her to marry me, she never told me she'd broken her promise and had her uncle snooping around. If only she'd trusted me, my mother wouldn't be suffering."

  "What would you have done, if she had told
you? Would you have understood that she'd done it out of desperation?"

  "I would have been pissed, but I could have taken steps to protect my mother." He shrugged. "I don't honestly know if I would have forgiven Royce. It's hard to say."

  "Don't you think she knows how stubborn you can be? She loves you, Mitch. You don't know how much courage it took to write that article. She did it not only to restore your reputation, but to help you with what you want most—that judicial appointment."

  Mitch turned to the back, where Jenny lay, and stroked her head. She thumped her tail, then licked his hand. When Mitch faced Paul, his expression was so profoundly sad that Paul was stunned.

  "To hell with being a judge. Know what I wanted most? To be in the same room with my mother and talk to her without her going berserk. Royce ruined that for me.

  "After years of therapy Mother was finally making progress. Then some half-assed reporter terrorizes her. Did you know he chased her through a garden the size of Golden Gate Park and into a potting shed to get that photograph?"

  "Oh, God, Mitch, I'm sorry." The words didn't begin to express how he felt. One of the proudest moments of his life had taken place last weekend. His parents had flown out from Iowa and he'd introduced Val to his mother. What would it be like never to have had the love and support of your mother who was always there to cheer you even though you failed to touch third base and your home run was called an out?

  "I have her at a private clinic out here now. She's getting excellent psychological care, but I doubt I'll ever be able to see her." Mitch broke off, frowning as if searching for the words to say something more; then he switched subjects. "Paul, I've got to get Jenny home. I have a night-court bail hearing for Gian Viscotti."

  "You're defending Viscotti?"

  "Sure. The best way to forget your troubles is to keep so damn busy, you don't have time for a private life."

  "That's what we both had before this case—before Royce and Val—successful careers. Is that what you want now, a career, but no real life? That's not enough for me, not anymore."

  Mitch's expression said he didn't give a damn; Paul knew better, but he also knew Mitch wasn't ready to admit how he truly felt.

  "It doesn't matter what I want. I've agreed to defend Viscotti. That's my life right now."

  "But, Mitch, Viscotti put us through hell. What about the money we spent trying to expose that bastard?"

  Mitch chuckled with feigned humor. "Think of the head start we'll have on the case."

  Paul edged the van into the tide of traffic. "You know the FBI is using a soft laser to lift fingerprints from the chair the killer sat in while Caroline bled to death, don't you?"

  "Yeah, you told me. Interesting breakthrough. If the police can lift prints from anything, criminals are going to be a helluva lot easier to catch."

  "Gian's prints weren't anywhere on the scene," Paul said. "I expect he wiped them off, so this chair could fry him. I should have gotten the results from the FBI today, but I didn't. I guess my contact will call tomorrow."

  "Phone me the minute you hear. I want to know what I'm up against."

  Paul pulled into the alley behind Mitch's house and stopped. He helped Mitch unload Jenny. "I'm taking Val over to visit with her brother tonight. Call me there if you need me."

  Mitch put his hand on Paul's shoulder. "Thanks. You're a good friend. My only friend, actually. I guess I'm just one of those people who have trouble that way."

  "Anyone would be proud to be your friend, but you don't give them a chance."

  Mitch only lifted his eyebrows in response as if to say, What can I do?

  "Royce is like Val—a lover and a best friend. If you have a heart, forgive Royce. Believe me, you won't be whole again until you do."

  Paul sat with Val in the upstairs study at her brother's home. Trevor was in with David, who was no longer able to speak. Val kept his mind off his hopeless situation by telling him stories of things that had happened to them when they'd been children.

  It wouldn't be long now, Paul thought. David would soon die, and Val would have to face the grim reality of death.

  "Mr. Talbott," said one of the hospice volunteers from the hallway, "there's a call for you. Jim Wickson."

  "Thanks," Paul said as he rose and crossed the room to the telephone on the antique desk. "Jim's my contact at the FBI lab in Quantico, Virginia," he explained to Val. "He's in charge of the soft laser program."

  "I hope they found prints on that chair."

  Paul picked up the telephone, thankful Jim had agreed to call him before he informed the police of their findings. "Hello, Jim. Were you able to lift any prints off that chair?"

  Mentally he kept his fingers crossed. The technology was new. In the past police didn't have a method for lifting prints from fabric, Styrofoam, and other soft materials. The chair at Caroline's home was upholstered in brocade, a fabric whose texture was both smooth and rough, making it especially tricky. But the furniture had just been cleaned. If there were any prints on it, they would be the killer's.

  "Bingo!" Jim said, and Paul could hear the broad grin in his voice. "Not only did we get prints, we got a positive ID by running the prints through the central computer in Sacramento."

  The master computer in the state capital had files of prints for anyone who'd ever been fingerprinted in the state for drivers' licenses. Better yet, it had a new high-speed capability that could sort through thousands of prints in minutes, a task that once would have taken days or weeks.

  Paul listened, sinking into the small desk chair. "Oh, shit!"

  "What is it?" Val rushed up to the desk. "Jim, call the police right way. Have them get out an all-points bulletin."

  "What's happened?" Val cried.

  Paul pressed down the button to end the call, but clutched the receiver in his hand. "What's Royce's number? I've got to warn her right away. You'll never believe whose prints are all over that chair."

  Royce pulled her temperamental Toyota into the garage behind her house and turned off the ignition. She sat, hands on the wheel, and stared into the darkness. What now? she asked herself, the memory of her meeting with Mitch still painful.

  When he'd apologized for her father's death, it had taken five years for her to come to terms with her life. Mitch had waited. That's what she'd have to do. Wait. And hope.

  No. Hoping and waiting were passive. She had to take action. But what? She wearily climbed out of the car. In the distance she heard her telephone ringing. She fumbled in the darkness for her house key and finally found it. She rushed up the path but the telephone had stopped ringing.

  Inside, she turned on the light and scanned the kitchen. Stacks of unpacked boxes littered the floor and the counters. She'd decided not to sell the house now that she wasn't going to be marrying Mitch. That meant a lot of unpacking, but she supposed the physical activity would keep her occupied while she decided what to do about Mitch. Surely, she'd think of something.

  The telephone rang again and it was Talia. "Don Alford is playing at the Jazz Circle tonight. Do you want to come with us?"

  Talia had met a man in her encounter group and she'd been seeing him. Royce hadn't met him yet, but Talia seemed happier with him than she had with anyone else.

  "No, thanks. Another time, maybe. I'm bushed."

  In truth she felt guilty for having suspected Talia. Actually, she was uncomfortable with her friends and Wally. After living in a miasma of suspicion for so long, she was embarrassed, but everyone was trying hard to be understanding. With time her life might retain a semblance of normalcy. Except for Mitch.

  "Okay," Talia responded, her tone unusually upbeat. "Brent called today. He's miserable. His parents really fell apart over Caroline's death. Eleanor's on Valium and Ward —well, Ward is comatose."

  "Uh-huh," Royce muttered. What did she care about the Farenholts? Why had she allowed Brent's parents to treat her so shabbily? It was irrational to blame them for her problems, but she couldn't help being disgusted with he
rself.

  And Brent. He had about as much backbone as a slug. What a mama's boy. She'd seen the photographs that the Examiner hadn't printed.

  He'd clung to his mother—and she to him—during Caroline's funeral. Obviously, Ward was grief stricken, but at least he'd stood alone.

  Where would Brent be without his mother? She couldn't help wondering if Brent had ever loved any woman except Eleanor Farenholt.

  Talia said good-night and Royce hung up, still thinking about Brent and his mother. Mitch had been denied the comfort of his mother's love, but he'd emerged a strong, independent man. Who didn't need anyone.

  That thought brought a rush of tears to her eyes, but she resolutely blinked them away. Crying wouldn't solve a thing. A sharp knock at the front door brought her out of her thoughts. She edged her way around the unpacked boxes in the hall on her way to the front of her house.

  Halfway there she remembered Wally saying he was going to replace the boarded-up front door with a new door today. He'd wanted her to come with him, but she didn't have the heart.

  How could she choose another door to replace the beautiful stained-glass door her father had made? "You go, Wally," she had said. "Pick out whatever you think will look best."

  Across the living room she saw the new door and halted. Some distant bell in her mind sounded a warning, triggering her sixth sense. The door. Something was wrong with the door.

  But what? It looked lovely in the darkness: solid wood with a small hexagonal window of beveled glass. Still, something about the door disturbed her.

  Another insistent knock. She stepped into the living room and a vision hit her with startling clarity. This was the door she'd seen in the nightmare she'd had when she'd come home with Mitch. Couldn't be. But it was. She steadied herself by leaning against the cool plaster of the wall, recalling with startling clarity that horrible dream.