“How?”
“Get her off. Win the case. Have the charges dismissed. Go with me to Mexico.”
She looked up at Joseph’s neck, and at the little shaving bumps where his collar rubbed. She ran her finger along them, then along his jaw line. Even with a five o’clock shadow, his skin felt good to her. “Could anything in life really be so simple?” she asked.
“I like to think so. It could be. It should be.”
Irene snorted a bitter exclamation point. “Isn’t,” she said flatly.
Joseph’s arms pulled her in a little bit tighter and they sat quietly together.
Irene breathed deeply of Joseph’s masculine scent and remembered how Myron smelled, when he sat in his big leather chair.
One night he had all his medical instruments and supplies laid out on a tray table next to his chair while he cleaned his little black leather bag. Those instruments were shiny and mysterious. He scooped something white and gooey from a flat tin and rubbed it over his bag, then polished it with a cloth until it shined.
Cynthia and Irene stood next to his chair, watching.
“Hi, girls,” he said, holding the bag up to the light to gauge its progress. “Homework all done?”
Irene nodded, Cynthia nodded. Irene reached out and touched the silver instruments.
“Please don’t play with those. They’re sharp. They could hurt you. They’re not toys.”
Irene sneaked two sterile-packaged scalpels off the tray, then ducked down and sat on the floor next to Myron’s chair. She handed one to Cynthia, and in silence, they opened the packages and removed the plastic blade covers. They pulled the scalpels out and held them up like a couple of evil spears, gleaming in the lamplight.
It gave Irene a flush of power. The blade was so perfect, so perfectly sharp, she couldn’t imagine that anything could look smoother, or more powerful. It had its own sense of grace, it was a finely-machined tool and its mirrored steel finish held her in thrall.
“Girls?”
Cynthia looked up at Irene with a guilty face, but Irene didn’t feel guilty. She wanted to keep the scalpel, she wanted to put it under her pillow where she could admire it at her leisure, where she could try cutting some things with it, where she could just own it as her secret, but that would be stealing. She wouldn’t steal, not from Myron.
She stood up, and Cynthia followed her lead of putting the two unwrapped scalpels back on the tray.
Without looking, Myron turned around, and brushed the back of his hand against one of them, slicing it deeply, right between the thumb and forefinger. “Ouch! Sonofabitch! I told you girls to leave those alone!” He grabbed his hand, and blood leaked out from between his fingers.
He took the scalpels from the girls, and set them back down on the tray.
Cynthia began to cry.
Irene just watched the blood.
Myron ripped open the sterile package of a gauze square and held it over the wound, but the blood quickly soaked through.
“I’m sorry,” Cynthia wailed.
Myron wiped the blood away and looked at the cut. “It’s okay, Cyn, it’s not much. It could have been worse.” He touched her hair, kissed her forehead.
Irene stood by silently, remembering the feeling of the blade punching through the tough skin. It had been her blade that cut him, not Cynthia’s.
She watched the blood as it soaked the gauze. She could see a smear of his blood on the stainless steel handle of the scalpel he had taken from her.
“Irene?”
She looked up at him, but she didn’t want to. She wanted to look at the scalpel again. She was sorry he had been hurt, but in another way, in a different way, she wanted to hurt him deeper, harder, more. She wasn’t his little girl any more, Cynthia was, and she wanted to hurt him for that.
She watched his lips as he spoke. Big, fleshy, soft, brown and pink lips. Her lips weren’t like that, nor were her mother’s, or Cynthia’s. Nobody else that she knew had lips like that—nobody’s lips were like that. They were fabulous. She wanted to touch them, to kiss them. She wanted them to kiss her. “I think you ought to go to bed,” Myron said.
“I think you ought to go to bed,” Joseph said.
Irene was caught off guard. “Huh?”
“I said,” he brushed his cheek against her forehead, then kissed her gently on the lips. “I think you ought to go to bed.”
She watched his lips as he spoke. Beautiful, sensual lips. Soft, incredibly soft, brown, wonderful lips that closed gently across perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth. She could lose herself in those lips.
She was in love with Joseph, whether she wanted to be or not, and the rage that Cynthia had inspired earlier was quickly turning to lust as she sat curled up safely in Joseph’s lap.
“Carry me,” she said.
Chapter 29
Cynthia sat down opposite Irene, the scarred, dirty prison interview table between them. Cynthia pulled Irene’s black leather briefcase toward her, and ran her hands over its smoothness. Cynthia looked like hell. Irene was sure that Cynthia felt even worse seeing Irene looking smart and sharp in a new silk suit, but Irene couldn’t help that.
The bruises on Cynthia’s face had faded to green, but her lip and forehead were still badly scabbed. Irene wanted to protect Cynthia from being beat up in prison, but there wasn’t much she could do about it.
Joseph was right. Irene gave Cynthia too much power. Well, all of that was about to end. Irene was about to stake everything she had, and everything Cynthia had, on one strategic legal move, and she would either win it all or lose it all. She was going to take care of this little problem and send Cynthia on her way.
“Think it’ll work?” Cynthia asked after hearing Irene’s plan.
“It’s worth a shot. We might get the charges dismissed and get you out of here.”
“Might?”
Irene shrugged. “It’s our best shot. Believe me, kiddo, if you go down, I go down with you. I’m going to give it my very best shot.”
Cynthia looked up with such hope that it made Irene a little bit sick to her stomach. Cynthia looked like a lost, starving puppy, ready to lick the face of the person who threw her a morsel of food.
“Get me out of here, Irene. I don’t belong here.”
“I know you don’t.”
“I didn’t do it,” Cynthia said, with growing desperation. “I didn’t do it. I swear, I didn’t. I just fucked the big Indian in the parking lot. That’s all. I swear.”
“I’m doing my best, Cynthia.”
“I’ve been in here too long. You don’t know what it’s like.” Cynthia took a deep, ragged breath, then sat back in her seat and fixed Irene’s new clothes with a sneer. “You wouldn’t last a week in this place.”
“I’m doing my best. I’ve got a meeting with the DA in the judge’s chambers this afternoon.”
Cynthia reached forward and clutched Irene’s wrist.
Irene pulled back in distaste, her feelings evident on her face before she could erase them. Cynthia saw them. Cynthia saw all of Irene’s feelings for her in that one split second, and Irene was sorry about that.
“Get me out of here,” Cynthia whispered.
~~~
Irene went through her “I’m not afraid” litany in the women’s room before her meeting with Owen and the judge, but she hadn’t had to throw up. That was an improvement. A surprising development, seeing as she might not have a career by the time she walked out of Judge Colburn’s chambers.
A frighteningly liberating thought. No wonder it didn’t make her sick.
Walter Rogers looked tired. Walter not only looked tired, he looked ill. Owen looked constipated.
She shook hands with them, and together the three went into Judge Colburn’s chambers and sat in front of his desk. The judge looked tired, too. Irene’s memo was the only thing on his desk.
“Bold move, Miss Nottingham,” Judge Colburn said once they were all seated. “You’re willing to put your professio
nal status on the line?”
“I do that every day, Your Honor.”
Judge Colburn tapped the piece of paper on his desk. “You must know that the District Attorney can take this identical circumstantial evidence against you to the grand jury.”
“Coincidences happen, Your Honor. This is a freak series of them.”
“You could lose that appointment.”
Irene shrugged, trying to tread the fine line between being earnest and being nonchalant. “If that’s what it takes to get Cynthia Schneider out of jail, Your Honor, then that’s what it takes. She’s my sister. She did not kill that man.”
“Did you?” Owen couldn’t contain himself any longer.
Irene looked at Walter to reprimand his assistant, but Walter just smirked back at her, eyebrow cocked. She moved her gaze to Owen and spoke slowly and with confidence. AI think you’re way out of line, Counselor.”
She turned back to the judge. “Every bit of circumstantial evidence he has against my sister can be duplicated by probably a dozen women and their travel plans. I happen to be one of them. I will gladly open my records to the court.” She turned to Owen again. “You have nothing against her that you don’t also have against me.” She paused, using her sense of timing to its most dramatic effect. “You have no case.”
Judge Colburn sighed deeply in resignation. He looked over at Walter Rogers. “Walter?”
Walter shrugged.
Owen made a hissing sound as if steam were escaping from some rupture in his skin.
“Unless I hear that there is a better prosecution case here, I am going to have to dismiss.” He looked at both men one more time. “The press will not be happy.”
Walter looked out the window.
Owen looked at his shoes, shook his head slowly. “Neither will Los Angeles.”
“That will be all, then,” the judge said, dismissing the meeting.
Owen jumped up and headed for the door, Walter following him. Irene got up more slowly, the thrill of victory just beginning its rush through her veins. She could barely believe it was over. It was over.
It was over. She’d won.
“Miss Nottingham?” Judge Colburn said. “A private word, please?”
Irene’s palms began to sweat.
Judge Colburn waited until the two district attorneys had left the room. Irene closed the door behind them. “Bold move,” he said. “Very bold. I think you’ll make a fine judge. I’ve recommended your appointment.”
Irene felt as if her spirit were leaving her body. It was all she could do to remain professional in this setting. This was a double whammy of good news. Not just good news, sensational news. Twice.
Horrifying news. Terrifying news.
Wonderful news.
She walked back to him, held out a hand and willed her noodly muscles to form a firm handshake, sweaty though it may be. He’d understand her sweaty palm. Then she willed her voice to be steady and not waver or falter. She did not want to cry. She did not want to cry.
Her professionalism held.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” she said. “Thank you very much.”
Chapter 30
They dismissed the charges,” Irene said, and Joseph’s fingers tightened on the telephone. His recliner righted itself. He wasn’t prepared for this.
“She’s out?” he said, his voice rising. “She’s out of jail?”
He felt as if he were about to take an exam he hadn’t prepared for. Massive anxiety. What was he going to tell Cynthia about his... his relationship with Irene? When was he going to tell her?
He shook his head to try to clear it. Cynthia already knew about it. That might or might not make it easier to discuss. “Where is she?” he asked.
“I signed her out before the press got wind of it and took her down to her little apartment. She wanted to be alone. I don’t blame her.”
“I don’t blame her either. Can’t be much privacy in... in jail.” Joseph knew it was good news for both Irene and Cynthia. He just didn’t think it was good news for him. “That’s great news. Just great.”
“The Navajos aren’t going to be so pleased,” she said. “And,” Irene went on, bubbling like a little girl, “Judge Colburn told me he had recommended my appointment.”
No, Joseph realized, it wasn’t facing Cynthia that had his guts in a knot. It was facing Irene. The real Irene. As long as she was strung up between this case and this investigation, she was stable. Predictable. Normal. But now she’d won. She’d won her case and she’d won over Judge Colburn, which pretty much cemented her appointment.
Now what would she do? How would she expend this victory energy?
Joseph didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to know and he couldn’t not know. He felt perspiration pop out on his forehead as he closed his eyes and said softly, “Let’s celebrate.”
Chapter 31
“I’d love to, baby,” Irene said to Joseph over the telephone. She stood in the bedroom, looking down at her small, black leather carry-on which was open on the bed. Her American Express card sat next to it. “But I’ve got too many loose ends to wrap up.”
“Late?”
“Tomorrow, maybe. I’ll call.”
“Okay,” he said, and she heard something—disappointment, perhaps—in his voice. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
“Say the word and I’ll make those reservations for Mexico,” he said.
She smiled with a flush of affection, then looked at her suitcase. The flush turned to a stomach-souring guilty feeling of betrayal. “I’ll call you,” she said.
She folded the cell phone and threw it into the suitcase along with her toiletry kit. She zipped the bag closed, picked up her credit card and headed for the door.
Just as she opened it, the phone rang.
I shouldn’t answer it.
Let the machine get it.
Take some time off.
Get out of town.
You know you need it.
You know you need it.
She walked through the door.
It rang again.
If I answer it, I might get stuck.
It rang again.
The professional in her overruled.
She walked back into the living room and with an exasperated shake of her fist at the Gods, she picked up the phone. “Irene Nottingham.”
“Hi, Irene,” Molly said. “Judge Colburn wants to see you in his chambers tomorrow.”
Shit. Irene squeezed her eyes closed in disappointment, but a tiny voice inside, that voice she knew she should always listen to, but sometimes didn’t, said that it was just as well. She didn’t need to get herself into any trouble. Not now. Not any more. “What time?”
“Two-thirty.”
“I’ll be there.” She hung up the phone, flopped down in the chair and looked at her suitcase, poised at the edge of the open door.
It looked back at her.
Maybe this was a good thing, she thought. Maybe she’d let circumstances be her master for a change.
But just because she couldn’t get out of town didn’t mean that the urge for wildness had left her. In fact, being stuck made it all the stronger, and the longer she looked at the suitcase in the open doorway, the stronger the craving became.
Well, she didn’t have to get out of town. She knew what to do. She knew how to take care of herself—she’d been doing it for a long time.
Chapter 32
Joseph sat in his car outside Irene’s apartment, feeling like a Keystone Kop. Every few minutes he put his hand on the ignition, ready to fire it up and get out of there. Spying on her, following her, it smacked of all the improper things, all the obsessive things, all the illegal things that people do when they’re involved in insecure relationships.
He knew these things. He had studied people who routinely did what he was now doing.
Then he remembered. He loved this woman, and he had to know. He had to know the truth about her. Investing one night sitting i
n his car outside her apartment was nothing compared with investing a lifetime. Or his life.
It wasn’t as if this was chronic behavior for him. He certainly never behaved this way with Cynthia.
Cynthia had been easy. Willing. No contest. Actually, no challenge. Within six months of their wedding, the tickle of personal freedom had begun to itch Joseph in all the wrong places. He ignored it. He didn’t scratch it, wasn’t even tempted. He wanted a wife, a home, a family. That was worth working for. That made him stomp out all those fires that spontaneously ignited in his imagination.
But then when Cynthia began to exhibit some less desirable traits, Joseph put the family idea on hold and began to give that freedom thought a little more leeway in his mind.
Eventually, it took over his mind and squeezed Cynthia right out.
And now, Irene. Would the same thing happen if he were married to her?
He’d read research papers about people who had married a spouse’s sibling after the first spouse died, or ran off, or divorced. It was never a good idea. Never. It never worked out, probably because the motivations were always suspect.
And being attached to Irene was probably not such a good idea, either, although Joseph couldn’t imagine being without her. He knew he was breaking all the rules. He knew he was doing everything wrong, and he didn’t care.
That recklessness scared him more than anything else.
That, and the idea that Irene might not have him.
Please, Irene, he told himself again and again as his hand fell away from the key in the ignition, please be tying up your loose ends. Please be doing paperwork up there.
He wondered how she’d react if she knew he was staking out her apartment.
She wouldn’t be happy. It was a breach of trust. It was a slap in the face.
It was something he needed to do. If they were to have a relationship—and he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything—then he had to sit in this car all night if he had to, in order to be certain.
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