Presumed Guilty

by Tess Gerritsen

  She pushed open the screen door and fled from the cottage.

  Halfway across the field Chase caught up to her. He grabbed her arm and pulled her around to face him. “Miranda—”

  “Leave me alone!”

  “You can’t run away from it—”

  “If only I could!” she cried. “Jill said it! I’m just another broken heart. Another dumb woman who got exactly what she deserved.”

  “You didn’t deserve it.”

  “Damn you, Chase, don’t feel sorry for me! I can’t stand that, either.” She broke free and started to turn away. He pulled her back. This time he held on, got a tight grip on each wrist. She found herself staring into his dark, inescapable eyes.

  “I don’t feel sorry for you,” he shot back. “You don’t get my pity, Miranda. Because you’re too good for it. You’ve got more going for you than any woman I’ve met. Okay, you’re naive. And gullible. We all start out that way. You’ve learned from it, fine. You should. You want to kick yourself, and maybe it’s well deserved. But don’t overdo it. Because I think Richard fell just as hard for you as you fell for him.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  “I’m not trying to make you feel better. I’m just telling you what I think.”

  “Right.” Her laughter was self-mocking. “That I’m one notch above a bimbo?” Again she tried to pull free. Again he held her tight.

  “No,” he said quietly. “What I’m saying is this. I know you’re not the first. I know Richard had a lot of women. I’ve met a few of them through the years. Some of them were gorgeous. Some of them were talented, even brilliant. But out of all those women—and they were, each and every one of them, exceptional—you’re the only one I could see him really falling for.”

  “Out of all those gorgeous women?” She shook her head and laughed. “Why me?”

  Quietly he said, “Because you’re the one I’d fall for.”

  At once she went still. He stared down at her, his dark hair stirring in the wind, his face awash in sunlight. She heard her own quick breaths, heard her heartbeat pounding in her ears. He released her wrists. She didn’t move, even when his arms circled behind her, even as he drew her hard against him. She scarcely had the breath to whimper before he settled his mouth firmly on hers.

  At the first touch of his lips she was lost. The sun seemed to spin overhead, a dizzying view of brightness against a field of blue. And then there was only him, all rough edges and shadows, his dark head blotting out the sky, his mouth stealing away her breath. She wavered for an instant between resistance and surrender. Then she found herself reaching up and around his neck, opening her lips to his eager assault, pressing more eagerly against the bite of his teeth. She drank him in, his taste, his warmth. Through the roaring in her ears she heard his low groans of satisfaction and need, ever more need. How quickly she had yielded, how easily she had fallen—the woman mastered first by one brother, and now the other.

  The day’s unbearable brightness seemed to flood her eyes as she pulled away. Her cheeks were blazing. The buzz of insects in the field and the rustle of grass in the wind were almost lost in the harsh sound of her own breathing.

  “I won’t be passed around, Chase,” she said. “I won’t.”

  Then she turned and stalked across the field. She headed back to the cottage, her feet stirring the perfume of sun-warmed grass. She knew he was following somewhere behind, but this time he made no attempt to catch up. She walked alone, and the brightness of the afternoon, the dancing wildflowers, the floating haze of dandelion fuzz only seemed to emphasize her own wretchedness.

  Miss St. John was standing on the porch. With scarcely a nod to the other woman, Miranda walked right past her and into the cottage. Inside, she went straight to the bookcase, grabbed another armful of books from the shelf and sat on the floor. She was single-mindedly flipping through the pages when she heard footsteps come up the porch.

  “It’s not a good time for an argument, Chase,” she heard Miss St. John say.

  “I’m not planning to argue.”

  “You have that look in your eye. For heaven’s sake, cool down. Stop. Take a deep breath.”

  “With all due respect, Miss St. John, you’re not my mother.”

  “All right, I’m not your mother!” Miss St. John snapped. As she stomped away down the steps, she muttered, “But I can see when a man sorely needs my advice!”

  The screen door slapped shut. Chase stood just inside the threshold, gazing at Miranda. “You took it the wrong way,” he said.

  Miranda looked up at him. “Did I?”

  “What happened between you and Richard is a separate issue. A dead issue. It has nothing to do with you and me.”

  She snapped the book shut. “It has everything to do with you and me.”

  “But you make it sound like I’m just—just picking up the affair where he left off.”

  “Okay, maybe it’s not that bald. Maybe you’re not even aware you’re doing it.” She reached for another book and stubbornly focused on the pages as she flipped through it. “But we both know Richard was the golden boy of the family. The one who had it all, inherited everything. You were the Tremain who didn’t even get a decent trust fund. Well, if you can’t inherit a newspaper or a fortune, at least you can inherit your brother’s cast-off mistress. Or, gee, maybe even his wife. Just think. Evelyn wouldn’t even have to go to the trouble of changing her last name.”

  “Are you finished?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Good. Because I don’t think I can stand here and listen to that garbage any longer. First of all, I’m not in the least bit interested in my sister-in-law. I never was. When Richard married her, I had to stop myself from sending him my condolences. Second, I don’t give a damn who gets the Herald. I sure as hell never wanted the job. The paper was Richard’s baby, from the start. And third—” He paused and took a deep breath, as though drawing the courage to say what had to be said. “Third,” he said quietly, “I’m not a Tremain.”

  She looked up at him sharply. “What are you saying? You’re Richard’s brother, aren’t you?”

  “His half brother.”

  “You mean...” She stared into those Gypsy eyes, saw herself reflected in irises dark as coals.

  Chase nodded. “My father knew. I don’t think Mother ever told him, exactly. She didn’t have to. He could just look at me and see it.” He smiled, a bitter, ironic smile. “Funny that I myself never did. All the time I was growing up, I didn’t understand why I couldn’t match up to Richard. No matter how hard I tried, he was the one who got Dad’s attention. My mother tried to make up for it. She was my very best friend, right up until she died. And then it was just the three of us.” He sank into a chair and rubbed his forehead, as though trying to massage away the memories.

  “When did you learn?” Miranda asked softly. “That he wasn’t your father?”

  “Not until years later, when Dad was dying. He had one of those cliché deathbed confessions. Only he didn’t tell me. He told Richard. Even at the very end, Richard was the privileged one.” Wearily Chase leaned back, his head pressed against the cushions, his gaze focused on the ceiling. “Later they read the will. I couldn’t understand why I’d been essentially cut out. Oh, he left me enough to get me started in business. But that was it. I thought it had to do with my marriage, the fact Dad had opposed it from the start. I was hurt, but I accepted it. My wife didn’t. She got in a shouting match with Richard, started yelling that it wasn’t fair. Richard lost his cool and let it all out. The big secret. The fact his brother was a bastard.”

  “Is that when you left the island?”

  He nodded. “I came back once or twice, to humor my wife. After we got divorced it seemed like my last link to this place had been cut. So I stayed away. Until now.”


  They fell silent. He seemed lost in bad memories, old hurts. No wonder I could never find any hint of Richard in his face, she thought. He’s not a Tremain at all. He’s his own man, the sort of man Richard could never be.

  The sort of man I could love.

  He felt her studying him, sensed she was reaching out to him. Abruptly he rose to his feet and moved with studied indifference toward the screen door. There he stood looking out at the field. “Maybe you were right,” he said.

  “About what?”

  “That what happened between you and Richard is still hanging over us.”

  “And if it is?”

  “Then this is a mistake. You, me. It’s the wrong reason to get involved.”

  She looked down, unwilling to reveal, even to the stiffly turned back, the hurt in her eyes. “Then we shouldn’t, should we?” she murmured.

  “No.” He turned to face her. She found her gaze drawn, almost against her will, to meet his. “The truth is, Miranda, we have too many reasons not to. What’s happened between us has been...” He shrugged. “It was an attraction, that’s all.”

  That’s all. Nothing, really, in the larger context of life. Not something you risked your heart on.

  “Still...” he said.

  “Yes?” She looked up with a sudden, insane leap

  of hope.

  “We can’t walk away from each other. Not with all that’s happened. Richard’s death. The fire.” He gestured about the book-strewn room. “And this.”

  “You don’t trust me. Yet you want my help?”

  “You’re the only one with stakes high enough to see this through.”

  She gave a tired laugh. “You got that part right.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “So, what comes next?”

  “I’ll go have a talk with Tony Graffam.”

  “Shall I come?”

  “No. I want to check him out on my own. In the meantime, you can finish up here. There’s still the upstairs.”

  Miranda gazed around the room, at the dusty piles of books, the stacks of papers, and she shook her head. “If I just knew what I was looking for. What the burglar was looking for.”

  “I have a hunch it’s still here somewhere.”

  “Whatever it is.”

  Turning, Chase pushed open the door. “When you find it, you’ll know.”

  Eleven

  Fred Nickels had said Tony Graffam was slick and dumb. He was right on both counts. Graffam wore a silk suit, a tie in blinding red paisley and a gold pinkie ring. The office, like the man, was all flash, little substance: plush carpet, spanking new leather chairs, but no secretary, no books on the shelves, no papers on the desk. The wall had only one decoration—a map of the north shore of Shepherd’s Island. It was not labeled as such, but Chase needed only a glance at the broad, curving bay to recognize the coastline.

  “I tell you, it’s a witch hunt!” Graffam complained. “First the police, now you.” He stayed behind his desk, refusing to emerge even to shake hands, as though clinging to the polished barrier for protection. In agitation he slid his fingers through his tightly permed hair. “You think I’d go and waste someone? Just like that? And for what, a piece of property? Do I look dumb?”

  Chase politely declined to answer that question. He said, “You were pressing an offer for Rose Hill Cottage, weren’t you?”

  “Well, of course. It’s the prime lot up there.”

  “And my brother refused to sell.”

  “Look, I’m sorry about your brother. Tragedy, a real tragedy. Not that he and I were on good terms, you understand. I couldn’t deal with him. He had a closed mind when it came to the project. I mean, he actually went and got hostile. I don’t know why. It’s only business, right?”

  “But I was under the impression this wasn’t a business deal, at all. Stone Coast Trust is billed as a conservation project.”

  “And that’s exactly what it is. I offered your brother top dollar for that land, more than Nature Conservancy would’ve paid. Plus, he would’ve retained lifetime use of the family cottage. An incredible deal.”

  “Incredible.”

  “With the addition of Rose Hill, we could extend the park all the way back to the hillside. It would add elevation. Views. Access.”

  “Access?”

  “For maintenance, of course. You know, for the hiking trails. Decent footpaths, so everyone could enjoy a taste of nature. Even the handicapped. I mean, mobility impaired.”

  “You thought of everything.”

  Graffam smiled. “Yes. We did.”

  “Where does Hemlock Heights come in?”

  Graffam paused. “Excuse me?”

  “Hemlock Heights. That is, I believe, the name of your planned development.”

  “Well, nothing was planned—”

  “Then why did you apply for rezoning? And how much did you pay to bribe the land commission?”

  Graffam’s face had gone rigid. “Let me repeat myself, Mr. Tremain. Stone Coast Trust was formed to protect the north shore. I admit, we might have to develop a parcel here and there, just to maintain the trust. But sometimes we have to compromise. We have to do things we’d rather not.”

  “Does that include blackmail?”

  Graffam sat up sharply. “What?”

  “I’m talking about Fred Nickels. And Homer Sulaway. The names should be familiar to you.”

  “Yes, of course. Two of the property owners. They declined my offer.”

  “Someone sent them nasty letters, telling them to sell.”

  “You think I sent them?”

  “Who else? Four people turned you down. Two of them got threatening letters. And a third—my brother—winds up dead.”

  “That’s what you’re leading up to, isn’t it? Trying to make it look like I had something to do with his death.”

  “Is that what I said?”

  “Look, I’ve taken enough heat on this deal. A year of putting up with this—this small-town crap. I’ve turned handsprings to make this project work, but I’m not going to be his fall guy.”

  Chase stared at Graffam in confusion. What was the man babbling about? Whose fall guy?

  “I was out of state when it happened. I have witnesses who’ll swear to that.”

  “Who are you working for?” Chase cut in.

  Graffam’s jaw suddenly snapped shut. Slowly he sat back, his expression hardening to stone.

  “So you have a backer,” said Chase. “Someone who’s put up the money. Someone who’s doing the dirty work. Who are you fronting for? The mob?”

  Graffam said nothing.

  “You’re scared, Graffam. I can tell.”

  “I don’t have to answer any of your questions.”

  Chase pressed the attack. “My brother was set to blow the whistle on Stone Coast, wasn’t he? So you sent him one of your threatening letters. But then you found out he couldn’t be blackmailed. Or bought off. So what did you do? Pay someone to take care of the problem?”

  “Meaning murder?” Graffam burst out laughing. “Come on, Tremain. A broad killed him. We both know that. Dangerous creatures, broads. Tick ’em off and they get ideas. They see red, grab a kitchen knife and that’s it. Even the cops agree. It was a broad. She had the motive.”

  “And you had a lot of money to lose. So did your backer. Richard already had his hands on your account numbers. He traced your invisible partner. He could have exposed the deal—”

  “But he didn’t. He killed the article, remember? I had it on good authority it was gonna stay dead. So why should we go after him?”

  Chase fell silent. That’s what Jill had said, that Richard was the one who’d canceled the article, called off the crusade. It was the one detail that didn’t make sense. Why had Richard backed
down?

  Did he back down? Or had Jill Vickery lied?

  He brooded over that last possibility as he left Graffam’s office and walked to the car. What did he know about Jill, really? Only that she’d been with the Herald for five years, that she kept it running smoothly. That she was bright, stylish and underpaid. She could land a better job anywhere on the East Coast. Why had she chosen to stay with this Podunk paper and work for slave wages?

  He’d planned to return at once to Rose Hill Cottage. Instead, he drove to the Herald.

  He found the office manned only by a skeleton crew: the summer intern, tapping at a computer keyboard, and the layout tech, stooped over a drawing table. Chase walked past them, into Richard’s office, and went straight to the file cabinet.

  He found Jill Vickery’s employment file right where it should be. He sat at the desk and opened the folder.

  Inside was a neatly typed résumé, three pages, all the right names and jobs. B.A., Bowdoin, 1977. Masters, Columbia, 1979. Stints on the city desk, San Francisco Chronicle; then obits, San Diego Union; police beat, San Jose Times; op-ed editor, Portland Press Herald. A solid résumé.

  So why does she end up here?

  Something about that résumé bothered him. Something that didn’t seem quite right. It was enough to make him reach for the phone and dial the Portland Press Herald, her previous employer. He spoke to the current op-ed editor, a woman who vaguely recalled a Jill Vickery. It had been a while back, though.

  Chase next called the San Jose Times. This time there was some uncertainty, a lot of yelling around the city room, asking if anyone remembered a reporter named Jill Vickery from seven years before. Someone yelled, wasn’t there a Jill on the police beat years back? That was good enough for Chase. He hung up and considered letting it drop.

  Still, that résumé. What was it that bothered him?

  The obits. San Diego Union. That didn’t make sense. Obits was the coal mine equivalent of the newspaper business. You worked your way up from there. Why had she gone from the city desk in San Francisco to a bottom-of-the-barrel position?