Degree of Guilt (16 page)

Terri finished her ice cream and put aside the bowl. ‘I had the world’s greatest mother, all right? She wasn’t the way these people sound – I could talk to her about anything, and she trusted me a lot.’ Terri propped her chin on her hand. ‘But it was an unwritten rule that nobody took me out until they spent a little time around the house.’

Carlo looked curious. ‘Did she ever say why?’

‘I think mostly so my mom would get some handle on who they were.’ Terri paused, reflecting. ‘Also,’ she went on, ‘I think she wanted the boys who took me out to remember I had a family, someone who cared. Like Jennifer’s parents, she had a lot invested in me.’

Terri, Paget thought, had a gift for talking to Carlo on equal ground.

‘True,’ Carlo said. ‘It’s just that being around
those
people doesn’t sound like a lot of fun.’

Terri nodded. ‘Probably not. But what my mom said it told her was whether a boy thought I was worth the trouble.’ Terri’s expression turned questioning. ‘Do you think Jennifer’s worth the trouble?’

Her tone held neither challenge nor reproof, as if the right answer was whatever Carlo felt. Watching Carlo reflect, Paget began to believe in Terri’s mother.

‘Yes,’ Carlo said. ‘I really think she is.’

Terri smiled. ‘What’s she like?’

‘Really nice. Good sense of humor.’ Carlo paused. ‘She’s just really nice to be with.’

‘Carlo,’ Paget observed mildly, ‘can make Venus de Milo sound generic. Jennifer probably has an IQ around one fifty and looks something like Winona Ryder.’

‘No,’ Carlo answered. ‘She’s just nice.’

‘“Nice,”’ Terri said lightly, ‘is a hard concept for your dad to grasp.’

‘I get “nice,”’ Paget protested. ‘That’s like Santa Claus, isn’t it? Or Harvey the Rabbit?’

Terri and Carlo smiled at each other. When she was truly amused, Paget saw, Terri’s grin cracked white and sharp. Carlo’s smile in return was more genuine than Paget had seen it lately; with foolish surprise, he realized that his fifteen-year-old son not only liked this woman but thought she was attractive.’

‘Hopeless,’ Carlo said.

Turning, they both looked amiably at Paget. ‘Hopeless,’ Terri agreed.

Paget smiled. ‘That’s what shock treatments are for.’ He turned to Carlo. ‘At the risk of introducing a grim note of realism, how is your English paper going?’

Carlo gave a comic wince. ‘It’s going. And so am I.’ He turned to Terri, hesitated, and then said seriously, ‘Thanks for helping with my mother.’

‘I’m happy to. But it’s really your father.’ She touched Carlo’s shoulder. ‘All kidding aside, she can’t do any better.’

Carlo seemed to consider that. ‘He certainly works hard enough.’ Carlo answered. Saying goodbye to Terri, he went back upstairs.

Paget turned for a moment, as if listening to his footsteps, and then looked back at Terri.

‘I appreciate that,’ he said. ‘Things have been a little tough around here lately.’

‘I’m sure.’ Her face was thoughtful again, and then she gave a small smile. ‘This much is true – ten years ago,
I
was a teenager.’

Paget smiled back. ‘Now I
do
feel old. Perhaps I should be consulting your mother.’ He leaned back on the counter. ‘Do you still talk to her a lot?’

‘A fair amount.’ Terri hesitated. ‘There are a few things we find it hard to talk about.’

‘I guess that happens. You get married and develop a zone of privacy.’

Terri looked away. ‘I suppose that’s it,’ she said, and glanced at her watch. ‘God, it’s nearly ten. I really should go.’

‘Sure.’ Paget felt embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you.’

‘You didn’t. This last was nice, after Melissa.’ Terri gazed at her wineglass. ‘Part of me,’ she added finally, ‘wishes I only knew about Mark Ransom through books.’

Paget nodded. They walked together to the door.

The night air was cool and crisp. ‘This may not be the time to mention it,’ Paget said, ‘but there’s Dr Steinhardt’s daughter. Specifically, whether she had any sense of how Ransom was using the tapes.’

Terri looked up at him. ‘You’d like me to go see her?’

‘I’d like you to go see her.’ Paget paused. ‘Hard or not, you did well today.’

Terri smiled faintly. ‘All right.’

Turning, she stepped onto the porch, gazing down at the tree-lined street. At night, the three-story homes were covered by darkness. In the streetlights some distance away, a woman with a large dog moved from light to shadow, shadow to light, reappearing and then vanishing again. Terri folded her arms, as if against the cold.

‘Where are you parked?’ Paget asked.

She did not turn. ‘Just a little way. Maybe a block and a half.’

Paget watched her. ‘Would you like me to walk you to your car?’

Terri was silent, and then said simply, ‘Please.’

Sharpe and Shelton were waiting with Brooks in his office. Feeble morning light came through two windows with a view. of several parking lots and a highway overpass. The room, Paget thought, had looked better at night.

‘I understand,’ Brooks said briskly, ‘that you have a little something to share with us.’

Paget nodded. ‘My associate saw Mark Ransom’s ex-wife. It turns out that Ransom had some peculiarities that should sound quite familiar.’

Brooks raised an eyebrow. ‘Then we’re all anxious to hear about them.’

Their anxiety, Paget thought, registered in distinctly different ways: Brooks’s expression was one of calm neutrality; Shelton looked interested but somewhat uncomfortable; and Marnie Sharpe folded her arms and sat straighter, as if extending a courtesy for which she had little patience and little time to someone she had little inclination to trust.

‘The short is this: Ransom had rape fantasies and a sexual obsession with Laura Chase.’ Paget paused. ‘Mary Carelli got to see them converge.’

Brook’s gaze came as close to a stare as he ever permitted. ‘The wife says all that?’

‘More or less.’

‘You’d better lay it out for us.’

Paget kept it succinct, letting the story speak for itself. No one interrupted. At the end, Brooks whistled softly. ‘That, Christopher, is truly disturbing.’

Shelton, Paget saw, was examining her hands. Sharpe’s unwelcoming look had become one of intense concentration. ‘
I
thought so,’ Paget said. ‘And it explains what Ransom did to Mary better than she ever could.’

Sharpe gave a short shake of the head. ‘Not to my satisfaction,’ she said slowly. ‘Even assuming that Ms Rappaport wants to come forward, which you haven’t said, I doubt it’s admissible.’

‘Admissible?’ Paget turned to Sharpe. ‘We’re not at trial yet. What we’re discussing is an issue of fairness.’

Sharpe’s face closed against him, and her tone became didactic. ‘The issue
I’m
raising is relevance, which also happens to govern admissibility. You’re suggesting that her story involves a prior similiar act. But Melissa Rappaport
consented
to this particular practice. That is
not
a rape and therefore does not suggest that what your client says happened was part of a pattern of nonconsensual sex. The reason a judge wouldn’t let it in later is the reason it doesn’t satisfy us now.’

The ‘us’, Paget thought, was an assertion of authority. He paused to ensure that he responded with sufficient tact. ‘That’s far too literal, Marnie. There is such a thing as psychological truth. Two different women, five years apart, confronted something in Ransom that is
very
particular. The reason to believe Mary Carelli is the same reason I get this into evidence at trial – because it makes what Mary told you
feel
right. Which is exactly what you’d argue if this were a rape prosecution.’

Sharpe gave him a thoughtful look. As Brooks watched her, silent, Paget realized that Sharpe had started to invest in the case and that Brooks had moved from prosecutor to referee, carefully weighing his own interests.

‘Will
she testify?’ Brooks asked.

Paget turned. ‘I don’t know, Mac. I hope never to ask. It would be fairly uncomfortable, and not just for Rappaport.’

Brooks considered him. ‘If you mean would we
enjoy
that,’ he said finally, ‘of course not.’

Brooks, Paget saw, had followed him perfectly; his pretense of opacity was meant to force Paget to speak their understanding aloud.

‘Actually, I was thinking of James Colt.’

Brooks’s mirthless smile came and went. ‘The one who’s dead,’ he asked, ‘or the one who’s running for governor?’

‘Both,’ Paget answered, ‘and all the people who admired the father and support his son. Including the widow Colt and her very wealthy family. None of whom, as you’ve already conceded, will be eager to watch you add Laura Chase’s less than glowing memories to the family annals.’

‘That tape,’ Sharpe cut in, ‘will be in the public domain as soon as Ransom’s publisher gets someone to finish the book. Whatever your client’s motives, she has virtually guaranteed that the Laura Chase biography will sell a million copies. The damage to the Colt family will already be done, and it won’t be the fault of this office.’

That was right, Paget knew. And if Mary was indicted, her story could merge with Laura Chase’s, creating a media event that would lead them straight to Carlo. Once again, he felt the trap in which Mary had placed him: his best chance to protect Carlo was to prevent an indictment.

Slowly, Paget turned to Brooks. ‘You
have
listened to the tape, I assume.’

Brooks nodded. ‘I have.’

‘Then speaking strictly as a human being,’ Paget continued, ‘how did you feel hearing Laura Chase’s voice when she describes James Colt watching as his two friends had her?’

Brooks was quiet for a moment. Shelton turned toward a window with no view; Paget guessed that she, too, had listened to the tape.

‘Speaking strictly as a human being,’ Brooks answered slowly, ‘what I was – God help me – was fascinated and repelled.’

‘And do you think simply
reading
about it would be quite the same experience as
listening
to it?’

Brooks’s eyes narrowed. ‘No. I don’t.’

‘Nor do I. And while we’re about the business of calculating audience shares in the millions, how many million people watched the Willie Smith trial?’

‘On Court TV,’ Brooks said flatly.

Paget nodded. ‘On Court TV. Because I would absolutely do that, Mac. If this case goes to trial, I’d insist that the judge let them show it nationwide. Then, like any defense lawyer in his right mind, I’d ask to play that tape. I don’t know about your standing in the polls, but your Nielsen ratings will go right through the roof.’

Brooks folded his hands in his lap. ‘And James Colt’s family?’

‘I’ve never been interested in politics.’ Paget paused, then finished softly. ‘That family means nothing to me. As I mentioned the last time, I have my own.’

Paget heard Sharpe’s curt intake of breath. Brooks looked from Paget to Sharpe and back again.

‘There are problems, Chris. New ones.’

Brooks’s reluctant tone troubled Paget more than bluster. ‘Such as?’

Brooks looked to Sharpe. ‘More discrepancies,’ she said. ‘At least one seems quite serious.’

Don’t seem anxious, Paget thought. Turning to her, he assumed an expression of polite inquiry. Her lips tightened, as if she was nettled.

‘To begin with,’ she said finally, ‘Mary Carelli told Inspector Monk that the blinds were drawn when she came to Ransom’s room. Monk thought that sounded peculiar. So he asked the waiter who brought the champagne from room service. The blinds were open – he’s quite sure of that.’

Paget tried looking puzzled. ‘From which you extract what, exactly?’

‘We’re not sure, obviously. But it raises the possibility that Ms Carelli closed the blinds for reasons of her own.’

‘Can you suggest a reason that makes her indictable?’

Sharpe looked at him closely. ‘We don’t indict people,’ she said in cold tones, ‘for closing their blinds. But people sometimes close blinds so other people can’t see what they’re doing.’

‘Which,’ Paget answered, ‘raises the possibility that Ransom closed the blinds because he was planning to rape Mary Carelli and that she didn’t notice or didn’t recall. Assuming, that is, that the waiter remembers the precise status of each individual window shade in each of the many rooms he no doubt visited that day – a question you might care to ask him before making too much of this.’

Behind Sharpe, Elizabeth Shelton smiled faintly. ‘I did,’ Sharpe retorted. ‘He distinctly remembers Ms Carelli. He thought Mr Ransom was a lucky man.’

‘He certainly
tried
,’ Paget said. ‘But then, as Somerset Maugham once observed, “luck is a talent.”’

Sharpe flushed; Shelton’s smile was replaced by a closer scrutiny of Sharpe. In quick succession, Paget had two impressions: that Shelton did not care for Sharpe, and that something was troubling Shelton that Paget did not know.

‘Forgive the levity,’ he said to Sharpe. ‘I’ll ask Mary about the blinds, of course. Is there something else?’

‘Yes.’ Sharpe looked distinctly unmollified. ‘Ms Carelli says that she never left the suite. But another guest believes that he saw her enter the suite as he got off the elevator. I should say
reenter
, the guest was returning from lunch at about one o’clock, well after Ms Carelli says she arrived.’

For the first time, Shelton spoke. ‘One o’clock,’ she said carefully, ‘is the approximate time of death.’

Paget turned back to Sharpe. ‘Is this guest certain it was Mary?’

‘He only saw her from behind. But it was a dark-haired woman, around five feet eight or so, who carried herself like Mary Carelli.’

Paget considered her. ‘Assuming that it was Mary, I expect what he saw was Mary arriving, perhaps earlier than he thinks.’