Guilty as Sin (37 page)

"That might have something to do with the caliber of cops you're working with."

"You underestimate them, Tony. And I think you underestimate me, which is fine. It'll be all the more gratifying when I kick your ass next week."

"You're overestimating your case, Ellen," he said. "And you're grasping at straws going after Wright's phone records. You can't believe you'll find anything linking Dr. Wright to the kidnapping, which means you're really looking for something else. I'm surprised Judge Grabko didn't call you on it."

"Actually, I don't expect to find anything at all," she admitted coolly. "I don't expect to find your phone number listed under calls placed on the twenty-fifth, for instance. Which will mean that Karen Wright didn't call you on behalf of her husband. And if Karen Wright didn't call you, then who did?"

"So we're back to that conspiracy theory. You know, maybe you need help for this, Ellen. Although I'm sure our mutual friend Mr. Brooks will find your psychological quirks an interesting added facet for his book."

"Mutual friend?" she asked, the cool disinterest in her tone completely at odds with what she was feeling. "I've barely met the man," she lied. "How do you know him?"

What did he know? Did he know about Jay's connection to the attorney general? He had a private investigator working the case. Did he know Brooks had taken her home last night? Would he try to make an issue of it?

"I met him years ago, actually," he answered casually. "We were both at Purdue, though we were several years apart. Small world, isn't it?"

Ellen felt the floor dip beneath her feet. Brooks knew Costello. They had gone to the same college. He had never said one word.

"Ellen? Are you all right?" Costello asked. "You look a little pale."

"Don't worry about it, Tony." She spurred herself to move, to turn away, to duck her head. "It's nothing the truth won't cure."

She hefted her briefcase onto the other counsel table and stuffed the disclosure into the appropriate file folder. "You don't have to concern yourself about my mental state—unless, of course, I'm right and your client's accomplice called you in on this case, thereby making you an accessory in the Holloman kidnapping."

She clicked the locks closed and gave her adversary a final, challenging stare. "As an officer of the court, I'm sure I don't have to remind you of your obligation to report Todd Childs's whereabouts to the police— should you happen to see him. Who knows? Maybe we can kill two birds with one stone—serve our witness and nail an accomplice all in one shot. Wouldn't that be nice and neat?"

"Only two birds?" he questioned. "I thought you were after my head, too."

"Oh, I am, Tony," she said with a nasty smile. "You'll be my bonus dead duck."

He stepped close enough that she could smell the expensive aftershave he wore and lowered his head as if to share a secret.

"It's so nice to know you still think of me as special," he murmured.

God, she hated that he thought he could manipulate her with memories and sex appeal. "Special isn't how I think of you, Tony. You're at the wrong end of the adjective spectrum altogether."

"Does that mean you won't have dinner with me for old time's sake after all this is said and done?" he asked, his tone still intimate, his expression hungry and amused.

"I'd rather have my limbs gnawed off."

He had the nerve to laugh and the gall to hold the door for her as they left the courtroom.

They were mobbed as soon as they stepped into the hall, a dozen voices shouting questions at once. Bodies pressed in on them, hands thrusting forward with microphones and tape recorders. Ellen found herself trapped at Costello's side, her shoulder brushing against his arm. As she was jostled, she had to steady herself with a hand against the small of his back. She hated to touch him.

"Our mutual friend Mr. Brooks ..."

"Ms. North, is it true you've been threatened?"

"We were both at Purdue . . ."

"Ms. North, are there any suspects in the vandalism?"

"Small world, isn't it?"

"Mr. Costello, does Dr. Wright have any comment on possible involvement of the Sci-Fi Cowboys in the attack on Ms. North?"

"Mr. Costello, is it true you're pushing for the investigation to turn toward Paul Kirkwood?"

"My client is innocent," Costello shouted, fixing his eagle glare just to the left of a portable sun gun. "The police have been negligent in pursuing leads that might take their investigation in a direction they don't want to consider. My investigators have pursued all leads. I can guarantee you that when the hearing begins next week, Dr. Garrett Wright will not be the only one on trial."

The statement had the effect of pouring gasoline on a fire. The noise level rose to a deafening din. Wanting nothing more than to escape, Ellen positioned her briefcase to use as shield and battering ram and started against the current of the crowd.

"Ms. North, do you have any comment?"

"Ms. North, can we get a statement?"

She lowered her head and pushed forward, slamming the briefcase into someone's knees. Down the hall the door to Judge Witt's courtroom opened, and the old bailiff, Randolph Grimm, barged into the hall, shouting for quiet, his face as red as a cherry tomato.

"Keep it down out here! Court is in session! Don't you people have any respect?"

Without waiting for an answer, he raised his cane and smacked it against the wall, the sound ringing out like a gunshot. People ducked and gasped and swung toward him. Cameramen wheeled with tape running.

Ellen took advantage of the diversion to make her escape, rounding a jungle gym of scaffolding and riding a service elevator down to the second floor.

Costello was going to turn the spotlight on Paul. Theoretically, the ploy would have no bearing on the probable-cause hearing. Grabko had to base his decision whether or not to bind Wright over for trial on the evidence presented, and Tony had no real evidence against Paul Kirkwood. But there wouldn't be a potential juror in the district who wouldn't have picked up on a story as sensational as this.

"You have to get it to a jury first, Ellen," she muttered as the elevator landed and the doors pulled open.

Phoebe stood outside the county clerk's office with a ream of paperwork clutched to her meager bosom and a shy smile on her face, absorbed in conversation with the boy wonder of the Grand Forks Herald. Adam Slater's eyes widened as he caught sight of Ellen. He swung away from Phoebe, digging a notepad out of the hip pocket of his baggy jeans.

"Hey, Ms. North, can I ask you a couple of questions about last night?"

"I'm surprised you aren't upstairs with the rest of the pack."

Slater shook his head. "Can't get anywhere that way. Everyone will have the same story. If I want to make my mark, I've got to get something fresh. You know, like they say in baseball—hit 'em where they ain't."

"Charming analogy," Ellen said, "but I don't want you swinging your bat around my secretary. Is that understood, Mr. Slater?"

His smile went flat. Beside him, Phoebe stood with her jaw dropped and her cheeks tinting.

"I have no comment for your story," Ellen went on. "You'll have to use someone else to make your mark. Phoebe, let's go. We've got work to do."

She started toward the office but turned back when Phoebe didn't fall in step behind her.

The girl had ducked her head in abject embarrassment. "God, I'm really sorry, Adam. I didn't—"

"Phoebe," Ellen said sharply.

"Man, this sucks," Slater complained, flopping his arms at his sides. "We were just talking."

Phoebe kept her head down as she walked beside Ellen. Neither spoke. In the outer offices phones rang, and Kevin O'Neal, the county SWAT commander, stood talking and laughing with Sig Iverson and Quentin Adler.

"Hey, Ellen," O'Neal called as he caught sight of her. "The ATF caught your pals the Berger boys down in Tennessee."

"Was there gunplay?" she asked with sadistic hope.

"Gave up without a fight and with a van full of stolen cigarettes. ATF wants to keep them on the federal beef. What do you want to do about extradiction?"

Ellen shook her head. "Good riddance. Save the county some money."

She turned around just as Phoebe was slinking behind her desk.

"I'd like to speak with you in my office."

The girl didn't answer but followed Ellen as if going to her death.

"How do you know Adam Slater?" Ellen asked as soon as they were in the office.

"I met him at the Leaf and Bean last night," she said quietly, still hugging her papers. "We drank coffee and listened to music. Thursday is open-mike night."

"Did you know he was a reporter?"

"Yes. He said so. We didn't talk about the case, Ellen. I know better."

"I know you wouldn't mean to say anything, Phoebe, but he's a reporter. They have ways of wheedling information out of people. Believe me, I know."

"Our mutual friend Mr. Brooks . . ."

"I was very up-front with him about it," Phoebe said. "I told him right off I couldn't say anything about the case, and he was fine with that. Maybe he just wanted to have coffee with me. Maybe he just likes me as a human being. Our psyches are very in tune."

Ellen rolled her eyes. "Oh, please, Phoebe. He's a reporter looking to make a name for himself. He'll do anything to get what he wants. That's what reporters do—they screw people over for their own glorification."

"I'm here for a story . . . I go after what I want and I get it."

"Well, I'm sorry I'm not as cynical and paranoid as you are." Tears beaded on Phoebe's lashes. "And I'm sorry you don't trust me, Ellen."

"It's not you I don't trust," Ellen said softly. She let out a pent-up breath, trying without success to force the tension out of her shoulders. "It's the rest of the world I don't trust—Adam Slater included."

God, what a tangled mess. She took her secretary to task for talking to a cub reporter from a nothing newspaper in nowhere, North Dakota, while Jay Butler Brooks, renowned rogue and writer, old college buddy of her archnemesis, had been making himself at home in her home, drinking her liquor . . . kissing her, touching her, reaching past her barriers.

Who do you trust?

Phoebe? Adam Slater? Costello? Brooks?

Trust no one.

"Rumor has it you think Enberg had some help with that shotgun."

"Where did you hear that?"

"Around."

"If there's a leak on this case—"

"No one fed it to me. I don't have a mole in your office, if that's what you're worried about. . . ."

"I'm not paranoid."

If she was paranoid, it didn't mean they weren't out to get her.

She stood at her window and looked out. Deer Lake was a ghost town, windswept and deserted; a place from a science-fiction movie, where all had been abandoned in an unknown moment for unknown reasons. "Abandoned"—it was a good word for what she was feeling. Abandoned by the security and trust and safety she had embraced here.

"We can't take chances," she said, turning back toward Phoebe. "Look what happened with Paige Price and Steiger, and that whole mess. This case is too important. We can't risk a mistake. Josh and Megan are counting on us."

"And Dustin Holloman," Phoebe added in a small voice. She gnawed her lower lip for a moment, a moment of silence for the victims, then swiped a tear from her cheek. "I'm s-sorry. I-I w-w-w-ouldn't—"

Ellen held up a hand. "I know you wouldn't, Phoebe. Just be careful. Please."

She nodded and sniffled and pushed her glasses up on her nose. "Cameron and Mitch and Agent Wilhelm are waiting for you in the conference room."

Ellen briefed them on the meeting in Grabko's chambers. Mitch reacted with anger, Cameron with disgust. Marty Wilhelm looked troubled and confused.

"Is abuse a possibility?" he asked.

"Absolutely not," Mitch said. "I've known Hannah and Paul since I moved here. There's no way."