Heart of the Night (24 page)

Paul folded his hands across his middle. “We'll tell them we're working on it. We can stress the strength of the resources we've brought in and simply say that we're hoping for a break.” He arched a brow toward Anthony, who promptly took the plan a step further.

“Secrecy. Play on the need for secrecy. Say that the investigation is in full swing but that to comment on the details would put the whole thing in jeopardy. Whatever you do, imply confidence. And Paul's right—talk about the different agencies involved, praise them, set them up to share the blame if things go wrong.” He began doing drum rolls with the eraser end of a pencil. “And stress that Megan's fine. It doesn't matter whether it's true or not, say it.”

Savannah had plenty of experience evading pointed questions from the press. She just wasn't sure whether this time around she could do it with her usual aplomb. It was going to be a challenge.

“Tell them,” Anthony went on, “that we've been monitoring the case from the start but that, to some extent, we've had to honor the kidnappers' demand that the police not be brought in. You can even go so far as to say that you have a tape recording of the voice of one of the men.”

Savannah shook her head. “The tape is practically worthless.”

“So? At least it will sound like we have something.”

“But we don't. The voice was distorted, and the lab hasn't come up with a thing by way of identifying background noise.”

“Who has to know? Come on, Savannah. You know how the game is played. We're not lying. We do have a tape. So we let people draw their own conclusions about its usefulness, and if their conclusions are wrong, that's their problem, not ours.”

Savannah was uneasy with that. “Supposing, just supposing one or both of the kidnappers is still in the area and follows coverage of what we say. How would they react to news that there's a tape? Would they get nervous and run? Or would they get angry?”

“What difference does it make?” Anthony asked. “If they run, at least they'll be smoked out. And if they're angry, so what? They wouldn't dare try anything more.”

She wasn't sure she believed that, but then, she suspected she had imagined Megan's fear so well that it had become her own. She couldn't seem to control the flashing images of a naked Megan tied spread-eagle to a bed, being raped again and again. More than once, she had seen her own face there instead of Megan's. It was foolish, she knew, but it did unsettle her.

Paul studied her face. “Why don't we call a press conference for two o'clock? At this point, I think speculation may be getting out of hand. That has to stop. If we make our own statement, we'll have some control over what hits the news.” His look became gentle. “Want me to handle it?”

Paul rarely offered to do something that was not in his best political interest. She appreciated the considerate gesture, as a sign that he had an understanding of the emotional strain she was under. She also knew he was paying her back for the loyalty she had shown him over the years.

With a sad smile, she said, “Thanks, Paul, but I'll do it. My relations with the press are as good now as they've ever been. Yours aren't.”

Paul chuckled dryly.

Anthony went further with a snort. “Hammerschmidt is waiting to screw us on page one of the
Journal.
You can bet he'll be watching this case with a magnifying glass.”

“I can handle Hammerschmidt,” Savannah said. “I haven't spent a Tuesday night a month for the past five months buying him beers for nothing.”

Anthony smirked. “Was that the extent of it?”

“Excuse me?”

“Did you stop at beer?” His snare drum roll picked up tempo. “Or did you throw in a little something extra to sweeten the pot?”

Savannah bristled. “I'll forget you said that.”

“Don't. It's worth considering. You've got something that Paul and I don't. Maybe if you tried using it once in a while—”

“That's enough,” Paul said and rose from his chair.

But Savannah held up a hand to him as she faced Anthony. “One of the reasons I have the credibility I do is that I don't sell myself that way. Sure, I have drinks with the guys. I consider it good PR to make myself accessible, informally, to the press once in a while. I laugh at their jokes, listen to their complaints. I pass on little tidbits of news that they'd have picked up by themselves if they'd been on the ball. They like me because I spend that time with them, and because I do that, they're more likely to do me a favor when I call. Not
once
though, not
once
have I done anything improper.”

Anthony's grin was snide. “Did I hit a raw nerve?”

“You hit them all the time.”

“Just wanted to see if you're on your toes. You were looking a little subdued there for a while.”

“Not subdued. Tired. I had three hours of sleep last night—this morning—and your incessant drumming doesn't help.”

“Are you sure you're up for a press conference?” Paul asked.

She drew herself very straight. “I'm up for it. This is my case, Paul. I intend to see it through. When we find out who did this to Megan, I want to be the one who prosecutes.”

Anthony had his arms crossed over his chest and was seesawing the pencil against his sleeve. “I wouldn't want to be in those guys' shoes.”

“How could you be?” Savannah asked. “As far as I'm concerned, there's only one appropriate punishment for men who do to a woman what those two did to Megan.” She dropped a pointed gaze to his fly. “But you haven't got 'em to start with.” Ignoring the sudden snap of the pencil, she looked at Paul. “Two o'clock. I'll be there.” Then she turned and left the office.

*   *   *

Megan Vandermeer lay in a sedated haze, content to neither move nor think. When she did move, she hurt all over, which was strange. She hadn't hurt so much before. The doctors said that the healing process was taking over, that nerve ends were screeching their way back to life, and she accepted the explanation mainly because she didn't have the will to argue.

Besides, she didn't mind the pain. She deserved it.

But she didn't want to think about that. She didn't want to think, period. Thinking was more painful than moving. All she wanted to do was lie in her bed and tune out reality.

Unfortunately, the world wouldn't let her do that. Since she'd woken up, there had been a steady stream of people passing through her room—doctors, nurses, counselors, detectives, agents—all with questions that she didn't want to answer.

Why didn't they leave her alone? she wondered. Couldn't they see that she didn't feel well? Couldn't they see that she didn't want to talk?

All their questions blurred together in her mind.
What do you remember? Does it hurt here? Can you give us a description? Were you taken in a car? Where did they hold you? How about a nice, soft-boiled egg? Were there any sounds in the room? Did they call each other by name? Would you like another bath?

With a soft moan, she turned her head on the pillow in an attempt to blot out the noise.

“Meggie?”

Frightened by the voice that was so much more real, so much nearer than the others, she quickly opened her eyes and saw Will. He was sitting close by the side of the bed and was the only person in the room.

“You were moaning,” he said. “Is the pain worse? Should I call a nurse?”

Oh yes, the pain was worse. Each time she looked at him it intensified. Her heart ached. She loved Will. But he looked awful. He had been home for a little while, she knew, and had come back showered, shaved, and wearing fresh clothes. But the shave had only accentuated the pallor of his skin, and in contrast to the fresh clothes, he looked more tired than ever. He was forty-nine years old. In the six years they had been married, she had prided herself on keeping him young. Now, though, he looked every bit his age. He looked worn—and it was all her fault.

What had she done to him?

She had fallen in love and married him, which was just fine for her, but not for him. He could have done better. If he'd married someone from his own social station, he would have had the support he needed. If he'd married a wealthy woman, none of this would have happened.

She was a liability.

“Meggie?” His voice wavered. Very lightly, tentatively, he took her hand, and she let him, not because she was doing him a favor, or because she deserved the comfort, but because she needed his touch.

Selfish. She was selfish. And dirty. The bruises on her body were stains that would never go away.

“What can I get you, sweetheart?”

Closing her eyes, she shook her head, then turned it away on the pillow. Will continued to hold her hand, but he didn't speak, and she was glad. What could he say? What could she say back? She needed time to figure out what to do.

Savannah hadn't talked much, either. She had been in to visit earlier, standing by the bed for several minutes. She had softly called her name, but Megan hadn't opened her eyes or answered. She was a coward. After all Savannah had done, not only in the past three days but over the years, Megan had betrayed her. How could she look her in the eye?

She didn't deserve Will or Savannah—or Susan, either. Susan had waited at the house with Will during the entire three days. Although it had must have been an ordeal for her, she had done it. And what had Megan done in return?

She should have stayed on the wrong side of the tracks. That was where she belonged.

With another moan, she turned onto her side. In the process, her hand came free of Will's, but she barely noticed. Her sole focus was on finding that blank spot in her mind where she could hide, forget, vanish.

*   *   *

Savannah strode boldly back from the conference room. The press conference had been over for several hours, but she had been waylaid by reporters who had lingered in hopes of learning something more than what she had said publicly. When she'd finally freed herself, she'd gone straight into a meeting with lawyers who hoped to plea-bargain their clients' way out of the trial on Monday. Her case was strong, which was why the defense was getting nervous. In good conscience, though, she could not deal—at least, not to the tune the defense wanted. She had little sympathy for intelligent men who used arson as a means to collect insurance money on buildings that were heavily overinsured, particularly when those fires resulted in adding scores of people to the ranks of the homeless.

Arnie Watts was with her during the meeting, as was Katherine Trask. Both would be assisting her during the trial. Both agreed that the defense was asking for gifts the prosecution simply could not grant.

So the meeting had ended in a stalemate, with the trial still set for Monday. Wondering how she was going to get herself together for that, when she was still so shaky about Megan, she left for her office. Just beyond the conference-room door, though, she was ambushed by another local reporter.

“A minute, counselor?”

Her step didn't falter. “If you can keep up with me, you've got it.” The reporter was young, new to the newspaper, and female. Particularly in light of the last, Savannah was willing to cooperate. She steeled herself for more questions on the kidnapping, but instead, the reporter asked, “Can you tell me about the Cat?”

Savannah turned a corner. “The Cat?” She hesitated. “What do you want to know?”

“I hear he struck again.”

“Where did you hear that?”

The reporter shrugged. “Is it true?”

“I don't know. Most everything to do with the Cat is speculation.”

“But there was a break-in Tuesday night in Cranston, and the MO was the same.”

“There are break-ins every night of the week.”

“Not on that large a scale. I understand that your office has been questioning Matty Stavanovich for years. Is that true?”

Savannah didn't see any point denying it, since the number of times the man had been brought in was a matter of record. “It's true.”

“Have you taken any special measures to apprehend him?”

Savannah sent her a wry half-smile. “Now, if I told you that, I'd be tipping my hand to the Cat, wouldn't I?”

“Then you are?”

“I won't say one way or the other. I will say that this office is working in conjunction with police all over the state to solve house-breaks of the type that happened last Tuesday.”

“But are you zeroing in on Stavanovich?”

“We're zeroing in on whoever the evidence points to.”

“Who does the evidence point to?”

Lips pursed, Savannah sent her a chiding look. She passed Janie, closing her hand around a pile of pink slips as though they were a baton in a relay race, and went on to her office door. There she stopped. “What's your name?”

“Beth Tocci.”

“Well, Beth Tocci, there's something you have to understand. In our system of justice, a man is innocent until proven guilty. It would be unethical of me to earmark the Cat, or any other thief, for that Cranston break-in, before an arrest is made—unethical, and unwise. You'd go back to your paper and print what I said, and that would throw a wrench into the investigation, not to mention make it impossible to gather an unbiased jury if the case ever came to trial. This is one of those instances where your job is to report the news, not alter it.”

“Is it true that Matty Stavanovich is a legitimate businessman?”

“That's a matter of public record.”

“Is it true that the IRS audits him every year and can't find anything wrong?”

“You'd have to check with the IRS on that.”

“What about the allegation that Matty Stavanovich is the alias for a man named Joseph Stevens, who served time in a California prison and was released and given a new identity after he testified to crimes he heard about while he was there?”