Keep No Secrets (27 page)

Celeste: he went psycho

Michael: how

Celeste: he made me show him

my panties

Michael: ?

Celeste: proof

Michael: ?

Celeste: u know, that were not

doing it

Michael: jesus

Jack’s thoughts exactly.

Celeste: told ya, he's crazy

Michael: what did u do?

Celeste: i'm smarter

Michael: ?

Celeste: I carry an extra pair :) Jack’s been a prosecutor too long not to recognize the difference between the natural disappointment, even anger, of a parent who learns his child is sexually active and one whose reaction is more akin to that of a betrayed lover. The hard part is figuring out whether the latter reacts like a betrayed lover because he
is
one. As strange as Del Toro's behavior is, Jack still doesn't think her father is the man described in the journal. Yet that doesn't mean he's not sexually abusing her, too.

He glances at the corner of the screen and is alarmed to see how long he’s been reading messages. It’s almost two. If he doesn't get to his office soon, he'll miss his rescheduled staff meeting. He's certain he's only scratched the surface of the chatter between Michael and Celeste, but the rest will have to wait. The trail will be there tomorrow, but there's no guarantee he can say the same for his job.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CLAIRE COMES HOME from Sedona

four days later with a healthy glow to her skin, but darker shadows under her eyes, suggesting to Jack she spent a good portion of her time crying. Yet she avoids mentioning the events that preceded her leaving. Jack follows her lead and doesn't share with her the messages he found on the computer.

Instead, they engage in an uneasy détente as if, by some unspoken

agreement, they have decided not to talk about anything remotely related to the allegations against Jack—not Celeste, not even Jenny.

And even though Jack prefers Claire's overt anger to her Stepford-wife

acceptance of their plight, he does nothing to break the spell. Instead, he spends the few remaining days before Christmas holed up in the DA's office, where his staff does a better job of pretending to believe in his innocence.

The call is reminiscent of the call Rebecca received four years before, except, because of the holiday, this one has been forwarded to her cell phone. She's in the passenger seat of her boyfriend's pick-up truck on her way to his parents' house in Affton. She'd planned to break up with him by now, but her own parents have gone south for the winter, and she thought spending the holidays with him would be better than spending them alone. It’s not even nine a.m. on Christmas Eve and she already regrets the decision.

She recognizes the voice immediately.

It's warmer, but it's unmistakably the same voice.

"Rebecca, I don't know if you'll remember me, but—"

"I remember you." How could she forget?

The line falls silent; the slight static is the only evidence of someone at the other end. Is she surprised Rebecca

remembered?

Then, "This is confidential, but I'm in St. Louis for a few days, and I'd like to meet with you."

Rebecca's pulse quickens. Four years have passed, but a conflict is a conflict, isn't it?

"Can I ask what the purpose of this meeting would be?"

Her boyfriend grunts and she glances over at him. He's got one arm propped at the top of the steering wheel; a cigarette dangles from his lips. He's losing patience with Rebecca's job as quickly as she's losing patience with him.

"I don't want to say much over the phone. I'd rather meet in person to talk about this."

"I don't think that would be—"

"Please. I have no one else to call."

Does Rebecca imagine it, or does she hear the tightness a voice acquires when its owner tries not to cry? It can't be a coincidence that this call comes on the heel of that teenager's accusations against the DA. She'd have to go behind Lee's back to do it. She did that once for this woman; she can't risk doing it again. It's simply out of the question.

Yet she finds herself asking, "When would you like to meet?" Before she knows it, she has a date to meet Ayanna Patel at the Ritz-Carlton in Clayton on the first Tuesday of the new year. When she suggests that the Ritz might be a bit conspicuous for a confidential meeting, the other woman laughs sadly. "I assure you, no one will ever know it's me."

After another in a long run of restless, sleep-deprived nights, Jack trudges into his office on Christmas Eve morning already wishing it was time for bed. Even before he gets his coat off, Dog knocks on the door frame and enters without invitation, but Jack is too tired to care about his lack of manners.

"Got news for you, Boss," Dog says.

He hands Jack a cup of steaming black coffee before he plops into a chair. He exchanged his baseball cap for a lime green skullcap, and his jeans sit so low on his hips that Jack sees his boxers. He's about to tell Dog to pull up his pants, but decides he doesn't care about his clothes just then, either. Especially after the gift of coffee.

"As long as it's good."

"The hell I know. It's just news."

Dog chomps loudly on his gum and

stares at Jack as if waiting for permission to continue. Except Dog never waits for permission to do anything.

"Am I supposed to read your mind or something?" Jack asks.

"Nah. Just thinking." He squints. "You don't look so hot. A little . . . what's the word? Sallow."

"In case you missed the news, I’ve had a few rough weeks."

"Yeah, they really chasin' your ass, aren't they? You growin' a beard?"

"No, I'm not growing a beard. I simply didn't feel like shaving this morning." He didn’t feel like showering, either, but Dog doesn’t need to know this. "So what's your news?"

"It was a chick."

"
What
was a chick?"

"Your Unabomber. The dude who mailed the letters to your girlfriend."

Jack's exhaustion evaporates, if only for a moment. He leans across his desk, eyes narrowed at Dog, finger pointed.

"Malik?"

Dog raises his hands in surrender. Like a child, he knows he crossed a line if Jack uses his real name, even if he doesn't know which line he crossed. That Jack raised his voice, too—something he rarely does—erases all doubts.

"She's
not
my girlfriend. You got it?

Don't
ever
refer to her that way again. Not to me, not to anyone else. I'll fire your ass so fast you'll—"

"Okay! Jesus! I didn't mean nothin' by it. I'm sorry, man."

Jack leans back, but his glare lingers.

"Start over."

Dog eyes him cautiously.

"Did you hear me? Start over."

"I gotta friend who works at the post office. He took a look at the security tapes from the branch where the letters were mailed. It was a girl. Your letters were mailed by a chick."

"A girl?"

Dog nods. "He says he can only see the back of her, but it's a she."

"That's it? Did he give you a description? And by girl, do you mean a
woman
? Or you really mean a girl, as in
child
?"

"Well, he remarked on her fine ass, so I hope that means she's legal, eh, Boss?" He realizes his mistake even before Jack registers it. "Fuck. Sorry. I didn't mean it like that."

In that instant, Jack decides his life will never be normal again, even if he's acquitted. Unless he leaves town and assumes a new identity, he will forever be surrounded by people who worry about what they say in his presence, who remember what he did, and who

remember what he didn't do but was accused of doing. He decides to ignore both Dog's comment and apology.

"Can he get copies of the tapes for me?

I'd like to take a look myself."

"Not a chance, man. Already broke the rules doin' this favor for me. He said no more without a subpoena."

A subpoena is out of the question.

Anything Jack does must stay under the radar. "Would he talk to me? You know, answer a few questions about what he saw?" He could relay the information to Jenny and see if the woman sounds familiar to her.

"You think you might know her?"

Dog's question abruptly scrambles Jack's thoughts. When they reassemble, his brain sends him a whole new message.

Is it possible Jenny mailed the letters to herself? She had to know the post office cameras would be watching.

"Your friend said she never faced the camera?"

"Never saw her face."

Is she playing him all over again? If so, why?
Why?

"I need to talk to him. Can you set that up?"

"I'll ask him, but he'll ask what's in it for him, risking his ass for a cop."

"I'm a prosecutor, not a cop."

Dog shrugs and inspects his

fingernails. "Same difference to him."

"It's just a conversation. Five minutes."

Dog sighs and rises to leave. "I'll try."

At the door, he turns and asks again, "Do you think you know her?"

"I sure as hell hope not."

Earl shows up unexpectedly after lunch.

From the commotion in the hallway, Jack is aware of his presence long before he reaches the door to his former office.

Most of the attorneys and administrative staff from Earl's tenure still work there, and they clamor to greet him. No one seems to care much that he now

represents the other side.

In any other circumstance, Jack would join them. But the minute they saw him, they’d remember why Earl was there and the gaiety would evaporate. So instead he waits for Earl to come to him.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this unscheduled visit?" he asks when Earl finally enters Jack's office and closes the door behind him.

"I don’t like to deliver bad news over the phone on Christmas Eve."

"Ah, I see." Jack's thoughts churn. Are they revoking his bail? Forcing him into an administrative leave? Do they know about Jenny? Has Celeste manufactured more evidence against him? "Might as well cut to the chase."

"Someone over at the police station has leaked all their evidence to the press.

Everything. They've got the pictures of your arm. They know about the hairs, what she told the cops. It should hit the airwaves at the top of the hour. Even a copy of her journal entry got released.

Merry Christmas. If you thought you were being tried by the press, you're about to feel convicted and hung, too."

"What happened to 'Gunner and his crew are not out to get you'?"

"He had nothing to do with it. He's furious. A witch hunt is taking place over at headquarters as I speak."

"Yeah, that's what he said."

"I've known Gunner for over twenty-five years. I know when he tries to pull one over me. He's as mad about this as I am."

"How do they know the leak comes from the station? Maybe it was Walker."

Earl simply grunts. He doesn't care who did it; he only cares about the ramifications to his client. "How much does Claire know?" he asks.

"What do you mean?"

"How much does she know about the evidence they've collected against you?

Like the hairs. Does she know the tests showed the one in Celeste's bra belonged to you?"

How to explain that he and Claire haven't really talked about the specifics of Celeste's allegations? Even before she went to Sedona, they were in a holding pattern, avoiding any in-depth discussion of Celeste's allegations or what will happen if he's convicted. Jack wants unconditional assurance from Claire that she knows he didn't do it. Claire just wants the whole thing to go away. This news won't put them closer to either goal.

"Am I to assume from your silence the answer is
no
?"

"What about the other hairs?" Jack asks. "Jenny's?" He ignores another grunt from Earl that follows Jenny's name.

"I didn't ask. I didn't want to draw attention to them. He'd wonder why I cared."

Jack nods.

"There’s something else," Earl says.

"Walker called. He’s willing to bargain."

"Tell him to go fuck himself."

"You don’t want to hear it?"

"Sure, but only because I need a good laugh about now."

"Two years in exchange for a plea on the statutory charges, and he’ll drop the rest."

"Like I said, tell him to go fuck himself." When Earl remains quiet, Jack adds, "Oh, come on. You really don’t expect me to consider a plea, do you?"

Jack
will
fire him if he says yes.

"Absolutely not." Earl grins. "I was simply imagining the pleasure I’ll get from telling him to fuck himself."

"Wish I could do it myself," Jack mutters.

"Look, I think you should do yourself a favor and take off early for the holiday.

Call Claire and go home. You need the rest, and I have a feeling this thing will be bigger than anything you've dealt with so far. In the eyes of a reporter, it's no longer an unfounded allegation. Now there's some hard evidence to back it up."

"How much bigger can it be? It went national."

"It went national for a day." He pauses.

"It can get a lot bigger, trust me."

After Earl leaves, Jack forces himself to call Claire. As much as he dreads it, he doesn't want her to find out about the leak from the news. She's learned of too many other things that way.

He's relieved when he gets her

voicemail. He leaves a message with the basics, and then he calls Beverly into his office to explain what's happened and why he's taking off for home.

"Jack," she asks, "have you looked outside? You might want to let everyone leave now."

He spins his chair to face the window; snow falls from the sky with the blinding force of a rainstorm. "When did this start?" In his mind's eye he suddenly sees himself as an inmate in a windowless cell, reliant on the security guards to tell him the weather, and his chest tightens.

"About an hour ago. They're calling for a foot, at least. Looks like we'll have a white Christmas this year."

An hour ago? How could he not have noticed?

"Jack? What do you want me to do?"

He should take Jamie sledding.

Michael, too, if he'll come. He should take them both sledding while he still can.