Let Darkness Come (11 page)

Briley watches over the librarian's shoulder as he enters search words in the LexisNexis database. An instant later the monitor fills with case digests and a law review article analyzing the “sleepwalking defense.”

William looks up at her. “You want this printed or e-mailed?”

“Was the defendant acquitted?”

“Guilty of murder in the first-degree. The jury couldn't get past the fact that he stopped to put on gloves. Sleepwalkers aren't supposed to engage in complex actions.”

“E-mail it to me, please.” Briley taps her chin as the document disappears. If Erin Tomassi has a history of parasomnia, Briley might be able to convince a jury that a woman could fill a syringe and inject her husband in the middle of a deep sleep. A dutiful wife might even commit such a subconscious act in an effort to be helpful. Though the actions are slightly complex, Erin has undoubtedly witnessed her husband doing the same thing hundreds of times. Furthermore, like a guileless sleepwalker, she made no effort to disguise her crime—she didn't hide the syringe, wipe her fingerprints off the bottle, or flee the scene.

Sleepwalking might be a workable defense.

“My client says she took Ambien,” she says. “Anything on that?”

William chuckles. “You've hit the mother lode. Ambien has been used as a defense ever since Patrick Kennedy crashed his car into a security barricade near the U.S.
Capitol. He blamed it on a mixture of Ambien and some other drug.”

“Remind me.” Briley slides into the chair next to the librarian. “I'm fuzzy on the details.”

He taps on the keyboard, then points to the computer monitor. “Right here. The congressman attributed his car crash—and his insistence that he was rushing to a vote at 2:45 a.m.—to a combination of Ambien and Phenergan.”

He grips the mouse and clicks through a series of articles. “Ambien has been blamed for everything from sleepers' driving, eating, cooking, and having auto accidents, but most investigations reveal that the patient didn't take the drug properly. The label clearly says Ambien shouldn't be mixed with other medications, and shouldn't be taken unless the patient has set aside at least seven hours for sleep.”

“My patient didn't mix medications,” Briley says, thinking aloud. “And she didn't take it until she was ready for bed. So one could argue that the parasomnia was an involuntary reaction.”

William leans back and uses one finger to smooth his mustache. “Did she do anything between taking the pills and going to sleep?”

“Besides examining the bruises the husband inflicted on her rib cage? I don't think so.”

The line of William's mouth tightens. “I meant, did she do anything to set up the crime? To prepare for it?”

“I'm sure she didn't.” Briley studies the last screen again, then nudges his shoulder. “Can I have a copy of that article, too?”

“Sure. Say…” He turns, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “You wouldn't happen to be working on the Tomassi case, would you?”

“Did Franklin send a memo around?”

“I guessed. The Tomassi family has been a client of this firm for years, so I expected one of our attorneys to defend
the wife.” The corner of his mouth twists as he looks back at the screen. “I didn't think it'd be you.”

“Trust me, I was as surprised as you are.”

“Who did they assign as cocounsel? Who's your research assistant?”

Briley stares at him. So, she isn't the only one to be surprised by Franklin's stinginess with the firm's resources. “They gave me squat,” she says. “And the client's estate is frozen. I'm going to petition the court for funds to hire a private investigator and a forensic psychologist.”

“Count me in.” William gives her a broad smile. “I've been a fan of the Tomassis for years. I'd like to help.”

Briley studies him. “Were you a fan of the husband or the wife? Because if it's the husband—”

“I don't like politicians. Blue-eyed angels, though, are right up my alley.”

She stiffens. “Are you planning to help me or hit on my client?”

William drops his jaw. “I'm shocked, Counselor, to hear you suggest such a thing. You can trust me to be a complete professional during the trial. But after you get the widow acquitted, I might drop her a note to see how she's doing.” He shakes his head when a photo of Erin Tomassi appears on the computer screen. “She is drop-dead gorgeous, no pun intended.”

Briley pushes away from the table, a little disconcerted to think of the sweater-vested librarian fixating on her client. “I'll take you up on that offer to help. I could use a fresh pair of eyes.” She stands and picks up her legal pad. “Let me know if you think of a surefire way to convince a jury that our blue-eyed angel's not a cold-blooded killer.”

“H
old on a minute, will you?” Dr. Pamela Lu, one of several doctors Briley is consulting for her case, turns away from the phone. Briley is afraid the psychologist is pausing to laugh out loud, but the woman coughs instead. “Sorry…tickle in my throat,” she says, coming back on the line. “So, your client says an alter killed her husband?”

Briley swivels her chair toward the window. “Is that what you'd call Lisa Marie? Erin refers to her as an invisible friend.”

“Alter, invisible friend, different names for the same thing—a phantom.” The doctor's voice is low and raspy, probably the result of a cold or too many cigarettes. “Has she ever been treated for DID?”

“And that is—?”

“Dissociative identity disorder. What we used to refer to as multiple personalities.”

“I don't think so.”

“Any mental problems at all?”

“None I know of, but I'm only beginning my investigation. I have learned one thing—she was a battered wife. I've seen the bruises.”

“Any chance they were self-inflicted?”

Briley blinks, stunned by the question. “I don't think so. She's not a happy woman, but I don't think she's self-destructive.”

“Hmm. So what's your overall impression of this woman?”

Briley considers the question. “I don't think she is mentally unbalanced—she seems quite poised when you
first meet her. But when she began to tell me about her invisible friend, I figured she was either mentally ill or trying to be clever. That's why I need you to sort things out.”

The doctor coughs again, then clears her throat. “She's at Cook County Jail?”

“Right. Can you fit her in this week? I know we're coming up to the holidays—”

“I'll make room for a session on Friday, but you'll have to get me clearance to see her. This trial's going to be in the spotlight, isn't it?”

Briley closes her eyes. “I'm afraid so.”

“That's fine. I'll refrain from any public comments until after the trial concludes. Any idea what sort of defense you'll be using?”

“I'm not forming an opinion until after I read your report. I'm considering diminished capacity. She did take a double dose of Ambien on the night of the murder.”

“Any way to prove that?”

“Unfortunately, no. No one did a blood test at the scene.”

“Bad break for you—or maybe not, depending on whether or not she's telling you the truth.” The psychologist rustles a few pages, then clears her throat again. “All right, Ms. Lester, I'll examine your client and prepare a full report. You should receive it sometime after the holidays.”

“And you'll be available to testify? Right now, we have a trial date of March 16. I'm thinking the trial will take at least a week.”

“I'll put it on my calendar. I assume you have a list of my usual fees.”

“I do. Thank you.”

“Oh—Ms. Lester?”

“Yes?”

“Find out what you can about your client's childhood. Interview the parents, if possible.”

“Won't you ask Erin about her history?”

“Of course, but we're on a tight schedule. If you can get
me background facts, I'll be better able to sort out any fabrications I might hear. Together, we'll figure out what's actually going on in your client's head.”

Briley agrees, then disconnects the call and leans back in her chair. The sounds of laughter and merrymaking spill through her open door, evidence of the Christmas party under way in the office kitchen. She ought to be in there with the others, munching on holiday cookies and downing cups of eggnog. If she weren't working on this case, she would be trading quips with Jim Myers and counting the minutes until she could go home to prepare dinner for Timothy.

But she's trapped behind her computer, her skirt wrinkled and her shoes hiding somewhere beneath the desk. She could leave anytime, but she has reams of paper to peruse and dozens of options to consider. This case she can't slough off.

She props her head on her hand and studies the book on her desk:
The Illinois Criminal Code of 1961
. She'd give her right arm if she could employ something other than a psychological defense. If she claims temporary insanity or diminished capacity, she'll be admitting that her client committed the crime. But with no other suspects and Erin's fingerprints on the syringe, what else can she do?

 

The phone on the kitchen counter is ringing when Briley steps through the doorway at six-thirty. She drops her purse on the table and runs forward. “Hello?”

“Hey, beautiful. I figured you'd be home.”

“Just walked into the house.” Smiling, she settles the phone between her ear and shoulder while she pulls out a bar stool. “So…are you able to come over tonight? I rented that Lars von Trier film you wanted to see.”

She knows what Timothy's answer will be the moment she hears him sigh. “I'm sorry, babe, but I can't. Dax has been having a bad day. He got some awful news this afternoon, and he's going to be alone tonight. Which means I really shouldn't leave him.”

Briley knows she ought to feel sympathetic; she ought to ask about Dax's awful news. But she's spent the entire day talking to librarians and psychologists and court clerks, so all she wants to do is crawl through the telephone line and strangle a certain spoiled British actor.

“Gee,” she says, her voice bitter in her own ears, “considering how you put your client's needs above mine, one might think you are romantically involved with Dax Lightner.”

“That's not fair, Bri. You know what my job involves.”

“I know you have trouble drawing boundary lines. You're supposed to be on call for emergency situations, but you're babysitting this guy twenty-four hours a day.”

“Sometimes that's what it takes. An addict never knows when he's going to be tempted.”

“Then leave him at home and come over tonight. Dax can call you if he has a problem. Who knows? He might learn that he can stand on his own two feet.”

“I can't leave him alone, but I might be able to come…if you wouldn't mind me bringing him along.”

Briley gapes in astonished silence. Dax Lightner, movie star, hanging out at her house? Some women would sell their firstborn children for the opportunity, but she can't think of anything less appealing.

Still, if she wants to see Timothy…

She blows out her cheeks in surrender. “Okay, bring him. But don't bring the entourage. I was looking forward to a quiet evening.”

“Are you cooking?”

“I'll feed you both, so don't worry. Can you make it by seven-thirty?”

“I'll—We'll be there. Thanks, Bri, for understanding.”

She clicks the phone off and drums her fingernails on the counter. Timothy is a uniquely gifted man, but he can't seem to prevent people from taking advantage of him. He's like her father in that way, which is probably why she was attracted to him in the first place. But she can't marry a man
like her father, so Timothy is either going to have to change or she's going to strangle him, which means she'll end up being interviewed in jail by Dr. Pamela Lu while some inexperienced bozo from the firm defends her….

No, thank you. She's not going to murder anyone; she's not going to jail. But Timothy is going to learn how to set boundaries.

 

“Hi, sweetheart.” Timothy steps over the threshold and plants a quick kiss on Briley's cheek. She smiles as he enters the house, but her smile fades when a bearded stranger in a ball cap and sunglasses grips her shoulders and swoops in for an air kiss.

“Hello, luv.” His stubble scrapes her cheek.

“Hello, Dax,” she answers, her voice flat. She allows him to pass, then checks the sidewalk to be sure no paparazzi are hiding in the shrubbery.

“Something smells great,” Timothy calls, heading toward the kitchen. “I hope you didn't put yourself out for us.”

“No problem.” She closes and locks the front door. “This dish is easy.”

Her dinner—a tossed salad and a cranberry chicken entrée—waits in the middle of the kitchen table, with three plates set on three place mats. She watches, disbelieving, as Dax takes the middle seat. Does the man always expect to be the center of attention?

If the movie star's choice bothers Timothy, he gives no sign of it. He slides into a chair and sniffs at the chicken. “Smells delicious, Bri. I hate that you went to so much trouble.”

She moves to the cupboard for glasses. “I didn't mind.” Not for him, at least.

Dax plucks a cherry tomato from the salad bowl and pops it into his mouth. “So.” He grins at her as he chews. “Timothy tells me you're a lawyer. Any juicy cases lately?”

She forces a smile as she fills three glasses with ice. “I don't like to bring my work home with me.”

“My girl's not a gossip,” Timothy says. “And she doesn't read the tabloids.”

“Then maybe she'll like me.” Dax laughs, looking to Briley for approval of his joke. “I'm glad you don't read that trash.”

Now she can die happy. Briley sets a glass in front of Timothy. “What would you like to drink? Tea? Soda?”

“I'll grab a diet soda from the pantry. Dax will have the same.”

“Right,” Dax says, his British accent much softer than in the movies. “Nothing alcoholic for me—our Tim's a stickler about such things. When I'm around him, I have to be letter perfect in my sobriety.”

“That's why you hired me.” Timothy hands him a diet soda. “You wanted someone who would be tough.”

“Yeah, but even a tough guy can have a moment of weakness.” Dax winks at Briley. “Isn't that right, Bri?”

“It's Briley,” she corrects him. “And Timothy's right—if you hired him to do a job, you should be glad he's conscientious about it.”

“I'm glad, all right. If not for my conscientious sober companion, I'd probably be sitting in a bar, drowning my sorrows and on my way back to rehab.”

Briley pulls two bottles of salad dressing from the refrigerator and sets them on the table, then looks around. Silverware, napkins, dressing, and drinks—has she forgotten anything?

“You're going to be fine,” Timothy tells Dax, his voice calm as he pours diet soda into his glass. “You just might have to find a few new friends.”

Dax turns wide eyes on him. “I like you a lot, Tim, but I don't think I can settle into your idea of a social life. People expect to see me out and about with starlets on my arm, not—” he waves his drink toward Briley “—eating home-cooked dinners with bookish lady lawyers.”

Briley freezes behind her chair. She's reasonably sure she should be offended, but how is she supposed to react?

“Now I've done it.” With a wince of phony remorse, Dax pats her hand. “Didn't mean anything by that, luv. I'm sure you're a good solicitor and a marvelous cook.”

Briley sinks into her chair, picks up the serving fork, and stabs the entrée. “Timothy, would you please pass me your plate?”

He gives her an apologetic look, then offers her his plate. She drops a chicken breast onto it, then drops another onto Dax's plate. The movie star stares at the cranberry-glazed meat, then picks up his knife and gives it a tentative poke. Finally, he looks at her. “I'm sorry, but I don't usually eat this sort of thing. Do you have any sprouts?”

Briley forces a smile. “Are you vegetarian?”

“No. But the things I'm usually served are…leafier, I suppose. And the meat is chopped into little bits.”

“Then why don't I teach you?” Briley lifts her knife and fork. “This is a knife.” She brandishes the blade before Dax's startled gaze. “You use it to slice the meat. You use the fork to lift the meat to your mouth. It's actually a simple procedure.”

Across the table, Timothy muffles a laugh.

“Sorry.” Dax picks up his own silverware. “Didn't mean to offend.”

As Dax dutifully cuts his meat, Briley eats in silence, resenting the fiasco her dinner is becoming. She and Timothy should be sharing confidential details about their day. She is dying to tell him about her frustrations with Franklin, and she wants to hear about his trials as a celebrity chaperone. She doesn't want to experience those trials firsthand.

She is about to stand and serve dessert when the doorbell rings. She glances at Timothy. “Are we expecting anyone?”

He shakes his head. “I'm not.”

“That'd be the girls.” Dax swipes at his mouth with his napkin and pushes away from the table. “I gave them the address in case they wanted to drop by.”

Briley watches in amazed horror as the star strides to the
front door, flips the dead bolt, and throws the door open. Two young women stand on the porch, a blonde and a brunette, both of them looking as though they have been spray painted with iridescent spandex. They greet Dax with squeals and kisses, then the blonde pulls a bottle of champagne from her bag.