Sawyer, Meryl (20 page)

"How was Brent with Caroline?" Paul asked.

"He loved her like a sister. He was always kind to her.
Eleanor dotes on her like Caroline is her daughter. Even Ward, who finds fault
with everyone, loves her. He spends as much time—or more—with her than Eleanor
does."

"Did you ever have any reason to think any of them used drugs?"

"No. Never."

"Have you ever used drugs?" asked the doctor.

"Once I tried marijuana in college. That's all."

"Did you know there was cocaine in your house?"

"Absolutely not."

"Have you ever met a woman named Linda Allen?"

"Never." She'd heard the name today for the first time
when Mitch asked if she knew the informant.

"Did you take the jewels?"

"No, I did not. I never touched them."

"Let's talk about Brent Farenholt," Mitch said.

Let's not, she thought. Somehow, she'd stupidly harbored a flicker
of hope that he'd contact her. But when time passed and he hadn't even bothered
to call and see how she was doing, hurt became anger. Most of it directed at
herself. Why hadn't she seen this side of Brent?

"How did you meet?" Mitch asked and she told him. "Did
Talia give you any reason to think you dating Brent upset her?"

"No, but I always felt a little guilty about it. She'd
flipped for him, then he suddenly lost interest. I would never have gone out
with him, but Talia insisted."

"What did you see in Brent Farenholt?" Mitch asked.

Royce hesitated, not wanting Mitch to ask these questions. Her
feelings were raw; Brent had let her down when she'd needed him the most. How
could she explain loving him? "Brent's fun. He makes a woman feel... well,
you know, like a queen. He's thoughtful. He's—" She stopped herself from
saying: loyal.

"When did he tell you he loved you?"

She wasn't comfortable having Mitch ask her these questions. Did
her anxiety show on the monitors? "The third date."

"When did you tell him you loved him?"

Really, what did this have to do with her case? "I told him
the night of our three-month anniversary."

She could have predicted Mitch's next question. "When did you
go to bed with him?"

"The night I told him I loved him." So there. He
probably thought she was lying, but one look at the monitor would verify her
words.

"Do you?"

"Do I what, Mitch?" She could barely see him out of the
corner of her eye. But she could feel his implacable determination filling the
room. What did he want from her?

"Do you love him?"

Did she love Brent? Part of her did despite the way he'd
humiliated her. It was crazy; she could passionately kiss Mitch, but there was
that side of her that wanted the security, the feeling of being cherished,
Brent had once given her.

"Yes. I loved him. I wanted to be his wife and have his
children."

There was an uncomfortably long pause. She saw Mitch studying his
notes. The silence lengthened until the doctor finally asked, "Why did you
put up with the way the Farenholts treated you?"

"Lots of wives don't like their in-laws. Mother barely
tolerated Daddy's parents. Despite it their relationship worked perfectly. But
as time went on, I realized it wasn't going to be the same for me. On the night
of the auction I called off our engagement until we could work out the
situation."

Mitch looked up but didn't say anything. She went ahead and told
them what Eleanor had done to Wally. When she finished no one commented; she
sensed they were waiting for Mitch.

Finally, Paul spoke up. "Eleanor Farenholt controls the money
in that family. If she wanted to get rid of you, why didn't she cut off Brent?
It would have been easier."

"True. But she loves Brent. Ward's such a cold man that I
think she's actually closer to her son than her husband. That's why she was so
sneaky. She wanted to get rid of me without alienating Brent."

"What drugs has Talia taken?" Paul asked.

"She's a recovering alcoholic, but I'm sure she's
experimented with many drugs over the years."

"What about Valerie Thompson?" Paul sounded intense.

"She barely drinks wine. Drugs—never."

Another silence, broken only by the hum of the laser monitors.
Mitch hadn't said one word since she'd admitted she loved Brent. What did he
expect? She would never have married a man she didn't love. Right now Mitch was
staring out the window. She doubted he was even listening.

"Did you know Wally loaned Shaun Jamieson money?" Paul
asked.

"No, but I'm not surprised."

What did this have to do with the case?

Paul asked, "Mitch, anything else?"

"Nope." He was still looking out the window.

"I have a question I'd like to ask for my research
work," the doctor said. "What do you find the
most
difficult
thing about this ordeal?"

Before any of this happened, she would have said working with
Mitch, or she might have said the threat of a prison term ruining her life was
the worst. Having her reputation—and career—destroyed would have ranked right
up there too.

She tried to ignore the irritating laser beam, thinking back to
happier times. Hours spent with her uncle putting together puzzles as a child.
Her first date—she'd doubled with Talia. They'd spend all day trying on
outfits, experimenting with makeup. Learning to bake bread with Val, then
eating the loaf hot from Mama's oven. The night Brent had told her he loved
her.

Wonderful memories. Memories of a happy life surrounded by
friends, loved ones. Above all, laughter. She'd been happy. Yes, she'd suffered
tragedy, losing both parents. But she'd still been able to count on her uncle,
her friends. Brent.

She'd had everything that was truly important in life, but hadn't
realized it until this moment. Why did someone hate her enough to take away
what she valued most—her friends and family?

Sonofabitch! Royce actually loved that cocky little prick, Brent
Farenholt. Mitch wanted to wring her neck; she was riding beside him on the way
back to his office. He was close enough to do it. Put your hands around that
soft throat and squeeze. Until she changed her mind about Brent.

Women! Trust me, you never know what they're thinking. He glanced
at the rearview mirror as he changed lanes. The scar below his eye was
highlighted in the mirror. For damn sure you couldn't trust women. You never
knew when they'd turn on you.

"Mitch, you're not listening." Paul tapped him on the
shoulder. "I asked who do you think wants Royce in prison?"

"Brent," he said, just to piss off Royce. Actually, he
thought it more likely Ward Farenholt was trying to frame Royce.

"That's ridiculous," Royce snapped. "Why would
Brent do this to me? All he had to do was tell me he didn't love me and he'd be
rid of me."

"True," Paul agreed. "And I've checked all the
Farenholt bank accounts looking for a cash withdrawal that matched the value of
the coke planted at Royce's. Brent's living on a shoestring. His mother pays
most of his charge accounts."

"Figures. A mama's boy." He stole a peek at Royce, but
she was staring straight ahead, her jaw clamped shut.

"Royce," Paul said, "we're not ruling out anyone
who was near those jewels and near your table, regardless of whether or not
they have a motive."

"Assuming one person is responsible for both crimes,"
Royce said, and Mitch gave her credit for zeroing in on the problem.

"Mitch and I discussed it," Paul responded. "This
whole thing was too well timed to be two separate incidents, but it could be
two people working together. Remember, there's no perfect crime. There's a key
somewhere—usually in the records. Phone records, charge receipts, bank
accounts."

Paul let the two of them stew in angry silence for the rest of the
ride. I'll be damned, he thought. Val might be right. Mitch cared a lot more
about Royce than Paul had suspected. He'd been livid since she'd said she loved
Brent, so angry he couldn't conceal his fury, which wasn't like Mitch.

For years he'd thought Mitch was like an iceberg, two-thirds
hidden beneath the surface. Paul suspected Mitch suffered from a deep
psychological wound that he kept hidden beneath a veneer of cynicism. Somehow
Royce had exposed a chink in his emotional shield.

Inside the building Paul went up to his office, promising to join
Royce and Mitch in a few minutes. Paul rifled through his messages, stopping
when he saw Val had called. She was on the late shift again tonight, checking
out stale buns in Oakland. She'd been hired yesterday in the computer
department, but she wouldn't begin for two weeks.

He closed the door to his office, wishing he could see Val tonight
instead of having to wait until tomorrow. She'd been on his mind constantly
these last two days. Mitch would have a coronary when he found out Paul had
hired a suspect, but he didn't give a damn.

"It's Paul," he said when Val answered. Just hearing her
voice sent a ripple of heat through him.

"Guess what?" She sounded breathless, excited.
"When I gave notice, the old geezer fired me on the spot. So I called the computer
department and they said to report on Monday. Isn't that great?"

Not really. He'd planned on giving their relationship two weeks
before he told her who he was. "Fantastic."

"That means"—her voice was low now, intimate—"I don't
have to work tonight. I'll make you dinner."

"Let me take you out." He hated her spending money she
didn't have when he could well afford to take her out to the best place in
town. "Let's celebrate."

"No. I want to make you dinner. You were so sweet to suggest
I apply for that job. I want to show you how grateful I am."

If she were any more grateful than she'd been the other night, he
might not live to tell about it. He'd taken her home and they'd spent the night
in each other's arms.

Thinking about Val, Paul battled an erection as he went downstairs
into Mitch's office. The frigid air hanging over Royce and Mitch like a subzero
shroud took care of Paul's problem.

"How long will I have to stay in hiding?" Royce was
asking.

Mitch rocked back in his chair and gazed out the window at the Bay
Bridge. "I'll tell you when you can leave."

Mitch could be a real hard-ass sometimes, Paul thought,
particularly when you crossed him. "Tobias Ingeblatt is hovering
around," Paul told her. "If he gets a picture of you, he'll make up
his own story. Until the preliminary hearing late next week you're a POP—a
prisoner of the press."

Mitch swung his chair around and stared hard at Royce. Paul
perched himself on the edge of Mitch's huge mahogany desk, waiting for the bomb
to drop. "We've got to fix your image."

Royce bristled at Mitch's tone, but controlled her voice.
"What is wrong with my image?"

"Your hair always looks like you've just been laid."
Mitch turned to Paul. "Get the image consultant we use to change it."

Royce's jaw snapped shut as if spring loaded.

"Find her a conservative navy suit." Mitch went on.
"All she owns are outfits that would give the Pope an erection."

Paul wondered if Mitch knew he'd just admitted how incredibly sexy
he found Royce. She didn't have a clue, for sure. She seared Mitch with a
glance that could have fried bacon.

Mitch pointed at Royce. "Lose ten pounds—at least— before the
trial."

"What?" She vaulted out of her chair. "I'm size
eight."

An incredibly sexy size eight, Paul decided, not beautiful like
Val, but very sexy, the kind of figure too full for a model, but every man's
wet dream. Obviously, Mitch's.

"Royce"—Paul used his soothing tone—"weight is
tricky. Statistics show more fat people are convicted than thin. I don't know
why, but the public equates being fat with some moral shortcoming. Overweight
people are seldom elected as jury foremen unless they have superior credentials
like being a doctor or a scientist. We're dealing with psychology here, and we
want you to have the edge."

She dropped into her chair, only slightly subdued. Mitch looked
like he'd been chewing tin foil. If Paul lit a match the room would explode.
This was getting mighty interesting.

Royce's eyes narrowed. "I want to see my friends."

"No way," Mitch shot back. "Just your uncle."

"I have an idea." Paul ignored Mitch's warning glance.
"There's no phone in that apartment. I'll lend her one of my portables.
She can keep it in her purse. That way no one can trace the calls and find out
where she is. She can call her friends all she wants."