Sawyer, Meryl (5 page)

Jason gazed out the window, seeing the bright lights, not the walk
on the wild side—the living hell. "You're on," he said as Mitch
wheeled to the curb.

"I'll pick you up right here," Mitch yelled to Jason's
back, "in two hours." He let the kid saunter into the crowd before he
picked up the car phone and dialed. "Paul? You got him?"

"Yo, Mitch, relax." Paul Talbott's mellow voice seemed
to fill the car. "We've got a tail on him."

"Great. Now, scare the shit out of him. And while you're at
it, snatch his jacket." Mitch hung up and gunned the engine, bullying his
way into the heavy traffic. He raised his fist and flipped off a curbside
pharmacologist, barely dodging the pimp trying to flag him down by banging on
the Viper's hood.

While he drove to his office, he thought about Royce Winston. Son
of a bitch. He'd gotten to her. Big time. He chuckled, a low gruff sound that
reflected his deep sense of satisfaction. At least on one level nothing had
changed between them. Over five years. He hadn't been sure.

Memories could deceive. Lure you. Then betray you. He knew that
better than anyone. It had almost gotten him killed.

But this time, unlike the first, he'd been dead-on. Royce Anne
Winston could wish him in hell. Still, deep down inside, in that secret window
into the soul, an ember of the past remained, more easily fanned to life than
he'd expected. Helluva lot of good it would do him, since she was set to marry
that wuss.

So, now what? he wondered after he'd parked his car and was
unlocking his office. Damned if he knew. But he'd think of something. He always
did. Too bad the noise that ended the kiss hadn't been Brent Farenholt.
Goddamn, he would have passed on a Supreme Court appointment just to see the
look on Farenholt's face if he'd found Royce in his arms.

Brent—the cocky little prick. An intellectual brain trust, he
wasn't. He was incapable of an original thought. Proof positive money couldn't
buy everything. Too bad he didn't know a woman in love didn't kiss another man
with such passion. Especially a man she claimed to hate.

The telephone on Mitch's desk rang before he even sat down.

It was Paul. "The kid's on the corner, waiting for you—
already. We've got his jacket. Do you want it?"

"Hell, no. Give it to the first homeless man it'll fit."

"Mitch, it's brand new."

"Screw it. The only lesson Jason will remember is one that
hurts."

Mitch let the full two hours expire before even heading down to
his car. It was a cold night, typical of early May. Moist fog coiled in from
the bay. He heard muffled noises coming from the rear of the subterranean
parking structure. A group of homeless men had moved in to avoid the cold. Lost
souls, he thought, living in the shadows.

They'd probably found the money and the packets of ketchup from
McDonald's that he'd left for them. He caught a whiff of tomato soup they'd
brewed from the ketchup by adding hot water. He almost gagged. To this day he
couldn't stomach tomato soup.

As he drove up Jason sprang off the curb and yanked open the door.
The kid was trembling, his face leached of color.

"Hey, how'd you like it?" Mitch asked, grinning.

"S'okay," Jason said, the threat of tears in his voice.

"You left your jacket somewhere."

"They ripped it off."

"Why'd you let them take it?"

"Let
them?" Jason cried, swiping at
tears with the back of his hand. "A gang of Viets dragged me down an
alley."

"Jeezus!" Mitch said, genuine sympathy in his voice now.
Yessirree, Paul had outdone himself. Of all the gangs operating in the
city—blacks, Chicanos, Koreans, even the Japanese
yakuza
—the Vietnamese
were the most deadly. What they'd learned in the jungles of Nam, they'd
perfected in the city.

"I guess it's rougher out there than you thought."

Grim faced, Jason nodded. "A man grabbed me"—his eyes
shot down to his crotch—"I slugged him."

"Good for you." Mitch tossed him fifty dollars.
"Here, you've earned it. One dead president—Ulysses S. Grant."

"My jacket," Jason muttered, pocketing the bill.
"What am I going to tell my mother?"

"That's your problem."

"Wally." Royce kissed her uncle's cheek, then gazed
around the Plexiglas cubbyhole that was his office at the
San Francisco
Examiner.

The computer terminal was on and running the international UPI
feed. The desk was cluttered with printouts and empty Styrofoam cups partially
filled with coffee. The only thing on the stucco wall was the picture of Wally
accepting the Pulitzer prize.

He returned her affectionate hug, his green eyes the mirror image
of her own. Sixtyish, but trim, with a full head of brindled hair, Wallace
Winston was the city's most respected investigative reporter.

"I wasn't expecting to see you before the auction this
Saturday night. Did you miss your deadline?"

"No. I'm not here to turn in my column." She sat in the
chair beside his desk and explained that the topic of her trial run on television
had been changed.

"That's too bad. I know how much the Center for Women in
Crisis means to you. That's why I'm going to the auction Saturday night, even
though I hate getting trussed up in a monkey suit."

Royce smiled. Uncle Wally would never be a substitute for her
father, but he was the next best thing and always had been. Since her father's
death they'd become closer, even though she'd spent the last five years with
relatives in Italy, unable to face living in San Francisco after her father's death.

She and Wally had written constantly and had spoken on the
telephone each week. Now that she was home again, they saw each other more than
ever before.

"So, I guess you need some info on the homeless." Wally
tapped on his computer to bring up his research files.

"Actually"—she hesitated, knowing her father's death had
been every bit as painful for him as it had for her—"I want to know what
you have on Mitchell Durant."

He swung around and faced her. "What the hell for?"

"Apparently, Mitch has a plan for the homeless. Arnold
Dillingham insisted I interview him."

"Just how important is this program to you?"

"I'd like to branch out from writing a humorous column. I'd
like to try more serious issues the way Daddy did. But I'm afraid people think
I'm an intellectual lightweight."

"Don't let your father's success bother you. You can be
anything you want to be." He patted her shoulder. "But I don't like
the idea of you interviewing that bastard Durant."

"Neither do I, but what can I do? Anyway, Mitch has limited
my questions to the homeless. Nothing about his life —at all."

"Not surprising. Durant never gives interviews."

"Doesn't that strike you as strange?"

"No. It's savvy. The more mysterious you are, the more the
press pursues you. That'll work to your advantage on the show. There'll be lots
of people who'll tune in just to hear Mitch."

"May I look at your file on him?"

"Don't ask for trouble, Royce. A reporter's word has to be
reliable. When you're told something is off the record, you must honor that
request."

"I plan to stay within the guidelines. No questions not
related to the homeless, but I might be able to come up with something if I
look into his background."

"I don't see how. Every reporter in the state sifted through
the records during his last murder trial when Durant captured the headlines for
weeks. Nothing. He enlisted in the Navy when he was eighteen and got his high
school degree by passing an equivalency test while he was enlisted."

Royce took out her notepad. "Where did he grow up?"

"Who knows? His birth certificate says he was born in Pugwash
Junction, Arkansas. The few shacks that were there were demolished years ago by
the Interstate. Checking the neighboring farms, no one found anybody who knew a
Mitchell Durant."

"Doesn't that seem unusual?"

"Not really. I know the South pretty well from the civil
rights coverage I did in the sixties. I'm going back there soon to do an
environmental piece on chicken farming. I'm hoping to retire on top," he
confessed, "with another Pulitzer. This could be it."

He shrugged as if it wasn't all that important, but she knew
better. The young Turks were baying at his heels. He wasn't getting the choice
assignments he once had. And it had been years since his last Pulitzer.

"Anyway, the South is riddled with small towns and itinerant
farmers. The fact that Durant didn't have a high school degree when he enlisted
in the Navy tells me that he never stayed in one place long enough. It couldn't
have been his brains. He sailed through college even though he worked full
time. He was top of his class at Stanford Law School."

"Did you discover anything about the scars on his
cheek?" She didn't mention the third, which she knew was concealed by his
thick hair.

"No, but he was honorably discharged from the Navy before his
term was up. They discovered he's deaf in one ear. Apparently they'd missed it
when he enlisted."

"Really? That must be why he cocks his head just slightly to
one side. He's favoring his good ear."

Deaf in one ear.
A pang of sympathy so deep,
she couldn't pinpoint its source surged through her. When she'd first met
Mitch, she'd noticed this mannerism and assumed he was just listening
attentively to her. She tamped down the ache of sympathy, reminding herself
Mitchell Durant wasn't worthy of it. Undoubtedly his pride wouldn't welcome
pity —especially hers.

Wally pressed a few keys and information filled the computer
screen. "Here's what I have on Durant, including all the cases he's
handled. You look. I have to prep for an editorial meeting."

Royce changed chairs with her uncle. She quickly reviewed the
cases in Wally's file. "It appears defending insurance companies keeps
Mitch's cash cow in clover."

Wally peered at her over the top of the report he was reading.
"He works with Paul Talbott, a private investigator who specializes in
insurance fraud."

She scanned the files again, more closely this time.
"Strange. Mitch has represented a few defendants accused of taking drugs,
but no drug lords. I thought they were bread and butter for many criminal
attorneys."

"The drug kingpins usually keep the best attorneys on
retainer, but Durant has steered clear of them."

"His record's clean. Too clean." She thought a moment,
an idea forming. "He's prepping for a political career."

"He's been mentioned frequently for the district attorney's
post, which will be vacant next year, but he denies he's interested in
politics. Still, I suspect you're right. He's grooming himself for politics,
keeping himself lily-white."

"Doesn't surprise me. We both know how ambitious Mitch
is." She hesitated, then asked, "What about his personal life?"

"He and Abigail Carnivali were an item for a while, but they
split up about a year ago. She's the assistant DA. They don't call her Abigail
Carnivorous for nothing. She's set to run for DA when the old goat retires next
year."

Royce remembered Abigail: tall, jet-black hair and eyes. She'd sat
next to Mitch while he'd crucified Royce's father. She was every bit as
ambitious as Mitch. A perfect match. What happened between them? she wondered.

"Of course," Wally continued, "if Mitch ran for DA,
he'd beat Carnivorous in a second."

"Nothing else on his personal life?" she asked, telling
herself she could care less about his love affairs.

"He's a true lone wolf. His only friend is that private
investigator, Paul Talbott. It's anybody's guess how Mitch spends his free
time. Other than his work with Catholic Big Brothers, he's kept the lowest
profile imaginable. Until now."

"I think he's moving into the political arena."

"We'll find out soon enough, I'm afraid." Wally glanced
at the clock. "I'm late for the meeting. Good luck tomorrow night. I'll be
watching the TV, rooting for you. Don't let Mitch hog the camera. I want to see
my girl get that job."

"I won't let him get the best of me," she promised,
thinking he hadn't mentioned Brent. Uncle Wally certainly wasn't happy she was
marrying a Farenholt, but he loved her enough to let her make her own
decisions.

Royce spend the next three hours studying the cases Mitchell Durant
had taken since going into private practice. "There has to be a way to pay
him back for what he did to Daddy," she whispered to the computer.

It took her another hour, but finally she discovered what she was
looking for. No doubt about it, Mitch was grooming himself for a political
career. Obviously, he didn't want to announce his intentions—yet.

Well, she'd fix him. She couldn't ruin his political aspirations,
but she could expose them. Long before he wanted anyone to know.