Sawyer, Meryl (51 page)

Paul put a steadying hand on her shoulder. "Under the
circumstances the promise is already broken, isn't it?"

Royce slowly nodded, looking confused and frustrated.

"If you beat the other papers with this story, you have a
chance—just a chance—of clearing Mitch's name. Reputable papers will have to
send reporters south to verify the facts. That'll take time. Meanwhile, you
know people. Rumors will grow like a malignant cancer and the true story will
get lost in the bullshit."

"I can't do the story justice, but Wally can," she said
in a suffocated whisper, her anguish clearly written on her face.

"I never told Tobias Ingeblatt anything." Wally paced
the small cubicle that was his office at the
Examiner.
He raked one hand
through his hair. "Why would he say such a thing? Believe me, I'm getting
to the bottom of this or it'll destroy my reputation."

"I knew you'd never sell information to that jerk. I think he
overheard our phone conversation using a scanner," she answered, but she
found it hard to concentrate on Wally's reputation when the damage to Mitch's
was so much worse.

"What did Mitch say about this?" Wally asked.

"He was furious with me." She slumped back in the chair
and stared at the computer terminal on her uncle's desk. "I doubt if he'll
ever speak to me again."

Wally stopped pacing. "He blamed you when I was the one who
did the investigating?"

"I knew about it. I should have stopped you." She closed
her eyes a moment, not believing that her life, which had seemed so wonderful
just hours ago, now was as bleak as it had when she'd been facing the trial.
Worse, really. At least when she'd been facing a trial, she'd had Mitch with
her.

"Oh, honey, I warned you." Wally expelled a martyred
sigh. "Mitch is so like Shaun. A successful relationship is beyond their
grasp."

"Mitch is nothing like Shaun." Really, she resented her
uncle comparing the two. Why did Wally relate everything to Shaun? The answer
came with startling clarity: You never get over losing the one great love of
your life.

She should be more compassionate, she thought. Wally had been
through so much. His battle with alcohol. A relationship that was nothing short
of an albatross. But right now she didn't have the strength to discuss Shaun
with Wally for the hundredth time.

"I didn't mean to upset you," Wally responded, obviously
wounded by her waspish tone. "I love you. I'd do anything to help
you."

"I know you love me. I didn't mean to snap, but I'm so upset
about Mitch. And his poor mother. Can you imagine what she's going through? No
doubt reporters are crawling all over that clinic, determined to get a picture
of her."

"I'm sorry, honey. If there's anything I can do—"

"I have an idea. It's a long shot, but it just might help
Mitch."

Wally listened intently as she told him that she wanted to write a
feature article on Mitch. "I'll go to Sam Stuart myself and get him to
agree to run your story."

"Thanks," Royce said, but she couldn't help wondering
how the editor-in-chief would view her writing such a serious article. When
she'd been writing a humorous column, he'd rejected every serious proposal
she'd given him. "He'll probably want you to write it instead."

Wally studied her solemnly and she wondered if he preferred to
write this himself. After all, it was Pulitzer prize material. She glanced at
the picture on the wall. A younger, trimmer uncle smiled out at her, thrilled
with his Pulitzer.

"Royce, I'm going to tell Sam that only you have the
information. I hate lying, but I don't want to give him any choice. He'll have
to let you do it."

"Thanks," Royce said, hoping her smile hid her relief.
Ever since Paul had proposed the idea, she'd been worried about how Wally would
react. He'd done all the investigating; she had no right to ask him to give up
his story.

But on a deeper level: This was her love. Her life. Her story.

"You realize this could backfire. Mitch might hate you for
publishing this."

"I'm aware of the risk, but what can I do?" Royce
conceded. "I have to do what I can to salvage his career. Do you know he's
being considered for a judicial appointment?"

"I just found out this morning," Wally said. "I'm
not surprised. He's one of the best legal minds in the country, but this
scandal is bound to ruin his chances."

"Not if I can help it." Royce pulled the photo of Mitch
as a child out of her purse. "I want this to run with the article."

"Great idea. It'll counter that sleazy photo Ingeblatt used.
Let me dash up to Sam's office." Wally pointed to his computer. "You
get started."

Royce stared at the blank screen. This was the most important
article she'd ever write and she was terrified. She'd always wanted to do a
serious article, but not now, not like this. Not with Mitch's love at stake.

Think of Lolly, she told herself. You've got this one chance to
right a wrong. Lolly had suffered so much. There had to be a way to help her.
But could Royce do this story justice?

You'll never walk alone.
Her father's words came back
to her and with them his spirit, his love. The type of love and support that
Mitch had never had. This was the only way to show him how much she truly loved
him—by letting the world know the truth.

"You're on." Wally grinned as he trotted back into his
office. "Sam's giving you the upper front and moving the key article on
Gian Viscotti's arrest to the lower half."

The top half of the front page. Lead position. These articles were
supposed to increase sales, since they were the ones that caught the eye when
someone glanced at the paper. Talk about pressure!

"And," Wally continued, "I promised Sam a doozy of
a story. He's printing extra papers."

"Can I do this?" she asked Wally, her insecurity
returning. "My last article was how to wash baseball caps and visors in
the top rack of your dishwasher so they don't get ruined."

"Of course, you can," Wally said, using the same tone
and bolstering enthusiasm that her father had always used to encourage her.
"You never really wanted to be a television reporter, did you?"

"No," Royce admitted. "I wanted to write serious
articles, but Sam always turned mine down."

"Your father cast a long shadow," Wally sympathized.

"You're right," Royce said, startled by her uncle's
insight. "I never truly believed I could write as well as he could. Now
I'll have to prove I can be as good."

Royce struggled, skipping lunch and then dinner, writing and
rewriting. Wally read the numerous drafts and made suggestions. She was shaky
from too much high-octane coffee when nine o'clock came and the article had to
go to Sam's office for approval before the presses ran.

She wasn't satisfied with the article—how do you capture the
feeling of trauma and desperation, then turn it into a lesson on the resilience
of the human spirit?—but time had run out.

She might not be totally satisfied with her work; she could
probably rewrite the story until she was dead and still not be really satisfied
that she'd captured Mitch's anguish, his pain. His triumph over impossible
odds. But her heart had been in every word. Her love in every line.

Forgive me, Mitch, darling. I love you. I never meant to hurt you.

Wally walked her upstairs to Sam's office, which was five times as
big as Wally's but managed to look smaller because Sam kept stacks of old
papers lined along the walls. He claimed he reread his favorite articles, but
no one had ever seen him touch them. Pictures of Sam with every politician from
Roosevelt to Clinton hung haphazardly on the pecky cypress paneling.

Royce stood in front of the massive desk, cluttered with computer
printouts from the wire services, as Sam read her article. A hard-boiled editor,
Sam was notorious for rejecting what he considered to be inferior articles.
Wordlessly, he read the pages, his bald head tilted downward. After what seemed
two lifetimes he looked up.

"No changes. Run it." His voice was terse, as it usually
was, but Royce detected just the slightest sheen of tears in his eyes.

"The photograph of Mitch with his mother reproduced
beautifully, didn't it?" Val asked Paul as they sat at his kitchen table
reading the paper.

"Yes," Paul agreed, but his attention was on the
article. It took several minutes to read what was on the first page and turn to
the inside columns where the story continued.

"Royce is extraordinarily talented," Val commented,
tears in her beautiful hazel eyes.
'I
want my mama. Don't take my baby.
What am I going to do here all alone without my little boy?'
I swear, Paul,
even though I know the story, it still makes me cry."

"I understand, darling. No one can read this article without
seeing Mitch as a hero, not the scumbag Tobias Ingeblatt depicted. Thanks to
Royce."

Val dabbed at her tears with the tip of a napkin. "Do you
think Mitch will forgive Royce?"

Paul wanted to say yes, but he loved Val too much not to be honest
with her. And, despite his earlier reservations, he sincerely liked Royce. He
understood why she'd investigated Mitch. Still, he didn't want Val to give
Royce false hope.

"I spoke with Mitch last night while you were at your
brother's. He's moving his mother to a more secure facility. He asked me to
change the locks on his house and the security code. He doesn't want to see
Royce. I doubt he'll change his mind."

"That's not fair."

"He's been hurt, Val, deeply. Time is the only cure, and it
may not make any difference. When Royce asks you, be truthful with her. Tell
her to be prepared to wait."

"All right," Val reluctantly agreed. "Did Mitch say
anything else?"

"He hardly talked. I told him I found out Caroline had a
cleaning service clean her carpet and furniture the morning she was killed.
Evidently, she was putting her home on the market and wanted it in top
shape."

"Really? Where was she moving?"

"No one seems to have any idea. If the cleaning service
hadn't come forward, we wouldn't have found out." Paul leafed through the
pages of the newspaper, not reading, just glancing at articles. "I
convinced the police to send the chair where the killer sat to the FBI.
Remember that soft laser process I told you about?"

"The one that lifts prints off surfaces where it's usually
impossible to get a print."

"Yes." Paul couldn't help smiling; he didn't think Val
would recall that conversation. She had been terribly distracted the day he'd
told her about soft lasers, but she always paid attention to everything he
said. "The killer's prints will be on the brocade."

"Why bother? Gian Viscotti has already been arrested."

"True, but just in case..."

"In case what? Don't you believe Gian killed Caroline?"

Paul studied the photographs of Caroline's funeral that the
Examiner
had chosen to run on the back pages. Brent and Eleanor were clinging to each
other while Ward stood alone. Clearly they were all grief stricken, but Ward's
tortured expression mesmerized Paul. He looked as if he'd just lost his only
daughter.

"Paul, answer me. Is Gian guilty? Or is the killer still at
large?"

"I think they've got Gian nailed," Paul responded,
although he wasn't entirely convinced. Something wasn't right. But what?

He pointed to the picture of the Farenholts. "Tell me what
you see, Val."

Royce waited in the shadows of the building opposite the Golden
Gate Pet Clinic. Val had told her that Paul would be driving Mitch in one of
the security vans to pick up Jenny. Royce needed to see Mitch and try to
convince him to forgive her. She knew he'd returned to the city last night, but
he wouldn't answer his doorbell and he'd changed his telephone number.

In the days since her article appeared, the public's perception of
Mitch had altered radically. Not only had her article cleared his name, it had
made him a living legend. But had it done her any good? No. He didn't want to
see her. He might never change his mind.

Dusk had fallen when the pizza delivery van Paul used for
surveillance pulled up at the clinic's front door. Mitch got out, leaving Paul
at the wheel, and Royce crossed the street where she could talk to Mitch as he
helped Jenny into the van.

A few minutes later he came out the door with Jenny hobbling along
beside him. Her leg was in a cast and her chest fur shaven and covered by a
large bandage. Jenny noticed Royce before Mitch did. She whined and wagged her
tail. Mitch halted, glaring at her.