Sawyer, Meryl (52 page)

"Is your mother all right?" Royce asked.

"Do you really care? If you'd given a damn, you wouldn't
have—"

"Try to understand.
I was desperate.
I love you. I
never meant to hurt you. And I certainly never meant to cause trouble for your
mother."

Mitch led Jenny to the van and slid open the door. He gently
lifted Jenny into the back and closed the door.

"Mitch, remember my father's funeral? You told me you'd made
a mistake and you were sorry. I know how you felt. I shouldn't have allowed
Wally to check into your past. I'm sorry."

He stared at her a moment, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed. "And
what did you tell me at the funeral, Royce?"

She didn't want to remember how blindly furious she'd been, but
she couldn't lie to Mitch. Not now. "I said if you didn't leave, I'd hack
off your balls with a rusty machete."

"Then you know
exactly
how I feel." His voice was
low, yet it held an undertone of contempt and the ring of finality. "I
hurt someone you adored, and now you've destroyed the small start my mother had
made on a normal life. How do you expect me to feel?"

Inside the van Paul looked at Mitch as he climbed into the
passenger seat, leaving Royce standing on the curb, forlornly gazing at him.

"What are you waiting for?" Mitch snarled. "Let's
get the hell out of here."

Paul gunned the engine and bullied his way into the early-evening
traffic, noting the grim expression on Mitch's face. Once he would have kept
silent, but Val, bless her, had taught him the value of communicating.

"Did you read Royce's article about you?"

It took Mitch a long time to say, "Yeah. I read it."

Paul didn't let Mitch's irritable tone stop him. "She saved
your career, you know."

Mitch kept staring forward, one arm hung over the back of the seat
to reassure Jenny, who was on the floor behind him. "What do you want to
bet that Royce wins a Pulitzer for that story? That's all she's after—fame and
money."

"Come on, Mitch. You don't really believe that. Can't you see
how much Royce loves you? Forgive her, Mitch."

Mitch spun around in his seat. "You're supposed to be on my
side."

"I am on your side. I want you to be as happy as I am, that's
all."

"You don't understand a damn thing."

Paul wheeled the van into a red zone in front of a fire hydrant.
He put the car in park, then turned to Mitch. "Explain it to me."

Mitch hesitated and Paul knew how he felt. They had been friends
for two decades, but they'd never shared their innermost feelings. Yes, Mitch
had known how devastated Paul had been when he'd left the police force, but
they hadn't discussed the emotional side of the crisis. Mitch had told him to
get off his ass and get on with his life. A dose of macho bravado wasn't going
to help Mitch—not now.

Finally Mitch sighed, staring straight ahead. "I expected
Royce to trust me, to know I wasn't behind her problems. But even after I'd
asked her to marry me, she never told me she'd broken her promise and had her
uncle snooping around. If only she'd trusted me, my mother wouldn't be
suffering."

"What would you have done, if she had told you? Would you
have understood that she'd done it out of desperation?"

"I would have been pissed, but I could have taken steps to
protect my mother." He shrugged. "I don't honestly know if I would
have forgiven Royce. It's hard to say."

"Don't you think she knows how stubborn you can be? She loves
you, Mitch. You don't know how much courage it took to write that article. She
did it not only to restore your reputation, but to help you with what you want
most—that judicial appointment."

Mitch turned to the back, where Jenny lay, and stroked her head.
She thumped her tail, then licked his hand. When Mitch faced Paul, his
expression was so profoundly sad that Paul was stunned.

"To hell with being a judge. Know what I wanted most? To be
in the same room with my mother and talk to her without her going berserk.
Royce ruined that for me.

"After years of therapy Mother was finally making progress.
Then some half-assed reporter terrorizes her. Did you know he chased her
through a garden the size of Golden Gate Park and into a potting shed to get that
photograph?"

"Oh, God, Mitch, I'm sorry." The words didn't begin to
express how he felt. One of the proudest moments of his life had taken place
last weekend. His parents had flown out from Iowa and he'd introduced Val to
his mother. What would it be like never to have had the love and support of
your mother who was always there to cheer you even though you failed to touch
third base and your home run was called an out?

"I have her at a private clinic out here now. She's getting
excellent psychological care, but I doubt I'll ever be able to see her."
Mitch broke off, frowning as if searching for the words to say something more;
then he switched subjects. "Paul, I've got to get Jenny home. I have a
night-court bail hearing for Gian Viscotti."

"You're
defending Viscotti?"

"Sure. The best way to forget your troubles is to keep so
damn busy, you don't have time for a private life."

"That's what we both had before this case—before Royce and
Val—successful careers. Is that what you want now, a career, but no real life?
That's not enough for me, not anymore."

Mitch's expression said he didn't give a damn; Paul knew better,
but he also knew Mitch wasn't ready to admit how he truly felt.

"It doesn't matter what I want. I've agreed to defend
Viscotti. That's my life right now."

"But, Mitch, Viscotti put us through hell. What about the
money we spent trying to expose that bastard?"

Mitch chuckled with feigned humor. "Think of the head start
we'll have on the case."

Paul edged the van into the tide of traffic. "You know the
FBI is using a soft laser to lift fingerprints from the chair the killer sat in
while Caroline bled to death, don't you?"

"Yeah, you told me. Interesting breakthrough. If the police
can lift prints from anything, criminals are going to be a helluva lot easier
to catch."

"Gian's prints weren't anywhere on the scene," Paul
said. "I expect he wiped them off, so this chair could fry him. I should
have gotten the results from the FBI today, but I didn't. I guess my contact
will call tomorrow."

"Phone me the minute you hear. I want to know what I'm up
against."

Paul pulled into the alley behind Mitch's house and stopped. He
helped Mitch unload Jenny. "I'm taking Val over to visit with her brother
tonight. Call me there if you need me."

Mitch put his hand on Paul's shoulder. "Thanks. You're a good
friend. My only friend, actually. I guess I'm just one of those people who have
trouble that way."

"Anyone would be proud to be your friend, but you don't give
them a chance."

Mitch only lifted his eyebrows in response as if to say,
What
can I do?

Paul sat with Val in the upstairs study at her brother's home. Trevor
was in with David, who was no longer able to speak. Val kept his mind off his
hopeless situation by telling him stories of things that had happened to them
when they'd been children.

It wouldn't be long now, Paul thought. David would soon die, and Val
would have to face the grim reality of death.

"Mr. Talbott," said one of the hospice volunteers from
the hallway, "there's a call for you. Jim Wickson."

"Thanks," Paul said as he rose and crossed the room to
the telephone on the antique desk. "Jim's my contact at the FBI lab in
Quantico, Virginia," he explained to Val. "He's in charge of the soft
laser program."

"I hope they found prints on that chair."

Paul picked up the telephone, thankful Jim had agreed to call him
before he informed the police of their findings. "Hello, Jim. Were you
able to lift any prints off that chair?"

Mentally he kept his fingers crossed. The technology was new. In
the past police didn't have a method for lifting prints from fabric, Styrofoam,
and other soft materials. The chair at Caroline's home was upholstered in
brocade, a fabric whose texture was both smooth and rough, making it especially
tricky. But the furniture had just been cleaned. If there were any prints on
it, they would be the killer's.

"Bingo!" Jim said, and Paul could hear the broad grin in
his voice. "Not only did we get prints, we got a positive ID by running
the prints through the central computer in Sacramento."

The master computer in the state capital had files of prints for
anyone who'd ever been fingerprinted in the state for drivers' licenses. Better
yet, it had a new high-speed capability that could sort through thousands of
prints in minutes, a task that once would have taken days or weeks.

Paul listened, sinking into the small desk chair. "Oh,
shit!"

"What is it?" Val rushed up to the desk. "Jim, call
the police right way. Have them get out an all-points bulletin."

"What's happened?" Val cried.

Royce pulled her temperamental Toyota into the garage behind her
house and turned off the ignition. She sat, hands on the wheel, and stared into
the darkness. What now? she asked herself, the memory of her meeting with Mitch
still painful.

When he'd apologized for her father's death, it had taken five
years for her to come to terms with her life. Mitch had waited. That's what
she'd have to do. Wait. And hope.

No. Hoping and waiting were passive. She had to take action. But
what? She wearily climbed out of the car. In the distance she heard her
telephone ringing. She fumbled in the darkness for her house key and finally
found it. She rushed up the path but the telephone had stopped ringing.

Inside, she turned on the light and scanned the kitchen. Stacks of
unpacked boxes littered the floor and the counters. She'd decided not to sell
the house now that she wasn't going to be marrying Mitch. That meant a lot of
unpacking, but she supposed the physical activity would keep her occupied while
she decided what to do about Mitch. Surely, she'd think of something.

The telephone rang again and it was Talia. "Don Alford is
playing at the Jazz Circle tonight. Do you want to come with us?"

Talia had met a man in her encounter group and she'd been seeing
him. Royce hadn't met him yet, but Talia seemed happier with him than she had
with anyone else.

"No, thanks. Another time, maybe. I'm bushed."

In truth she felt guilty for having suspected Talia. Actually, she
was uncomfortable with her friends and Wally. After living in a miasma of
suspicion for so long, she was embarrassed, but everyone was trying hard to be
understanding. With time her life might retain a semblance of normalcy. Except
for Mitch.

"Okay," Talia responded, her tone unusually upbeat.
"Brent called today. He's miserable. His parents really fell apart over
Caroline's death. Eleanor's on Valium and Ward —well, Ward is comatose."

"Uh-huh," Royce muttered. What did she care about the
Farenholts? Why had she allowed Brent's parents to treat her so shabbily? It
was irrational to blame them for her problems, but she couldn't help being
disgusted with herself.

And Brent. He had about as much backbone as a slug. What a mama's
boy. She'd seen the photographs that the
Examiner
hadn't printed.

He'd clung to his mother—and she to him—during Caroline's funeral.
Obviously, Ward was grief stricken, but at least he'd stood alone.

Where would Brent be without his mother? She couldn't help wondering
if Brent had ever loved any woman except Eleanor Farenholt.

Talia said good-night and Royce hung up, still thinking about
Brent and his mother. Mitch had been denied the comfort of his mother's love,
but he'd emerged a strong, independent man. Who didn't need anyone.

That thought brought a rush of tears to her eyes, but she
resolutely blinked them away. Crying wouldn't solve a thing. A sharp knock at
the front door brought her out of her thoughts. She edged her way around the
unpacked boxes in the hall on her way to the front of her house.

Halfway there she remembered Wally saying he was going to replace
the boarded-up front door with a new door today. He'd wanted her to come with
him, but she didn't have the heart.

How could she choose another door to replace the beautiful
stained-glass door her father had made? "You go, Wally," she had
said. "Pick out whatever you think will look best."

Across the living room she saw the new door and halted. Some
distant bell in her mind sounded a warning, triggering her sixth sense. The
door. Something was wrong with the door.