Smash Cut (7 page)
Authors: Sandra Brown
Tags: #Legal, #Suspense, #Fiction, #General, #Georgia, #Thrillers, #Rich people, #Atlanta (Ga.), #Trials (Murder), #Legal stories, #Rich People - Georgia
Creighton touched an icon on the video monitor that served as his remote, increasing the volume on the giant TV in his home theater.
The woman raised her head from his lap and with some pique asked, Am I boring you?
If you were, youd know.
He planted his hand on the back of her head and pushed it down. She returned to what shed been doing. Actually, she was very good at it. Since he was a regular client, the agency knew what he liked and sent over only the best girls. As soon as shed arrived, hed said, In the theater. Once he was settled in his chair, she went to work. Her blond hair was straight and fine. Idly he sifted his fingers through it as he watched the beginning of the newscast.
His elaborate theater system made even the mundane look good. He never watched television anywhere else. As for films, he preferred watching them in his private theater rather than in a movie house, most of which were in tacky shopping malls, where there were morons gorging on popcorn, whispering, kicking the back of his seat, and evenwhat was the world coming to?sending and receiving text messages on their cell phones.
He treated his collection of DVDs as though it was a national treasure. The temperature and humidity in the theater were carefully monitored and kept constant to preserve canisters of old film and videotape. Each one of his films, videos, and DVDs was cataloged and cross-referenced in computer documents that he updated almost daily. White-glove treatment was given to all the electronics. Dust was anathema, but his maid had been instructed never to even enter this room. He did the cleaning himself.
The resolution of the picture on his screen was so high that he could see the pores on the news anchorwomans nose when they came out of a depressing story about drooling, shitting old people in a nursing home. Jesus, why didnt their complaining relatives just let them die?
He wouldnt waste time watching the news except that he was interested to learn if there was anything to report on his uncle Pauls fatal shooting. It had been a week since the detectives had come around yet again, this time asking him if he remembered a recent quarrel between them that had taken place in Pauls office.
Figuring that a busybody at Wheeler Enterprises, probably his uncles prune-faced assistant, had snitched on him, he knew hed do better to admit it than to be caught in a lie. Sure, I remember. He chewed me out.
Over what, theyd wanted to know.
Over my being worthless. Hed grinned at the black guy, then at the woman with the wide ass and wretched taste in clothes. Which isnt at all accurate. I pointed out to Uncle Paul that Im far from worthless, that my trust fund from my maternal grandparents has swelled to over seventy million dollars, which by anyones calculations is a nice piece of change. I thought it was a rather funny comeback, but Uncle Paul didnt see the humor in it.
The two detectives had seemed deflated that hed owned up to the quarrel. Had they been hoping to spring something on him? If so, they were completely disarmed. His dad had hired a fancy defense lawyer to be his mouthpiece from now on, but he wasnt going to be necessary. The case was cooling. Soon it would be cold. Just like poor Uncle Paul.
The girl tongued a sensitive spot, and his penis responded. He was close. In anticipation, he leaned his head back and shut his eyes. But they came open almost instantly when a familiar voice reached him from each surround-sound speaker. I dont have anything to tell you.
There was Julie Rutledge, filling his screen. He was pleased to note that she looked tired and disheveled and a bit exasperated when asked if the PD was any closer to catching Pauls killer. Not to my knowledge, she replied.
How cool was this? Getting a damn good blow job while watching his late uncles ladylove on TV. He wished she knew. Maybe hed call her later, say, Julie, saw you on the news. I was looking straight at you when I came.
That delightful train of thought derailed when the whore raised her head again. Hey, youre pulling my hair.
He relaxed his hold, but his complacent smile remained in place. Julie didnt like him, no doubt because of all the trash Paul had talked about him. Whatever Paul had told Julie had made her cold and distant toward him. For his own amusement, Creighton enjoyed and exploited her evident discomfort.
Straight into the camera she said, And I dont think it was a robbery, either.
Creighton climaxed.
The whore looked up at him and petulantly asked, What was so funny?
Apparently she wasnt accustomed to johns laughing out loud when they came. Nothing. He zipped up, then took her by the arm and hauled her up off her knees. Time to go.
Whats your rush? She trailed her hand up the front of his shirt, cooing, I could stay awhile.
He pushed her away. Out.
Sensing he meant it, she grabbed her handbag and sauntered from the room. He followed her through the apartment to make certain she didnt help herself to anything on her way out. She pulled the front door open and shot him a venomous look over her shoulder. The other girls were right. Youre rude.
Youre breaking my heart.
Ask me, I also think youre weird as shit.
He could think of a dozen comebacks with zing, but good dialogue would be wasted on her. Without a word, he pushed her through the door and soundly closed it.
Retracing his steps to the theater, he paused to enjoy a view of Atlantas glittering skyline from the living room windows of his penthouse. He trailed his hand along the back of the buttery soft leather sofa as he walked past and admired the pair of art deco doors that hed salvaged from a razed theater to serve as portals into his own cinematic domain.
Once back in the cushy, custom-made theater seat that he had designed himself, he replayed Julies appearance on the news. However, this second viewing left him not so amused as vexed. Just when the detectives were growing discouraged and probably on the brink of relegating his uncles murder to the back burner, Julie had advanced a fresh perspective. Now Sanford and Kimball would be duty bound to explore the angle that the incident had been more than a mere robbery.
Since his uncles slaying, Creighton had remained in the tall shadow of his father, letting him speak for the family while he himself avoided the media spotlight. He adored spectacle, but only on film. In reality, the limelight called attention to ones beauty and strength, perhaps, and he certainly wasnt modest about his. But while basking in the limelight, one sacrificed privacy. Anonymity had distinct advantages. Keeping to the background afforded one much more maneuverability and, thereby, power.
But now that Julie had shot off her mouth, the detectives interest in him might be renewed and he would need that fancy lawyer, Derek Mitchell, after all.
It was all such a bother.
The woman raised her head from his lap and with some pique asked, Am I boring you?
If you were, youd know.
He planted his hand on the back of her head and pushed it down. She returned to what shed been doing. Actually, she was very good at it. Since he was a regular client, the agency knew what he liked and sent over only the best girls. As soon as shed arrived, hed said, In the theater. Once he was settled in his chair, she went to work. Her blond hair was straight and fine. Idly he sifted his fingers through it as he watched the beginning of the newscast.
His elaborate theater system made even the mundane look good. He never watched television anywhere else. As for films, he preferred watching them in his private theater rather than in a movie house, most of which were in tacky shopping malls, where there were morons gorging on popcorn, whispering, kicking the back of his seat, and evenwhat was the world coming to?sending and receiving text messages on their cell phones.
He treated his collection of DVDs as though it was a national treasure. The temperature and humidity in the theater were carefully monitored and kept constant to preserve canisters of old film and videotape. Each one of his films, videos, and DVDs was cataloged and cross-referenced in computer documents that he updated almost daily. White-glove treatment was given to all the electronics. Dust was anathema, but his maid had been instructed never to even enter this room. He did the cleaning himself.
The resolution of the picture on his screen was so high that he could see the pores on the news anchorwomans nose when they came out of a depressing story about drooling, shitting old people in a nursing home. Jesus, why didnt their complaining relatives just let them die?
He wouldnt waste time watching the news except that he was interested to learn if there was anything to report on his uncle Pauls fatal shooting. It had been a week since the detectives had come around yet again, this time asking him if he remembered a recent quarrel between them that had taken place in Pauls office.
Figuring that a busybody at Wheeler Enterprises, probably his uncles prune-faced assistant, had snitched on him, he knew hed do better to admit it than to be caught in a lie. Sure, I remember. He chewed me out.
Over what, theyd wanted to know.
Over my being worthless. Hed grinned at the black guy, then at the woman with the wide ass and wretched taste in clothes. Which isnt at all accurate. I pointed out to Uncle Paul that Im far from worthless, that my trust fund from my maternal grandparents has swelled to over seventy million dollars, which by anyones calculations is a nice piece of change. I thought it was a rather funny comeback, but Uncle Paul didnt see the humor in it.
The two detectives had seemed deflated that hed owned up to the quarrel. Had they been hoping to spring something on him? If so, they were completely disarmed. His dad had hired a fancy defense lawyer to be his mouthpiece from now on, but he wasnt going to be necessary. The case was cooling. Soon it would be cold. Just like poor Uncle Paul.
The girl tongued a sensitive spot, and his penis responded. He was close. In anticipation, he leaned his head back and shut his eyes. But they came open almost instantly when a familiar voice reached him from each surround-sound speaker. I dont have anything to tell you.
There was Julie Rutledge, filling his screen. He was pleased to note that she looked tired and disheveled and a bit exasperated when asked if the PD was any closer to catching Pauls killer. Not to my knowledge, she replied.
How cool was this? Getting a damn good blow job while watching his late uncles ladylove on TV. He wished she knew. Maybe hed call her later, say, Julie, saw you on the news. I was looking straight at you when I came.
That delightful train of thought derailed when the whore raised her head again. Hey, youre pulling my hair.
He relaxed his hold, but his complacent smile remained in place. Julie didnt like him, no doubt because of all the trash Paul had talked about him. Whatever Paul had told Julie had made her cold and distant toward him. For his own amusement, Creighton enjoyed and exploited her evident discomfort.
Straight into the camera she said, And I dont think it was a robbery, either.
Creighton climaxed.
The whore looked up at him and petulantly asked, What was so funny?
Apparently she wasnt accustomed to johns laughing out loud when they came. Nothing. He zipped up, then took her by the arm and hauled her up off her knees. Time to go.
Whats your rush? She trailed her hand up the front of his shirt, cooing, I could stay awhile.
He pushed her away. Out.
Sensing he meant it, she grabbed her handbag and sauntered from the room. He followed her through the apartment to make certain she didnt help herself to anything on her way out. She pulled the front door open and shot him a venomous look over her shoulder. The other girls were right. Youre rude.
Youre breaking my heart.
Ask me, I also think youre weird as shit.
He could think of a dozen comebacks with zing, but good dialogue would be wasted on her. Without a word, he pushed her through the door and soundly closed it.
Retracing his steps to the theater, he paused to enjoy a view of Atlantas glittering skyline from the living room windows of his penthouse. He trailed his hand along the back of the buttery soft leather sofa as he walked past and admired the pair of art deco doors that hed salvaged from a razed theater to serve as portals into his own cinematic domain.
Once back in the cushy, custom-made theater seat that he had designed himself, he replayed Julies appearance on the news. However, this second viewing left him not so amused as vexed. Just when the detectives were growing discouraged and probably on the brink of relegating his uncles murder to the back burner, Julie had advanced a fresh perspective. Now Sanford and Kimball would be duty bound to explore the angle that the incident had been more than a mere robbery.
Since his uncles slaying, Creighton had remained in the tall shadow of his father, letting him speak for the family while he himself avoided the media spotlight. He adored spectacle, but only on film. In reality, the limelight called attention to ones beauty and strength, perhaps, and he certainly wasnt modest about his. But while basking in the limelight, one sacrificed privacy. Anonymity had distinct advantages. Keeping to the background afforded one much more maneuverability and, thereby, power.
But now that Julie had shot off her mouth, the detectives interest in him might be renewed and he would need that fancy lawyer, Derek Mitchell, after all.
It was all such a bother.
CHAPTER
7
J
ULIE LOVED THE LOOK OF HER GALLERY. IT HAD A DISCREET AND classy curb appeal that fit this stretch of Peachtree Street, where all the boutiques, antiques shops, clothiers, and eateries were as upmarket as their Buckhead clientele.
The potted orange trees on either side of the glossy black door and the fringed canopy extending across the sidewalk were touches that made the gallery inviting to novice art aficionados, who might be intimidated by austerity, while maintaining the high-toned ambience that serious buyers expected.
She turned in to the alley and followed it around to the rear of the building, where she parked and entered through the back door. She dumped her handbag and an armload of catalogs shed brought from France on her desk. It remained cluttered no matter how hard she tried to keep up with paperwork. After her having been gone for several days, bills and other mail had piled up. Kate had placed a few telephone messages where she would be certain to see them. She sorted through them, but none was urgent.
Separating the office and storeroom in back from the main room of the gallery in front was a wide hallway thirty feet in length. It was here that she exhibited paintings of lesser quality and smaller price tags. As she walked along the hall now, she made a mental note to move some of them. She was a believer in frequently rotating the stock. A painting or objet dart that had gone unnoticed could, in a new location, suddenly become a piece of interest to a browser.
The thick carpet and the Beethoven being piped through invisible speakers muffled her footsteps, so Kate didnt know she had arrived until she entered the main room. Brightly her assistant said, Oh, here she is now.
The man with whom Kate had been speaking turned around. Julie drew up short, and for a moment her breath stopped.
Derek Mitchell, wearing a self-congratulatory smile for having jerked the rug out from under her, said pleasantly, Good morning.
She found enough voice to return the greeting.
Mr. Mitchell was already here when I arrived to open, Kate said. I told him you probably wouldnt be in until ten-thirty or so, but he was happy to wait until you got here. We had an espresso.
Behind his back, Kate was grinning and bobbing her eyebrows. Julie could practically hear her saying
What a hottie!
He was wearing a three-piece summer-weight suit, monochromatic shirt and tie, understated cuff links. Dressier than his traveling clothes had been. Excellent quality and fit. He oozed confidence and a rugged maleness that was vaguely out of keeping with the man-about-town clothing, as though the wardrobe had been carefully chosen for its deceptiveness.
Julie dragged her eyes off him and looked down at the dog lying at his feet.
Thats Maggie, he said.
I know we dont usually allow pets in the gallery, Kate rushed to say, but Mr. Mitchell assured me that Maggie is housebroken, and actually more human than dog. Isnt she beautiful?
As though realizing that shed been introduced, the dog raised her head and looked at Julie, yawned hugely, then plopped her head back down beside her masters Italian shoes.
Julie watched the shoes moving toward her. When they reached her, she raised her head and looked into Derek Mitchells face. Ms. Rutledge. He extended his right hand. Knowing she had to play out this charade for Kates sake, she shook hands with him. Mr. Mitchell. Welcome to Chez Jean. How did you know about us?
I did my homework. He held her hand a second too long before releasing it.
Hes in the market for something special, Kate said.
Like what? Julie asked, addressing the question to him.
I dont know yet.
For home or office?
His bedroom, Kate said. Again she bobbed her eyebrows, which Julie pretended not to see.
He said, From what I know of you already, you have quite a reputation for providing customer satisfaction.
Julies cheeks burned. For Kates benefit, she said, I try.
Oh, Im certain you do more than try. You go all out. He paused for several beats. Then, Ive driven past the gallery thousands of times and always admired the works displayed in the windows. But I havent had reason to stop.
And now you did?
Now I did.
She drew herself up. Well, Im sure Katherine will find the perfect piece for you. Shes very knowledgeable.
He came to see you.
Thats right, Ms. Rutledge. Not that Ms. Fields isnt perfectly charming and, Im sure, knowledgeable. He shot Kate a smile over his shoulder, which she returned before he came back around to Julie. But Im placing myself in your very capable hands.
To her the double entendre was about as subtle as a freight train. A kaleidoscope of remembered sensations flashed through her mind. Her throat seized up with embarrassment, and it took every ounce of willpower not to show it. To make it worse, he knew exactly what she was remembering.
Hed effectively ambushed her. The smile, the dog, the disarming deportmenthed completely snowed Kate. What possible explanation could she give her assistant if she shoved him and his well-behaved Lab out the door and locked it behind them.
Her mouth, dry as dust, could barely form a question. Do you have something particular in mind, Mr. Mitchell?
Im open to anything.
Okay, enough with the sexual innuendos.
Curtly she said, I need some direction. Otherwise Ill waste your time.
And mine
was implied.
I dont know what I want until I see it, but when I see, I act quickly. He waited a beat, then said, Maybe you should show me some things.
Trying to be helpful, Kate said, There are some pieces in the parlor. Ill mind the store. Including Maggie. She knelt and stroked the dogs back. Well be fine, wont we, Maggie?
Derek Mitchell smiled. I dont hear her complaining. Lead on, Ms. Rutledge.
It having been decided for her, Julie turned and led him down the hallway to the small room off the left side of it, which she called the parlor. It was a room where discriminating collectors could study sculptures or paintings in the best light. They were given time to consider a piece from every angle, in comfort, serenity, and absolute privacy. It was where Julie usually closed the sale, so the chamber was intimate by design.
As she passed through the door, she touched a switch plate and the subtle lighting came on. Derek Mitchell followed her in. She closed the door and spun around to face him.
What are you doing here?
Whyd you do it?
Squared off across a narrow space, they spoke in unison, glaring at each other.
He was standing in a combative pose, with his hands on his hips, his suit jacket spread open. It was the posture he might take with a witness he was cross-examining, and Julie resented it.
How dare you come here? she said.
How
dare
I? How dare
I
? This coming from the mile-high pickup artist.
She turned her back to him. I wont talk about that.
Hell you wont. He stepped round her so they were facing again. Theres a preponderance of evidence that our meeting wasnt by chance.
Of course it wasnt. Do you think I would entice a total stranger into a public restroom if I didnt have a compelling reason?
More compelling than wanting to fuck?
At first she was too shocked to speak, then when she did, her voice shook with indignation. I want you out of here.
Uh-uh, not yet. He blocked her path when she tried to go around him. You sure as hell werent acting bereaved over your dead lover when you went for my zipper.
I refuse to listen to this. She sidestepped; he bodychecked her.
If picking up men on airplanes isnt your thing
It isnt.
Then back to my original question. Why? You sucker punched me. I want to know why. Obvious to me now is that it had to do with Paul Wheeler. But what? When I boarded that plane in Paris, I didnt know anything about him. Why did you want me had before Id even heard of him?
Youre smart, Mr. Mitchell. Youll figure it out.
Save me the trouble. Tell me.
She shook her head and once again tried to move past him. This time, he caught her arm. Would you rather I ask Doug Wheeler why his late brothers mistress seduced me on an airplane?
Jerking her arm free, she said, I dont care if you ask him.
He smiled as a jackal might. Youre bluffing. You care.
She glared up at him.
Save us all the embarrassment, Ms. Rutledge. Whyd you compromise me?
He was bluffing, too. He wouldnt tell Doug about the airplane episode because he wouldnt want anyone to know hed been made a fool of. But he was accustomed to bluffing, and according to everything shed read about him, it usually worked, on even the toughest prosecutors. Besides, she had accomplished what shed set out to do. What was the harm in his knowing why?
I did it so you couldnt represent Creighton.
The nephew. Whats he got to do with it?
Everything.
His uncles death?
She nodded.
He has an alibi.
Nevertheless, I know he was responsible, Mr. Mitchell. Sooner or later, the police will know it, too. Hell be charged and tried. But you wont be there to see it. You cant defend him. Not after after
Ah. You can do it, but you cant say the word.
He was the first to back down from the long, antagonistic stare they exchanged. She caught a whispered swearword as he turned away from her and moved to the other side of the small room. For several ponderous moments he gazed at the painting on the wall. It was lighted to make visible each brushstroke.
Quietly, she said, Now that you know, you can leave.
Ignoring that, he asked, How did you know that Doug would retain me?
At the reception following Pauls funeral, I overheard him complaining to some friends that the police were still questioning him, the whole family, even though they had solid alibis. Someone said that was ridiculous, that it smacked of police harassment, and that maybe it was time Doug brought in a pit bullthats a quoteto put a stop to it.
Doug said hed already considered that. He dropped your name. I did a little research. Read about your successes in some celebrated trials. You dont lose often. I was afraid that, with you as Creightons advocate, he would get away with killing Paul.
A long silence ensued while he kept his back to her, still studying the painting. Finally he said, Would anyone in their right mind pay good money for this?
She had to smile. Youd be surprised.
Whats the sticker price?
Fifteen thousand.
Youre kidding.
No.
Fifteen thousand dollars for a painting of a naked fat man? He turned abruptly. How did you know I would be on that flight?
What? The switch of subjects had thrown her off, which she thought was calculated.
Only my assistant had my itinerary, and she would never give it to anybody without my knowledge and approval.
Sharon, Dougs wife. One day last week, I called to check on them, see how they were getting on.
Youre close to the family?
Friendly. Our common bond being Paul.
Doug told me that Paul adored you. And vice versa.
Thats true.
Huh. He subjected her to a slow, and skeptical, once-over, then returned to the original subject. Sharon Wheeler wouldnt have had my flight number.
Have you met her?
Not yet.
Shes I dont mean this as unkindly as its going to sound. Shes not very bright and is easily manipulated. I let on as though Doug had told me that he planned to retain you and asked what had come of that. She said you were in Paris and werent expected to return until the eighteenth, when Doug hoped to see you.
You decided, just like that, to ambush me in Paris?
It seemed like a good strategy.
He snuffled a laugh. Compared to what? A beach assault?
It was a drastic move, yes. But I had to catch you before you met with Doug. Sharon said you were on a family trip, which I saw as an advantage. Youd be relaxed. Youd have your guard down. You wouldnt be expecting
To get screwed. In every sense of the word.
She let that pass. Delta has four flights a day from de Gaulle to Atlanta. If Doug was trying to get an appointment with you on the afternoon of your return, it was reasonable to assume youd be on the earliest flight.
What if I hadnt been?
I would have been out the cost of a first-class ticket.
And missed your opportunity.
If that hadnt worked, I would have picked another time and place.
To have sexual congress?
She shifted her gaze away from his. Not necessarily. The truth is, I didnt know what I was going to do. Plead, perhaps. Try to rea son with you. Appeal to your common decency or to your sense of justice. But She raised her shoulder.
You dont think I possess those.
She admitted it. Based on what Id read about you, I was afraid that tactic wouldnt work. She regarded him for a moment, then out of genuine curiosity, asked, Do you ever have misgivings when you win an acquittal for someone you know is guilty of a heinous crime?
Do you believe in the rights granted by the Constitution?
Of course.
Then theres your answer. Youve changed the subject. Whyd you go the seduction route?
It seemed the most expedient and effective means of compromising you.
As every woman since Eve has known.
An airplane gives one a sense of disconnection from everything on the ground. Rules seem not to apply.
What happens in the air stays in the air?
Something like that.
So you got me tight on vodka while you were drinking Virgin Marys. Yeah, that much I figured out. You asked the flight attendant to pour you mix only while I got smashed.
I didnt funnel the drinks down your throat.
No, but you saw to it that I had a good time, didnt you? Tight skirt. High heels. Poor you. The injured party with the bruised ego. The story about the cheating husband, fact or fiction?
Fact. Just not on this trip.
Huh. Thats why you divorced him? She gave him a look, and he said, I did a little research of my own.
She volunteered nothing else about her failed marriage. He held her gaze a moment longer, then made a slow circuit of the room, looking at the paintings on display. He stopped at one of them, placed his hands on his hips again, and looked at the painting for such a long time, Julie feared his concentration would bore a hole in the canvas. Finally she asked, When did you find out?
Who you were? Last night. I caught the news. Imagine my surprise. There you were, my mystery woman, in high def. You had a name, and I was glad of that. Julie Rutledge. But hold on. Ms. Rutledge is up to her neck in a high-profile criminal case thattoo coincidentally to be a coincidencehas just been dropped in my lap.
ULIE LOVED THE LOOK OF HER GALLERY. IT HAD A DISCREET AND classy curb appeal that fit this stretch of Peachtree Street, where all the boutiques, antiques shops, clothiers, and eateries were as upmarket as their Buckhead clientele.
The potted orange trees on either side of the glossy black door and the fringed canopy extending across the sidewalk were touches that made the gallery inviting to novice art aficionados, who might be intimidated by austerity, while maintaining the high-toned ambience that serious buyers expected.
She turned in to the alley and followed it around to the rear of the building, where she parked and entered through the back door. She dumped her handbag and an armload of catalogs shed brought from France on her desk. It remained cluttered no matter how hard she tried to keep up with paperwork. After her having been gone for several days, bills and other mail had piled up. Kate had placed a few telephone messages where she would be certain to see them. She sorted through them, but none was urgent.
Separating the office and storeroom in back from the main room of the gallery in front was a wide hallway thirty feet in length. It was here that she exhibited paintings of lesser quality and smaller price tags. As she walked along the hall now, she made a mental note to move some of them. She was a believer in frequently rotating the stock. A painting or objet dart that had gone unnoticed could, in a new location, suddenly become a piece of interest to a browser.
The thick carpet and the Beethoven being piped through invisible speakers muffled her footsteps, so Kate didnt know she had arrived until she entered the main room. Brightly her assistant said, Oh, here she is now.
The man with whom Kate had been speaking turned around. Julie drew up short, and for a moment her breath stopped.
Derek Mitchell, wearing a self-congratulatory smile for having jerked the rug out from under her, said pleasantly, Good morning.
She found enough voice to return the greeting.
Mr. Mitchell was already here when I arrived to open, Kate said. I told him you probably wouldnt be in until ten-thirty or so, but he was happy to wait until you got here. We had an espresso.
Behind his back, Kate was grinning and bobbing her eyebrows. Julie could practically hear her saying
What a hottie!
He was wearing a three-piece summer-weight suit, monochromatic shirt and tie, understated cuff links. Dressier than his traveling clothes had been. Excellent quality and fit. He oozed confidence and a rugged maleness that was vaguely out of keeping with the man-about-town clothing, as though the wardrobe had been carefully chosen for its deceptiveness.
Julie dragged her eyes off him and looked down at the dog lying at his feet.
Thats Maggie, he said.
I know we dont usually allow pets in the gallery, Kate rushed to say, but Mr. Mitchell assured me that Maggie is housebroken, and actually more human than dog. Isnt she beautiful?
As though realizing that shed been introduced, the dog raised her head and looked at Julie, yawned hugely, then plopped her head back down beside her masters Italian shoes.
Julie watched the shoes moving toward her. When they reached her, she raised her head and looked into Derek Mitchells face. Ms. Rutledge. He extended his right hand. Knowing she had to play out this charade for Kates sake, she shook hands with him. Mr. Mitchell. Welcome to Chez Jean. How did you know about us?
I did my homework. He held her hand a second too long before releasing it.
Hes in the market for something special, Kate said.
Like what? Julie asked, addressing the question to him.
I dont know yet.
For home or office?
His bedroom, Kate said. Again she bobbed her eyebrows, which Julie pretended not to see.
He said, From what I know of you already, you have quite a reputation for providing customer satisfaction.
Julies cheeks burned. For Kates benefit, she said, I try.
Oh, Im certain you do more than try. You go all out. He paused for several beats. Then, Ive driven past the gallery thousands of times and always admired the works displayed in the windows. But I havent had reason to stop.
And now you did?
Now I did.
She drew herself up. Well, Im sure Katherine will find the perfect piece for you. Shes very knowledgeable.
He came to see you.
Thats right, Ms. Rutledge. Not that Ms. Fields isnt perfectly charming and, Im sure, knowledgeable. He shot Kate a smile over his shoulder, which she returned before he came back around to Julie. But Im placing myself in your very capable hands.
To her the double entendre was about as subtle as a freight train. A kaleidoscope of remembered sensations flashed through her mind. Her throat seized up with embarrassment, and it took every ounce of willpower not to show it. To make it worse, he knew exactly what she was remembering.
Hed effectively ambushed her. The smile, the dog, the disarming deportmenthed completely snowed Kate. What possible explanation could she give her assistant if she shoved him and his well-behaved Lab out the door and locked it behind them.
Her mouth, dry as dust, could barely form a question. Do you have something particular in mind, Mr. Mitchell?
Im open to anything.
Okay, enough with the sexual innuendos.
Curtly she said, I need some direction. Otherwise Ill waste your time.
And mine
was implied.
I dont know what I want until I see it, but when I see, I act quickly. He waited a beat, then said, Maybe you should show me some things.
Trying to be helpful, Kate said, There are some pieces in the parlor. Ill mind the store. Including Maggie. She knelt and stroked the dogs back. Well be fine, wont we, Maggie?
Derek Mitchell smiled. I dont hear her complaining. Lead on, Ms. Rutledge.
It having been decided for her, Julie turned and led him down the hallway to the small room off the left side of it, which she called the parlor. It was a room where discriminating collectors could study sculptures or paintings in the best light. They were given time to consider a piece from every angle, in comfort, serenity, and absolute privacy. It was where Julie usually closed the sale, so the chamber was intimate by design.
As she passed through the door, she touched a switch plate and the subtle lighting came on. Derek Mitchell followed her in. She closed the door and spun around to face him.
What are you doing here?
Whyd you do it?
Squared off across a narrow space, they spoke in unison, glaring at each other.
He was standing in a combative pose, with his hands on his hips, his suit jacket spread open. It was the posture he might take with a witness he was cross-examining, and Julie resented it.
How dare you come here? she said.
How
dare
I? How dare
I
? This coming from the mile-high pickup artist.
She turned her back to him. I wont talk about that.
Hell you wont. He stepped round her so they were facing again. Theres a preponderance of evidence that our meeting wasnt by chance.
Of course it wasnt. Do you think I would entice a total stranger into a public restroom if I didnt have a compelling reason?
More compelling than wanting to fuck?
At first she was too shocked to speak, then when she did, her voice shook with indignation. I want you out of here.
Uh-uh, not yet. He blocked her path when she tried to go around him. You sure as hell werent acting bereaved over your dead lover when you went for my zipper.
I refuse to listen to this. She sidestepped; he bodychecked her.
If picking up men on airplanes isnt your thing
It isnt.
Then back to my original question. Why? You sucker punched me. I want to know why. Obvious to me now is that it had to do with Paul Wheeler. But what? When I boarded that plane in Paris, I didnt know anything about him. Why did you want me had before Id even heard of him?
Youre smart, Mr. Mitchell. Youll figure it out.
Save me the trouble. Tell me.
She shook her head and once again tried to move past him. This time, he caught her arm. Would you rather I ask Doug Wheeler why his late brothers mistress seduced me on an airplane?
Jerking her arm free, she said, I dont care if you ask him.
He smiled as a jackal might. Youre bluffing. You care.
She glared up at him.
Save us all the embarrassment, Ms. Rutledge. Whyd you compromise me?
He was bluffing, too. He wouldnt tell Doug about the airplane episode because he wouldnt want anyone to know hed been made a fool of. But he was accustomed to bluffing, and according to everything shed read about him, it usually worked, on even the toughest prosecutors. Besides, she had accomplished what shed set out to do. What was the harm in his knowing why?
I did it so you couldnt represent Creighton.
The nephew. Whats he got to do with it?
Everything.
His uncles death?
She nodded.
He has an alibi.
Nevertheless, I know he was responsible, Mr. Mitchell. Sooner or later, the police will know it, too. Hell be charged and tried. But you wont be there to see it. You cant defend him. Not after after
Ah. You can do it, but you cant say the word.
He was the first to back down from the long, antagonistic stare they exchanged. She caught a whispered swearword as he turned away from her and moved to the other side of the small room. For several ponderous moments he gazed at the painting on the wall. It was lighted to make visible each brushstroke.
Quietly, she said, Now that you know, you can leave.
Ignoring that, he asked, How did you know that Doug would retain me?
At the reception following Pauls funeral, I overheard him complaining to some friends that the police were still questioning him, the whole family, even though they had solid alibis. Someone said that was ridiculous, that it smacked of police harassment, and that maybe it was time Doug brought in a pit bullthats a quoteto put a stop to it.
Doug said hed already considered that. He dropped your name. I did a little research. Read about your successes in some celebrated trials. You dont lose often. I was afraid that, with you as Creightons advocate, he would get away with killing Paul.
A long silence ensued while he kept his back to her, still studying the painting. Finally he said, Would anyone in their right mind pay good money for this?
She had to smile. Youd be surprised.
Whats the sticker price?
Fifteen thousand.
Youre kidding.
No.
Fifteen thousand dollars for a painting of a naked fat man? He turned abruptly. How did you know I would be on that flight?
What? The switch of subjects had thrown her off, which she thought was calculated.
Only my assistant had my itinerary, and she would never give it to anybody without my knowledge and approval.
Sharon, Dougs wife. One day last week, I called to check on them, see how they were getting on.
Youre close to the family?
Friendly. Our common bond being Paul.
Doug told me that Paul adored you. And vice versa.
Thats true.
Huh. He subjected her to a slow, and skeptical, once-over, then returned to the original subject. Sharon Wheeler wouldnt have had my flight number.
Have you met her?
Not yet.
Shes I dont mean this as unkindly as its going to sound. Shes not very bright and is easily manipulated. I let on as though Doug had told me that he planned to retain you and asked what had come of that. She said you were in Paris and werent expected to return until the eighteenth, when Doug hoped to see you.
You decided, just like that, to ambush me in Paris?
It seemed like a good strategy.
He snuffled a laugh. Compared to what? A beach assault?
It was a drastic move, yes. But I had to catch you before you met with Doug. Sharon said you were on a family trip, which I saw as an advantage. Youd be relaxed. Youd have your guard down. You wouldnt be expecting
To get screwed. In every sense of the word.
She let that pass. Delta has four flights a day from de Gaulle to Atlanta. If Doug was trying to get an appointment with you on the afternoon of your return, it was reasonable to assume youd be on the earliest flight.
What if I hadnt been?
I would have been out the cost of a first-class ticket.
And missed your opportunity.
If that hadnt worked, I would have picked another time and place.
To have sexual congress?
She shifted her gaze away from his. Not necessarily. The truth is, I didnt know what I was going to do. Plead, perhaps. Try to rea son with you. Appeal to your common decency or to your sense of justice. But She raised her shoulder.
You dont think I possess those.
She admitted it. Based on what Id read about you, I was afraid that tactic wouldnt work. She regarded him for a moment, then out of genuine curiosity, asked, Do you ever have misgivings when you win an acquittal for someone you know is guilty of a heinous crime?
Do you believe in the rights granted by the Constitution?
Of course.
Then theres your answer. Youve changed the subject. Whyd you go the seduction route?
It seemed the most expedient and effective means of compromising you.
As every woman since Eve has known.
An airplane gives one a sense of disconnection from everything on the ground. Rules seem not to apply.
What happens in the air stays in the air?
Something like that.
So you got me tight on vodka while you were drinking Virgin Marys. Yeah, that much I figured out. You asked the flight attendant to pour you mix only while I got smashed.
I didnt funnel the drinks down your throat.
No, but you saw to it that I had a good time, didnt you? Tight skirt. High heels. Poor you. The injured party with the bruised ego. The story about the cheating husband, fact or fiction?
Fact. Just not on this trip.
Huh. Thats why you divorced him? She gave him a look, and he said, I did a little research of my own.
She volunteered nothing else about her failed marriage. He held her gaze a moment longer, then made a slow circuit of the room, looking at the paintings on display. He stopped at one of them, placed his hands on his hips again, and looked at the painting for such a long time, Julie feared his concentration would bore a hole in the canvas. Finally she asked, When did you find out?
Who you were? Last night. I caught the news. Imagine my surprise. There you were, my mystery woman, in high def. You had a name, and I was glad of that. Julie Rutledge. But hold on. Ms. Rutledge is up to her neck in a high-profile criminal case thattoo coincidentally to be a coincidencehas just been dropped in my lap.
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