The Pact (36 page)

Interestingly enough, one sanctioned topic was the upcoming trial. With Chris as a common link, they discussed the fact that Jordan wanted Michael to testify for the defense, and Michael's natural reservations. “I don't know why I'm asking your advice,” Michael said. “You aren't exactly nonpartisan.”

“I'm shamelessly biased,” Gus admitted. “But you have to imagine what a jury would think, even if you barely said a word, just seeing you up on the stand on Chris's behalf.” Michael set down his corned beef. “That's exactly what I imagine,” he said softly. “I think, what kind of a father am I?” He drummed the fingers of his right hand on the table. “As much as I love Chris, could I do that to Emily?”

“Emily wouldn't want Chris to be convicted of a murder he didn't commit,” Gus said firmly. Michael smirked. “Ah. So that's why you come to lunch with me. You're the secret weapon in McAfee's arsenal.”

Gus's face drained of color. The secret weapon in Jordan's arsenal was that he would be lyingmaking the jury believe that Chris had wanted to kill himself, too. Just as she was currently allowing Michael to believe it. She settled her napkin over her unfinished lunch and reached in the far corner of the booth for her coat. “I ought to go,” she muttered, fumbling open her purse to leave her share of the bill. “Damn thing,” she said, her fingers slipping on the catch.

“Hey,” Michael said. “Gus.” He reached across the table, to where Gus's fingers were furiously knotted over the clasp, and settled his hand on hers.

Gus stilled. It is so nice, she thought, to be touched.

Two bright flags of color rode high on Michael's cheekbones. “I didn't mean it,” he said. “About you working for the lawyer.”

“I know,” she managed.

“Then why are you rushing off all of a sudden?”

Gus looked at the edge of her plate. “I don't tell James that I'm meeting you for lunch. Do you tell Melanie?”

“No,” Michael admitted. “I don't.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“I don't know,” Michael said.

Gus gently pulled her hand away from his. “Neither do I.”

James sat down behind his desk and picked up the pink telephone message slip that his secretary had given him. Palm d'Or, the restaurant was called, and it was forty miles into the middle of nowhere, although it had been given a five-star rating by most travel and restaurant guides. Of course, that was practically guaranteed with a fixed-price menu-pay seventy-five dollars a head and get whatever they feel like serving you that day. Sighing, James peered at the number of the restaurant and reached for the telephone. It was Kate's fifteenth birthday, and she had chosen the place, and he wasn't about to let her down.

He had, in fact, been very solicitous of Kate since Christmas. They'd gotten into a routine of staying at the dinner table after all the dishes were cleared and just talking. Kate, unlike her mother, was actually interested in the cases and operations that James had undertaken that day. James listened to Kate's chatter about boys, her fervent desire to have her ears pierced, her mistrust of algebraic proofs. And he fell in love with his daughter all over again. He would watch her night after night, and think: I still have all this.

“Hello, yes,” he said, when a voice answered at the other end of the phone line. “I wanted to make a reservation. You do serve lunch as well as dinner? Excellent. Yes, next Saturday. The name is Harte, H-A-R-T-E.” He tapped a pencil against a stack of files on his desk. “Oh, we're a party of four,” he said, and then winced. “Three,” he corrected. “Make that a party of three.” He hung up the receiver, thinking of all the times over these past few months when he'd forgotten, and had looked into the backseat of his car expecting to see Chris's long legs folded up, or had gingerly opened Chris's bedroom door late at night to check on him sleeping. A party of three. Some party.

MELANIE THUNKED A bowl of soup in front of Michael and sat down across the table, lifting up her spoon and beginning to eat without saying a word.

“So,” he said bravely. “What did you do today?”

Melanie's eyes slowly came into focus. “What?”

“I asked what you did today.”

She laughed. “Why?”

Michael shrugged. “I don't know. Polite conversation.”

“We're married,” she said flatly. “We don't need to talk to each other.” Michael stirred the soup, feeling the small resistances of overcooked celery and carrots. “I, uh-” He hesitated. He'd been about to say that he'd gone to the jail to visit Chris, but realized that was not information he was ready to reveal. “I ran into Gus today. We had lunch.” He said it lightly, but even to Michael his words sounded too casual, so offhand they were clearly practiced. “She's doing well,” he added.

Melanie went slack-jawed, a fine sheen of soup glistening on her lower lip. “You had lunch with her?”

“Yes,” Michael said. “So what?”

“So I can't believe you had lunch, willingly, with her!”

“God, Mel. She used to be your best friend.”

“That was before her son killed Emily.”

“You don't know he did,” Michael said.

“And who might have told you that?” Melanie snorted, her voice thick with sarcasm. “Did she cry right in the middle of her salad? Or did she wait until she was finished eating to tell you the prosecutor's made a terrible mistake?”

“She didn't do anything,” Michael said quietly. “Even if... even if. . .” He could not bring himself to say it. “It still wouldn't be her fault.”

Melanie shook her head. “You're a fool. Don't you understand the lengths a mother will go to to protect her child?” She glanced up, her nostrils flared, her lips white. “That's what Gus is doing, Michael. Which is more than I can say for you.”

The PLAN, the following Saturday, was for Kate and James to ride together to the Palm d'Or, and have Gus meet them after her visit with Chris. James and Kate had been sitting at the tastefully appointed table for a half hour, though, when the waiter came over for the third time. “Perhaps,” he said, “you would like to start without the rest of your party.”

“No, Daddy,” Kate said, frowning. “I want to wait for Mom.” James shrugged. “We'll give it a few more minutes,” he said.

He slouched in his seat, watching Kate play with the delicate edges of the orchid that graced the center of the table. “She's usually late,” Kate said, almost to herself, “but usually not this bad.” Suddenly Gus barreled into the tiny dining room, her camel's-hair coat nearly flying off her back into the arms of the maitre d' as she hurried toward James and Kate. “I am so sorry,” she said, leaning over Kate. “Happy birthday, sweetie,” she said, giving her a kiss.

“James,” she greeted formally, slipping into her chair. And then, to the waiter: “Just water, please. I'm not hungry.”

“How could you not be hungry?” James asked. “It's lunchtime.” Gus looked into her lap. “I ate something on the way here,” she said dismissively. “Now,” she smiled at Kate, “tell me how it feels to be fifteen.”

“Daddy says,” Kate beamed, “I can get my ears pierced if it's okay with you. Today. After lunch.”

“What a terrific idea!” Gus said, turning to James. “Can you take her?” He did not hear Gus at first, because he was reveling in the smells that she had brought into the stuffy dining room-the wintergreen scent of the snow outside, the apple of her hair conditioner, and the lingering smell of perfume. But there was something else, something deep and tropical that he could not put a name to

... what was it?

“Can you?” Gus asked again.

“Can I what?”

“Take Kate to the jeweler. Her ears,” Gus said, fiddling with her own lobes. Her face pinkened. “I... well, 1 can't. I'm going back to see Chris again.”

“You were just there,” James said.

He would not have believed it possible, but Gus's cheeks burned redder. “They have extra visiting hours today,” she said, smoothing her napkin onto her lap. “I told Chris I'd see him again.” James sighed and turned toward Kate. “We'll go to the jewelry store after lunch,” he told her. He faced his wife again, intending to ask why she'd bothered coming all the way to the restaurant when she was just going right back, but was stopped again by the smell of her. Something was different, he realized. After she visited Chris she always came home smelling of jail, stale and confining, a scent that stayed in her clothes and her skin until they were scrubbed. She had been to visit Chris today, she said, but that smell was missing. There was something else in its place-that exotic element, which James suddenly recognized as the sweet, heated scent of a lie. CHRIS SLOUCHED IN HIS CHAIR, trying not to be pissed off at his mother and failing miserably. It wasn't like he looked forward to her visits-he tried to be as nonchalant as possible about them, because if he didn't get himself psyched, then all the other days in between weren't quite so bad. But all the same, he'd been in his cell today at 10:45, which was when she always got there, and he waited and waited and didn't get the call to come down until nearly two o'clock.

“What happened to you?” he muttered.

“I'm sorry,” his mother apologized. “We took Kate out for a birthday lunch.”

“So?” Chris said sullenly. “You could have come before that.”

“Actually,” Gus said, “I had a prior engagement.”

A prior engagement? Chris scowled, slouching even further down. What did she think this was, some nineteenth-century drawing room? What the hell kind of prior engagement was more important than making time to see your son, who was rotting away in a jail?

“Chris,” his mother said, touching her hand to his forehead. “Are you sick again?” He shied away from her palm. “I'm fine.”

“You're not acting fine.”

“Oh, really? How am I supposed to act when I'm stuck in jail for three more months before a jury gets to lock me away for the rest of my life?”

“Is that it?” Gus asked. “You're getting nervous about the trial? Because I can tell you-”

“What, Mom? What can you tell me?” He turned his face away, disgust distorting his features.

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Well,” Gus said, “Michael and I both think Jordan's got a very good case.” Chris laughed outright. “By all means, I'd listen to Michael. The grieving father of the victim.”

“You have no right to say that! He's going out of his way to help you. You ought to be grateful to him.”

“For bringing charges against me in the first place?”

“He had nothing to do with that. It's up to the State, not the Golds.”

“Jesus, Mom,” Chris said, stunned. “Whose side are you on?” Gus stared at him for a moment. “Yours,” she said finally. “But Michael finally decided that he'll be a defense witness, which is a very good thing.”

“He told you this?” Chris asked, guardedly optimistic.

“Today,” Gus said.

At that, Chris's eyes narrowed with doubt. “When?” he asked.

“I saw him this morning, before we took Kate out,” Gus said, her chin coming up. “We've been meeting on the days when we're both visiting you.”

Chris's shoulders stiffened as he realized why his mother had been late visiting today, and he turned away, feeling oddly light-boned and jealous. “What do you talk about?” he asked quietly.

“I don't know,” Gus said. “You. Our families. We just... talk.” She felt the faint outline of her heart in her chest, fist-size and smooth-edged, as it pounded a little harder. “There's nothing the matter with that,” she said defensively, before she could remember that she had nothing to answer for. Chris stared at the scarred table for a long moment, during which the inmate beside them left. Gus kept her eyes trained on her son's face. “You obviously have something you want to say,” she announced.

Her son turned, his expression carefully blank. “Could you ask Dad,” Chris said, “if he'd come to visit?”

“I WONDER IF WORKING with you is going to make me old and fat before my time,” Selena said, her mouth rounding beneath an oily triangle of pizza.

Jordan looked up, surprised. “Am I that much of a slave driver?”

“No. But your eating habits are awful. Do you even know what a salad is?”

“Sure,” Jordan said, smiling. “It's that stuff they invented a sneeze-guard for.” He pushed aside a piece of pepperoni. “For Thomas,” he explained.

Selena's eyes darted to the closed bedroom door. “Oh? He hasn't been ruined by croissants?”

“No. In fact he lost some weight over there, said the food was too greasy for him.” Jordan grimaced at the pizza, soaking through the cardboard box. “But if American junk food's what brought him back, it's okay with me.”

“Oh, he would have come back,” Selena reassured. “He left his Nintendo behind.” Jordan laughed. “You're so good for my ego,” he said.

“Like you don't do a fine job all yourself,“ Selena said dryly. ”You pay me to investigate, not ingratiate."

“Mmm,” Jordan agreed. “So what have you done lately to earn your keep?” Selena, having finished interviewing the immediate world for the defense, was now working her way through the people on the prosecution's witness list, so that Jordan would know what he was up against. “I really don't expect any surprises from the ME or the detective,” she said. “And the kid they're putting on the stand-Emily's friend-should be suitably terrified and not a hell of a lot of use to Delaney. The only wild card is Melanie Gold, who I can't get close enough to interview.”

“Well, maybe we'll get lucky,” Jordan said. “Maybe she'll have a certified breakdown in the next few months and Puckett can rule her mentally in-capable of taking the stand.” Selena rolled her eyes. “I'm not holding my breath,” she said.

“Neither am I,” Jordan admitted. “But stranger things have happened.” Selena nodded, and propped her feet up beside Jordan's on the coffee table. “Stocking feet,” she said absently, wiggling her toes. “When I was a kid, I used to think the phrase was 'stalking feet.' ”

“No wonder you went into PI work.”

She nudged his sneaker. “Why did you?” she asked.

“Go into PI work?” Jordan said, grinning.

“You know what I mean.”

“I went to law school for the same reason everyone else goes to law school: I had no idea what to do with my life and my parents were paying.”

Selena laughed. “No, I can figure out why you became an attorney-so you'd get paid to have people listen to you argue. I want to know why you switched sides.”