by Nora Roberts
trying out a little theory. Can you tell me who came to see Eve the day she was killed. Even the day before.”
“Oh, God, Paul.”
“I know it’s hard, but it would help.”
“All right then.” Briskly, she dried her eyes, tucked away the tissue, then reached for the date book not yet packed. “Drake was here, and Greenburg. Both Maggie and Victor were by the evening before. Oh, and you, of course. Travers mentioned you’d come to see Eve, so I jotted it down in her book.”
“Always efficient, Nina.” He toyed with another possibility. “Did Eve have anything going with the chauffeur?”
“Lyle?” For the first time in days, Nina really laughed. “No! Miss B. had too much class for his kind. She liked the way he looked with the car. That was it.”
“One more thing. The day it happened. Did you have any trouble with the alarms. Anybody check them?”
“The alarms? No, why should there have been trouble?”
“Just tapping all the bases, Nina. Listen, let me know when you’re settled. And don’t worry about Travers. I’ll look after her.”
“I know. I’ll keep in touch. Paul … I’m sorry,” she said lamely. “Sorry about everything.”
“So am I.” He hung up, still wondering. He made the next call more slowly, more deliberately, then waited to be put through to Frank.
“Only got a minute, Paul. Things are hopping.”
“Julia?”
“Mostly. She’s got some big gun coming in from back east.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Oh, yeah, guess you do. Anyway, he wants every goddamn scrap of paper we’ve got on the case. He casts a pretty big shadow, even out here, so the D.A.’s making sure we’ve got everything all nice and tight. He’s already got some stiff-necked P.I. looking over our shoulders.”
“Hathoway works fast.”
“Yeah.” He lowered his voice. “So the D.A.’s working faster. He wants this one, Paul, bad. It’s got it all—money, power, glitz, scandal. It’s going to give him some great press.”
“Tell me something, Frank. Is there any way you can check if the security system had been turned off that day?”
Frank frowned and pushed through his papers. “It was on when we did our check.”
“But could it have been turned off earlier, then turned on again?”
“Christ, Paul, you’re spitting in the wind.” When he got no response to that, Frank muttered under his breath. “Okay, I’ll talk to a couple of the electronics boys, but I don’t think you’ve got a shot.”
“Then give me another. Are you going to talk to the chauffeur again?”
“Studly Doright? What for?”
“Hunch.”
“Shit, spare me from mystery writers.” But he was already making a note. “Sure, I can give him another shake and rattle.”
“I’d like to tag along when you do.”
“Sure, why the hell not? What do I need a pension for when I can live on good deeds?” “And one more thing.”
“Fire away. You want me to turn over the files to you? Lose some evidence? Badger a witness.”
“I’d appreciate it. While you’re about it, why don’t you check the airlines? See if anyone connected with Eve took a quick trip to London last month. Around the twelfth.”
“No problem. That should only take me, oh, about ten or twenty man-hours. Any particular reason?”
“I’ll let you know. Thanks.”
And now, Paul thought as he hung up the phone, he’d wait for the answers, stir them around and see if he had a workable plot.
It was a long trip from Philadelphia to L.A. Even flying first class didn’t eliminate jet lag and travel fatigue. But Lincoln Hathoway looked as though he had just stepped out of his tailor’s. His navy gabardine suit with its subtle chalk stripes showed nary a wrinkle. His hand-sewn shoes shone like a mirror. His blond, conservatively cut hair was perfectly in place.
Paul liked to think it was the seamless correctness that had him detesting the man on sight.
“Lincoln Hathoway,” he said, extending a manicured hand. “I’m here to see Julia.”
It pleased Paul that his own palm was gritty with sand. “Paul Winthrop.”
“Yes, I know.” Not that he recognized him from his book jackets. Lincoln didn’t have time to spare on popular fiction. But he’d had his secretary gather every clipping available on Julia from the last six months. He was aware of who Paul was, and his relationship with both victim and accused. “I’m pleased Julia has somewhere discreet to stay until we work this all out.”
“Actually, I’ve been a bit more worried about her peace of mind than discretion.” He gestured Lincoln inside, deciding he would thoroughly enjoy detesting him. “Want a drink?”
“Some mineral water with a twist would be fine, thank you.” Lincoln was a man who formed opinions quickly. It was often necessary to gauge a jury by little more than appearance and body language. He summed Paul up as wealthy, impatient, and suspicious, and wondered how he might use those qualities if the case went to trial. “Mr. Winthrop, how is Julia?”
Suddenly the epitome of the aloof Brit, Paul turned and offered the glass. “Why don’t you ask her yourself?”
She was standing in the doorway, a lean, dark-eyed child tucked protectively under her arm. Ten years, Lincoln thought, had changed her. She no longer radiated enthusiasm and trust, but composure and caution. The fawn-colored hair that had once swung free was now swept back from a face that had fined down and become elegant.
He looked at the boy, hardly aware that the four of them were standing, silent and tensed. He searched for some sign, some physical trait that would have run from him into the child he’d never seen, or wanted. That was human nature, and his own ego.
But he saw nothing of himself in the slight-framed, tousel-haired child. And it relieved him, swept away the traces of guilt and apprehension that had snuck into him during the flight west. The boy was his—Lincoln had never doubted it—but was not his. His world, his family, his conscience were safe in that brief moment it took him to look, appraise, and reject.
Julia saw it all—the way his gaze landed on Brandon, hovered fleetingly, then dismissed. Her arm tightened around her son to shield him from a blow he couldn’t have felt. Then relaxed. Her son was safe. Any lingering doubts that she should tell him his father’s name faded away. His father was dead, to both of them.
“Lincoln.” Her voice was as cool and reserved as the nod of greeting she offered. “It was good of you to come so far so quickly.”
“I’m only sorry about the circumstances.”
“So am I.” Her hand slid over Brandon’s shoulder to rest at the tender nape of his neck. “Brandon, this is Mr. Hathoway. He’s a lawyer who used to work with Granddad a long time ago. He’s come out to help us.”
“Hello.” Brandon saw a tall, stiff-looking man with shiny shoes and that dopey aren’t-you-a-big-boy expression some adults put on whenever they were introduced to a kid.
“Hello, Brandon. I don’t want you to worry, we’re going to take care of everything.”
He couldn’t stand it. In another moment Paul was certain he would deck the man for being so detached. “Come on, kid.” Paul held out a hand. Brandon took it willingly. “Let’s go upstairs and see what kind of trouble we can get into.”
“Well then …” Lincoln took a seat, not even glancing around as Brandon clattered up the stairs. “Why don’t we get started?”
“It really didn’t mean anything to you, did it?” she said quietly. “Seeing him didn’t mean a thing.”
He lifted his fingers to the perfect Windsor knot in his tie. He’d been afraid she’d manufacture some sort of scene. Of course, he was prepared for it. “Julia, as I told you years ago, I can’t afford to entertain an emotional bond. I’m very, very grateful you were mature enough not to go to Elizabeth, regret you were too stubborn to accept any financial help I offered, and pleased that you’ve achieved the kin
d of success where you don’t require it. Naturally, I feel I owe you a great deal, and am deeply, deeply sorry that you find yourself in a position where you require my services.”
She began to laugh—not the thin, edgy laugh of hysteria, but a full, rich chuckle that had Lincoln baffled. “I’m sorry,” she said as she dropped into a chair. “You haven’t changed. You know, Lincoln, I wasn’t sure what I would feel, seeing you again. But the one thing I didn’t expect was nothing.” She let out a little sigh. “So, let’s shovel away the gratitude, and do what has to be done. My father had the greatest respect for you as a lawyer, and since his opinion weighs heavily with me, you’ll have all my cooperation, and for the time it takes to put things right, my complete trust.”
He merely nodded. Lincoln appreciated good, solid sense. “Did you kill Eve Benedict?”
Her eyes flashed. He was surprised to see such deep and volatile anger spark so quickly. “No. Did you expect me to admit if I had?”
“As the daughter of two of the best attorneys I’ve ever worked with, you already know it would be foolish to lie if you want me to represent you. Now then…” He took out a blank legal pad and a black Mont Blanc pen. “I want you to tell me everything you did, everyone you spoke with, everything you saw on the day Eve Benedict was murdered.”
She went through it once, then again. Then, led by his questions, a third time. He made few comments, only nodded from time to time as he jotted down notes in his neat, precise hand. Julia got up only once to refill his glass, and to pour one of her own.
“I’m afraid I haven’t had much time to acquaint myself with the evidence against you. Naturally, I notified the D.A., and the investigating officer that I would be your attorney of record. I was able to secure a copy of certain reports from the prosecutor before I came here, but only glanced at them in the cab.”
He paused, folding his hands in his lap. She remembered he had always had that same quiet, tidy manner. It, plus the sadness in his eyes, had first attracted a romantic, impressionable teenager to him. Now, though the gestures were the same, the sadness had been replaced by shrewdness.
“Julia, are you certain you unlocked the door to enter the house that afternoon?”
“Yes, I had to stop and look for my keys. Ever since the break-in I’d been much more careful about locking up.”
His eyes remained level, his voice even. “Are you quite sure?”
She started to respond, then stopped and sat back. “Do you want me to lie, Lincoln?”
“I want you to think very carefully. Unlocking a door is a habit, an automatic sort of motion that one might assume one did. Particularly after a shock. The fact that you told the police you unlocked the front door, and all of the other doors were locked from the inside when they arrived on the scene, is very damning. There were no keys on the body, no extra keys found around the house. Therefore, either the door was unlocked to begin with or someone, someone with a key, let Eve in.”
“Or someone took Eve’s key after they killed her,” Paul said from the stairs.
Lincoln glanced up. Only the faintest tightening around his mouth revealed any irritation at the interruption. “That is, of course, one angle we can try to pursue. Since the evidence points in the direction of a crime of passion and impulse, it may be difficult to convince a judge that someone was in the house with Eve, killed her, then had the presence of mind to take the key and lock up.”
“Then again, that’s your job, isn’t it?” Paul walked over to the bar. His fingers moved to the bourbon, backtracked, and settled on club soda. The temper he was holding back didn’t need the kick of liquor.
“It’s my job to give Julia the best possible defense.”
“Then I’m sorry to make it more difficult for you, Lincoln, but I unlocked the door, with my key.”
He pursed his lips and reviewed his notes. “You don’t mention touching the murder weapon, the fireplace poker.”
“Because I don’t know if I did or not.” Suddenly weary, she dragged a hand through her hair. “Obviously I did or my fingerprints wouldn’t have been on it.”
“They might if you’d built a fire within the last week or two.”
“I hadn’t. The nights have been pleasant.”
“The weapon was found several feet from the body.” He took a file out of his briefcase. “Are you up to looking at some pictures?”
She knew what he meant, and wasn’t sure of the answer. Bracing herself, she reached out. There was Eve, crumpled on the rug, her face still so breathtakingly beautiful. And the blood.
“From this angle,” Lincoln was saying, “you see the poker is lying over here.” He leaned forward to touch a finger to the print. “As if someone had thrown it there, or perhaps dropped it after backing up from the body.”
“I found her like that,” Julia whispered. Her own voice was muffled by the roaring in her head, the quick, deadly illness in her stomach. “I went to her, took her hand. I think I said her name. And I knew. I got up, stumbled. I picked it up—I think—it had her blood on it. And on my hands. So I threw it down because I had to do something. Call someone.” She thrust the picture away and rose unsteadily to her feet. “Excuse me, I have to say good night to Brandon.”
The moment she’d rushed up the stairs, Paul turned on him. “Did you have to do that to her?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. And worse before it’s over.” In an economic move, Lincoln turned over a page on his pad. “The prosecuting attorney is a very determined, very capable man. And like all men elected to office, ambitious and aware of the value of a celebrity trial. We’ll have to show a plausible alternative from every scrap of physical evidence he has. We’re also going to stuff reasonable doubt down the throats of not only a judge, a jury if it comes to that, but the public at large. Now I realize you and Julia have a personal relationship—”
“Do you?” With a slow, grim smile, Paul sat on the arm of a chair. “Let me spell it out for you, counselor. Julia and Brandon belong to me now. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to break several small, vital bones in your body for what you did to her. But if you’re as good as I’ve heard, if you’re her best chance to get through this, then whatever you ask me to do, I’ll do.”
Lincoln relaxed his grip on his pen. “Then I’d suggest the first thing be we forget about what happened between Julia and me more than a decade ago.”
“Except that,” Paul said, and smiled again. “Try again.”
Lincoln had seen more pleasant smiles on felons he’d convicted. “Your personal feelings about me will only hurt Julia.”
“No. Nothing’s going to hurt her again. Including you. If I’d thought differently, you wouldn’t have walked through the door.” With his eyes still on Lincoln’s he pulled out a cigar. “I’ve worked with scum before.”
“Paul.” Julia spoke quietly as she came downstairs again. “That won’t help.”
“Clearing the air always helps, Julia,” he contradicted her. “Hathoway knows that while he has all of my disgust, he also has all my cooperation.”
“I came here to help, not to be judged for a mistake I made over ten years ago.”
“Be careful, Lincoln.” Julia rounded on him before she could stop herself. “That mistake is upstairs, sleeping. I’m accepting your help not only for my own sake, but for his. He’s been fatherless all his life. I can’t bear to think of him losing me too.”
Only a faint flush rising up from his knotted tie to his cheeks indicated she’d hit any mark. “If we can all keep our personal feelings out of this, we have a much better chance of seeing that doesn’t happen.” Satisfied the subject was settled, he moved on. “You both knew the deceased, were privy to the workings of her household, her friendships, her enemies. It would be helpful if you told me everything you could about those close to her. Anyone who stood to gain by her death, financially, emotionally.”
“Besides me?” Julia said.
“Perhaps we’ll start with you, and Mr. Winthrop. Ju
st a brief sketch, if you will. I’ve arranged for a suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel, where I’ll be working. Meyers, Courtney, and Lowe have agreed to lend me two of their clerks, and my own secretary will be flying out tomorrow.” He checked his watch, which he’d already changed to West Coast time, frowned. “We’ll need more in-depth interviews once I’ve set up. First thing Monday I’ll petition for a postponement of the arraignment.”
“No.” Chilled, Julia began to rub her hands over her arms. “I’m sorry, Lincoln, but I can’t stand the idea of dragging this out.”
“Julia, I’ll need time to structure your defense. With luck, we can keep this from going to trial.”
“I don’t mean to be difficult, but I have to get it over with. Postponements only give more time to sensationalize. Brandon’s old enough to read the paper, see the newscasts. And I … to be frank, I can’t stand much more waiting.”
“Well, we have the weekend to think about it.” Or, Lincoln decided, to turn her around to his way. “For now, tell me about Eve Benedict.”
By the time Lincoln left it was nearly two A.M., and Paul had developed a grudging respect for his thoroughness. He might have found the attorney’s organization and neatness irritating. Lincoln always turned over a new sheet of paper for each change of topic,