Ruthless Cross

by Barbara Freethy

  She didn’t want to lie. She didn’t want to obstruct the investigation. But first she needed to talk to her mother when she was in her right mind. She had to make sure that her mom couldn't be hurt in any way by whatever was about to come. She'd been protecting her since she was ten years old; she wasn't going to stop now.

  Chapter Four

  Arthur's desk was extremely well organized. Flynn shook his head at the sight of a dozen pens, all the same color, and the same brand. There was nothing out of place. The files in the drawers all appeared to be related to household bills or personal items. He found a copy of Arthur's marriage license to Juliette, reminding him that they'd only been married a year. He was still a little surprised that Arthur had married again. He had told him a long time ago that he doubted he would ever walk down the aisle again, but he had, and to Juliette, a beautiful woman, no doubt, but also a woman who was emotionally messy. That didn't seem to fit Arthur's personality.

  He was the kind of man who was always in charge, whether it was his courtroom or his home or his personal life. He didn't suffer fools. He was impatient with incompetence. He liked to control everything within his realm.

  Juliette didn't seem that controllable, although maybe he was reading the situation incorrectly. Perhaps her personality, her issues with anxiety and depression, made her the kind of person that Arthur wanted to protect, because he'd always had a strong protective instinct as well.

  He'd been very strict with Olivia when she was a teenager. She'd had an early curfew. And if she was a minute late, she'd be grounded for a week. Olivia had railed against her father's rules, but she'd also respected the fact that he wanted to keep her safe. Olivia had told him once that she loved her father, but sometimes she didn't like him very much.

  He frowned, wondering if that's how Callie felt about Arthur. But why wouldn't she like him? He needed to figure out the dynamics of Arthur's new family. He also needed to figure out why Arthur had wanted to talk to him.

  He moved across the room to the wall of file cabinets. He did a quick, cursory search, noting copies of tax returns and more household files. He went a little slower through the drawer containing information and invoice forms related to the art Arthur had purchased during the past year. He'd been quite active, buying numerous paintings, sculptures, and some interesting historic trinkets, like a music box from the eighteen hundreds.

  Arthur seemed to work mostly through two art dealers: Ray Hutchins, who had an office in New York, and Gretchen Vale, who had taken over his father's gallery. He frowned at the sight of her name. He hadn't spoken to Gretchen after Arthur's death last night, but he'd read Savannah's notes from their interview. Gretchen had been very upset but had appeared to be cooperative, although she'd provided no information of note.

  "Find anything?" Callie asked.

  He jerked at the sound of her voice.

  She stood just inside the doorway and took a sip of her coffee, giving him a cool look. She was definitely more poised and in control than her mother. She was pale, and there were dark shadows under her eyes, but there was no sign of tears in her eyes—not today, anyway. He missed the clingy red dress from the night before, but even in dark jeans and a deep-purple sweater, she was strikingly pretty. He could not let that distract him.

  "I'm just getting started," he said.

  "Shouldn't you have my mother's permission before you continue searching? Unless you have a warrant?"

  "Warrants take time. So does waiting for your mother to wake up. Every minute that passes makes it that much more difficult to find Arthur's killer."

  "I understand, but my mother is shattered. She needs to rest. I'm not going to wake my mom up so you can interrogate her. I also don't think you're going to find a clue in this house. Arthur was super organized, a neat freak really. He would get angry if there was a cup left on the counter. I can't imagine you'll find anything that will tie to his killer."

  "Maybe not, but I need to look. I assume Arthur has a housekeeper."

  "Yes, Lois Garcia. She's been with him for a long time."

  "Since before Francine and Olivia died," he said, his lips tightening. "She's still with him? She used to live here. Where is she now?"

  "At her apartment in Silverlake. She moved out after my mom moved in. Since Arthur was no longer living alone, Lois wanted to give him and his new wife more privacy. She works every day from eight to five and cooks most of the meals, but I spoke to her this morning, and I told her not to come in. She was very upset, and there's nothing to be done today."

  "Does anyone else work here in the house?"

  "There's another woman who comes in to do a heavy cleaning once a week. I don't know her name. There's a gardener." She shrugged. "I'm not sure if there's anyone else."

  "I'll need to ask your mother."

  "You could also ask Lois."

  "Oh, I will. Speaking of your mother…was she happy in her marriage to Arthur? Were they having problems?"

  "No. They're practically newlyweds. They're crazy about each other." She drew in a breath, giving him a troubled look. "Why are you so focused on us? Is it just that you always look to the family?"

  "That's partly it. But there was also a personal element to Arthur's murder. The killer wanted drama and shame. Arthur's pants didn't just fall down, Callie."

  "Maybe when he fell, his clothing caught on something."

  "That's not what happened, and you know it."

  "Then what do you think occurred?"

  "I don't have enough information to answer that question. But as I mentioned last night, I know that Juliette and Arthur argued shortly before his death."

  "She explained that."

  "I don't believe for one second it was regarding their weekend plans. You came up with that story, and your mother went along with it."

  "They were arguing about their weekend plans in the limo. I assumed that's what they discussed at the museum. That's why I mentioned it."

  "Nice hedge. Try again."

  She frowned. "Look, I don't know any more than you do. She said that's what it was about, and as far as I'm concerned, that's it."

  "Did she think Arthur was having an affair?"

  Callie paled at his question, which told him a lot.

  "Like I said, they were very much in love," she reiterated. "I can't imagine that he would have been having an affair. But if he was, there must be some evidence of it—some text on his phone, charges on his credit card, something…right?"

  "I would think so."

  "Then maybe you should spend your time on that. Because my mother is grief-stricken. She just lost her husband. She's not able to help you right now. She needs to get herself together."

  "What about you? Are you grief-stricken?"

  "You don't seem to believe me when I answer you, so why should I bother?"

  "You do know that lying to the FBI is a felony, don't you?"

  She squared her shoulders and gave him a stubborn look. "Yes. I also know that I don't have to talk to you."

  "Actually, you do have to answer my questions. You're a witness to the murder of a federal judge." He paused. "What are you afraid of, Callie?"

  She stared back at him, indecision in her eyes. Before she could answer, a scream rang through the house.

  Callie bolted toward the door of the study. He followed close behind, jogging up the stairs behind her. More deep, gut-wrenching screams came as they ran down the hall.

  She stopped abruptly in front of closed double doors. "Please go back downstairs."

  "Not a chance."

  "This is private."

  "Open the door."

  She gave him a tense look, but as another heartbreaking wail came from inside the room, she pushed open the door.

  At first, he didn't know where the screams were coming from. The bed was empty. But then he saw Juliette on the balcony. She was dressed in a pink silky nightgown, her feet bare, her brown hair disheveled. She attempted to climb onto the railing, screaming Arthur's name wi
th each wobbly attempt.

  "Mom, no," Callie yelled, rushing forward. She grabbed her mom around the waist and pulled her backward. They tumbled onto the ground together.

  "Let me go," Juliette pleaded. "Arthur is gone, and I'm alone again. I can't do it, Callie. I can't. I'm sorry."

  "You're not alone. You have me."

  "I'm a terrible mother. I can't start over. It's too hard. And this—this is my fault. I'm the reason Arthur is dead."

  "Don't say that. It's not your fault. Let's get you back to bed. And then I'm going to call the doctor."

  Callie helped her mom to her feet and walked her back into the bedroom. Juliette barely gave him a passing glance. She seemed completely unaware of his presence as she crawled under the covers, sobbing in grief.

  Callie walked over to him. "You have to go," she hissed, pushing him toward the door. "Please, give her some time."

  He stepped into the hall. "Why does she think Arthur's death is her fault?"

  "She doesn't know what she's saying."

  He saw the fierce, protective gleam in her brown eyes, and as she started to close the door, he said, "Now I know what you're afraid of."

  She gave him a bleak, desperate look. "You really have no idea. Just go. Please."

  He stepped back, and she shut the bedroom door.

  He could hear Callie talking to her mother, pleading with her to calm down, to take a breath, to try to relax. He didn't think Juliette could hear her daughter. She was overwhelmed with pain, so much that she'd apparently thought about flinging herself over the balcony.

  Was she just hysterical with sadness or had she had something to do with Arthur's death?

  It took Callie twenty minutes to get her mother to stop crying. Finally, she ran out of tears.

  "I'm going to call Dr. Clarke," she told her mom when she was calm enough to hear her.

  "No. Please don't," her mother said, a new panic coming into her gaze.

  "I have to, Mom. It will be okay. He'll know what to do, and we can trust him."

  "I don't need a doctor; I need my husband."

  "I wish Arthur was here." Arthur had not been her favorite person in the world, but he had taken care of her mother, and for the past year she hadn't had to be the person who was always there, always checking. In fact, Arthur had preferred she not be in such constant contact with her mother. At first, she'd rebelled against him trying to control how often she spoke to her mom. But she had to admit that she'd had more time to focus on her own life than she ever had before.

  That was over now. She didn't know how far down her mother would spiral. But she would be there for her, as she'd always been.

  "I can't believe he's dead," her mom said. "How can that be? I can still smell his cologne on these sheets."

  She didn't really want to think about her mom and Arthur in bed together. "I'm so sorry, Mom."

  "What am I going to do?"

  "We'll figure it out. I'm here for you."

  "You haven't been around as much lately."

  Her mother's comment tweaked her guilt. "You and Arthur were busy."

  "He was just trying to help you, Callie. You were so mean to him last night."

  She frowned. "It wasn't that bad."

  "I was mean to him, too." Her mom's bottom lip began to tremble once more. "I let my insecurities get away from me. My imagination—it's too big. Arthur always told me that. He said I just made stuff up in my head. But it seemed so real."

  She didn't know what her mother was talking about, but she didn't like what she was hearing. "What kind of stuff?"

  "I thought… It doesn't matter anymore."

  "What did you think?"

  "I'm tired. I don't know what I'm saying."

  "You should sleep. No more going out on the balcony."

  "What?" she asked in confusion. "Was I on the balcony? I thought I was dreaming. Is that why my feet are so cold?"

  "You'll warm up soon. Close your eyes and think about something happy."

  "Arthur made me happy."

  "Going to the beach makes you happy, too," she reminded her. "Remember when we'd drive up to Santa Barbara and walk on Butterfly Beach? You loved the feel of the sand between your toes. It was warm, too. We'd stretch out on the ground, the sun on our faces, and we'd hear music playing from the nearby hotels. It was so pretty."

  Her mother's eyes closed as she talked in gentle, soothing tones, telling her a story she'd told her a hundred times before. And when her chest rose and fell with peaceful quiet, Callie got to her feet.

  She walked over to the balcony doors and made sure the lock at the top was on. Then she grabbed the desk by the window and pulled it over to block the doors. At least, if her mom tried to get out, she'd hear her.

  Then she walked down the hall to the guest room where she stayed when she was there. She pulled out her phone and called her mother's doctor again. The service put her through this time, and he agreed to come over to the house to determine whether or not her mother needed to be admitted to the hospital.

  The thought of that possibility made her nauseous. Her mom had been doing well for a long time. She didn't want to see her hospitalized again. But she also knew that sometimes that had to happen to get her mother back on track.

  She frowned as she heard a clatter from downstairs. She'd thought Flynn had left. But he had probably decided to take advantage of her mom's breakdown to search the house. She headed down the hall, wondering if she had any legal ability to make him leave.

  But that would mean calling the police, and would they really throw an FBI agent out of the house? Even if they did, wouldn't that only cause more problems in the long run?

  She hurried down the stairs, pausing by the window on the landing as the outside crowd drew her attention. There was a crush of people in front of the house, and her heart sank at the sight of a news van and a reporter setting up their shot on the sidewalk. Thankfully, no one had come into the yard, and the house was set back from the street, but the media still felt too close.

  This was the last thing her mom needed, and she mentally kicked herself for not anticipating the arrival of the press. She should have never brought her mother home. Although, in reality, she doubted she would have been able to get her mother to go to her apartment. She'd wanted to be close to Arthur and their life was here.

  But now her mother was living in a fishbowl and the arrival of her psychiatrist might raise questions—questions that she didn't want her mother to have to answer. She knew she could count on Dr. Clarke to be discreet, but a smart reporter might still figure out who he was and why he was there.

  Looking away from the window, she drew in a breath and then wrinkled her nose in confusion. It smelled like bacon. Moving into the kitchen, she was shocked to see Flynn standing at the stove, scrambling eggs.

  "What the hell are you doing?" she asked in amazement.

  "Cooking breakfast," he replied, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. "I didn't eat earlier, and I have a feeling you didn't, either. How's your mother doing?"

  "She's…look, you need to leave. I told you to go."

  "I know, and I thought about it, but I didn't want to leave you alone to deal with everything."

  "I've been alone, dealing with everything, for most of my life." Even as she said the words, she immediately regretted them. She didn't need to give Flynn any more ammunition to go after her mother. He'd already seen far too much.

  "Well, today, you're not alone. You need to eat, because things may get worse before they get better."

  "That's a dire prediction."

  "Do you disagree?"

  "I wish I could. Just so you know, my mom didn't even realize she was on the balcony. She was sleepwalking. She wasn't trying to…kill herself." It was hard to get the words out, because they made the past few moments seem more real.

  Flynn gave her an even look. "Okay. Why don't you sit down?" He tipped his head toward the place setting at the island counter across from the stovetop. "I
poured you a juice. I'm guessing you've already had a lot of coffee."

  She stared at him in bewilderment. "What is wrong with you? You can't just come in here and start cooking. What are you thinking?"

  "It's breakfast, Callie. I'm not a chef like you, but I am known for my scrambled eggs, and the refrigerator provided quite a few fresh vegetables for the scramble. There's also bacon, English muffins, and fruit. There's plenty if you think your mother might want something to eat."

  "She's sleeping again."

  "Good." He filled a plate with eggs and slid it across the island, as she sat down. Then he made one for himself and came around the corner to sit adjacent to her.

  "I don't get you," she said warily.

  "You don't have to get me—just eat."

  She felt torn between making a stand and trying his eggs, because they did look delicious, with tomatoes, onions, and green peppers mixed in. Finally, she decided to be pragmatic and eat. Clearly Flynn wasn't going anywhere, and she was actually starting to feel hungry.

  "Did you reach your mother's doctor?" he asked, as she picked up her fork.

  "He's on his way." She took a bite, and the savory flavor was rather amazing. "These are actually good."

  "I told you—eggs are my specialty," he said with a smile.

  She found his charming smile to be almost as unnerving as his serious demeanor, because she didn't know what to think or how to feel. He was acting like a friend, but he could also be her enemy. He'd said as much the night before.

  While she wanted to know who had killed Arthur, she was afraid of what the answer would be, which didn't put her and Flynn on the same side. He would have no restraint when it came to tracking down the person who had murdered Arthur. He wanted justice for the man who had helped him get through the loss of his first love. He wouldn't let anything or anyone get in the way of that.

  Thinking about Flynn and Olivia raised a few other questions in her head. She'd heard Arthur speak about his daughter on a number of occasions. Even though she'd been dead for fifteen years, she was still very much on his mind. He always referred to her as his flower girl, because she'd loved nothing more than playing in the garden or tucking flowers into her hair. He'd had the gardens in the back designed in her honor. There was even a bench with her name on it.