“So how do you figure Suni got hold of it?”
“Well, she either asked for it—maybe told Jerry she was worried about her own safety, something like that—or she took it. Either one is possible.”
A mother, or possibly a nanny, strolled up to the park then. She was pushing a buggy with a pink-wrapped baby inside, while a young boy, about five or six, held on to the side of the handle and walked beside her. The buggy left thin tracks in the melting snow, and the little boy’s mittens hung empty from a string of yarn tucked inside the sleeves of his coat.
They headed for the tire swing at the other end of the grassy clearing. There was a wooden bench, and the woman sat on it while the little boy took running leaps at the rubber tire.
Trista was accustomed to turning away from sights such as these, but this time she felt compelled to watch. Andrew would have been about the same age as this young boy. Their coloring was about the same. This fall she would’ve been registering him in kindergarten.
“Give me a push,” the boy demanded, but his caregiver had picked up the baby, who had started to fuss once the buggy stopped moving.
“Makes you think of Andrew, doesn’t it?” Morgan said from beside her.
“Yes.” The word seemed to catch in the back of her throat. “Yes, it does.”
Morgan tossed his used wrapper and pop can into a nearby trash container, then ambled toward them. Trista was surprised to hear him ask the woman, “Can I help?” When she nodded, he turned to the boy, starting him off with a gentle swing.
The boy looked at him scornfully. “Harder!”
“Okay. Hang on, buddy.” Morgan increased the strength of his pushes gradually, until the boy was swirling around in a big circle.
Trista prepared herself for the burning pain. The kind that started in her chest, building in intensity until it seemed as if thousands of little darts were exploding through her bloodstream. Morgan should have been pushing his own son on the swing, not this stranger. It wasn’t fair.
No. It wasn’t fair. But the pain in her chest felt lighter somehow. And the little boy on the swing was having a grand time. He was giggling now, shrieking when the tire came near, but never touched, the side poles.
After ten minutes the baby was asleep, and the woman took over. Morgan rejoined Trista and they began to walk back to her office.
Neither of them said a word about the incident on the swing, and they walked in silence for several minutes before Trista noticed they’d somehow begun holding hands.
THEY SAID their goodbyes at the corner by the parking lot, where a mature maple tree was growing in the boulevard. Trista let go of Morgan’s hand, and reminded herself of her loyalty to Suni.
“I guess my suspicions about Brenda were off base, but I still think you’ve got the wrong woman. I think the real murderer planted the gun in Suni’s garage so she would look guilty.”
Morgan sighed wearily. “Any ideas on who this ‘real murderer’ could be?”
“As you’ve reminded me in the past, I’m not the detective here.”
“My point exactly.”
She shook her head with frustration. “Are you sure you’ve looked deep enough? There has to be some other connection between the two men. Besides my office and Suni. Or isn’t it possible the murders are the work of a madman, like the newspapers are saying. Someone trying to rid the world of cheating spouses.”
“If that’s the case, it sure will wreak havoc with your practice, won’t it?”
“That’s not funny, Morgan.”
“It is to me. If there’s another connection between these men, I sure as hell haven’t been able to find it. As for the madman theory, so far I haven’t had to stoop to the level of the tabloids to come up with my leads.”
“I don’t understand you. Don’t you care about justice? You’re acting like all you’re concerned about is wrapping up this case, never mind if you have to arrest an innocent citizen to do it. The Morgan I knew would never have stopped searching until he was certain he had the right person.” Tears filling her eyes blurred her vision and she stumbled.
Morgan put a hand to her elbow, pulling her off the sidewalk and onto the grass. “Well, maybe the Morgan you knew no longer exists. What, exactly, do you expect from me?”
Before she had a chance to answer this question, he pulled her in close. She stared at the dark stubble on his lower face, the fire in his eyes, and then she saw nothing as he pressed his mouth to hers and blocked out the present with the intense fury of his kiss.
At first Trista battled the taste of his mouth, the feel of his skin, the scent of his hair. But, even as her own anger soared, she parted her lips and wrapped her arms tightly around his back.
His response was to pull her in closer and deepen his kisses. His tongue probed and demanded, his arms tightened like steel bands. She felt as if she were being devoured, as if her very essence was being absorbed into his.
“God, Trista,” she heard him groan as he picked her up and pushed her against the solid trunk of the maple tree. The bark was rough and dug into her back through her coat as he pressed his body against hers. She was pinned now, like a butterfly on display, and once more she felt the onslaught of his kisses.
“Morgan.” This was not the tender lovemaking of the previous night. This was a man exacting payment for four years of pain and loneliness. She could feel his anger, taste it. It swirled around the tree, like a cyclone, lifting them higher and higher.
I’m sorry. She didn’t think she’d spoken the words, but the hand she placed on his head was tender. She felt his lips, which had been hard and demanding, soften. The kisses stopped, and for one long moment there was only the warmth of his breath against her cheek.
Her lips could still feel the pressure from his mouth, and her chin stung from the friction of his unshaven face, but she knew that sanity was returning. Trista could see the fine drops of perspiration on his forehead, hear the ragged rhythm of his breathing. His eyes were on her lips, but his jaw was clenched, as if denying what had just happened. She swallowed hard, resisting the urge to press her lips once more to his, then felt him step back, setting her feet back firmly on the ground.
“I told you not to say that anymore.” Then he turned and walked away.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“I DIDN’T SEND those notes. You have to believe me!” A frantic Suni paced back and forth in Trista’s office later that day as Trista stood at the window, looking across the street at the sullen waters of Lake Ontario. “And I didn’t take that gun from Jerry, either. I didn’t even know he had a gun!”
“I’d like to believe you, Suni. But it’s a little difficult right now.” Trista placed a hand to her lips. They still felt tender from the onslaught of Morgan’s furious kisses only a few hours ago. Where had he gone? What was he doing? Was he really convinced that Suni was the murderer? And was it possible that he was right?
“When I met you, I really thought you were different from all the other politicians.” Trista couldn’t help but feel disillusioned, betrayed. She turned to face the other woman, pressing her hands behind her, against the windowpane.
Suni stopped pacing and stood in front of her, holding out her hands in a vaguely entreating manner. For once, she looked every one of her forty-plus years. Lines had etched into her face overnight, making her appear worried and apprehensive, as well she might. Even her body seemed smaller, her vivacious spirit dampened, if not extinguished.
“I know it’s hard for you to understand why I had those affairs. But I don’t see why that makes you question my motives in politics. If I didn’t believe in what I was doing, I would never have chosen this lifestyle, believe me. I’ve given up the chance to have a husband and children, to be part of a family. Am I really to blame for daring to have a sex life?”
Trista listened. She was very good at listening. After all, it was her job to hear what people were saying, to understand them, to help them understand themselves.
But Suni wasn’t
her client. She was her friend.
“I’m sorry, Suni, but I can’t feel any sympathy for you, and I certainly can’t condone what you’ve done. I recognize that they were your decisions to make, but despite what you might have thought, you had alternatives.”
Suni bowed her head, as if accepting Trista’s criticism.
“At the same time, I don’t think you deserve to be arrested. And I can’t believe you sent those notes.”
“You have no idea what a relief it is for me to hear you say that. To know that you still believe in me.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
Suni frowned. “Then what are you saying?”
“Only that sending those notes would have been a very stupid thing to do if you really were planning to kill those men. And if you did set up your meetings by letter, why were only those two notes found?”
“I suppose one might argue that the others had been thrown away,” Suni countered reluctantly.
Trista shook her head. “Then why weren’t these last notes discarded as well? No, it doesn’t make sense. The only thing I can think of is that someone else wrote them, hoping to implicate you.”
“Of course that’s what really happened. And now that I think of it, I know how they did it.”
“How?”
“Remember the break-in we had at the campaign office last month? Maybe the murderer was planning ahead. Maybe they stole some of my stationery and typed out those messages, which they later planted in order to incriminate me.”
Trista felt a ray of hope. “It’s possible, of course. But how can we prove it?”
“We have a police report documenting the break-in,” Suni pointed out. “Surely that at least raises the possibility that I might not have sent those notes.”
Trista nodded slowly. “Yes, but it’s going to take more than that to convince Morgan.”
“What else can we do?”
“We need to find another suspect. Someone with a motive for the murders even stronger than yours.”
Suni frowned. “Why do you say, even stronger than mine? I still don’t understand what my motive is supposed to be.”
Trista felt a flicker of that old enemy—doubt. It seemed that Suni was protesting a little too loudly. For the moment, however, she felt she owed her friend the benefit of the doubt. “The police think you murdered Jerry and Daniel to protect your reputation.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense. Why would Jerry or Daniel have revealed anything about our affairs? They had their marriages to protect.”
“Not the greatest marriages in the world,” Trista pointed out. “And if they thought they could get enough money out of you to make it worth their while…”
“I don’t buy that. If Daniel wanted out of his marriage, the last route he would’ve picked was a messy, public divorce. And as for the blackmail angle, he didn’t need money. His wife had a very comfortable inheritance from her father. And Jerry didn’t need money, either. His business was very profitable, as I’m sure you know. And he would never have risked his marriage.”
“Why not?” It had never struck Trista that Jerry had any particularly strong feelings for his wife.
“Jerry liked having a wife he could control, and taking his pleasure elsewhere. This wasn’t the first time he’d cheated on Nan. Besides, Jerry loved that business of his. Consider that under Ontario law, he would have been required to split his assets fifty-fifty with his wife. Jerry would never have been willing to do that.”
Trista had to admit that Suni had a point. The one thing that everyone invariably agreed on about Jerry Walker was his commitment to his business. “What you say makes sense,” she agreed. “But it still doesn’t give us any answers.”
“No, but can’t you at least try to talk to your ex-husband? Surely if you can see the improbability of this, you can convince him of the same?” Suni’s voice was close to pleading. “They’re going to arrest me, you know!”
“I have tried talking to Morgan. But maybe I could do a little checking around myself.”
“Oh, I’d really appreciate that.”
Trista put an arm around her friend. It was impossible for her to stay angry at Suni when she was in such misery. “Try not to worry too much. Morgan is a reasonable man. When he’s proven wrong, he’ll admit it.”
The only problem was, of course, proving he was wrong. How in the world was she supposed to do that?
EXHAUSTED, Trista flopped down on the sofa in her office, kicking her tan-colored Italian shoes to the floor. She’d just finished her last session for the day, and Brenda had left only minutes ago.
She and Brenda had talked earlier, after Suni had left the office. The confrontation was initiated by Brenda, who’d walked into her office silently, handing her a piece of paper containing her resignation. Trista had been shocked initially, but when she’d had time to study the expression on Brenda’s face, she’d realized that the woman had finally reached the end of her rope. The secrets had become too burdensome.
“This isn’t necessary, you know.” Trista had picked up the piece of paper and tried to return it.
At first Brenda had refused to look at her, staring off out the window. For a moment all Trista had seen was her profile. Jaw set. Eyes blinking.
“I know that you’re gay. I know about the forged letter. I’m sorry about what happened in the past, but you’ve done good work for me.”
Brenda had turned slowly toward her. “You don’t want me to leave?”
“Of course not.” Trista had pushed the letter back into her hands. “The forgery, of course, was not a good idea.”
Brenda nodded again, and there was more blinking. “Well, if you’re sure, I guess I’ll stay.”
Then she’d gone back to her desk. And that had been that.
One day they might be able to talk about it. At least, Trista hoped so. But now wasn’t the time. This case had to be settled. One way or another, all of them were being affected by it.
She thought about her promise to Suni and wondered, yet again, how she was going to keep it. Then she heard a knock at the door. Dragging herself off the couch, she slipped her feet back into shoes that now felt about half a size too small.
Morgan was standing on the other side of the door, looking tired and discouraged. What had happened to the adrenaline rush he’d had earlier in the day?
“I figured you’d still be here,” he said. In his hands he held two files. Stepping forward, he tossed them on her desk. Trista didn’t have to ask whose they were. Or what their return meant.
“Oh no, Morgan.”
He turned to face her, half sitting on her desk, resting his hands on his thighs. “We took some things from Suni’s house to the lab this afternoon. Looks like there are fibers from the motel carpet on her shoes, and ballistics testing shows the bullets were fired from the gun we found at her place.”
He stood and shoved his hands into his black trousers. “We arrested her half an hour ago.”
“Oh, God.” Trista wrapped both hands around the back of her neck. Poor Suni must be freaking out. Had the press discovered the news yet? Trista could just imagine the mayhem that would erupt in the campaign office once that happened.
“You wanted the case solved,” Morgan reminded her. “Now it’s solved.”
“I wish I thought that was true.”
“And I wish I could understand why you’re so sure we’ve made a mistake. How well do you know Suni Choopra, anyway? Remember when you told me she couldn’t be having affairs with married men? Well, you were wrong about that. Maybe you’re wrong about the murders, too.”
“I’m not wrong. She’s being framed. And we figured out how, too.”
“We?”
“Suni and I. We were talking earlier and she reminded me that the campaign office had been broken into about a month ago. The murderer could have stolen her writing paper to type those notes.”
“I know about the break-in. I’ve read the police report. If the notes were
all we had to go on, I might be more willing to believe you. But the gun—”
“Oh, come on, Morgan! Leaving the murder weapon in her garage. You don’t think that was stupid?”
“Like I told you before, guns aren’t that easy to come by—”
She ignored that point. “It was stupid, Morgan. And Suni isn’t stupid.”
“But I am. Is that what you’re saying?”
Trista clenched her hands into tight fists. “No. That is not what I’m saying.”
“I can’t believe this. I thought when this thing was over we’d finally have time to talk about the two of—about our future…”
Our future. There was something seductive about those words, but remembering the pain she’d felt after he’d kissed her, then walked away, Trista knew better than to kid herself. “There is no two of us, Morgan. Not anymore.”
“We had a life together once. A damn good life. I know there’s no turning back the clock, but there still might be some sort of future left for us.”
Trista fought to control the swell of emotions rising inside her. Fear and pain. But hope and joy, too. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps there was a chance… But what if he was wrong? What if it didn’t work out? Could she survive that pain again? And what about Morgan? How could she risk putting him through the ordeal of a second separation?
“I just can’t do it, Morgan. It’s too late for us. Don’t you see?”
“No, I don’t. You’re making this whole thing too complicated. You forget that I like things black and white. Remember? So tell me you don’t love me, Trista, because that’s what it’s going to take to get me to walk out of your life and never come back.”
“Love? What’s love, Morgan?” Trista met his blue eyes squarely. “I can admit that I’ll probably always feel this connection between you and me, but—” she held up her hand to stop him from stepping forward “—you and I both know that life is much more complicated than that. Even love can’t solve all our problems.”
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