by Laura Kenner
“I’ve got to go away, f-f-formulate my defense ’fore the cops grab m-me,” he stammered. “Need a good d-defense. Heat of passion? Self-defense? Defamation of character? Nev’r mind that. It’s your fault. All your damn—” The answering machine clicked and cut off his call.
She stood motionless, still clutching the phone, fearing that the next message would be a continuation of Raymond’s rambling harangue. But there were no more. After a moment, she managed to punch in the code that saved the messages.
Saved Raymond’s confession for posterity’s sake.
For the prosecution’s sake?
“Everything okay?” Will asked.
“Uh…yeah.” Sara jumped, her mind and heart racing at the same speed. She replaced the receiver, praying that her hands didn’t shake and betray her. Had she actually just listened to a taped confession of murder? And more important, was she going to tell anyone about it?
Including Will?
His sense of—dare she say it?—loyalty to Raymond was admirable though most likely unwarranted. What sort of compromising position would Will be in if he withheld the knowledge of such a taped confession from the police? She couldn’t put him in that sort of position. She tried to smile, to regain some semblance of control. “I just checked my messages.”
“And?”
“You want a good deal on some aluminum siding?”
“No, thanks.” He graced her with a stare that lasted just a bit too long for comfort. “You sure everything’s all right?”
She nodded, not sure whom she was protecting from a sense of guilt: Raymond, Will or herself. She feigned attention to the computer screen. “How’s it going here?”
He wore a look of grim satisfaction as he leaned back in the chair. “I love organized people.”
“Love?” Sara kept her attention on the monitor, fearing direct eye contact. Something told her that given the proper opportunity, Will Riggs could take one look at her and easily see the conspiracy in her eyes.
But he merely nodded. “I especially love the ones who depend on their computers and datebooks to keep them on their daily track.”
“You found his organizer?” Panic lumped in her throat and she looked around. Raymond never went anywhere without his organizer. He’d even told her how once he rushed out of a smoky hotel shower, clutching nothing other than his organizer and a towel.
Maybe Raymond’s call was a blind. A forced confession. He never stutters like that unless he’s totally stressed. Maybe he left behind his organizer as a clue that someone’s holding him against his—
“Sara? Something wrong?”
She drummed her fingers on the top of the desk. “Don’t you see? He’d never leave it behind willingly. That must mean someone could be holding him—”
“Slow down, Sara.” He covered her trembling hand with his warm one. “It’s not what you think. I didn’t find his organizer—-just his organizer files.” Will looked at their hands, then self-consciously moved his in order to tap the monitor with his forefinger. “On his computer. Evidently, he lives in fear of losing his datebook so he keeps copies of all his appointments and notes here.” Will hit a few keys and a blue box appeared on monitor.
Print Queue
Number of copies:
Page range: 1-99
He nodded toward the screen. “I want your permission to print out his current case listing and a couple of other files I could use to help locate him.”
She studied the document partially hidden behind the blue Print box. “Private files?”
“Some of them were protected by a password.”
“Password?” Sara turned her gaze from the computer screen to his face. “You were able to guess his password?”
A small smile quirked his lips. “It was pretty obvious. Ironside.”
“Ironside? How in the world did you figure something like that out?” A thousand thoughts flashed through her mind but no matter how she ordered them, she couldn’t come up with a logical thread that started at Raymond’s password and ended at Ironside.
“Simple. According to Trainor, your fiancé—” Will signaled his surrender before Sara could object “—ex-fiancé registered at the hotel under the name E. S. Gardner.”
“So?”
“E. S. Gardner—as in Earl Stanley Gardner, the author of the Perry Mason books.” He waved in the direction of the three large bookcases filling the wall behind the desk. Directly behind the chair, she spotted Raymond’s prized collection: a series of small red hardback books sandwiched between two sets of larger law books.
“Perry Mason?”
“Think. Perry Mason…who was played by—”
“What’s his name? Uh…Raymond Burr,” she supplied.
Will gestured for her to continue. “Who later had another show on television called…?”
“‘Ironside,’” she stated flatly. An image of a bearded face flashed in her mind, completing the very circuitous route that started with Raymond and ended successfully with his password. “Raymond Bergeron…Raymond Burr. I never even made the connection.”
“Who knows?” Will shrugged. “Maybe the similarity of the names is what spurred him into being a lawyer. I’ve heard of weirder things. But—” he turned his attention back to the computer “—it’s just further proof that you might not have known Bergeron as well as you thought you did.”
Sara cringed, waiting for the recriminations to continue. But rather than give her a second chorus about the foibles of dating divorce lawyers, Will pressed on. “Once I found his password, I had access to all his files. But before I print out any of them—” he held out his hand “—give me a dollar.”
Sara stared at his outstretched palm. “A what?”
“A dollar.”
“Why?”
He appeared mildly irritated. “Just do it”
Sara reached into her purse, found a crumpled dollar and dropped it in his hand. “Here. Now what?”
After pocketing the bill, Will reached into the desk drawer and fished out a sticky pad and a pen. A few moments later, he handed her a neatly printed note: “Received from Sara Hardaway, $1.00 as retainer for professional services.”
And in the same messy scrawl he’d used on their barroom cocktail napkin, he’d signed “Wm. B. Riggs.”
“There. We’ve made it legal enough.”
Her stomach sank as she remembered the conversation she’d overheard between Will and the police detective. “To assure client confidentiality?”
He nodded. “Our first contract was drawn to handle only the loyalty test. But we need something a little less specific for this new situation. A little exchange of money for services rendered and voila. Instant confidentiality.” He hit a button and the printer began to whine.
A second later, the intercom beeped. “Uh, Ms. Hardaway? There’s a gentleman out here who would like to see you.”
“A gentleman to see me?” Sara glared first at the speaker, then at Will. “No one knows I’m here. I didn’t even tell Martin.”
“Then who could it be?”
“Someone looking for Raymond.” An aggravating thought hung just beyond her reach. “Something’s wrong, here.”
Will eyed her closely. “What?”
“It’s Joanie. She’s never called me ’Ms. Hardaway.’ Ever.”
He held her gaze for a moment. “You think…?”
She punched the intercom. “Uh, Joanie, does this gentleman have a name?”
This time, there was definitely a strained quality to the secretary’s voice. “He says his name is Trainor. Steven Trainor.”
Sara released the button a split second before Will’s expletive would have carried over the speaker and into the next room.
“Damn it!” He swiveled in the chair and gathered the papers that had started to collect in the printer’s output tray. “Stall him.”
She grabbed his shoulder and pointed to the opposite side of the room. “You can get out through the door over there. It lea
ds to the back hallway.”
“Trainor’s no dummy. He’ll recognize you and know I’m involved. What I don’t want him to see are these printouts. C’mon…c’mon,” he coaxed the printer. “Hurry up.”
Sara pushed the intercom button. “Uh, Joanie? I’ll be right there.”
Will stood by the printer, eagerly snatching each piece of paper as it slowly rolled out. “Stall him as long as you can.”
Straightening her dress, Sara shuffled toward the door and opened it just wide enough to pass through, then closed it softly behind herself. The detective stood at the front desk, facing away from her.
It’s now or never. “Uh…Mr. Trainor?”
Steve Trainor pivoted quickly, his hand disappearing into his jacket as he turned. For a moment, Sara thought he was reaching for a gun, but she belatedly realized he was withdrawing a thin black wallet from his pocket.
“Ma’am, I need to talk—” He stopped in midsentence. To his credit, his only betrayal of surprised recognition was a raised eyebrow. “I guess I don’t have to explain why I’m here, Ms. Hardaway.” He tucked his wallet back into his pocket without ever exposing the shield within. He flashed her a cold smile. “I didn’t think you looked like one of Riggs’s trainees. I need to ask you a few questions about Raymond Bergeron.” He continued without a pause, as if he didn’t expect her to have any objections. “When was the last time you saw your fiancé?”
Joanie wore a look of complete confusion. “What’s he talking about, Sara? Has something happened to Raymond?”
It was the first time Sara had ever heard the woman call Raymond by his first name. For a moment, for one uncomfortably long second, Sara wondered if it signaled a more personal relationship between boss and subordinate.
She glanced at the photographs of three bright-faced toddlers that graced Joanie’s desk. Her grandchildren. Sara…you’re talking about Joanie! Am I going to suspect every woman whose path he’s ever crossed?
Trainor continued, evidently oblivious to her lingering uncertainties. “We just got through talking to the night manager who was able to identify your fiance as the man who checked into the hotel with Ms. Strauss. It seems Raymond Bergeron was a frequent visitor to their establishment.”
Sara felt a knot form in the center of her stomach. “A frequent visitor?” She swallowed hard. “Would you care to explain that, Detective?”
Trainor shrugged. “Mr. Bergeron has a standing reservation for Friday nights at the Fair Oaks Inn.” He nailed her again with his stare accompanied by a single raised eyebrow. “You usually work on Friday nights, don’t you, Ms. Hardaway?”
The blood rushed to Sara’s face, filling it with heat.
“Oh, my God…” Joanie covered her mouth with her hand.
Trainor spared the secretary only a cursory glance, keeping his attention primarily on Sara. “I’m sorry to have been so blunt, but I wanted you to know that you won’t be doing him or yourself any favors by trying to protect him. If you know where he is, you need to tell me. Now.”
Sara realized that the truth, or at least most of it, would be the best defense at the moment “In all honesty, if I knew where he was, I’d tell you immediately.” She heaved a deflated sigh and sagged to the desk, perching on its corner. Tears crowded the corners of her eyes and she quickly decided to use what was an honest emotion to her best advantage. Turning partially, she groped behind her for the tissue box, running her hand over the intercom in the process. She prayed she’d managed to turn it on. “Unfortunately, I don’t know where he is.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Did you know the deceased, Ms. Strauss?”
Sara shrugged. “I never met her, but I knew of her, but not by name. Merely as the person hired to play a role.”
“Then you’re saying you knew about your fiancé’s…liaisons with her?”
“Liaison, singular. They only met last night.”
Trainor shook his head. “No, I’m afraid that’s where you’re mistaken. The night manager identified her, as well. It seems Mr. Bergeron and Ms. Strauss have been…meeting at the hotel on an average of twice a month for almost a year.”
Chapter Eight
Will winced.
“Tw-twice a…month?”
The electronic circuitry of the intercom filtered out only a little of the emotion in Sara’s voice. “F—for a year?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You’ve got to be mistaken.” This time it was the secretary who protested.
“There’s no mistake. They’d used aliases and always paid in cash, but the manager ID’d them easily.”
Will switched off the intercom and moved to the door, praying Trainor would be so overwhelmed by Sara’s burst of emotion that he wouldn’t notice slight movement in the doorknob. Using slow, controlled motions, he twisted the knob and cracked open the door until he’d created a space big enough to see through.
Sara stood in the middle of the room, her hands clenched into fists. Through the glass front door, he could see the secretary weaving down the hall toward a water fountain, evidently too distraught to talk.
Trainor wore an expression of almost-clinical detachment as he gazed unblinkingly at Sara. “Ms. Hardaway, you’re asking me to believe you didn’t know about his liaisons?”
“Know? Of c-course not!” she sputtered. Her shock had apparently transformed into anger. “You think I would tolerate something like that? Me? The woman who hasn’t even looked at another man in the last three years?”
Will winced again. Not one look? Now there’s a solid blow to my ego.
“Can you believe the audacity of that man?” Sara stalked across room, pacing as if the constant motion would bleed away some of the pain. “He hires a private investigator to test my loyalty to him, when all the time he’s been messing around with another woman? Even worse…with the very female we hired to test him?” She stalked to the desk, then suddenly collapsed in the chair. All the energy and anger left her voice, leaving it flat and emotionless. “Is that irony or what?”
Trainor remained unmoved. “You tell me.”
Although she looked drained, she was able to gather enough energy to shoot the detective a steely glare. “It’s Raymond’s story to tell, not mine.”
Will found himself gripping the doorknob harder, hoping that shock and exhaustion wouldn’t entice her into saying something foolish.
“Think about it, Detective,” she continued. “If I had known anything about his relationship with any woman at all, would I have spent the time and money to hire a detective to test a man I already knew was unfaithful?”
Trainor crossed his arms. “I’ve found that people do strange things when they get upset, Ms. Hardaway.”
An unhealthy flush colored her face. “I assure you—if I’d known anything about this—” She stopped in mid-phrase, then stood suddenly as if imbued with a new wave of strength fueled by rage. “Listen, Detective Trainor, the police damn well better find him before I do because if I see him first, I’m going to rip him into pieces.”
Will winced for the third time. Threats? He knew he was hearing words spoken in the blinding heat of emotion, not Sara’s true inner voice. But would Steve and the Blackwater homicide division be quite as intuitive?
Will took one look around Bergeron’s office to make sure everything was back in place. Seeing that it was, he drew a deep breath and quietly opened the door to the reception area.
Sara was leaning against the desk, her face buried in trembling hands. Trainor looked as if he was stuck halfway between his good-cop and bad-cop routines, not knowing which direction to take. Bergeron’s secretary stood outside in the hallway, being consoled by a couple of cronies who were shooting curious glances toward the office.
It took all of Will’s control not to walk over and pull Sara into his arms to comfort her. The gesture would smack of familiarity, a sense of implied propriety he had no right to suggest…no matter how he felt. He closed the d
oor firmly behind him, the noise startling both Sara and Trainor. Will regretted catching her off guard, but he was pleased with Steve’s reaction of surprise.
He leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms. “What my client is trying to say is she’s highly upset by these revelations concerning her ex-fiancé. You must understand that all this has caught her completely off guard.”
Trainor’s reaction transformed too rapidly from a moment of surprise to a look of scathing disregard. “There you are. I was wondering when you’d get tired of eavesdropping on the intercom. So she’s your client, now?”
Will nodded with as much nonchalance as he could manage. “She placed me on retainer shortly after we left the hotel.”
Trainor made a rude noise. “So when did you go back to practicing law? I thought you swore you’d never do it again.”
“Law?” Sara turned around slowly and graced him with a look of total incredulity. Some of the color drained from her flushed face. “You’re an…an attorney?” She pronounced the word with enough horror in her voice that she could have used it as a substitute for the word rapist without losing any impact.
For a moment, Will lost his concentration. He took a step toward her, obeying an instinct that had nothing to do with business. In a flash, he realized his tactical mistake. He pivoted on his heel to face Trainor. “I go back to law only during times of duress,” he said over his shoulder to Sara, taking advantage of his position not to make eye contact with her.
“Yeah, with Riggs, you get a bargain. Two for the price of one.” Trainor took a step toward the door, held it open and beckoned for the secretary to return. She wiped her eyes and stumbled in their direction. After she crossed the threshold, he closed the door and scattered the gathered spectators with a single glare. They disappeared back into their offices. Trainor then turned to Will and came dangerously close to smirking. “Care to tell me exactly what’s going on?”
Will stuffed his hands into his pockets. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sara’s gaze drilling in his direction. What timing. Just when she must have decided she hated all lawyers, he had to reveal his earlier career mistake. “The condensed no-frills version?”