An hour or so after Stephen left, Jess walked down to the nursing station to request some orange juice for Annie, who’d finally expressed a yen for something. On the way back to Annie’s room, she overheard two nurse’s aides gossiping about him. Intrigued, though she berated herself for her interest when her daughter was so sick, she made a point, later, of asking one of the women if he was married, or single.
“Divorced, I think,” the woman replied with a grin. “But don’t get your hopes up, honey. That one’s out of reach.”
Four
With Sterling at his side and very little restful sleep to his credit during what had remained of the weekend, Jake showed up at police headquarters shortly after 10:00 a.m. on Monday expecting another grilling. Embarrassed and chagrined at being subjected to what he considered an unmerited public humiliation, he could feel the department secretaries staring and whispering to each other as the desk sergeant led him and the attorney back to room 108, which housed the homicide division. For a man used to deference and first-class treatment, it was like being forced to run a gauntlet.
As before, Detectives Harbing and Rosczak were waiting for them. Thanking him for coming in, the two stony-faced detectives ushered them into an even smaller interview room, which contained just a battered table and four unmatched chairs. Two of the chairs had reclining backs and comfortable, padded seats. They were quickly appropriated by the officers. They motioned for him and Sterling to take the others, which were made of plain varnished wood.
Though Jake couldn’t be sure, he was willing to bet the wall of what appeared to be frosted glass on one side of the room was in reality a one-way mirror that would allow higher-ups, possibly the police captain and an assistant county attorney, to observe the exchange that was about to take place. The thought of an unseen prosecutor scribbling notes as the two detectives tried to trip him up made him literally sick to his stomach.
“Okay,” Detective Rosczak said. “Let’s take this from the top. Tell us everything you can remember about the night Monica Malone was murdered….”
About to comply, feeling as he didn’t have any other choice, Jake was peremptorily silenced by Sterling. “Not so fast,” the lawyer snapped. “My client is the CEO of Fortune Industries. He enjoys an excellent reputation in this community. He came here in good faith to help with your investigation…not to be arrested for a crime he didn’t commit because some minor detail of his account doesn’t correspond with what he told you Saturday night. If he’s a suspect, he wants to know it…now, so he can hire a criminal attorney to defend himself.”
The detectives exchanged a look. “You might say he’s a suspect,” Tom Harbing admitted, causing Jake’s heart to flutter. “Of course, if he can convince us of his innocence…”
Sterling’s manner approached its most severe. “You know the score as well as I do,” he said. “A man’s innocent until proven guilty. And you’ll have a hard time tagging Mr. Fortune with that label, because he didn’t kill Miss Malone. We came here today in the expectation of answering additional questions that weren’t put to Mr. Fortune on Saturday night, not hashing over the same ground endlessly. Since it appears you have the latter in mind, I’m advising him to keep his own counsel until such time as he may choose to testify under oath.”
Again the detectives looked at each other, without speaking. All but quaking in his seat, Jake half expected Detective Harbing to jerk him to his feet and haul his hands behind his back while Detective Rosczak read him his rights and snapped on the handcuffs.
It didn’t happen—at least not yet.
“Suit yourself,” Detective Rosczak said, with an expressive shrug. “That time may come a lot sooner than you think. In the meantime, you’d do well to advise your client not to leave town without informing us of his destination.”
Annie seemed better still when Lindsay dropped by shortly before noon with the news that she’d spoken with as many relatives as possible by phone. Though some were still mulling over the proposition, her sister, Rebecca, her nephew Adam and her niece Caroline had already agreed to be tested.
“In my opinion, most of the others will, too, once they’ve had time to get used to the idea,” Lindsay prophesied. “As for myself, I plan to have blood drawn just as soon as I finish my rounds.”
Because of her willingness to help and go to bat for Annie with her family, Jess’s little girl stood a chance of beating the deadly disease that was ravaging her five-year-old body. On the verge of hugging her, Jess restrained herself. Though Lindsay had taken that liberty during their talk in the transcription room, she wasn’t sure how the gesture would be received, coming from her. She didn’t want to push her connection to the moneyed and wary Fortunes past their point of tolerance, or foist unwanted intimacy on them.
“Dr. Todd…I can’t thank you enough,” she whispered.
Lindsay’s smile was positively beatific. “Don’t mention it,” she urged. “I consider it a start. We’ll have to work on the others. Of course, I needn’t tell you that the odds are still somewhat problematical. At a time like this, a person can’t have too many relatives. I just wish my twin—the real one—hadn’t been kidnapped. We were fraternal, and wherever he or she is today, my former womb-mate could have statistically improved Annie’s chances.”
Jess was in full agreement. In seeking a donor for Annie, they’d need all the luck, and all the blood relatives, they could get.
“By the way,” Lindsay added, “I think it’s time you stopped calling me ‘Dr. Todd’ and started using my given name. Just don’t try putting an ‘Aunt’ in front of it….”
As the two women laughed, forging the first tentative bonds of what promised to become a warm cousinly friendship, Jake and Sterling were deep in conversation in the Fortune mansion’s oak-paneled library, talking about Jake’s life and the mess in which he found himself.
The attorney had returned to the Lake Travis house with him, not to baby-sit, philosophize or attempt to silence dire predictions of disaster, but rather to discuss the choice of a lead criminal attorney with him. He had two in mind: Eamon Walsh of Minneapolis, a brilliant, deceptively laid-back intellectual who did well with primarily white middle-and upper-class juries, and St. Paul native Aaron F. Silberman, a contentious bulldog of a bare-knuckle fighter who tended to sink his teeth into the prosecution’s case and hang on until it had been reduced to tatters. Jurors of varying races and social backgrounds tended to be somewhat skeptical of his tough-guy stance at first. But they were quickly won over by his common touch, his expert questioning and persuasive arguments, and his strong air of conducting a dogged search for the truth on an innocent client’s behalf.
Though in his opinion Jake would get on better with Walsh, Sterling had all but decided to recommend Silberman. The object was to keep the Fortune CEO out of jail and foil any attempt by the Hennepin County criminal justice system to pin Monica’s murder on him, not to recruit a future golfing buddy.
Before getting down to brass tacks, he knew, he’d have to put in some time as father confessor and psychotherapist. It was a role he’d played for the Fortunes ever since signing on as Ben’s and Kate’s attorney of record, many years earlier. He only wished Jake would lay off the Scotch. It wasn’t noon yet, and he’d already downed most of his second drink. He was going to need his wits and his sobriety about him in the days and weeks ahead.
From Jake’s perspective, the selection of a criminal attorney and subsequent strategizing over a response to the murder charge that might soon be leveled against him were details he didn’t want to face. To be honest, he was fed up with scheming and worrying in a futile attempt to deal with what had seemed an unending series of blows and crises in his personal and professional life. He wanted to go to ground somewhere. Fade into oblivion. Simply to drift, without engaging his thoughts.
The truth was, he’d never quite fitted the intrepid buoyancy of the Fortune mold. Yet as Ben’s and Kate’s oldest son—supposedly the child of both—he’d been groom
ed for the top job at Fortune Industries since college and been given it in due course. Yet he’d never really wanted it. As a youngster, he’d had a very different career in mind for himself. It was too late now to throw over the traces and change course, and it would be even if he weren’t facing the fight of his life over Monica Malone’s death. He was fifty-four years old, and the die had been cast. Yet that young Jake was still deep within him, craving peace, rest and a cessation of unwanted responsibility, and yearning after might-have-beens.
“You know,” he told Sterling morosely, running long, tanned fingers through his silvering dark hair, “this is going to sound like alcohol talking. But none of this would have happened if I’d gone to medical school the way I’d hoped. I should have told Dad to stuff it….”
To Sterling, such maudlin musings were wholly beside the point. Whatever career Jake had pursued, Monica would have come after him if he had the stock she wanted and she possessed damning secret information to help her wring it out of him. Not for the first time, the lawyer wondered where she’d gotten it. Who had carried the tale of Jake’s real parentage to her, inspiring her to dig into Kate’s past for the necessary witnesses? In all his musings, he’d been able to come up with just one answer—her erstwhile lover, Ben Fortune, who’d had every reason to know the truth.
It was an answer that would devastate Kate’s firstborn—and one Sterling was astonished he hadn’t come up with on his own. “Why’d you hang on to the CEO position, then, if you didn’t want it?” he asked, humoring him.
Jake shrugged, swirling what remained of the Scotch he’d poured into his Waterford-crystal tumbler. “Because Nate wanted it, I suppose,” he answered, aware that his increasingly precarious position had caused him to dredge up some uncomfortable insights.
As the two men talked, closeted behind the library’s massive double doors, they couldn’t hear the buzzer go off in the kitchen that indicated someone was applying for entrance at the property’s front gate. They weren’t aware of Mrs. Laughlin, the sixtyish, somewhat severe-looking housekeeper Jake had recently hired, answering it. Neither had an inkling of heavier trouble descending until the unthinkable happened and she rapped against the double doors’ heavy oak panels, disturbing them.
“Yes, Mrs. Laughlin…what is it?” Jake called warily.
She took his question as permission to enter. “The police are at the front gate, Mr. Fortune,” she disclosed, her knobby fingers pleating the hem of her apron. “They demand to see you. What should I tell them?”
Tensing until he appeared to be carved from stone, Jake seemed incapable of answering her. “Ask them to come in,” Sterling replied in his place. “They damn well better have a warrant,” he added as the woman withdrew, “or we’re going straight to the top with a formal complaint of harassment.”
Jake hoped violently that the latter scenario would take place. Yet, in his heart, he knew better than to expect it. Since he’d gotten mixed up with Monica, it seemed, each unforeseeable step deeper into the muck of his connection with her had been preordained. “Time to hire a criminal attorney, I guess,” he drawled, in an effort to tough out the moment. “I’ll let you be the judge of whom to get.”
Seconds later, the housekeeper was showing Detectives Harbing and Rosczak into the library. They didn’t wait for her to leave the room, or mince any words before stating their business.
“Jacob Fortune, I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Monica Malone,” Detective Harbing related as his partner tugged Jake’s hands behind his back and snapped a pair of handcuffs about his wrists. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you choose to say may be used against you. You have the right to an attorney…”
Powerless to prevent it from happening, Sterling watched, grim-faced. “I presume you goons have a warrant,” he growled.
Detective Harbing looked as if he’d like to abandon his good-cop stance and punch the attorney in the mouth. “I have it right here, sir,” he replied, proffering a crumpled document he’d been carrying in his inside jacket pocket.
Scanning the warrant, Sterling saw that everything was in order. It had been sworn out before a judge. He doubted it had been that difficult to get, given the preponderance of evidence. “Don’t say anything, unless it’s a request to go to the bathroom,” he warned Jake. “No matter how understanding or accommodating they seem, don’t talk to them!”
The Fortune CEO stared. “You’re…not coming with me?” he croaked.
Regretfully Sterling shook his head. “I’ve got to retain a criminal attorney for you,” he explained, wishing he’d done so earlier. “If I can get in touch with the man I want, and persuade him to represent you, it shouldn’t take long.”
After Jake and the police had gone, Sterling’s first move was to phone Kate. “I have bad news, kitten,” he announced, unconsciously reverting to the pet name he’d used once or twice when they were much younger and he was hopelessly in love with her.
She didn’t answer for several seconds. Then she replied, “Give it to me straight,” in her husky voice.
Beneath her silks, she was made of tempered steel. Though she might bend, if necessary, she’d never break. “Jake’s been arrested for Monica’s murder,” he said, thanking God for her toughness and resilience. “As we speak, he’s on his way to jail. I’ve told him to say nothing further to anyone until I can arrange for a top-notch criminal attorney to defend him.”
Another silence rested between them. In it, Sterling imagined he could hear her unasked question: Will Jake be convicted if the case goes to trial? Aware that she was most protective of Jake among her children—that she’d grieve when, inevitably, the details of his parentage were bandied about—he didn’t know how to answer her.
“Whom did you have in mind?” she said at last, letting him off the hook. When he mentioned Aaron Silberman, she reacted favorably. “I’ve seen him on television,” she remarked. “He’s a short, somewhat aggressive man, with energetic-looking hair and wire-rimmed glasses, isn’t he? From what I could tell, he seems to know how to handle himself.”
Sterling was pleased. “I’ll get with him right away,” he promised, resolving to take private detective Gabe Devereax off the ongoing investigation of Kate’s crash and other Fortune mishaps and put him on the Malone case.
Her reply was terse but approving. “Don’t let me keep you, then.”
“I’ll phone you this evening.”
“Come by for a drink, if you’re able.”
Having spoken with Gabe and won a provisional commitment from Aaron Silberman to defend Jake, Sterling headed for the jail to see what, if anything, he could do for his beleaguered client. No sooner had he found a parking place and stepped out of his Lincoln, however, than he was mobbed by members of the press, including several reporters with TV cameramen in tow.
The battery of questions they thrust at him had a common theme. Rumor had it Jake had been arrested for Monica Malone’s murder. Was that accurate? What were the charges? Did Jake continue to profess his innocence?
To Sterling’s way of thinking, barely enough time had passed for Harbing and Rosczak to file the arrest report. So where had these hyenas gotten their information? A tip from one of the illustrious detectives, perhaps?
“It seems to me,” he said severely, “that hearsay isn’t the best source of facts in a murder case. You’d do well to check the official record. As for Mr. Fortune, he maintains that Miss Malone was alive and well the last time he saw her. And I believe him. You may say that his family strongly believes in his innocence.”
A call to the police commissioner got Jake out of the holding area and into a private cell within minutes of Sterling’s arrival. They were joined by Aaron Silberman a short time later. Though Jake’s initial reaction to the feisty, plainspoken attorney was one of scepticism bordering on distaste, he bit his lip and didn’t argue against him. He wasn’t in a position to do anything of the sort. Besides, if he’d learned anything over the years, it was th
at Sterling knew his job. If the family lawyer thought Aaron Silberman was the best man to help clear his name, that was good enough for him.
He found the necessity of going over and over the details of his visit to Monica on the night of her death painful in the extreme. Since repeating them to the police in Sterling’s presence on Saturday evening, he’d tended to gloss over them in his head, softening the memory of his own stupidity in the process.
Now it was being brought home to him in full measure. What would Erica think when she heard he’d been arrested? His sisters? And his children? Would they stand by their belief in him?
At last, he couldn’t think of a single detail they hadn’t covered at least half a dozen times. “I’ve told you absolutely everything I can think of,” he said wearily, cradling his aching head in his hands. “I swear to you that I didn’t kill Monica, though I suppose I could easily have done so in self-defense. In my mind’s eye, I can see her sitting there on the sofa, screaming gutter words at me as I went out the door, just as surely as I can see you sitting across the table. At that time, nobody had been stabbed with the letter opener that supposedly killed her but myself.”
Aaron Silberman regarded him quietly for a moment. “Maybe I’m a nut,” he said at last. “Or a patsy for the kind of story that skates so close to disaster it must be the truth. But I believe you. So…who’s the guilty party?”
Jake was forced to admit he didn’t have a clue. “Strange as it may seem, I barely knew the woman,” he replied. “This whole mess got started months ago, when she came to me to discuss ‘a matter of mutual interest.’ As I’ve told you, that turned out to be the issue of my parentage. She showed me the affidavits I described, and swore that if I didn’t sell her a sizable chunk of my stock in Fortune Industries at well below market value, she’d ruin me by making the information they contained public….”
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