by Jan Coffey
“I’ll give you a ride. Climb in.”
She hesitated a moment and looked about at the storm-tossed woods.
“I would appreciate a ride to the closest gas station. I think there’s one about a mile up the road.”
He gave her another once-over look. “Okay. Get in.”
Without another word, she moved to the passenger side, but then paused before getting in.
“I’m muddy and wet. I’ll make a mess of your car.”
“If it makes you feel better, I’ll send you the cleaning bill.”
Frowning, she hopped in and shut the door. Without thinking, he locked the doors. She immediately reached over her shoulder and unlocked hers.
He didn’t blame her for being nervous. Running out of gas at this hour of the night, in this storm, and now getting into a car with a total stranger. Not a particularly comfortable situation. He turned to her. “Where’s your car?”
“Just...just up the road.”
“There’s the phone. You’re welcome to use it.”
She shook her head. “No, I’ll be fine when we get to the gas station.”
“It’ll probably be closed. It’s late.”
“It doesn’t matter. I can call for a cab there.”
He shrugged. “Okay. Where are you heading?”
“Newport.”
Owen reached the end of the private lane and turned onto the main road. There wasn’t a car in sight that he could see. Once he’d made the turn, he noticed she was glancing nervously in the passenger side mirror.
“I’m going to Newport. I can take you there.”
Her eyes, dark in the dim light of the car, studied his face for a moment. He looked over at her and she looked away. “If...if you don’t mind. I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“No trouble.”
He watched her attention turn to the outside mirror again.
“Owen Dean.” He stretched a hand in her direction. She tucked her injured hand out of the way and reached over with her other.
“Sarah Rand.”
He repeated the name in his head. Sarah Rand. Even her name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it.
“Are you certain we haven’t met before?”
She shook her head.
“What is it you do?”
“I’m an attorney,” she whispered, pulling her briefcase tighter into her chest.
Owen swerved into the other lane to avoid a good-sized tree limb that had fallen into the road.
“What kind of law do you practice?” he asked, glancing back at the blackness of the road behind them.
She continued to stare out the window, obviously pretending she’d never heard the question. He let her be. Owen concentrated on his driving, but as the silence descended, he could feel the weight of her gaze occasionally on his face.
Owen found it curious that this woman hadn’t once pushed down the visor to check her own reflection in the mirror. She didn’t seem to care at all about how her short blonde hair looked, plastered around her pale face. Or how the rain might have messed up her make-up. He glanced at her. Those were scratches running down her face, but she didn’t seem to even notice.
He frowned and looked back at the road. Something was gnawing at the edges of his memory.
For the next ten minutes, they drove on without talking, with only the wipers and the wind-driven sheets of rain to break the silence. She appeared totally content to be left to herself. Glancing in her direction now and then, Owen found her face turned toward the passenger window, her hands tightly fisted around the handle of her briefcase. Only once did she move at all, bending down to fiddle with the heel of her shoe as a car passed, going in the other direction.
“You’d be better off calling tonight and having your car towed someplace safe.”
“I’ll take care of it.” Her voice was distant, dismissive. She was looking ahead at the Newport Bridge, the top of which was enshrouded with rain.
But Owen was not ready to be dismissed. “Are you from around here?”
“You can drop me off by the Visitor’s Center in Newport. I can get a cab there.”
She was definitely dismissing him, working at a front of arrogance and coldness. This, however, only piqued his curiosity more.
“I’m an actor...and a producer,” he said, shooting her a half glance. He knew he sounded like an arrogant bastard. “I’ve already told you my name is Ow—”
“Nice to meet you again, Mr. Dean. But I would still appreciate it if you’d drop me in front of the Visitor’s Center.”
“And I suppose you’re one of those people who doesn’t watch TV.” Owen glanced at her and then looked back at the road. Her face would probably crack if she smiled. “What kind of cases do you handle?”
“Corrupt law enforcement,” she said after a pause, this time meeting his eyes. “Racketeering. Murder. Substance abuse. Very realistic and often quite scary.”
“Tough way to make a living.”
That couldn’t have been a smile, he thought. But her furrowed brow did open up for a fraction of a second before she answered.
“No, not me! You. That’s what you do for a living. I know who you are, and I’ve seen your show, Mr. Dean.”
“That’s great. But you still don’t think we’ve met?”
She shook her head more decidedly this time. “I’m positive, though we did come close once.”
Owen watched her attention turn to a police car, sirens and flashers going, traveling in the opposite direction on the bridge. Here was something different, Owen thought. A woman not trying to hit on him.
“Please take the first exit after the bridge,” she said. “If it’s out of your way to take me to the Visitor’s Center, I can get off at the gas station at the end of the ramp.”
“It’s not out of my way,” he said gruffly, flipping on his turn signal.
When they stopped at the first light, he watched her for the first time running her fingers through her wet hair and pushing it behind her ear. A couple of pine needles dropped onto her shoulder.
She had a long, beautiful neck and a firm, well-shaped chin. Owen’s eyes were drawn to her earrings. Very striking. Antique-looking. A large diamond, set in the starlike setting of smaller stones. Even her earrings looked familiar to him. He studied her profile once again. She was a classic beauty. Kind of a Garbo look to her. Lost in thought, she was looking straight ahead. Her eyes suddenly focused.
“It’s green.” She pointed at the light.
He put his foot on the gas and started down the road. Making the next turn, he frowned as they rounded the corner and headed downtown. The tent-like architecture of the Visitor’s Center loomed just ahead.
Letting her just disappear seemed like the wrong thing to do. Of course, he couldn’t force her to do otherwise. He pulled up to the curb.
“It looks closed to me.”
Her look of disappointment was all too apparent. “I can wait here. I’m sure there’ll be a cab coming soon.”
He used her hesitation to his advantage. “It’s raining. I can drop you off where you’re going.”
He pulled away from the curb before she had a chance to protest. After a short pause, she gave him an address on Bellevue Avenue.
“High rent district,” he commented, continuing on America’s Cup Avenue.
“It’s not my place.”
Then it must the boyfriend’s, he decided, suddenly annoyed. He hadn’t seen any wedding band on that fist clutching the briefcase.
He brought the car to a stop at a red light and turned to her again, almost in spite of himself. “I’m fairly new in town. Any suggestions on things to do for excitement?”
“The Visitor’s Center has lots of flyers.” A police car pulled up in the right lane, and the officer behind the wheel stared over at them. Sarah turned her face to Owen. “I...I’m sorry. That was rude.”
“Okay.”
“It’s been a tough night.”
; For the first time, she looked unguarded. Even scared. Her eyes were riveted to his own. They were incredibly large. Beautiful. When her gaze flitted away, he looked again at the scratches on her face.
“Are you sure running out of gas was the only thing that happened to you tonight?”
The light turned green, and the police car beside them moved on. She turned her attention back to the road and nodded. “I’m sure.”
The small gate where she had Owen drop her was on a side street off Bellevue Avenue. The granite walls that protected the mansion rose a good twelve feet above the street. He saw no plaques by the iron-gated side entrance.
“Thanks for the ride, Mr. Dean.” She reached for the car door and opened it.
His hand shot out and took hold of her elbow. He fumbled in the pocket of his sport jacket and withdrew a card. “Here’s my number. Call me sometime.”
She hesitated, then took the card, staring down at it for a moment in the dim light of the car. “A local number. I thought you were new in town.”
He shrugged. “A couple of weeks hardly makes you a native.”
She gave him a polite smile and tucked the card in the pocket of her muddy jacket. “Thanks again.”
She swung the briefcase over her shoulder and stepped through the puddles to the gate. Owen sat there and watched her search in the case for keys. The rain continued to pound his car, and he waited until she opened the gate. Turning, she gave him a final wave and disappeared inside the walls. He looked up at the darkened building.
“There resides a lucky man.”
The irritation he could hear echoing in the empty Range Rover struck Owen as odd. As attractive as the woman was, Hollywood was full of beautiful women. They were always around...and always very willing. How many years had it been since he’d made an effort to pursue a woman?
In a few minutes, the mansion was far behind him. Out on Ocean Drive, a sports car raced by him, going far too fast for the wet roads. The wind was steadier here, howling in off the Atlantic, and he could feel it pushing his own vehicle. Involuntarily, Owen’s mind again returned to Sarah and where he might have met her.
Considering the way she was dressed and the expensive earrings she wore, she could be any one of the ‘trust babies’ that spent so much time in this town. He might have seen her picture in the local paper, attending one of the society events. Something stirred at the edges of his memory.
He turned his car into the long drive of the converted mansion. Waves were crashing onto the rocky sea wall, and throwing up buckets of spray over the car. At the end of the spit of land, the stone, French-style chateau stood solidly against the battering winds of the storm.
Parking in the spot assigned to his apartment, Owen pushed up the collar of his wet jacket and took off for the main door. The place he was renting was on the first floor in one wing of the mansion and had a separate entrance off the stone terrace, but the large central hallway held the panel of chrome-faced mailboxes. Hauling out the assortment of mail, he headed down the hallway to the apartment.
A copy of the Newport Daily News lay on the floor. Owen picked it up, stuffed it under his arm, and unlocked the door. The apartment was silent, except for the sound of the rain beating at the windows.
Dropping his keys on the counter, he dumped everything else on the kitchen table. Opening the fridge door, he reached in for a beer...and froze in his tracks.
Whirling, he turned back to the kitchen table and studied the picture of the woman staring back at him from the right-hand column of the newspaper.
Of course he knew her. After all, Sarah Rand had only been dead for the past two weeks.
Chapter 3
“My own men confirmed it, sir. She is alive.”
There was a slight pause on the other end of the phone line.
“I told you before not to leave it to amateurs.” The sound of a stifled yawn came through the receiver, but the authority in the voice came through clearly when he spoke again. “I’m not happy, but the arrangements still work, and your instructions still stand. You know what to do.”
The rain hammered like bullets against the windows of the car. “I do, sir. And I’ll take care of it.”
~~~~
If this were a nightmare, why couldn’t she wake up?
Her eyes took in the burnished gold of the oak paneling on the walls in the outer office. The smell of old leather and parchment hung in the air from the shelves of antique law books. The secretary’s desk, the door to the judge’s private office, the open door into her own office—they were all the same. This wing of the Van Horn mansion, converted into a home office when the judge had decided to retire from the bench...it was as familiar to her as her own apartment.
And yet, everything had changed in just two short weeks. She looked again at the newspaper in her hand.
“In a second bail hearing, held in Providence today, District Court Judge Elizabeth Wilson denied a request made by the attorney of former colleague Charles Hamlin Arnold in...”
Sarah scanned the page for the fifth time. Her gaze rested once again on the picture of Judge Arnold, leaving the courthouse, his hands and feet manacled. She threw the paper aside and worked her way through the pile. Headline after headline proclaimed the alleged guilt of her friend and mentor. She pulled another paper onto her lap.
“Jealousy Possible Murder Motive.” She stared at the full-length picture of herself. It was a photograph taken at the Heart Ball last year. The judge stood on one side of her, and Hal on the other.
Leaving that issue spread on the floor, she went through the piles of newspapers stacked neatly in the bin beside the bookcase, working her way back in time. Last Sunday’s issue ran a front page article listing Sarah’s accomplishments. Two issues before, a piece with Hal’s picture. She skimmed the article, which quoted the wealthy developer speaking of his mother, Avery Van Horn, and her lengthy battle and final defeat by cancer only a month ago. And a line about the alleged murder of his closest friend by his own step father, Judge Arnold.
“But I’m alive, Hal!” She wiped at the tears on her cheeks.
She found it. The August 4 headline read, “Attorney Missing --Assumed Murdered.” Sarah sat back and read on. “Judge Arnold Held.”
Prominent Newport attorney Sarah Rand is believed dead. Homicide detectives, acting on a tip from unnamed sources, today found blood in the luxury condominium home of Attorney Rand, who has been missing since August 2…Judge Charles Hamlin Arnold was later arrested at his home and will be charged, according to the district attorney, for the murder of his colleague.
Rand has been connected with the Arnold and the Van Horn family for a number of years. Attorney Rand was a close confidante of the judge’s late wife, Avery Van Horn Arnold, and has been linked romantically to Mrs. Arnold’s son, Newport developer Henry “Hal” Van Horn...
Sarah leaned back against the bookcase, reading through the article again. Murdered. Assumed dead. But how could she be assumed dead?
“Oh, God. Tori!” Sarah whispered as she dashed for the phone at the closest desk and dialed her number at the condo. Steady rings. No answering machine. Just the same as when she’d tried to call her from Ireland. The same as when she’d tried to call from the airport.
She hung up and looked frantically around her. The piles of mail on Linda’s desk. The missing computer. The closed door of the judge’s private office. They thought she was missing. No, dead. She reached for the phone again to call Hal. The answering machine picked up on the second ring again. She waited impatiently for his message.
“Hal! Listen…this is Sarah again. There is something wrong…I am at the office on Bellevue…”
The sound was faint but distinct, and Sarah froze. She was almost certain the noise had come from the small kitchenette off the hallway. She peered into the darkness and quietly placed the phone back in its cradle. She was sure she was alone. When she came in, she had unlocked the door and disarmed the security system, locking the door behind h
er.
Reaching for the closest thing at hand, she picked up a heavy pineapple-shaped paperweight from the desk. Clutching the weight in one hand, she listened. There was the noise again. She switched on the light in the hallway. The door into the kitchen was slightly ajar.
She was a step from the door when the smell of gas registered.
Acting on reflex, Sarah took a deep breath, pulled open the kitchen door, and moved quickly to the small stove, searching for the knobs in front of the unlit burners. Solid stumps of greasy metal were the only thing that met her fingers. The knobs were gone.
Panic immobilized her for a moment as the low sound of escaping gas continued. She whirled and started for the door. It was her only route of escape.
The door slammed in her face.
“No! Wait!” she screamed.
~~~~
Owen stared at the newspaper, his eyes going from the picture to the article text and back to the picture again. He laid the paper on the kitchen counter and walked into the living room. The accumulating pile of last week’s papers on the coffee table supplied everything else about the case.
He could hear her voice deep in his mind. It was the same woman. It had to be. Why would anyone in her right mind want to take a dead attorney’s name? But it wasn’t just the name, it was also the way she looked and dressed. She was Sarah Rand, no doubt about it. The inside of the Range Rover had been dark, but there was no mistaking her.
He glanced at another picture of her in the paper. Even the earrings were the same. They must be her favorites, Owen thought. In every head shot of her he’d seen, she appeared to be wearing the same earrings. Star-shaped, with a diamond in the center. Her trademark.
Last Sunday’s magazine section had a big spread about her. Including exterior shots of the condominium apartment she owned.
On the surface, she seemed to be all money and easy living. But the article portrayed a different kind of woman—hard-working, independent, and smart.