"Thank you, Detective McKenzie. You've been—okay."
McKenzie's eyes twinkled. “That's the nicest thing I've ever had a prisoner say. You're welcome, Miss Wells."
* * * *
"Where the hell are they?” Mike paced back and forth in the library-cum-office. “I should be in court for Gwyneth's arraignment."
Rocky stuck his head inside the doorway. “I just heard from the driver. The engine overheated. They're stalled out on I-66 between exits fifteen and sixteen."
"Overheated? Hell. All right, what's their location? I'll run and pick them up and take Wilford to court. Otherwise, Gwyn's stuck defending herself."
"Ever have any doubt she would?” Mike's father asked from the doorway.
"It's what she does."
"Likes to be in control, too. What time is her hearing?"
"Nine. Why?"
"I want to make sure the judge sets bail."
His father was going to help after all? “What can you do?"
"I do have some reputation in the community—and I know the judge who'll be presiding."
"I see. Why're you doing this?"
His father cleared his throat. “She seems to be rather important to you. I'm not mistaken in that, am I?"
"No, of course you're not. T-thank you."
"That wasn't so difficult, was it?"
"Don't usually have much reason to say it."
"Granted. Rocky can meet the limo and take Wilford to the courthouse. I'll come with you to support the fair Gwyneth."
Dumbfounded, all Mike could manage was, “Fine, let's go."
* * * *
The bailiff's voice rang out. “All rise. The Honorable Judge Sybil Melkin presiding."
The judge entered, attired in the requisite black robe and stern visage. Her Honor was diminutive, but her robes had been tailored to her small stature. Gwyneth took a deep breath and stood up with the rest of the people in the courtroom. The judge's there'll-be-no-BS-in-my-courtroom expression gave Gwyneth pause. She'd hoped for a sympathetic male judge. While she'd never traded on her good looks, they'd never been a hindrance either.
"Be seated. Docket number 102 on charge of 124.3, first-degree murder on complaint of Detective McKenzie."
Gwyneth stood up again. Damn. She hadn't counted on being the first case. Where was Mike? Where was Uncle Wil? Not that she couldn't defend herself. Still—a little backup and moral support never hurt.
"Gwyneth Wells for the defense, Your Honor. I'm representing myself."
"Do you waive the reading of the charges, but not the rights there under?"
"Yes, Your Honor."
The prosecutor interjected. “Your Honor, given the seriousness of the charges, the Commonwealth asks that bail not be set."
"Your Honor, the accused—"
Judge Melkin leaned forward, her half glasses slipping farther down her nose. “Miss Wells?"
"Yes, Your Honor."
"Representing yourself is your privilege and right, but I'm reminded of the old adage that the lawyer who represents himself—"
"Yes, Your Honor. I'm very familiar with it. My uncle will act as my attorney at today's proceedings. He's in transit, but he's been delayed."
"All right.” Judge Melkin nodded at the prosecutor. “Now, if the Commonwealth will proceed."
The D.A. stood and began. “Your Honor, this is a particularly heinous murder. The decedent is the former fiancé of the accused. We have the blood-covered dress she was wearing when she stabbed him. We have witnesses who heard her threaten to kill him not thirty minutes before his body was discovered."
"That's it? What about fingerprint evidence?"
"No fingerprints, Your Honor, but we do have the skin samples from under the nails of the accused—DNA results on that are pending. We can produce a witness who will testify that he saw her take the knife from the kitchen."
The last sentence hit Gwyneth in the stomach like she'd been kicked. Someone saw her take the knife? How could that be?
"Miss Wells, how do you plead?"
"Your Honor, I ask for a dismissal of all charges based on lack of evidence. The accused merely found the body and tripped over it. Her fingerprints aren't on the knife because she didn't stab the victim. What did I—she wipe the fingerprints off with? Surely the DA can address that issue."
"At trial, Miss Wells. The evidence is circumstantial, but I do find it compelling enough to go forward with this indictment. How do you plead?"
"Not guilty, Your Honor."
"Your Honor, the prosecution requests that no bail be set."
"Your Honor,” Gwyneth protested, “the accused is a reputable New York attorney. She doesn't pose a flight risk."
"The accused lives out of state and is independently wealthy. I assert she does pose a flight risk,” the D.A. countered.
"I'll surrender my passport, Your Honor."
"Your Honor,” the D.A. continued, “this is a cold-blooded murderer who thinks that just because she's beautiful and rich you ought to cut her some slack."
A stentorian voice reverberated from the back of the courtroom. “Your Honor, may I be heard?"
Gwyneth turned. Mike, along with his father and her Uncle Wilford, had entered the courtroom. Her heart lifted—she was no longer alone.
The judge gave a curt nod. “Identify yourself for the court record."
"George Carlton. I personally guarantee the defendant's appearance in court."
Gwyneth's mouth dropped open. Mike's father would guarantee her appearance? She would've bet money that he couldn't stand the sight of her.
"Your relationship to the accused?"
"She's my son's fiancée, Your Honor."
Fiancée? That was stretching it a bit.
"Very well, Miss Wells. You are released into the custody of Mr. George Carlton, who is well-known to the Court for his years of government service. Bail is set at five million dollars."
The prosecutor's face turned red. “Your Honor, I object!"
"Objection noted. I assume you'd like this trial to begin as quickly as possible?"
"Yes, Your Honor,” Gwyneth and the prosecutor answered in unison.
Judge Melkin consulted her calendar. “Two weeks from today. Can the People be ready by then?"
"Yes, Your Honor. Our case is airtight."
"Miss Wells?"
"Yes, Your Honor."
* * * *
The officer guarding Gwyneth permitted her a moment with her support group. “Well, sugar,” Uncle Wil teased, “Perry Mason always got his cases dismissed at the prelim."
"Well, Old Perry didn't have to spend the night in jail.” She threw her arms around her uncle's neck. “I'm so glad you're here."
Then she turned to Mike's father. “Mr. Carlton, thank you."
"You're welcome. I figured my son would appreciate it."
"And what am I—hamburger?” Mike asked and opened his arms.
"You look like prime rib to me, and I'm starving,” she told him as he pulled into his arms. Burying her face in his shoulder, she felt secure for the first time in twelve hours. Her heart rate picked up as she caught the hint of his clean, masculine scent. If she could just stay in his arms...
Uncle Wil patted his briefcase. “I've got a ton of money in here. I'll have you out as soon as I find a bail bondsman."
Gwyn sighed. “Thank you. Just hurry."
Thirty-four
Two hours after her arraignment, Gwyneth was released into the custody of Mike's father. While she still had no clue why the elder Carlton had stepped up to the plate for her, she appreciated his effort. No point in looking a bona fide gift horse in the mouth. She glanced upward and marveled at the cerulean sky. After taking her first, sweet breath of freedom, she let it out slowly.
"Well, sugar, that trust fund of yours took a little nosedive, but I couldn't leave you in the pokey, now could I?"
"Thank you, Uncle Wil.” She looked around at the three men who'd worked together to free her. “I'm
grateful to all of you."
"Anytime, counselor. Now all we have to do is find out who really killed Klein,” Mike offered.
"Normally, I'd say ‘just let the authorities do their job,’ but I don't think the sheriff is going to look for any other suspects. He already has me.” She placed a hand on Mike's strong biceps. “We'll have a strategy session as soon as we get back—once I take a shower and get rid of the jail stink."
"Sid is already at the house. He may even have some answers for us by the time we get back to the farm."
"I hope so.” Her body shivered involuntarily. “I don't think I'll ever be blasé about jail time again."
"At least you were in the new jail.” Mike grimaced. “I can tell you from personal experience the old one was a pest hole."
"Well, the new one wasn't exactly a picnic. The sheriff paid me a visit and made a ridiculous attempt to get me to cleanse my soul."
Mike winced. “Good thing you were behind bars. I can just imagine what you'd have done if you weren't."
"You're right. I might've actually committed a real homicide."
Opening the door to the limo, Mike motioned for her to enter. As she passed in front of him, he whispered in her ear, “I missed you last night."
Whether it was the sensual warmth of his breath against her skin or the sultry undertone of his voice that caused her to tremble, Gwyneth wasn't sure. But one thing she knew; she couldn't wait another minute to have him.
But of course, she would—wait another minute, that is. Several minutes, if she was any judge. Somehow she didn't figure the esteemed George Carlton would appreciate her having her way with his son in the family's very fine limousine.
So instead of grabbing Mike by his broad shoulders, jerking him into the limo and performing a lip lock, she contented herself with gazing into his desire-darkened eyes and luxuriating in his warm embrace. Mike's mouth kicked up in a self-satisfied half smile. Apparently he was as ready to make up for lost time as she.
Home, James, and forget the park.
* * * *
Reggie Gruhn eased into his uncle's office. He tugged at his collar. For some inexplicable reason, it was tight. He hadn't been back in the compound five minutes before one of his uncle's lieutenants slithered up and told him Gianni was waiting for a debrief.
Gianni Damico looked up, a scowl drawing his dark eyebrows into one ugly one. “So what do you have to tell me?"
"Well, I believe I've done you a tremendous service.” Reggie polished his fingernails across his shirt front. “I told the sheriff that I saw the blonde lawyer-you-love-to-hate take the knife from the kitchen. She'll pay a visit to Old Bill for Klein's murder."
"So who did kill ‘im?"
Reggie shrugged. “Damn me, if I know. Wot's the diff? ‘E's dead, and Gwyneth Wells, Esquire, ‘as been arrested."
"He was my damned lawyer. That's the difference. I paid him a fortune in retainers, and now it's all wasted—just because of that busybody, blond bimbo. And I still don't know where my bitch of a wife is!” Uncle Gianni slammed a dark, hairy-backed fist on his desk.
Reggie jumped back—better to keep out of the way of those fists. “Yes, but I've put Miss Wells’ pretty derrière—oh, you should see ‘er, she's really fine—but I digress, don't I, Uncle?"
Blood suffused Damico's face, turning it dark and uglier than ever.
"You idiot. Did it ever occur to you that when they can't find you they'll discount your testimony?"
"Well—uh,” Reggie stammered, “I—uh..."
"You have to go back."
"Go back? Wot the bloody ‘ell for?"
"To testify at her trial. I want that bitch sent away forever."
"But I don't want to go back. Stick around in that r-rural place? I'll go starkers."
"You'll do as you're told. Your testimony will take care of her. She won't be able to interfere in my marriage, and Sylvia will come back home, and—” Damico gave a significant pause before finishing with, “I'll be ... grateful."
"Just ‘ow grateful w-would yew be, Uncle?” Reggie leaned forward, unable to keep the smile off his face or the images of rolling in a pile of ever-so-lovely, green, U.S. cash, from his mind's eye.
"I might not snap your pencil neck!” Damico shouted into Reggie's ear.
"Ow!” He winced and straightened up. The visions of green faded into black—like the inside of a coffin.
"Now get outta here. And don't screw this up."
Reggie started backing from the room. “No, sir, I won't screw it up. Not me."
* * * *
Marina leaned over her sleeping son and gave him a gentle nudge. “Wake up, sleepy head. It's morning."
Adam opened his dark brown eyes, rubbing them with his fists. “Mommy?” He looked around the room. “Where's Daddy?"
"Daddy had to go check on his friend. There was some trouble last night.” What else could she say? She didn't want to scare him.
"Is Daddy okay?"
"He's fine."
"What happened to his friend?"
"We'll talk about it later, okay? Let's get you dressed. We're going home."
Adam grimaced. “But I want to stay here with Daddy."
Marina sighed. His response was just what she'd expected. “How about this?” she suggested. “We'll stay until Daddy comes back, then we'll ask him what he thinks. If he thinks you should go home, then you'll have to do what he says, okay?” She hated making Michael the heavy, but the truth was Adam would agree to whatever his father wanted. Her son was an absolute daddy's boy. And she wouldn't have wanted it any other way.
Adam made a face, then nodded. “Okay."
* * * *
Mike and Gwyneth climbed the stairs to the second floor. She leaned her head against his shoulder as they walked down the hall to her room.
"Are you going to need someone to wash your back?"
"Mm. That sounds heavenly. Would you?"
Mike nodded. “Soon as I check Sid's progress. He might've found something while we were in court."
"That's probably more important than washing my back."
"But not as much fun,” he conceded, placing a tender kiss on her neck. He sighed.
They stopped at her door. She looked up at him and batted her baby blues. “You know, there'll be plenty of time for—uh, all this, after we find out who killed Richard."
"Does that mean you're not going to dump me—like you did him?"
"I'm not fickle,” she insisted with some spirit, then pouted.
As much as he wanted to, Mike resisted the urge to bite her full, bottom lip. “I was kidding."
Gwyn's expression changed from petulant to troubled. “I know, but I still feel responsible for his death. If he hadn't followed me here, he'd still be alive."
"It's not your fault. The guy was a jerk."
"Being a jerk doesn't justify his death. If it did—well, there're quite a few who might be in trouble."
"Following you here—his choice, not yours."
"I know. I guess I-I'm just a little touchy."
"No wonder. You just spent a night in the slammer. You're due.” He pressed her up against the wall and nuzzled her neck. “In fact, you're due for a major dose of TLC once we find his killer."
She trembled in his arms. The memory of her long legs and perfect, rose-tipped breasts sent a heated surge to his groin. He cupped her buttocks and pressed his erection against her.
"Mm, all that for me?” Gwyn gazed at him, her blue eyes warm with welcome.
"I don't see anyone else in the hall.” He laughed.
"What's so funny?” Her forehead furrowed as if puzzled.
"If I were to share,” he drawled, “we'd never find Klein's murderer because we'd be too busy."
She looked at him from beneath her thick lashes as if suddenly shy, but her kissable lips drew into a smile. “And then, before we knew it, the sheriff would be pounding on the door, and I'd be back in his less-than-congenial custody."
"And we would
n't want that, would we?"
"No, we wouldn't."
For a brief moment, Gwyneth averted her gaze from his. “I think I love you, Mike."
"I think you do too,” he teased, even if her words sent his heart rate into the stratosphere.
"Smart-ass.” She said and cuffed him on the shoulder.
"But you said you love me."
"Pay attention. I ‘think’ I love you. The jury's still out.” Her blue eyes sparkled, her mood lightening.
"Waiting for the verdict always this difficult, counselor?"
"Yeah."
"Guess I'll appeal if the decision isn't favorable."
"All the way to the Supreme Court?"
"All the way, counselor. And I must warn you, I never give up."
"Then you'd better let me take a shower. And you'd better get busy..."
"I'll show you busy.” He leaned in to kiss her, but Gwyn kept up the flow of conversation.
"...with your computer whiz, because I don't fancy spending any more time in jail."
Mike pulled a long face. “And here I thought you were going to say that you didn't fancy spending—"
"—Another night without you?"
"Right on target. You're pretty sharp—for a lady lawyer."
"You have no idea."
"I'm beginning to figure it out. That was your plan from the start, wasn't it? Fool the naïve detective into protecting your gorgeous body. Something you knew I couldn't resist."
"How would I know something like that?"
"How could you not know?"
"Is that your way of saying I'm a witch?"
"Yes.” Mike grasped his heart. “I'm powerless against your charms."
Gwyn rolled her eyes and gave a theatrical sigh. “You've business to attend to. Get out of here before we really do end up in bed in the middle of the day.” She leaned against the door. “What would your parents think?"
"No fair. The very specter of my parents has caused a major downsizing in my anatomy."
"Good.” She grinned, then placed a hesitant hand on the doorknob.
"All right. I bow to your wishes. You take your shower, while I mosey downstairs and find us a killer. Agreed?” He hoped it would prove that simple.
"Agreed.” She nodded, then blew him a kiss. Clearly reluctant, but determined, she slipped into her room and closed the door in his face.
The Man For The Job Page 23