“Trusting?”
“Yeah, that and—”
“Gentle? Vulnerable?”
“Maybe, but I’d say she’s just plain nice and caring. I love her, man. Oh, not like you do, because she’s a woman after all, but I feel spiritual love for her.” That sounded like a crock, and Demos quickly retrenched. “What I mean is that I care about her. So does Glen. Look at her. I wouldn’t be responsible for that. Never, I swear it.”
He started to cry.
“Jesus,” Taylor said. He looked at Barry. He sighed. “He’s telling the truth, damn him.”
“You should be pleased,” Demos said, wiping his eyes and looking embarrassed. “You hurt me, Taylor.” He rubbed his head and his stomach.
“Well, I’m not at all pleased,” Sergeant Kinsley said. “Don’t you two dimwits see what this means? The lady’s got an enemy, lads, a real live one, one who had no qualms about using explosives with lots of folk around who could have been hurt. No one was, which means he was being a bit careful. Now, let’s talk. I need to know who could possibly have it in for her.”
“No one,” Demos said positively. “Not even—ah, no.” He broke off and stared at Taylor.
Taylor was stroking the black stubble on his jaw. He said thoughtfully, “She just inherited a fortune—literally—from her grandmother and her mother. Both were killed in a car accident a week and a half ago. She inherited everything from her mother and most everything from her grandmother. She’s very rich. Her half-sister’s pissed and so is her father. He thinks he should have all the money.”
“You’re saying La Principessa could be involved?” Demos asked, appalled. “But I thought—” He broke off, wise enough now to keep his mouth shut.
“Who’s that?” Barry asked.
Demos said slowly, “That’s her half-sister, Princess Sydney di Contini. She’s also a model. She, ah, well, she and Lindsay/Eden don’t get along. It goes way back, way, way back.”
“Let’s call her Lindsay,” Barry said. “Okay, from all her paperwork here, I see her full name is Lindsay Foxe. Where’s all this family live, Taylor?”
“In San Francisco. They’re evidently old wealth, old power. Lots of both, and all the greedy instincts in the world to go along with it.”
“Is her daddy that federal judge, Royce Foxe?”
“I don’t know,” Taylor said. “Is he, Demos?”
“That’s him. Smart bastard, from what Sydney says. Real smart, and that’s where she got all her brains. She’s a lawyer, you know, Harvard Law School, then she married this Italian prince who raped Lindsay in Paris a real long time ago when she was just a kid.”
“Whoa!” Barry stared from one man to the other. “This is for real? She was raped by her brother-in-law?”
There was a knock on the door, then it was pushed open. Enoch’s head came around. “Oh,” he said. “Hi, Sarge. What are you doing here? Did Taylor call you for some reason?”
“Well, if it ain’t old Enoch Sackett. Still skinny as a post, I see. Doesn’t Sheila ever feed you?”
“All the time. It’s my metabolism. Hey, Taylor—”
Enoch fell silent. He looked toward Lindsay, whose head was swathed in white bandages. He swallowed and looked back toward Taylor.
“She’s going to be okay?”
Taylor nodded. He said to Barry, “Let me speak to Enoch for a minute, okay?”
“Why don’t we just have Enoch spill what he knows right here, right now?”
“It’s not about the case. It’s personal. I’m not lying.”
Sergeant Kinsley looked unconvinced. He looked toward the sleeping woman, wincing unconsciously. He waved Taylor out of the room.
“I heard about the accident on the radio. Why’s Barry Kinsley here?”
“It wasn’t an accident. It was plastic explosives and meant only for Lindsay.”
“Jesus, man—What are you going to do?”
Taylor looked very tired, as tired as he felt. He needed sleep, a shower, and a good-size meal. His head felt heavy. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “Thanks for getting this stuff, Enoch.”
“I downloaded five different French newspapers and tabloids about the rape. Taylor, she was eighteen years old and she was butchered by the press! Another thing—none of them agree. Some come right out and say that she seduced her brother-in-law, others say that her half-sister tried to kill her husband in cold blood and the rape was staged so she could murder him, and one even goes so far as to say that the prince was sleeping with both sisters at the same time and his wife got pissed and shot him. Whatever the explanation, she was an eighteen-year-old Lolita. You go figure.”
Taylor couldn’t figure anything at the moment.
“Oh, yes, they even have an overheard comment supposedly made by the father. He says the daughter is a slut, basically, and that the person who really suffered in the entire matter was Sydney, the wife. This man sounds like a real winner.”
Silence fell between them.
Finally Taylor pulled himself upright. “ Everything okay at the office?”
Enoch nodded. “Not to worry.”
“I’ll call you later, then, Enoch. Thanks for all your help.”
When he entered the room, his eyes immediately went to Lindsay. She was still sleeping.
Barry said, his voice pitched deep and soft, “Demos can’t come up with any suspects for me, Taylor, other than the family. How about you?”
He looked at the woman he loved, the woman who could be dead, killed by an unknown man or woman. He felt so goddamned helpless. It tasted bitter in his mouth, this helplessness.
“Let me think about it. Lindsay has a good friend—I’ll speak to her. Another thing, Barry, what about protection for her here in the hospital?”
“I’ve got two young guys coming down to keep guard. Both of them on the bitter edge of burnout. But they’re good, Taylor, so don’t frown at me or give me any of your smart lip. Now, I do need to speak to the lady. I’m going to hunt up her doctor and find out when she’ll be with it enough to talk to me. See you later.”
Demos said, “Do you think she saw anything?”
“I don’t know. You can believe that Barry will speak to each and every one of the folk on the shoot. Pray to God someone remembers something.”
* * *
Lindsay was awake. Her eyes were still closed. She was holding very still. She could hear the soft hissing of the lung machine on the nightstand beside her. Her ribs hurt, a thudding, prodding sort of pain that was with her every moment, and her face felt like she had two tons of concrete pressing down on it. At least she could breathe; at least she was alive. The other she could bear.
She could control the pain. She could and would because she had to think about what had happened. She’d heard this man, this policeman, speaking to Taylor and Demos. What had happened wasn’t an accident.
Someone had tried to kill her.
Control the pain. Yes, she had to control the pain because she had to think. But it made no sense. Who? She had no enemies, as far as she knew. Who? She felt fingers on her bare forearm, lightly stroking, making contact, giving her a connection.
“It’s all right, sweetheart.”
Taylor’s voice—soft and calm. She hadn’t realized he was here. He was wiping some Kleenex across her eyes. She hadn’t realized she was crying. Then he kissed her, gentle as a soft beam of moonlight.
“It’s all right. I’m here. Do you have much pain?”
“I can handle it.” It was so hard to speak. It hurt her face dreadfully. “Water.”
He slipped the straw into her mouth and she sucked on it, feeling shocks of pain as she did so.
He wiped away the tears on her cheeks.
“If you need some painkiller, just press this button here. It’s hooked up to your IV. The nurse did that just a couple of hours ago. She said you could take as much as you needed. That’s it. Give yourself a couple of licks. Good. No reason to put up with pain if you don’t have to
.”
Taylor fell silent, waiting for the pain medication to kick in. He continued to stroke her arm, a habit now, probably one he would keep the rest of his life. He finally felt the tension begin to leave her body. Finally. “Now, you just lie here a minute, and I’ll fetch your nurse. She wanted to know when you woke up. You’ve got two doctors, not just one, and both of them want to see you.”
She closed her eyes, feeling the pain recede, leaving a strange sort of lethargy and numbness in their wake. She remembered thinking how miraculous it was when her grandmother had showed her how she could get as much painkiller as she wanted by just pressing a button. Now she was in the same position. She could still feel the immense weight, the pounding and heaviness of her face, but the pain was removed. Odd, but it was true.
Dr. Perry arrived first. She remembered him and tried to smile. “You’re doing just fine,” he said first thing.
“My face feels like it weighs two tons.”
“I know. It’s the swelling from the blow you took, combined with the swelling from the surgery. You’ll need pretty heavy-duty painkillers for another couple of days. Then it will ease and feel more normal by the day. Tomorrow we’ll change the bandages. We don’t want to take any chances with infection. The stitches come out in about nine days. We’ll be able to tell then, pretty much, the results of my handiwork.”
It was so difficult to speak. She could barely open her mouth with the bandages heavy around her head and beneath her chin. “Will I look horrible?”
“No. You’ll probably look just like you did before. As I said to Mr. Taylor here, you were very lucky. The damage was to the bones, not to your skin, which means little scarring. You were very lucky. You’ll be beautiful again. Please don’t worry.”
“Thank you.”
Taylor saw Dr. Perry in the hall. The doctor smiled. “I wasn’t lying. She’ll be fine. As for her beauty, I know she’s a model and her face is her living. I think you should prepare her for a change in careers. It might not be necessary, but I can’t be certain. It’s nearly impossible to predict the exact result. It just seems wise that you get her thinking along alternative lines. The surgery went very well, I’m not lying to you, but still, one never really knows.”
Taylor wanted to tell him that Lindsay wasn’t a model because of any great desire to be so, but he didn’t because he really didn’t know how strongly she felt about it. He wanted to get back to her. He thanked the doctor and watched him walk away down the corridor. He said to officer Jay Fogel, who was sitting by Lindsay’s door, a People magazine on his lap, “See anyone suspicious?”
Fogel shook his head, profoundly regretful. “Not even a pretty nurse.” Fogel studied the man for a moment, then added, “Besides, Mr. Taylor, you’re here. What maniac in his right mind would try to get to her with you here?”
Taylor just shook his head. Fogel was short, wiry, with a baby face that made all women, regardless of their ages, want to mother him. Fogel, from what Taylor had heard, usually took instant and shameless advantage.
“Just keep alert,” Taylor said, and went back inside.
He sat beside Lindsay and immediately covered her forearm with his fingers. He stroked the soft flesh. He felt her ease.
“I know,” she said, the words difficult to understand because she couldn’t open her mouth very wide.
“You know it wasn’t an accident?”
“Yes.”
“Any ideas?”
He sounded so matter-of-fact, so completely neutral, that she blinked at him.
He smiled at her, seeing that she’d accepted it, that she’d drawn back from hysteria. She was firmly in control. He admired her greatly in that moment. “I want you to think back to the shoot. Go very slowly. Ah, look whose timing is next to perfection. Lindsay, love, this is Sergeant Barry Kinsley of the NYPD. He and I go back a long way, probably too long a way. He looks like a wrestler and he is, but he does have a brain. He’s here to find out who tried to hurt you.”
Barry looked into her eyes and knew then why Taylor or any man for that matter could fall like a ton of bricks for the lady. They were deep blue and filled with shadows and mysteries, so deep, he thought, and soft and incredibly sexy. Since she looked like a conehead, all swathed around the head in that white bandage, he hadn’t thought much about her looks, even though she was a successful model. Now he wanted to see some professional photos of her.
“Hello, Miss Foxe,” he said.
Lindsay nodded, then jerked. Foxe! She turned to Taylor, her eyes stricken with the knowledge that he knew and she hadn’t been the one to tell him.
Taylor said mildly, forestalling anything she would say, “Lindsay Foxe is a nice name, sweetheart, but I think, personally, that Lindsay Taylor is a much nicer one. What do you say?”
She didn’t say anything. She was crying with relief, with shame, with regret. She felt him dab away the tears. What was wrong with her? The crying—she’d never cried so much in her life. There was no control, none at all, and now this.
“Shush, sweetheart. It’s all right. We’ll talk later about it. It’s not important. Please believe me, Lindsay. It’s not important. Now, poor Barry here wants to ask you some questions. I want you to go real slow and think about everything. Tell us each and every little detail, no matter how silly, even crazy impressions, don’t leave out even the bathroom breaks—tell us everything about yesterday morning.”
She did, speaking slowly. She forgot things, then remembered. Taylor asked questions and she remembered more. Barry asked questions with a different slant, and more came back to her. It went slowly. “. . . Then I was standing by that stupid fake ski lift and Edie started screaming. I looked at her, because I didn’t understand, then I looked up, following her eyes, and then things started raining down on me. I wasn’t fast enough.”
Barry said slowly, “Then you didn’t see anyone who shouldn’t have been there? You didn’t have any questions about anyone at all?”
“No.”
Barry said, “One thing bothers me, Miss Foxe. You were the only one standing against the ski lift when it exploded. No one else was close. Why were you there at just that moment and all alone?”
She closed her eyes. Why? “Oh, no,” she said. “Oh, no.”
“Tell us,” Taylor said. “What do you see? What do you remember?” She heard the urgency in his voice, but his fingers on her forearm remained in their gentle slow rhythm.
“One of the set men came over to me. I was watching a chess game. He said they wanted to do some lineup shots and would I please go stand against the ski lift.”
“Ah,” Barry said. “Think now, Miss Foxe. Was the man one of the crew? Did you recognize him?”
“No.”
“Okay, it’s probably our guy. Picture him in your mind. Describe him as completely as you can.”
Lindsay placed him in her mind, saw him as clearly as she did Sergeant Kinsley, and said, “He was five-foot-nine or ten. Not more. He was medium-complexioned, light brown eyes, light brown hair and eyebrows, thick eyebrows, and straight. His hair was on the long side, and oily. I know the color because he wore it long and it showed longer than the red wool cap he was wearing.” She continued, covering each inch of the man.
Barry was amazed.
Taylor couldn’t believe it. He didn’t know what he expected, but not this nearly photographic recreation.
“I’m going to get a police artist over here, Miss Foxe. Would you work with him?”
“Yes.”
“And mug books, but we’ll do that later.” Barry said to Taylor, “It sounds to me like this guy was hired to do the job. The explosives weren’t professional, but neither were they amateur. He knew what he was doing but he isn’t the kind to have this crazy kind of pride in his work. He knew how to keep himself from buying anything traceable. Yeah, chances are he was hired. Miss Foxe, I don’t want to frighten you, but this is important. Who can you think of who would want you out of the way?”
“You me
an dead,” Lindsay said, no emotion in her voice.
“That’s right,” Barry said. It was that same matter-of-fact voice Taylor had used. It was calming. She almost smiled at both of their tactics, but the pain had been inching back into her consciousness and she just couldn’t.
“No one,” she said.
Taylor watched her press the button for more painkiller. He didn’t say anything. He drew Barry’s attention away from her until she could regain her control. He knew it was important to her. It would have been just as important to him.
“Sydney di Contini, Lindsay’s half-sister, is supposed to come visiting in a little while. You want to stay around and meet the lady?”
“Who wouldn’t want to meet a real-live princess?”
Sydney wasn’t alone. Judge Royce Foxe and his wife, Holly Foxe, were with her. Taylor stood when she entered. His eyes went to the patrician older man who stood just behind her. My God, he thought, staring. Lindsay had his eyes. Just his eyes, nothing more. Well, perhaps his height as well. But the eyes, it was like looking into her eyes, until Foxe said, “What is going on here?”
Cold and flat and hard, Taylor thought. No, his eyes weren’t anything like his daughter’s. There was no warmth, just ice, hot and hard.
Barry introduced himself, then turned to Taylor. “And this, of course, is your daughter’s fiancé, S. C. Taylor.”
Royce Foxe stared at the man who, Sydney had assured him over and over, was engaged to Lindsay. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but it wasn’t this sort of man. This man was tough. He’d been around. He’d seen things a lot of men never saw. He was good-looking, Royce supposed, but he looked dangerous, possibly cruel. Certainly ruthless. This man was engaged to Lindsay? He shook his head. It made no sense. He was inclined to think it was all a lie.
He nodded toward Taylor. Holly was introduced. Taylor wanted to beat the living hell out of Royce Foxe, but he knew it wouldn’t be smart. Not here, not now. He said easily, “It’s rather crowded in here. Lindsay’s sleeping right now and I don’t want her awakened. Why don’t we all go to the waiting room?”
Royce glanced over at his daughter. She looked pathetic, absurd really, with her head wrapped up like an imaginary invalid in a bad comedy. He grimaced, then turned on his heel. Barry looked over at Taylor, saw that he was white-faced with rage.
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