Matters of Seduction

by Amanda Stevens

  Toward the end of the hallway, Miriam Taylor paused to unlock one of the doors. She opened it, then stepped back for Pru and Tim to enter.

  Pru was surprised by the cramped, bleak quarters. Obviously the design allowance had been poured into the reception area and probably into the senior partners’ offices upstairs. The lower-level staff, like Clare, had to settle for inexpensive furnishings and plain white walls.

  “As Jade undoubtedly informed you, the police have already been here. I can’t imagine what you still hope to find.”

  Pru’s gaze went to the bare credenza behind Clare’s desk. “Did the police take her computer?”

  Miriam Taylor pursed her red lips in disapproval. “Yes, along with a number of other items that I’m afraid we may never recover. I can get you a list if you like.”

  “Thank you. That would be helpful.”

  Miriam started to leave, then stopped and whirled to face them. “There is one thing. I don’t know if it’s important.”

  “Everything is important at this point,” Pru said. “What is it?”

  “You asked about her computer…” Miriam’s gaze darted about the office. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that the offices on this level are a bit…compact. Clare would sometimes go into one of the conference rooms to work because she claimed she was claustrophobic. The one she used most often is equipped with a computer. I have no idea what you’re looking for, but it’s possible she may have used the machine from time to time.”

  “Did you mention this to the police?” Pru asked.

  “No, I’m sorry. It slipped my mind until now. The police came on Wednesday…the day of Clare’s funeral. I’m afraid we were all a bit distracted.”

  “I understand,” Pru said.

  Beside her, Tim said, “Will I need a password to log on?”

  “Not for that machine, no. It’s used primarily for research. No one stores case-sensitive materials on it.”

  “In other words—” Tim’s voice grew solemn “—if one of your associates or partners wanted to download Internet porn, you wouldn’t be able to trace it back to the user.”

  “Internet porn?” Miriam’s hand flew to her chest. Her nails, too, were perfectly manicured. “Surely, you don’t think…” She looked horrified. “That can’t be what you’re looking for.”

  “It was a hypothetical question,” Tim said.

  She didn’t bother to respond, but the look on her face gave him his hypothetical answer.

  A FEW MINUTES LATER, Pru was alone in Clare’s office. Tim had followed Miriam Taylor to the conference room, but Pru had stayed behind to have a look around. As she sat at the desk, she tried to picture Clare at work.

  What had been her state of mind in the days and weeks leading up to her death? Had she become one of those lonely, vulnerable women so desperate for companionship that she’d blindly ignored the danger signs?

  Pru remembered her conversation with Tiffany on the night of Clare’s murder. She’d been beside herself with worry over Clare’s recent behavior.

  She’s never been the secretive type, but now, suddenly, she won’t tell me anything about this guy. Not his name, where he lives, what he does for a living. Nada. That’s just not like her and you know it.

  Why would Clare have kept the man’s identity a secret from her best friend unless she’d known something was wrong with the relationship? Unless she’d anticipated Tiffany’s disapproval?

  Had John Allen Stiles been the new man in Clare’s life?

  The notion hit Pru like a fist in the gut.

  What if Clare had been in contact with Stiles? What if she’d formed a pen pal relationship with him, and then he’d sent his emissary to kill her?

  Pru still found it hard to believe that a woman like Clare could be so gullible, but she’d seen it before. Desperation and loneliness caused people to do foolish things.

  A wave of regret washed over her as she sat at Clare’s desk. They’d grown up in the same neighborhood, attended the same high school, but they hadn’t been friends. Pru had never even really liked Clare. She and Tiffany had been the golden girls back then. It wasn’t so much that Pru had envied their popularity; she simply hadn’t had the patience or inclination to try to understand why it was so important to them. The things that seemed to fascinate girls like Clare and Tiffany—boys, makeup, clothes—had held little interest for Pru. Even at that age, she’d sensed there was more to life.

  But by all indications, Clare and Tiffany had both grown into intelligent, successful, professional women, and as for herself, Pru certainly hoped she’d become a bit more tolerant. In time, they all three might have become friends, but they would never have that opportunity now. And that knowledge made Pru unexpectedly sad.

  There was nothing she could do about that, though. She’d always believed that it was far more productive to concentrate on things within her control and so she began to systematically search through Clare’s desk.

  Since the police had been there before her, she didn’t expect to turn up anything. She went through the motions anyway, and once she’d finished with the desk, she got up and walked over to the bookshelf. Scanning the titles—mostly professional journals— Pru was surprised to find a high school yearbook thrust between two weighty legal tomes.

  That’s odd, she thought. Why would Clare keep a copy of their old yearbook in her office?

  Pru remembered something else Tiffany had told her on the night they’d met for drinks. She’d looked up a picture in the yearbook after a man claiming to be Todd Hollister, an old high school classmate, had approached her in the coffee shop asking questions about Clare.

  According to the fingerprint match, that man had, in fact, been Danny Costello. Had the P.I. approached Clare with the same cover? Had she, too, been suspicious of his true identity?

  Taking down the annual, Pru started to look up Hollister’s picture, but the book fell open to a page that had been dog-eared.

  On first glance, it seemed like a typical yearbook page with rows of class photos along with a few candid snapshots of some of the students.

  One of the shots was of Clare and Tiffany. They stood in front of Clare’s Mustang, smiling for the camera, looking more gorgeous and glamorous than two high school girls had any right to. With something of a shock, Pru realized that she’d been caught in the frame, too.

  Her hair had still been blond then, and it was amazing how different she looked. Softer and more feminine somehow. Absently, she fingered a strand of hair as she gazed at the photo.

  Unlike Clare and Tiffany, she seemed oblivious to the camera. Her head was bowed as she scowled at nothing in particular. She looked determined and intense, even at seventeen, and Pru thought, No wonder I didn’t have many dates. She couldn’t imagine what boys her age must have thought of her.

  Her conversation with John Allen Stiles suddenly came back to her. He’d accused her of coloring her hair for fear she wouldn’t be taken seriously as a blonde. His insight was chilling, and Pru wondered if he’d been able to tune in to his victims in much the same way. If his empathy had made them trust him.

  “Agent Dunlop?”

  She spun to find the receptionist, Jade, standing in the doorway. Pru had no idea how long she’d been there.

  Shrugging apologetically, the woman said, “I didn’t mean to startle you. Miriam wanted me to check and see if you needed anything.”

  “I’m fine. No, wait, on second thought, there is something you can do,” Pru said when the young woman started to turn away. “Can you find out for me if a man named John Allen Stiles has ever been a client of this firm?”

  The woman hesitated. “I suppose I can check the database, but I don’t have authorization to get you any of the case files.”

  “I understand,” Pru said. “Right now, all I need to know is whether or not Stiles has ever been represented by this law firm.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out,” the woman murmured.

  She disappeared back to her sta
tion, and Pru continued her search of Clare’s office. By the time she finished, she still hadn’t heard back from the receptionist. She walked down the hall to the woman’s desk.

  “Were you able to find the information I asked for?”

  Jade cast a nervous glance down the hallway. “I checked the database.”

  “And?”

  She nodded. “Mr. Stiles is a client of this firm.”

  Pru lifted a brow. “Is? Meaning, in the present?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who’s his attorney?”

  “Mr. Zellman is handling his appeal.”

  “Sid Zellman?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  The name shocked Pru, and she instantly thought back to what Tiffany had said about him. She’d mentioned his name in conjunction with Clare’s suspicion that she was being followed.

  “Wait a minute,” Pru said. “The attorney on record at the prison where Stiles is incarcerated is a man named Jared Hathaway.”

  “Mr. Hathaway is one of our associates. He handles litigation for Mr. Zellman, as well as Mr. Zellman’s outside appointments.”

  “Why is that?”

  The receptionist moistened her lips as her hand crept to her throat. “I…really can’t speak to their arrangement. Perhaps you’d like to talk to Miriam about it.”

  “I’d prefer to speak to either Mr. Hathaway or Mr. Zellman,” Pru said firmly.

  “Mr. Hathaway is on vacation. He won’t be back for another week.”

  “What about Mr. Zellman?”

  Jade’s fingers plucked at her pearl necklace. “He doesn’t see clients.”

  “I’m not a client. And maybe I should make myself clear.” Pru gave the woman a cold, authoritative stare. “This isn’t a request. Tell Mr. Zellman that the FBI is here to see him.”

  “Yes, of course…” Jade turned away from Pru as she picked up the phone. She murmured something into the mouthpiece that Pru couldn’t distinguish, and then her voice rose as she met with obvious resistance. Hanging up the phone, she glanced at Pru. “Someone will be with you momentarily.”

  Pru nodded. “That’s fine. But just so you know, I have every intention of speaking with Mr. Zellman before I leave here.”

  The woman cast an uneasy glance toward the hallway as she sat down behind her desk. A few minutes later, when footsteps sounded near the reception area, she looked up in relief. “Here’s Mr. Zellman’s assistant now. He’ll take you up.”

  The man who strode down the hall toward her was tall, thin, attractively groomed and expensively dressed. He wore a charcoal pin-striped suit paired with a white shirt and dove-gray tie. His blond hair was cut stylishly shaggy, and his complexion was so flawless, he almost appeared made up.

  Another blonde, Pru thought. What was with this firm?

  The man looked vaguely familiar to her, although she was almost certain they’d never met before. She wondered if he’d once been an actor or a model. Like the receptionist, he had the kind of features a camera would love.

  He held out his hand. “Special Agent Dunlop? I’m Greg Oldman. You’re here to see Mr. Zellman, I understand.”

  “Yes, I am,” she said in a tone that conveyed both her impatience and determination.

  “He’s expecting you. I’ll take you right up.”

  Well, that was a surprise, Pru thought. Judging from the receptionist’s reluctance, she’d expected to meet with a much-practiced runaround, but Greg Old man seemed to have no such intent. He led her down the hallway to an elevator that operated between the two floors occupied by the firm.

  When they exited on the upper level, Pru once again had a feeling of stepping into another world. Rather than a futuristic movie set, however, the floor housing the senior partners’ offices reeked of old money, good breeding and exquisite taste.

  Greg Oldman led her down yet another hallway and as he opened a heavy oak door, he gallantly stepped aside to allow her to enter before him.

  Pru stepped inside and glanced around. The outer office was as richly appointed as the lobby. The smell of leather and something more exotic permeated the air, and as Oldman brushed by her, she realized the scent was his cologne.

  He crossed the room and once again beckoned her to follow. Pru’s heels sank into carpeting so plush, her footsteps were completely silenced.

  Oldman knocked softly on the door to the inner sanctum, waited a split second, then opened it enough to stick his head inside. “Mr. Zellman, Special Agent Dunlop is here to see you.”

  Pru couldn’t hear the reply, but Oldman pushed the door open wide enough for her to pass through and motioned with his head for her to enter.

  As she went by him, he murmured something in her ear that sounded like allergies, but Pru thought she must have misheard him.

  PRU TRIED NOT TO APPEAR fazed by the surgical mask Sid Zellman wore over his mouth and nose.

  He sat behind a mahogany desk so huge that she had difficulty judging his size. She concentrated on the features she could catalog: meaty hands folded on his desk, dark hair and glassy eyes that tracked her with such intensity that Pru felt the hair on the back of her neck lift.

  “Mr. Zellman? I’m Special Agent Dunlop with the FBI. I’d like to ask you a few questions regarding one of your clients…John Allen Stiles.”

  He yanked down the mask, revealing an almost lipless mouth and a narrow, pointed nose. A generous description would not have called him pleasant-looking, but even apart from his appearance, Pru found him oddly repulsive.

  “Mr. Stiles and I enjoy an attorney-client privilege.” His voice was low and raspy, not at all the kind of voice that would be able to effectively argue a case in court. “But then, you know that.”

  “Yes, of course,” Pru said. “I’ll do my best not to ask you anything that would breach that confidence.”

  “You can ask,” he said tersely. “I just won’t answer.”

  “Fair enough.” Pru smiled, trying to ease the palpable tension in the room. “Mr. Zellman, are you familiar with certain Web sites that run ads for inmates looking for pen pals?”

  “I’ve heard of them.”

  “Do you know if your client has placed such an ad?”

  “Why are you asking?” he demanded in that same harsh voice.

  “Some of those ads are scams. Inmates use them to con innocent women out of money for their defenses.” She glanced around. “I don’t imagine your services come inexpensively.”

  He gave her a reproving look. “If you’re asking how my fee is paid, Linney, Gardner and Braddock handles a lot of pro bono work, especially in cases where the client was so poorly represented at trial.”

  “You don’t feel Stiles received a fair trial?”

  Zellman gave a derisive snort. “It was a joke. The public defender actually fell asleep at one point during the trial. Fell asleep,” he said incredulously. “Does that sound like competent representation to you?”

  “How did Mr. Stiles come to your attention?”

  “As I said, our firm represents a lot of such cases. A friend of the court referred Mr. Stiles to us.”

  “How long have you been handling his appeal?”

  “A few months.”

  “Do you know if Stiles ever came in contact with Clare McDonald?”

  His brows rose as he wheezed. “Ah,” he said. “Now we’re getting to the heart of the matter, aren’t we? Clare McDonald’s murder. You want to know if my client had anything to do with it.”

  “How could he?” Pru said, playing devil’s advocate. “Your client is behind bars.”

  “I’m not stupid, Agent Dunlop. Clare was stran gled in her own home. Her body was posed in such a way as to emulate the crimes for which my client was convicted. It’s not a reach to assume that you’re here because you think there may be a connection.”

  Pru was taken aback by his candor. “The police have withheld the details of the crime scene from the public. How would you know anything about how her body was posed?”

>   His repellent mouth twisted in what Pru assumed was a smile. “I have friends in the police department, though admittedly, defense attorneys are somewhat persona non grata at 1200 Travis. Still, cops are the same as anyone else. They like to talk. They like to impress. I assure you, the posing of the body is common knowledge by now.”

  “Did you happen to mention this ‘common knowledge’ to your client?”

  “Of course, I mentioned it,” he said with a cavalier shrug. “It’s relevant to his appeal.”

  “How so?”

  “You aren’t stupid, either, Agent Dunlop. Crimes that are almost identical to the ones for which my client was convicted are still being perpetrated. Three more young women have been killed while an innocent man sits in prison.”

  The evidence against Stiles may have been circumstantial, but Pru had looked into his eyes. She had spent time in the same room with him, and innocent was not a word she would use to describe him.

  “Do you know of anyone, other than yourself and your associate, Mr. Hathaway, with whom Stiles may be in regular contact?”

  “There’s no one else that I know of. Except for his sister, Naomi, of course. A charming woman. Have you met her?”

  “No, I haven’t.” But Pru intended to, as soon as possible. “One last question, Mr. Zellman.”

  He wheezed and slid the mask over his mouth and nose. With his other features hidden, his eyes seemed hawkish. Predatory.

  “A few weeks before she was murdered, Clare confided to a friend that she thought she was being followed. Do you have any idea who it could have been?”

  “How would I know that?” he asked through the mask.

  “Because Clare thought it might have been you.”

  His eyes deepened as he regarded her for a long, pregnant moment, and then he tore off the mask and laughed.

  “Did I say something funny?” Pru asked coolly.

  “Yes, you did, Agent Dunlop. You have no idea.”

  “I’m afraid I fail to get the joke.”