"You are involved with me." Reaching out, he cupped the back of her neck before she could evade. "And we both want that involvement to end up in bed."
Very deliberately, she reached up and removed his hand. "I realize you're used to women falling obligingly at your feet. I have no intention of joining the horde. And I make up my own mind."
"Should I kiss you again?"
"No." She threw a hand up and planted it solidly against his chest. In an instant she was reminded of how she had stood, just like this, with the man called Nemesis. The comparison left her shaken. "No. It was a lovely evening, Gage." She took a long steadying breath. "I mean that. I enjoyed the company, the dinner and… and the view. I'd hate to see you spoil it completely by being arrogant and argumentative."
"It's not being either to accept the inevitable. I don't have to like it to accept it." Something flickered in his eyes. "There is such a thing as destiny, Deborah. I had a long time to consider, and to come to terms with that." His brows drew together in a frown as he looked at her. "God help both of us, but you're part of mine." He looked back, then offered a hand. "I'll take you home."
Chapter 4
Groaning, her eyes firmly shut, Deborah groped for the shrilling phone on her nightstand. She knocked over a book, a brass candlestick and a notepad before she managed to snag the receiver and drag it under the pillow.
"Hello?"
"O'Roarke?"
She cleared her throat. "Yes."
"Mitchell here. We've got a problem."
"Problem?" She shoved the pillow off her head and squinted at her alarm clock. The only problem she could see was that her boss was calling her at 6:15 a.m. "Has the Slagerman trial been postponed? I'm scheduled for court at nine."
"No. It's Parino."
"Parino?" Scrubbing a hand over her face, she struggled to sit up. "What about him?"
"He's dead."
"Dead." She shook her head to clear her groggy brain. "What do you mean he's dead?"
"As in doornail," Mitchell said tersely. "Guard found him about half an hour ago." .
She wasn't groggy now, but was sitting ramrod straight, brain racing. "But—but how?"
"Knifed. Looks like he went up to the bars to talk to someone, and they shoved a stiletto through his heart."
"Oh, God."
"Nobody heard anything. Nobody saw anything," Mitchell said in disgust. "There was a note taped to the bars. It said, 'Dead birds don't sing."
"Somebody leaked that he was feeding us information."
"And you can bet that I'm going to find out who. Listen, O'Roarke, we're not going to be able to muzzle the press on this one. I figured you'd want to hear it from me instead of on the news during your morning coffee."
"Yeah." She pressed a hand to her queasy stomach. "Yeah, thanks. What about Santiago?"
"No show yet. We've got feelers out, but if he's gone to ground, it might be a while before we dig him up."
"They'll be after him, too," she said quietly. "Whoever arranged for Parino to be murdered will be after Ray Santiago."
"Then we'll just have to find him first. You're going to have to shake this off," he told her. "I know it's a tough break all around, but the Slagerman case is your priority now. The guy's got himself a real slick lawyer."
"I can handle it."
"Never figured otherwise. Give him hell, kid."
"Yeah. Yeah, I will." Deborah hung up and stared blankly into space until her alarm went off at 6:30.
"Hey! Hey, beautiful." Jerry Bower charged up the courthouse steps after Deborah. "Boy, that's concentration," he panted when he finally snagged her arm and stopped her. "I've been calling you for half a block."
"Sorry. I'm due in court in fifteen minutes."
He gave her a quick, smiling going-over. She'd pinned her hair back into a simple twist and wore pearl buttons at her ears. Her red linen suit was severely tailored and still managed to show off each subtle curve. The result was competent, professional and completely feminine.
"If I was on the jury, I'd give you a guilty verdict before you finished your opening statement. You look incredible."
"I'm a lawyer," she said tightly. "Not Miss November."
"Hey." He had to race up three more steps to catch her. "Hey, look, I'm sorry. That was a poorly phrased compliment."
She found a slippery hold on her temper. "No, I'm sorry. I'm a little touchy this morning."
"I heard about Parino."
With a grim nod, Deborah continued up the steps to the high carved doors of city courthouse. "News travels fast."
"He was a walking statistic, Deb. You can't let it get to you."
"He deserved his day in court," she said as she crossed the marble floor of the lobby and started toward a bank of elevators. "Even he deserved that. I knew he was afraid, but I didn't take it seriously enough."
"Do you think it would have mattered?"
"I don't know." It was that single question she would have to live with. "I just don't know."
"Look, the mayor's got a tough schedule today. There's this dinner tonight, but I can probably slip out before the brandy and cigar stage. How about a late movie?"
"I'm lousy company, Jerry."
"You know that doesn't matter."
"It matters to me." A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "I'd bite your head off again and hate myself." She stepped into the elevator.
"Counselor." Jerry grinned and gave her a thumbs-up before the doors slid shut.
The press was waiting for her on the fourth floor. Deborah had expected no less. Moving quickly, she waded through them, dispensing curt answers and no comments.
"Do you really expect to get a jury to convict a pimp for knocking around a couple of his girls?"
"I always expect to win when I go into court."
"Are you going to put the prostitutes on the stand?"
"Former prostitutes," she corrected, and let the question go unanswered.
"Is it true Mitchell assigned you to this case because you're a woman?''
"The D.A. doesn't choose his prosecutors by their sex."
"Do you feel responsible for the death of Carl Parino?''
That stopped her on the threshold of the courtroom. She looked around and saw the reporter with curly brown hair, hungry brown eyes and a sarcastic smirk. Chuck Wisner. She'd run foul of him before and would again. In his daily column in the World, he preferred the sensational to the factual.
"The D.A.'s office regrets that Carl Parino was murdered and not allowed his day in court."
In a quick, practiced move, he blocked her way. "But do you feel responsible? After all, you're the one who turned the deal."
She choked back the urge to defend herself and met his eyes levelly. "We're all responsible, Mr. Wisner. Excuse me."
He simply shifted, crowding her back from the door. "Any more encounters with Nemesis? What can you tell us about your personal experiences with the city's newest hero?"
She could feel her temper begin to fray, strand by strand. Worse, she knew that was exactly what he was hoping for. "Nothing that could compete with your fabrications. Now if you'll move aside, I'm busy."
"Not too busy to socialize with Gage Guthrie. Are you and he romantically involved? It makes a wild kind of triangle, doesn't it? Nemesis, you, Guthrie."
"Get a life, Chuck," she suggested, then elbowed him aside.
She barely had enough time to settle behind the prosecutor's table and open her briefcase when the jury filed in. She and the defense counsel had taken two days to select them, and she was satisfied with the mix of genders and races and walks of life. Still, she would have to convince those twelve men and women that a couple of prostitutes deserved justice.
Turning slightly, she studied the two women in the first row. They had both followed her instructions and dressed simply, with a minimum of makeup and hair spray. She knew they were on trial today, as much as the man charged with assault and battery. They huddled together, two young, pretty women
who might have been mistaken for college students. Deborah sent them a reassuring smile before she shifted again.
James P. Slagerman sat at the defense table. He was thirty-two, dashingly blond and handsome in a dark suit and tie. He looked precisely like what he claimed he was, a young executive. His escort service was perfectly legitimate. He paid his taxes, contributed to charity and belonged to the Jaycees.
It would be Deborah's primary job to convince the jury that he was no different than a street pimp, taking his cut from the sale of a woman's body. Until she did that, she had no hope of convicting him on assault.
As the bailiff announced the judge, the courtroom rose.
Deborah kept her opening statement brief, working the jury, dispensing facts. She didn't attempt to dazzle them. She was already aware that this was the defense counsel's style. Instead, she would underplay, drawing their attention with the contrast of simplicity.
She began her direct examination by calling the doctor who had attended Marjorie Lovitz. With a few brief questions she established the extent of Marjorie's injuries on the night she and Suzanne McRoy had been brought into Emergency. She wanted the jury to hear of the broken jaw, the blackened eyes, the cracked ribs, even before she entered the photographs taken of the women that night into evidence.
She picked her way slowly, carefully through the technicalities, doctors, ambulance attendants, uniformed cops, social workers. She weathered her opponent's parries. By the noon recess, she had laid her groundwork.
She hustled Marjorie and Suzanne into a cab and took them across town for lunch and a last briefing.
"Do I have to go on the stand today, Miss O'Roarke?" Marjorie fidgeted in her seat and ate nothing. Though her bruises had faded over the weeks since the beating, her jaw still tended to ache. "Maybe what the doctors and all said was enough, and Suzanne and I won't have to testify."
"Marjorie." She laid a hand over the girl's and found it ice-cold and trembly. "They'll listen to the doctors, and they'll look at the pictures. They'll believe you and Suzanne were beaten. But it's you, both of you, who will convince them that Slagerman was the one who did it, that he is not the nice young businessman he pretends to be. Without you, he'll walk away and do it again."
Suzanne bit her lip. "Jimmy says he's going to get off anyway. That people will know we're whores, even though you helped us get regular jobs. He says when it's over he's going to find us, and hurt us real bad."
"When did he say that?"
"He called last night." Marjorie's eyes filled with tears. "He found out where we're living and he called. He said he was going to mess us up." She wiped at a tear with the heel of her hand. "He said he was going to make us wish we'd never started this. I don't want him to hurt me again."
"He won't. I can't help you unless you help me. Unless you trust me."
For the next hour, she talked, soothing, bullying, cajoling and promising. At two o'clock, both frightened women were back in court.
"The State calls Marjorie Lovitz," Deborah announced, and flicked a cool glance at Slagerman.
Gage slipped into the courtroom just as she called her first witness for the afternoon session. He'd had to cancel two meetings in order to be there. The need to see her had been a great deal stronger than the need to hear quarterly reports. It had been, Gage admitted, stronger than any need he had ever experienced.
For three days he'd kept his distance. Three very long days.
Life was often a chess match, he thought. And you took what time you needed to work out your next move. He chose a seat in the rear of the courtroom and settled back to watch her work.
"How old are you, Marjorie?" Deborah asked.
"Twenty-one."
"Have you always lived in Urbana?"
"No, I grew up in Pennsylvania."
With a few casual questions, she helped Marjorie paint a picture of her background, the poverty, the unhappiness, the parental abuse.
"When did you come to the city?''
"About four years ago."
"When you were seventeen. Why did you come?"
"I wanted to be an actress. That sounds pretty dumb, but I used to be in plays in school. I thought it would be easy."
"Was it?"
"No. No, it was hard. Real hard. Most of the time I didn't even get to audition, you know? And I ran out of money. I got a job waiting tables part-time, but it wasn't enough. They turned off the heat, and the lights."
"Did you ever think of going home?''
"I couldn't. My mother said if I took off then she was done with me. And I guess I thought, I still thought I could do okay, if I just got a break."
"Did you get one?"
"I thought I did. This guy came into the grill where I worked. We got kind of friendly, talking, you know. I told him how I was an actress. He said he'd known it as soon as he'd seen me, and what was I doing working in a dump like that when I was so pretty, and so talented. He told me he knew lots of people, and that if I came to work for him, he'd introduce me. He gave me a business card and everything."
"Is the man you met that night in the courtroom, Marjorie?"
"Sure, it was Jimmy." She looked down quickly at her twisting fingers. "Jimmy Slagerman."
"Did you go to work for him?"
"Yeah. I went the next day to his offices. He had a whole suite, all these desks and phones and leather chairs. A real nice place, uptown. He called it Elegant Escorts. He said I could make a hundred dollars a night just by going to dinner and parties with these businessmen. He even bought me clothes, pretty clothes and had my hair done and everything."
"And for this hundred dollars a night, all you had to do was go to dinner or parties?"
"That's what he told me, at first."
"And did that change?"
"After a while… he took me out to nice restaurants and places. Dress rehearsals, he called them. He bought me flowers and…"
"Did you have sex with him?"
"Objection. Irrelevant."
"Your Honor, the witness's relationship, her physical relationship with the defendant is very relevant."
"Overruled. You'll answer the question, Miss Lovitz."
"Yes. I went to bed with him. He treated me so nice. After, he gave me money—for the bills, he said."
"And you accepted it?"
"Yes. I guess I knew what was going on. I knew, but I pretended I didn't. A few days later, he told me he had a customer for me. He said I was to dress up real nice, and go out to dinner with this man from D.C."
"What Instructions were you given by Mr. Slagerman?"
"He said, 'Marjorie, you're going to have to earn that hundred dollars.' I said I knew that, and he told me I was going to have to be real nice to this guy. I said I would."
"Did Mr. Slagerman define 'nice' for you, Marjorie?" She hesitated, then looked down at her hands again. "He said I was to do whatever I was told. That if the guy wanted me to go back to his hotel after, I had to go or I wouldn't get my money. It was all acting, he said. I acted like I enjoyed the guy's company, like I was attracted to him, and I acted like I had a great time in bed with him."
"Did Mr. Slagerman specifically tell you that you would be required to have sex with this customer?"
"He said it was part of the job, the same as smiling at bad jokes. And if I was good at it, he'd introduce me to this director he knew."
"And you agreed?"
"He made it sound okay. Yes."
"And were there other occasions when you agreed to exchange sex for money in your capacity as an escort for Mr. Slagerman's firm?"
"Objection."
"I'll rephrase." She flicked a glance at the jury. "Did you continue in Mr. Slagerman's employ?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"For how long?"
"Three years."
"And were you satisfied with the arrangement?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know if you were satisfied?"
"I got used to the money," Marjorie said, painfully
honest. "And after a while you get so you can forget what you're doing, if you think about something else when it's going on."
"And was Mr. Slagerman happy with you?''
"Sometimes." Fearful, she looked up at the judge. "Sometimes he'd get real mad, at me or one of the other girls."
"There were other girls?"
"About a dozen, sometimes more."
"And what did he do when he got mad?"
"He'd smack you around."
"You mean he'd hit you?"
"He'd just go crazy and—"
"Objection."
"Sustained."
"Did he ever strike you, Marjorie?"
"Yes."
Deborah let the simplicity of the answer hang over the jury. "Will you tell me the events that took place on the night of February 25 of this year?"
As she'd been instructed, Marjorie kept her eyes on Deborah and didn't let them waver back to Slagerman. "I had a job, but I got sick. The flu or something. I had a fever and my stomach was really upset. I couldn't keep anything down. Suzanne came over to take care of me."
"Suzanne?"
"Suzanne McRoy. She worked for Jimmy, too, and we got to be friends. I just couldn't get up and go to work, so Suzanne called Jimmy to tell him." Her hands began to twist in her lap. "I could hear her arguing with him over the phone, telling him I was sick. Suzanne said he could come over and see for himself if he didn't believe her."
"And did he come over?"
"Yes." The tears started, big silent drops that cruised down her cheeks. "He was really mad. He was yelling at Suzanne, and she was yelling back, telling him I was really sick, that I had a fever like a hundred and two. He said—" She licked her lips. "He said we were both lazy, lying sluts. I heard something crash and she was crying. I got up, but I was dizzy." She rubbed the heel of her hands under her eyes, smearing mascara. "He came into the bedroom. He knocked me down."
"You mean he bumped into you?"
"No, he knocked me down. Backhanded me, you know?"
"Yes. Go on."
"Then he told me to get my butt up and get dressed. He said the customer had asked for me, I was going to do it. He said all I had to do was lie on my back and close my eyes anyway." She fumbled for a tissue, blew her nose. "I told him I was sick, that I couldn't do it. He was yelling and throwing things. Then he said he'd show me how it felt to be sick. And he started hitting me."
Books by Nora Roberts Page 372