by Rachel Grant
The more she thought about it, the more she understood one fundamental truth: for all his faults, Jack had loved Angela. The Cultural Center was his private way of showing his love. But it came far, far too late.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
LIBBY WAS APPREHENSIVE about returning to the restaurant she’d dined at the night her troubles started, but in Coho there weren’t many choices. She suspected the Thorpe Hotel restaurant with its walled booths would be too private for the showy evening Jason wanted.
He was already seated when she arrived. He greeted her warmly, clasping her hands and kissing her cheek, smiling his most polished smile. The show was on. She hoped she was up to her part.
“Relax,” he whispered in her ear.
She was grateful for his help. Hopefully he wouldn’t guess her true reason for being nervous. She had to pick his brain for information about his mother and the mill without letting him know about the will.
They ordered drinks and chatted of inconsequential things. She was surprised by his even manner. His murdered mother had just been found and his father could face prosecution for the crime, but he sat there exuding calmness, serenity, and a frank sexuality that women inherently responded to. Libby included.
She found herself wondering whether he would have been a wiser choice over Mark. He, at least, seemed to trust her. Then she reminded herself she didn’t trust him.
There was also the fact that she had been drawn to Mark with an intensity she’d never felt before. Pursuing Jason instead of Mark would have been like ignoring the laws of gravity in an attempt to fly.
Her first true test of the evening came when Mark entered the restaurant. With a date. Libby recognized Heather, the waitress from the tavern, who beamed from ear to ear as she followed the hostess to their table.
Libby understood for the first time how stiflingly small Coho was. Her salad turned to sawdust. Jason must’ve seen the cracks in her composure. He glanced up and exchanged nods with Mark. Mark stared at her for a moment and then followed the hostess to his table.
Jason grabbed her hand and gave her fingers a squeeze without missing a beat in the conversation. “The division of the mill isn’t complicated. My great-grandmother left each of her four children a quarter share of TL&L. When the mill unionized, concessions were granted. A few changes made. Five percent of the profit was supposed to go to the union, with the understanding that the employees would work harder if they could reap the rewards. Each of Millie’s four children gave up one point two five percent of the company to equal five percent. In the end, three percent went to the union and two percent ended up going to the lawyer who brokered the deal.” He held up a hand. “Please. No lawyer jokes. I’ve heard them all.”
She smiled and tried to look amused, as though she wasn’t aware that Mark was on a date in another part of the restaurant.
Jason leaned forward and said softly, “You’re doing great.” Then he leaned back and continued. “The lawyer, Eli Banks, will get his two percent of the proceeds when we sell TL&L. The union will still get three percent, even though there’s no longer a local chapter. I inherited from my grandfather Billy twenty-three point seven five percent. Laura, Earl, and James each have the same amount.”
The lawyer was still alive. Of all her suspects, he was the only one she was certain had knowledge of the will. “Does the lawyer still live in Coho?”
“You don’t know,” he said, surprised. “Eli Banks is your next-door neighbor, the one who claims to have seen you with gas cans on your back porch.”
MARK’S EVENING DIDN’T START WELL. He’d entered the restaurant with Heather and immediately saw Libby and Jason together, while Heather chatted happily with the hostess, making it clear they were friends. He glanced at the reservation sheet as the hostess grabbed the menus. Caruthers/Maitland was written next to seven o’clock.
Heather had pushed for this evening out and now he knew he’d been set up—she’d wanted him to see Libby and Jason together. The hostess led them to a two-seat table, and Heather grabbed the one with the back to Libby. Mark would be forced to stare at her and Jason throughout the meal.
After the hostess left, Mark frowned at his companion. “You knew they’d be here.”
Heather’s eyes widened and she flushed. “No! I—I—”
Everyone lied to cops. Suspects, victims, witnesses: they all had reasons to lie and they all thought they could get away with it. His instinct for lies and truth had been fine-tuned by people far savvier than Heather. “Don’t. I get lied to enough on the job. I’m not in the mood for it on my night off. Tell me who put you up to this.” He spoke quietly so his voice wouldn’t carry beyond their small table.
“No one!” She flushed again when her sharp response caught other diners’ attention, and then continued in a softer voice, “I’m sorry, Mark. Okay, I knew they’d be here, but that’s all there is to it. There’s been talk at the bar. I knew that you and she…I just thought it might be easier for you if you knew she’d already moved on.”
This was the truth. Heather’s face had gone through every shade of red and it was obvious she was a novice at scheming. His anger evaporated as he began to feel sorry for her. “He’s her lawyer, Heather. Just because they’re having dinner together doesn’t mean she’s moved on.” Strange he could say that to Heather when he didn’t believe it himself.
“Oh,” she said, sounding like a deflating balloon. “Do you want to leave?” He guessed she’d passed embarrassment on the way to mortification.
“No.” The weight in his chest lifted. “You need a night out, and so, frankly, do I.”
Her smile blossomed from timid relief to real happiness. At least at the end of the evening there would be no awkward goodnight with Heather waiting for a kiss. Mortification was an effective antidote to infatuation.
LIBBY’S JAW DROPPED. Her mind raced. Now she understood why her next-door neighbor had lied. He’d ruined Libby so he could finally receive his payout sixty-two years after he betrayed Millie Thorpe in exchange for two percent of the mill. The man stood to gain two million dollars. But he must be in his nineties and couldn’t be agile enough to be behind the physical attacks. So who else was involved? She looked across the table. Jason was certainly strong enough. “Why would he lie?” she finally asked, feigning ignorance.
“By all accounts, he’s a few bricks short of a stack. I interviewed him today, and I can tell you with complete confidence his testimony won’t ever hold up in court. Which brings me to some good news. The case against you is pretty much dead.” He paused. When she didn’t say anything, he added, “This is the part where you throw your arms around me and shower me with kisses.” He winked at her.
“I’m tempted,” she said, afraid to believe his words could be true.
“Banks’ story changed three times during the interview. He was disoriented. Confused. Tomorrow I’ve got a meeting with the DA. I’m going to ask her not to file based on this and other new evidence. Just before coming here, I dropped off a copy of my findings at the Coho PD. Your case is in the hands of the prosecutor now, but I want Mark to attend the meeting with the DA because I want him to re-open the investigation of your attack.”
“Good luck with that.”
“There is no doubt in my mind that he’ll do what I want after he reviews the evidence. There were more problems with the fingerprint evidence than they would have you believe. Your prints were only on the first piece of tape ripped from the roll that night—the strip that covered your mouth. I did my own test with a roll of the same brand of duct tape. I was surprised at how easily I could get the tape around my wrists two times. But the tape was wrapped around your wrists five times. That was nearly impossible to do and have it remain smooth—like the tape was on you. You would’ve needed to use your mouth, chin, shoulder, neck, or knees. You would have been bound to get some of your own hair or clothing fibers stuck in the tape. Or there would be teeth marks, possibly saliva. None of which was found on the duct tape ar
ound your wrists. Plus, because the attacker used your own roll of duct tape, the fingerprints are only circumstantial. You could have used the roll yourself, unwinding a piece longer than necessary, getting your fingerprints on it, then winding the tape back on the unused part of the roll.”
“That makes sense,” she said. Inside she was reeling, thrilled that the evidence against her could be easily countered, but afraid to hope that the threat of standing trial was really gone.
“There’s more. There were several other unmatched sets of fingerprints on the wine bottle used for the Molotov cocktail. The investigator matched your prints but never matched the others. I want those prints run. Your attacker could have taken the bottle from your recycle bin. Whose fingerprints could be on the bottle?”
Libby clearly remembered Mark’s arms surrounding her as he helped her open the bottle of wine the night he’d kissed her the first time. “Mark,” she said.
“I was really hoping you’d say that. If one of those sets of prints are his, then he’s just become a defense witness. This is important because the Molotov cocktail is the strongest evidence they have for attempted arson, and right now that’s the only thing you’ve been charged with.”
She smiled at the idea of Mark being forced to testify on her behalf. “And the other prints? Could they belong to my attacker?”
“It’s more likely they were already there. Any number of people could have touched that bottle before you purchased it. But if we can prove that both yours and Mark’s fingerprints got on the bottle under normal circumstances, then their evidence supporting the arson charge is weak.”
Jason explained how her attacker might have used her Taser and a second one to make it seem she wasn’t Tasered at all. “We’re looking at a carefully premeditated attack. The police don’t have the proof they need to show you weren’t attacked Thursday night. I believe reasonable doubt is on your side.”
The waiter came and laid out their main course. The theories Jason outlined weren’t the solid proof of innocence she wanted. But she knew what she went through that night and Jason’s scenario made sense. Would the prosecutor accept it as such? And what about Mark?
After she finished eating, Libby pulled out Angela’s journal and set it on the table in front of Jason. She explained what it was. “Your mom’s writing is very personal. In the end, she is painfully frank about her marriage, mistakes she made, mistakes Jack made. There may be more in there than you want to know.”
He looked at the book as though he were afraid to touch it. “As her son, I’m bothered that Jack didn’t give this to the police sooner. There may be information that would help their investigation. As a lawyer, I’m glad I’ll have a chance to read it before we tell the cops she kept a journal.”
She wanted to give Jason a moment alone and excused herself to use the restroom. She passed by Mark’s table and a fresh jolt of pain hit her. She’d been better off when she was angry. Before leaving the restroom, she paused to collect herself, and then squared her shoulders and stepped into the narrow corridor—and came face to face with Mark.
The cold mask had dropped from his features. In his eyes she saw pain that mirrored her own. “Did you plan to use Jason from the start, or did you choose him because you knew how much it would bother me?”
She blinked against the sting his accusation triggered. Pain or not, he continued to believe the worst of her. “I’m not using Jason. He’s helping me because you had me arrested, and I needed a lawyer.” He’s a victim, too. Don’t let the anger win.
She started to brush past him, but he caught her arm and stopped her. She met his gaze. Probing. Intense. Just like when he’d questioned her after searching the blackberries. They’d shared so much, and yet they’d gotten nowhere. She shrugged out of his grip and straightened her spine. “Go back to your date, Mark, and leave me alone.”
“It’s not—”
“Is everything okay, Libby?” Jason asked as he entered the corridor.
She frowned. Was Mark about to deny being on a date? Did it matter at this point?
Mark’s gaze narrowed with Jason’s protective intrusion. “Libby’s always fine,” he said, then he turned and left.
“Well, that was…awkward,” she said.
“He shouldn’t talk to you without a lawyer present, and he knows it. You can talk to him tomorrow, after I meet with the prosecutor.”
Was that really why Jason had intruded? She didn’t know what to think—of Jason or Mark.
They returned to their table, paid their bill, and left the restaurant. Standing next to her truck, Jason pulled her into his arms for a comforting hug. She leaned into him and wished she could trust him, but he was too high on her list of suspects.
“I know you’re in love with Mark,” he said.
She wanted to protest, but couldn’t.
“And he’s trying not to care,” he added. He met her gaze and stroked her cheek, and then his gaze lifted over her head, toward the restaurant, and he smiled. “I’m not above helping you get some petty revenge.” He cupped her face in both hands and leaned down and kissed her full on the lips. “Goodnight, Libby.”
She looked over her shoulder and saw Mark and the waitress exiting the restaurant. A mean satisfaction slid through her. She’d suffered alone the last two days. The flash of pain in Mark’s eyes was at least a sign he felt something other than contempt for her.
She climbed into her Suburban, blew Jason a kiss, and drove off. She made it all the way home before her tears began to flow again.
DINNER HADN’T BEEN WHAT MARK would call fun, and now, thank God it was over. Heather, at least, had enjoyed herself.
After confronting Libby, Mark returned to the table in a bleak mood. Heather’s intention had backfired. He hadn’t taken one look at Libby with Jason and known he needed to move on. No, instead he had to face the knowledge he still wanted her. Or at least wanted what he’d thought they could have together. Heather took one look at him and winced. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have asked you here tonight.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”
Mark tried to speak, but couldn’t.
“Maybe she’s innocent,” she offered hopefully.
“That’s for the court to decide.”
“But what do you think?”
“What I think and what I want are two different things.”
“For your sake, I’m going to hope she’s innocent.”
Mark smiled, surprised by the change in Heather’s attitude toward Libby. Heather was a kind woman—foolish, but kind.
They left the restaurant just in time to see Jason’s less-than-brotherly kiss on Libby’s lips, and Mark stopped dead in his tracks. This was the image that had tormented him since Monday. He got hold of himself and resumed walking.
Libby drove off as Heather climbed into her vehicle. He could go home. He unlocked his car and then heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Jason.
“Tomorrow I’m meeting with the DA,” Jason said. “I’m certain she’s going to choose not to file charges against Libby after she reviews my findings.”
“Good for you.” Mark opened his car door.
“I want you to re-open the investigation of Libby’s assault.”
“I won’t waste more taxpayer money investigating her claims.”
“I sent a copy of my findings to your office. Read my brief and then tell me you think she’s guilty.”
“I’m sure you are very persuasive.” In spite of the coldness of his tone, part of him acknowledged he really did hope Jason could convince him.
Jason shook his head as though he pitied Mark. “You had her, yet you fucked it up.”
“Did it ever occur to you that she fucked up? That she played me like she’s playing you?”
“No. Because I reviewed the evidence.”
“So did I.”
“No. You didn’t. Listen, I’m willing to cut you some slack because I know police procedu
re. Given the pile of evidence against her, you had to bring her in. I’ll even grant that given your relationship, you had to tread very carefully, and talking to her first—interviewing her privately—could have gotten your ass in deep trouble. But where you fucked up was believing the bullshit instead of trusting your instincts about Libby. You could have stepped back, told her you had to recuse yourself, and let Officer Eversall handle it. But you were stupid and sent in Roth, whose lack of experience in investigation and bias against Libby were obvious from the start. Face it. You fucked up, big time.”
He glared at Jason. Libby had damned herself before Luke ever started investigating. “The evidence against Libby is solid and supported by her actions. She falsified evidence in the past. She tampered with evidence in your mother’s homicide. She lied about her relationship with Brady.”
Jason held up a hand and ticked off his responses. “Simone—not Libby—falsified evidence. The ‘tampering’ argument is weak, considering she was given those boxes for the express purpose of going through them and making copies. And Aaron? I don’t know what you’re talking about, but only a fool would take that prick’s word over Libby’s.”
Mark stared at Jason, his heart beating at a slow but resounding tempo. Jason was the last person he should discuss lying women with.
Jason shook his head. “This is really about Sheila, isn’t it?”
Mark’s hand clenched into a fist. “Hell no.”
“It is. Sheila got your head so fucking twisted that—because of me—you can’t see Libby for who she is.”
“I see Libby just fine.”
“No. You don’t.” Jason paused. “You followed one trail of evidence, then let your emotions take over. You stopped asking questions and instead decided guilt. That’s not the type of cop I expected you to be.” He turned and strode to his Lexus, his footsteps echoing in the quiet night.
Mark stood frozen, staring after Jason and hating the hope the lawyer had stirred. Could Mark really be that wrong about Libby? Had he fucked up on an unbelievable scale?