Sawyer, Meryl

by A Kiss in the Dark

"No. I'm not here to turn in my column." She sat in the chair beside his desk and explained that the topic of her trial run on television had been changed.

  "That's too bad. I know how much the Center for Women in Crisis means to you. That's why I'm going to the auction Saturday night, even though I hate getting trussed up in a monkey suit."

  Royce smiled. Uncle Wally would never be a substitute for her father, but he was the next best thing and always had been. Since her father's death they'd become closer, even though she'd spent the last five years with relatives in Italy, unable to face living in San Francisco after her father's death.

  She and Wally had written constantly and had spoken on the telephone each week. Now that she was home again, they saw each other more than ever before.

  "So, I guess you need some info on the homeless." Wally tapped on his computer to bring up his research files.

  "Actually"—she hesitated, knowing her father's death had been every bit as painful for him as it had for her—"I want to know what you have on Mitchell Durant."

  He swung around and faced her. "What the hell for?"

  "Apparently, Mitch has a plan for the homeless. Arnold Dillingham insisted I interview him."

  "Just how important is this program to you?"

  "I'd like to branch out from writing a humorous column. I'd like to try more serious issues the way Daddy did. But I'm afraid people think I'm an intellectual lightweight."

  "Don't let your father's success bother you. You can be anything you want to be." He patted her shoulder. "But I don't like the idea of you interviewing that bastard Durant."

  "Neither do I, but what can I do? Anyway, Mitch has limited my questions to the homeless. Nothing about his life —at all."

  "Not surprising. Durant never gives interviews."

  "Doesn't that strike you as strange?"

  "No. It's savvy. The more mysterious you are, the more the press pursues you. That'll work to your advantage on the show. There'll be lots of people who'll tune in just to hear Mitch."

  "May I look at your file on him?"

  "Don't ask for trouble, Royce. A reporter's word has to be reliable. When you're told something is off the record, you must honor that request."

  "I plan to stay within the guidelines. No questions not related to the homeless, but I might be able to come up with something if I look into his background."

  "I don't see how. Every reporter in the state sifted through the records during his last murder trial when Durant captured the headlines for weeks. Nothing. He enlisted in the Navy when he was eighteen and got his high school degree by passing an equivalency test while he was enlisted."

  Royce took out her notepad. "Where did he grow up?"

  "Who knows? His birth certificate says he was born in Pugwash Junction, Arkansas. The few shacks that were there were demolished years ago by the Interstate. Checking the neighboring farms, no one found anybody who knew a Mitchell Durant."

  "Doesn't that seem unusual?"

  "Not really. I know the South pretty well from the civil rights coverage I did in the sixties. I'm going back there soon to do an environmental piece on chicken farming. I'm hoping to retire on top," he confessed, "with another Pulitzer. This could be it."

  He shrugged as if it wasn't all that important, but she knew better. The young Turks were baying at his heels. He wasn't getting the choice assignments he once had. And it had been years since his last Pulitzer.

  "Anyway, the South is riddled with small towns and itinerant farmers. The fact that Durant didn't have a high school degree when he enlisted in the Navy tells me that he never stayed in one place long enough. It couldn't have been his brains. He sailed through college even though he worked full time. He was top of his class at Stanford Law School."

  "Did you discover anything about the scars on his cheek?" She didn't mention the third, which she knew was concealed by his thick hair.

  "No, but he was honorably discharged from the Navy before his term was up. They discovered he's deaf in one ear. Apparently they'd missed it when he enlisted."

  "Really? That must be why he cocks his head just slightly to one side. He's favoring his good ear."

  Deaf in one ear. A pang of sympathy so deep, she couldn't pinpoint its source surged through her. When she'd first met Mitch, she'd noticed this mannerism and assumed he was just listening attentively to her. She tamped down the ache of sympathy, reminding herself Mitchell Durant wasn't worthy of it. Undoubtedly his pride wouldn't welcome pity —especially hers.

  Wally pressed a few keys and information filled the computer screen. "Here's what I have on Durant, including all the cases he's handled. You look. I have to prep for an editorial meeting."

  Royce changed chairs with her uncle. She quickly reviewed the cases in Wally's file. "It appears defending insurance companies keeps Mitch's cash cow in clover."

  Wally peered at her over the top of the report he was reading. "He works with Paul Talbott, a private investigator who specializes in insurance fraud."

  She scanned the files again, more closely this time. "Strange. Mitch has represented a few defendants accused of taking drugs, but no drug lords. I thought they were bread and butter for many criminal attorneys."

  "The drug kingpins usually keep the best attorneys on retainer, but Durant has steered clear of them."

  "His record's clean. Too clean." She thought a moment, an idea forming. "He's prepping for a political career."

  "He's been mentioned frequently for the district attorney's post, which will be vacant next year, but he denies he's interested in politics. Still, I suspect you're right. He's grooming himself for politics, keeping himself lily-white."

  "Doesn't surprise me. We both know how ambitious Mitch is." She hesitated, then asked, "What about his personal life?"

  "He and Abigail Carnivali were an item for a while, but they split up about a year ago. She's the assistant DA. They don't call her Abigail Carnivorous for nothing. She's set to run for DA when the old goat retires next year."

  Royce remembered Abigail: tall, jet-black hair and eyes. She'd sat next to Mitch while he'd crucified Royce's father. She was every bit as ambitious as Mitch. A perfect match. What happened between them? she wondered.

  "Of course," Wally continued, "if Mitch ran for DA, he'd beat Carnivorous in a second."

  "Nothing else on his personal life?" she asked, telling herself she could care less about his love affairs.

  "He's a true lone wolf. His only friend is that private investigator, Paul Talbott. It's anybody's guess how Mitch spends his free time. Other than his work with Catholic Big Brothers, he's kept the lowest profile imaginable. Until now."

  "I think he's moving into the political arena."

  "We'll find out soon enough, I'm afraid." Wally glanced at the clock. "I'm late for the meeting. Good luck tomorrow night. I'll be watching the TV, rooting for you. Don't let Mitch hog the camera. I want to see my girl get that job."

  "I won't let him get the best of me," she promised, thinking he hadn't mentioned Brent. Uncle Wally certainly wasn't happy she was marrying a Farenholt, but he loved her enough to let her make her own decisions.

  Royce spend the next three hours studying the cases Mitchell Durant had taken since going into private practice. "There has to be a way to pay him back for what he did to Daddy," she whispered to the computer.

  It took her another hour, but finally she discovered what she was looking for. No doubt about it, Mitch was grooming himself for a political career. Obviously, he didn't want to announce his intentions—yet.

  Well, she'd fix him. She couldn't ruin his political aspirations, but she could expose them. Long before he wanted anyone to know.

  CHAPTER 3

  The powerful klieg lights in the television studio caused a rivulet of perspiration to trickle down between Royce's breasts. Having Mitch staring at her wasn't helping either. The makeup man dusted her forehead and nose with powder again, telling her to relax. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Mitch seated
in the guest chair opposite hers, looking cool despite the dark suit he wore.

  The jitters she'd had all day had solidified into a hard knot lodged at the base of her throat. Would she be able to utter a single word? Would she remember all she'd learned about the homeless?

  Would she have the courage to wait until the final seconds of the program before dealing Mitch a blow, exposing his political aspirations before he was ready? She gulped a calming breath, reminding herself if she played this right she'd land the job as the San Francisco Affairs hostess and make life rough for Mitch.

  "Two minutes and we're live," yelled the floor director, sending a dozen people scurrying over the skein of cables strewn across the studio.

  Someone clipped a tiny microphone on her suit jacket. She followed instructions and said a few words for a mike check, conscious of the glass control booth suspended above the studio floor. Arnold Dillingham was up there, evaluating her performance. She couldn't remember ever being this nervous. Was the job so important, or was it besting Mitch?

  Royce stole a glance in Mitch's direction and found him studying her again. For a moment their gazes caught and held. Was he thinking about that kiss?

  He suddenly flashed her a knowing grin. He was thinking about that passionate kiss. She must have seemed incredibly weak to him. Well, he'd find out.

  "Five, four, three, two, one." The director pointed his finger at Royce, mouthing, "We're live."

  "Good evening," Royce said, using her high-voltage smile. "I'm Royce Anne Winston. Welcome to San Francisco Affairs. This program is dedicated to in-depth discussions of issues that interest our community."

  She took a quick breath, justifiably proud of her even voice. "Tonight, we'll be talking about one of the most troublesome problems in our city, the homeless. With me is Mitchell Durant, recently named trial attorney of the year."

  The camera zoomed in for a close-up of Mitch, who smiled, an arresting smile worthy of a television evangelist. Trust me, Royce thought, you won't be smiling when this program's over.

  "Tell me, Mitch. You're a very busy attorney. Why such interest in the problems of the homeless?"

  "The plight of the homeless is everyone's problem," Mitch responded, his tone a convincing mix of authority and concern. "As you know, Royce, San Francisco's city code requires that homeless people who're here thirty-six hours are entitled to register and draw payments from the city."

  "That's why our city has become a Mecca for the homeless. Don't you think the law should be changed?"

  "It doesn't matter what I think," he replied, true to form. Politicians avoided committing themselves. "We have to deal with the situation as it exists. That's where my plan—"

  "Some of the homeless appear to be mentally incapable of holding down a job," she interrupted. She didn't want Mitch to reveal the details of his plan yet. Uncle Wally had warned her not to let him steal the show, to remain in control. "Shouldn't they be in institutions?"

  Mitch didn't appear to be the least bit rattled that she'd cut him off. "Under the state law certain mentally troubled individuals who are not a danger to society have a choice. They can remain wards of the state or they can go free. Which would you choose?"

  "Freedom," she reluctantly admitted, "but they will never be productive members of society? Add to that number the people who're unwilling to work—"

  "How do you know they don't want to work?"

  "I have no way of knowing about every person," she backtracked, reminding herself to choose her words with care. Here was a man who interrogated people for a living. She was very sympathetic to the plight of the homeless but if she weren't cautious, he'd make her sound like a heartless shrew instead of a sharp interviewer doing her job by presenting all sides of the issue.

  "Some people say the homeless around Union Square station themselves outside the ritzy shops with "beloved pets" to exploit the situation," she said. "Many believe those homeless people are playing on our sympathy and using animals to get money."

  Mercifully, the director signaled for a commercial and she mumbled something about the sponsor. The makeup man reappeared, draping a towel around her neck. She stole a peek at Mitch and found him watching her.

  He winked and gave her an intimate look, his gaze scaling down her body and stopping at her thighs where her skirt had ridden up. She tried for a withering glance, but its impact was destroyed by the makeup man blotting the prickles of perspiration off the bridge of her nose and dusting her with powder. Before she could gather her thoughts, they were on the air again.

  She said something as the camera zoomed in for a close-up. Out of camera range she saw Mitch wink again. Honest to God, the man had a bulletproof ego.

  Mitch leaned forward, talking to the camera as if he were speaking to his most intimate friends. He was perfect for politics. "What we as a society need to ask ourselves is how we can walk right past a homeless person with a sign will work for food and ignore him. Yet if that same person has a dog and a sign that says FIDO NEEDS FOOD, we toss him a coin. Can you explain it?"

  "Yes," she responded. "People know an animal has no way of feeding itself. They feel responsible for a helpless creature, but they assume the person could—if he wished— help himself."

  "That's how most see it, but what if you could assist the person to become a productive member of society again?"

  "I have helped. I noticed a woman living in our alley. She was divorced with no job skills. I took her to the Center for Women in Crisis. Now she has a place to stay, and she's enrolled in a training program."

  "That's terrific. If everyone pitched in we'd be—"

  "Not everyone has the time to help or knows how. It's easier to give money, but a lot of people feel that only encourages begging. So they don't do anything."

  The camera was on her, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Mitch smiling, an unspoken challenge in his grin. Now she had no choice except to hear his plan. "What do you suggest?"

  "First, tell me what groups you see within the ranks of the homeless."

  There. He'd done it. Now he was asking her questions. He'd have her around his finger in a minute, if she weren't careful. "There are the mentally incapacitated and those who find it easier to ask for money than work."

  How would she describe the third group? Oh, Lordy, the camera was zooming in for a close-up. She hesitated, seldom at a loss for words, but suddenly unable to express herself.

  Her father would have coined a new phrase that would later be repeated by everyone, but she didn't have his intellectual genius. Her gift was pointing out the absurdities of everyday life. But there was nothing remotely funny about the homeless.

  "You're validating my point." Mitch filled the uncomfortable pause. "It's hard to classify the homeless. Like most persistent problems its solution isn't simple."

  "There but for the grace of God go I." Royce had no idea what made her say that, but the well-known phrase did sum up her feelings. All right, it wasn't an original term, but at least words hadn't failed her entirely.

  Mitch gave her an approving nod. "Exactly. A great many of the homeless have fallen through society's cracks. Under the right circumstances anyone could be homeless. The woman you helped is a prime example."

  "Just what do you propose?"

  "To concentrate on this third group that's fallen through the cracks. We have the best chance of helping them. I've lined up a number of businessmen. We're developing a system using a computer network that will match the skills with jobs."

  It was time for another commercial, giving Royce a moment to marshal her thoughts. She braved a glance at Mitch and he grinned. She quickly looked away. Of course, he would smile. He sounded brilliant—the celluloid image of the perfect candidate. Obviously, he was priming the audience for a political career.

  How was she doing? Nothing special. No incisive observations. No witty remarks. She'd said nothing that would make Arnold Dillingham choose her to hostess his program.

  Well, she had one more
shot at this. She had to phrase her final question carefully so that she was within the guidelines Mitch had set And she had to time it perfectly, making certain Mitch had no chance to answer while they were still on the air.

  The next few minutes passed quickly as Mitch explained his plan. Royce asked questions, her eye on the clock, her mind on her final question. She had to admit the plan Mitch outlined sounded innovative. It wouldn't solve the homeless problem entirely, but it would give ordinary citizens a way to become involved.

  Her closing question wouldn't sabotage his plan, but it would expose his political ambitions. Mitch wouldn't suffer the way her father had suffered, but it was the best she could do.

  The director gave her the "wrap" signal. She took a quick breath, amazed at how the words stalled in her throat despite having rehearsed them countless times. It couldn't have been more than a split second, but it seemed like hours before she heard herself speak.

  "I've studied your record, Mitch. When you were in the DA's office you had an impressive conviction rate." She glimpsed his intense blue eyes glaring at her and warning her not to violate the guidelines. "In your private practice you've avoided representing drug dealers. And you've been incredibly sensitive to women's issues. In the DA's office you successfully prosecuted numerous rape cases. Since you've been in private practice you've refused to defend any man accused of rape."

  She sensed Mitch's eyes locked on her, anger roiling beneath the facade of composure. "I wonder if your critics aren't right. You've planned your career carefully, avoiding drug and rape cases, grooming yourself for political office."

  She hazarded a glimpse at Mitch. He flashed her a look that would have stopped a charging rhino.

  "Now you've aligned yourself with animal rights groups by agreeing to defend a vicious cougar the Fish and Game Department wants put to sleep. I'm certain the viewers are asking if this program for the homeless—although not without merit—is just another ploy for media attention in your climb up the political ladder."

  The camera switched away from Royce. Mitch shot her a look that bordered on a death threat. He opened his mouth to respond, but her timing was flawless. The theme music began to play.