But the gunshot that killed her father might as well have pierced Lee's heart too. It was almost as if the bunny knew Papa had killed himself. From the moment that shot had rung out, nothing could persuade Lee to eat. Royce had tried; God knows she'd sat by the cage, tears in her eyes, begging Lee to take a carrot for her father's sake. But he kept staring up at the attic where Papa had taken his life.
A week later Rabbit E. Lee died, his eyes still open, still staring at the attic window. The vet claimed it was old age, but Royce knew better. He'd died of a broken heart. She'd closed up the house and left for Italy the next day.
She gazed out into the darkness. Somewhere in the city was another little girl standing by her daddy's side "helping" him build a bunny hutch. Her young heart was swelling with love that would last a lifetime as she made herself a promise: Someday she'd marry a man just as wonderful as her daddy.
Something snapped inside Royce's chest. Brent. The man she'd thought was so much like her daddy had been nothing more than a cheap imitation. How could he have deceived her? Why hadn't she seen how shallow he was, how much he wanted to please his parents?
"The key?" Mitch prompted, reminding her that he was standing beside her, waiting.
He'd killed her father as surely as if he'd pulled the trigger. She wanted to hit him, or scream, but she was overwhelmed with sadness. Nothing could bring back Papa just as nothing could change Mitchell Durant.
"It's under here." She lifted a planter her father had made so the key could fit underneath. Nothing. "Did you have Val get my passport?" He nodded. "She must have been so upset, she forgot to put the key back."
"Perhaps she put it under one of the other pots."
"No. It was on a special Zodiac key ring that had my sign—"
"Scorpio. It figures."
She was bone weary, too tired to be baited by his sarcasm. "My father made the key ring to fit under this planter." She took off her shoes; her toes were screaming for mercy. "I'll climb—"
A thunderous crash and the sound of splintering glass was followed by shouts of "Police" as the lights inside her house came on.
"My God," she cried, "they've broken down the front door."
"Get your hands up! Now!" Mitch's hands shot into the air.
Common sense told her to reach high, her shoes in one hand. God knows, she didn't want to be mistaken for a criminal and be shot in her own backyard. "They had no right to break into my home."
"This isn't a social call. It must be the Narcotics Unit with a no-knock warrant. If they knock, the stash goes down the toilet."
"I don't"—she started to protest, but the back door flew open and guns were leveled at them. She'd watched similar scenes on TV, but that didn't keep her knees from turning to putty.
"Durant? That you?" called an officer, obviously surprised.
"Yeah, and this is Royce Winston. You better have a warrant and an affidavit to back it up." Mitch reached out his hand, but Royce waited until the guns were holstered before lowering her shaky arms and clasping her shoes to her chest.
Mitch read the warrant, then turned to her. "It's valid."
She sank down on the back step. Dear God, what now? Inside, glass shattered and along with it her eggshell composure. She rested her head on her knees, hugging her legs to keep from screaming. This couldn't be happening to her. But it was.
Mitch sat beside her. "They're looking for drugs."
She lifted her head. "I don't have any drugs."
"The judicial system sucks the big one. I'm the first to admit it, and the first to exploit it. But one thing that's still sacred is our right to privacy. Hell, every cop in the city knows where the drug lords have their caches, but they can't troop in without a search order. When they get one, it's because they're dead nuts certain to find what they're looking for.
"This search warrant's affidavit says it was issued on the word of an unnamed informant whose reputation is good enough to convince a judge to allow the search."
"Unnamed? Anyone could make up anything—"
"Judges don't take the word of an unreliable informant and they have to protect them by not revealing their names." He took out a business card and scribbled on the back of it. "Here's the name of a lawyer. You don't have to worry about him. All he chases is ambulances. Call him as soon as they take you to the station. You're so exhausted, you're liable to confess."
Mitch hustled down the path toward the front of the house where he'd parked the car. "Okay, buddy," he muttered to himself. "You're long on hormones and short on common sense."
She didn't "respect" him—whatever that meant. Yessir, she'd won. Award her a black belt in verbal karate. He was so blasted mad, he could strangle her. Even if he'd been a bastard—hey, he wasn't admitting anything—she should at least respect his ability.
But Royce hadn't a clue how much trouble she was in. Like most yuppies her idea of a felony was a dent in her BMW. Just wait, sweet cakes.
What did he expect? Gratitude? Ha! No way. If anything, Royce hated him more for seeing her so vulnerable. Not that he cared. The world was full of women.
"So why does she have you running in circles like a crazed possum? She's a heartbreaker. A ball buster. Why can't you forget her?"
The answer hit him like a straight shot of Kentucky moonshine. Five years hadn't changed a damn thing. He still wanted her.
"Goddammit!" He was royally pissed. That stunt she'd pulled on TV still had him fried.
The pictures in today's edition of that rag, the Evening Outlook, had sent his blood pressure into the stratosphere. They showed Royce in dental floss that passed for a bikini, lolling on the beach with Lover-Boy Farenholt. Tobias Ingeblatt's headline shrieked: sexpot columnist heists jewels.
"Get the hell out of here," he told himself.
But leaving her was the hardest damn thing he'd ever done. A grim reminder of the past. His mother. She'd refused his help too. Swear to God, you never knew what a woman would pull. She could love you one minute and try to kill you the next.
Ahead, Mitch saw the flashing lights from the armada of police cars had attracted a crowd of neighbors clad in robes and curlers. No sign of the media barracudas. Yet.
The K-9 unit pulled up and four German shepherds leapt out just as the police video crew arrived. There you go. The narcs did expect a big find.
"Mitch... Mitch." He turned and saw Royce hurrying toward him, streamers of blond hair billowing over her shoulders, her shoes in her hand.
"Well, I'll be jiggered." He couldn't keep the undertone of bitterness out of his voice.
She stopped a few feet from him, hesitated, taking a frantic look at the legions of narcs swarming around her home. Then she came closer, a step at a time. Her soulful green eyes glassy with unshed tears.
"I want you to be my attorney," she said, heartfelt emotion breaking in her voice, but the earnest plea came as much from her eyes as her voice. "Don't... leave me."
Despite her stricken expression she squared her shoulders. He'd bet his life those were the hardest words she'd ever spoken. She was scared to death, and he didn't blame her. Someone wanted to make dead certain she went to prison for years.
Every instinct he possessed, instincts that had never failed him, told him to turn his back and get the hell out of there. But she looked so forlorn, standing clutching her high heels, the flashing strobes from the police cars washing her face red-then-white-then-red.
"I'll represent you, Royce, but I have several conditions."
"What?" She was shaking. Obviously she needed a good night's sleep to pull herself together.
He shucked his jacket and put it over her shoulders, then lifted her long hair free. His hand lingered, testing the softness of her hair, the spring in the curl. "I want you—and your uncle—to promise that you'll never write or reveal anything you find out about me during the course of this case. Not one word about me. None of that shit you pulled on the TV program, understand?"
"I promise. I'll never write—or sa
y—one word about you. Ever. I swear."
"Absolutely no questions about my past."
"All right, Mitch, I understand."
"And you'll have to agree to do whatever I tell you." He arranged the silky length of her hair over the lapel of his jacket as it hung from her like a choir robe.
"That's fine with me. I don't know what to do. I'm on the ropes here."
"No, babe. You're down for the count." He tilted her chin up and looked directly into her eyes. She had the damnedest eyes. "It's going to be hard for you, Royce, but you're going to have to trust me."
She gazed at him, her eloquent eyes expressing her deepest emotions. Fear. Anger. Guilt over accepting his help. And overwhelming vulnerability. She didn't want to put her life in his hands, but she had no choice.
He resisted the urge to cradle her in his arms. She'd allowed him to help out of sheer panic. Anything more would have to wait.
From inside the house someone yelled, "We've got a thousand smackers here."
"Recount it," yelled another cop. "Tell 'em to dust it for coke."
"That's my earthquake money," Royce explained to Mitch. "After the earthquake the credit lines were cut off. No one could use charge cards or cash checks. I wrote a humorous column about it, saying along with quake supplies everyone should keep some cash. They aren't going to find cocaine on it."
"Tell that to the FBI. Their stats show eighty percent of all the money in this country shows traces of coke. That's how much cash goes through drug dealers' hands, then to the bank."
"Kill the baby," yelled someone inside the house.
Royce clutched his arm. "What baby?"
"Just cop talk. It means they found what they came for."
"They couldn't have. I don't... it's impossible."
A sergeant rushed over to them, pulling a laminated index card from his pocket. "Royce Ann Winston. You're under arrest for possession of cocaine." He looked down at the card. "You have the right—"
"Can it," Mitch said. Jesus, you'd think the guy could memorize the Miranda. "She knows her rights. She isn't saying a damn thing until we're in court."
A screech of tires announced the arrival of the press corps. You could almost hear their collective sigh of relief: They hadn't missed all the fun. The sergeant unsnapped handcuffs from the side of his belt.
"Cuff her and I'll nail you for harassment. You jerk-offs let every two-bit drug dealer walk into the station with their attorneys. You're not dragging my client off in cuffs for some media circus. I'm riding in with her."
The sergeant backed off. Lately every lawyer who wasn't chasing an ambulance was suing the police department—the newest legal boondoggle. Sometimes they deserved it; sometimes they didn't. But the thought scared the piss out of them. It meant suspensions, appearances before Internal Affairs, a black mark on your record. And that's if everything went in your favor.
They marched over to the cruiser with Mitch shielding her from the cameras with his body, his arm protectively locked around her. He got in the back with Royce while the police had their moment of glory giving the media maggots their nightly dose of mayhem. Royce had stopped shaking, but her eyes had a distracted look. The same look he'd seen at her father's funeral.
The cops jumped into the car and pulled out, leaving the special operations units to go over the house. Interesting, Mitch thought, they're throwing everything they have at this. Why?
He pulled Royce close, angling his head so his good ear was closest to her, then whispered, "Listen to me."
Her expressive green eyes were inches from his. She seemed more angry than frightened. A good sign. "Yes?"
He put his lips so close to her ear that when he spoke, he brushed it. "You're going to be in there another two days."
"I can't. Please, help me."
"You're tough. You can gut it out," he said, more to bolster her confidence than anything else. Life in jail was as alien to the middle class as life on Pluto. Stephen King couldn't invent some of the people inside prison walls.
She nodded bravely. "I can handle it."
He gave her a reassuring squeeze, whispering, "Don't discuss this case with anyone. There are snitches everywhere who'll invent anything. They'd roll over on their own mothers just to get their sentences reduced."
"I talked about the case already. But I'm certain Helen Sykes isn't a snitch. There was this horrible woman, Maisie Something, she threatened to hurt me. Helen came to my rescue."
Aw shit! Mitch cursed to himself. He liked to think of himself as the meanest son of a bitch in the valley. But even he couldn't muster the gall to tell Royce she'd put another nail in her own coffin.
CHAPTER 6
After Mitch left Royce at the police station, he found a pay phone and dialed Paul's number. "What did they get?" Mitch asked. Although Paul no longer was on the force, he kept a radio that monitored transmissions from the police station.
"They got half a kilo."
"Christ." Mitch hadn't known exactly how much dope they'd found at Royce's. Possession for personal use was one thing, but for every gram more the mandatory sentence escalated, the assumption being the person was a serious drug dealer.
"Mitch, are you sorry you pushed for mandatory sentences?"
"No way. There was too much bargaining for lighter sentences, but, hell, the law should have been written so judges would have some leeway in sentencing first time offenders. If Royce is convicted, she'll be sentenced to five years."
"I talked to her friends. Talia Beckett had already given a statement to the police."
Mitch frowned. "If this were a mass murder, the cops wouldn't take secondary statements for weeks. Damn suspicious."
"Sounds like pressure, right? The Farenholts?"
"Or the DA's office. Go on, what's Talia like?"
"A knockout, black hair, dark brown eyes. She's a recovering alcoholic who's into every variety of therapy known to mankind."
"Any chance she put the earrings in Royce's purse?"
"Don't rule it out. Talia's the type that likes to chat, and she told me an interesting story. It seems that she's known Brent Farenholt for years. After Royce moved to Italy, Talia began dating Brent. He had a party just after Royce returned and Talia brought Royce and Val. Shortly after, Brent asked out Royce. It's possible Talia's upset with Royce for stealing Brent."
"What about Valerie Thompson?" Mitch vaguely recalled the redhead Royce had introduced him to. She and Talia had come up to him after Royce had been arrested, but Talia had done all the talking.
"Val refused to talk to the police without a lawyer."
"My kind of woman."
Mine, too, Paul thought, but didn't say so. He hesitated, listening to Mitch as he drove into his garage. Paul still felt the heat surging through him the way it had when Valerie Thompson had answered his knock earlier that day.
Val. Honey-brown eyes. Thick auburn hair. Long, slim legs. He had flashed his ID, but she'd glared at it. Most women had a glorified vision of private investigators, honed from too many television programs. Not Val.
"I work for Mitchell Durant," Paul had said. "I'm here to help your friend, Royce Winston. May I come in?"
She admitted him to a small apartment that overlooked a back alley. A mouth-watering aroma wafted from the kitchen into the living room furnished in garage-sale rejects. "I need to ask you a few questions."
"Just a minute. I have to turn off the oven."
He smelled lasagna and his stomach contracted, but not as much as it did looking at the provocative sway of Val's rear.
She returned and sat just near enough that he could see the gold flecks in her eyes. "How can I help?"
"Was Royce near the earrings?"
"Everyone was near them."
Smart-ass. "A witness says you were with Royce examining the earrings." He didn't add their friend, Talia, had volunteered the incriminating information.
She looked down, revealing the gold tips of her lashes. "We passed by them, talking, not really
looking. I left Royce with Mitchell Durant—near the earrings."
There was a cutting undertone to her voice. He didn't pursue it. Mitch had told him how Royce felt about him. Obviously, Val shared her opinion. "Do I smell lasagna?"
"Yes. I was just sitting down to dinner."
He gazed at her shamelessly. If she invited him for dinner, he'd have an excuse to draw out the interview.
"It's tofu lasagna."
"Love it. I've given up red meat."
"Really?" She looked genuinely pleased. "I took third place at the Tofu Sculpting Contest in Golden Gate Park."
Tofu sculpting? S'okay. It takes all kinds. "Amazing. What did you make?"
"An eagle. A peacock took first." She led him into the kitchen and gave him a hearty portion of lasagna, then poured him a cup of coffee.
"Did Brent Farenholt ask you out?"
"Why?"
She sounded on guard, more than just defensive. Was she hiding something? "Background info."
"I didn't go, so he took Royce."
Interesting, Brent had asked out all three friends. And Royce had landed him. Had one of the others been jealous enough to frame Royce? "What do you think of Brent?"
"I don't like him. He's too... too smooth."
Paul had never formally met Brent, but he knew him by sight and reputation. San Francisco was widely regarded as a big city, although less than a million people lived there. Everyone in legal circles knew each other. Brent was well liked; Mitch's in-your-face personality won him few friends. But he was respected for his ability and for having built a powerhouse firm. Brent was a legal lightweight who'd be nothing without his father's law practice.
"Why'd you get a divorce?" Paul asked.
"That's none of your business."
Obviously the wound was still fresh. He hoped that accounted for Val's defensiveness. He didn't want her to be the one responsible for Royce's troubles.
"Val, do you have any idea how a defense attorney builds a case? Mitch will have to persuade the jury that there's a reasonable doubt Royce is guilty. He does that by casting suspicion elsewhere. He's going to have to put witnesses on the stand who support his case. Very likely, he'll call you."
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