She didn't need this, not now, not with her life in turmoil. She had to be able to trust Mitch, if not on a personal level, at least professionally.
"Already I've discovered something that makes me even more suspicious. I compared a photocopy of his birth certificate to an official certificate. Mitch's certificate is a forgery —not a good one either."
"But why would he have a phony?"
"Maybe he was in trouble with the law."
"Well, he used that certificate to get into the Navy," she said. "He must have been running away from something, or someone."
"Exactly, and I intend to find out what."
"Do you think I ought to change attorneys?"
"God, no. Wait until I find out more. Mitch is still the best. This might have no bearing on your case. And, frankly, we can't afford an attorney of his caliber."
There was a dark, forbidding side to Mitch that frightened her. If he discovered they were investigating him, what would he do? "Don't let Mitch find out—"
"Don't worry. I won the Pulitzer for investigating the Chinese mafia. They never suspected a thing."
She had the distinct impression Mitch guarded his back a whole lot more closely than the local Chinese gangs.
"Trust me, Royce. Have I ever let you down?"
CHAPTER 12
Paul walked into Beyond Lascaux, the expensive men's shop just off Union Square where Shaun Jamieson worked. Next to London's Savile Row, San Francisco had the most fashionable men's clothes in the world, Paul thought, and this shop was no exception. No tacky racks here. Instead there were mannequins modeling the latest in men's suits and tables with artful displays of ties and shirts.
Paul introduced himself to the attractive man who'd been Wallace Winston's on-again, off-again companion for years. Slender, with striking brown eyes and darker brown hair, Shaun gave Paul a quick once-over.
That's life in San Francisco, Paul thought. Men sized each other up as soon as they were introduced. Paul knew Shaun recognized with a glance that he wasn't a homosexual.
"How can I help?" Shaun asked, eager, charming.
It was easy to see why Wally was attracted to Shaun. He was one of those people that others instantly liked. In Paul's experience those people were the least likable in the long run. He chatted with Shaun for a few minutes, saying Wally had sent him, before asking, "How well do you know Royce Winston?"
"I've known her for years. I watched her grow up, you know."
"What's your opinion of her?" Paul had no idea why he'd sought out Shaun—just gut instinct. Shaun had been at the auction. And he owed Wally a lot of money.
"Wel-l-l..." Shaun appeared reluctant to give his opinion, but Paul had interviewed enough people to know better.
Paul waited, knowing people felt obligated to fill voids.
"Royce thinks she's better than everyone. I never cared for her."
Interesting, Paul thought. No one else felt that way about Royce. And he'd never gotten that impression of her.
"I understand Wally lent you some money," Paul began cautiously.
"He gave me the money." Shaun's veneer of charm evaporated.
"I see. You recently asked for more?"
Now, this was a wild guess based on the periodic loans Wally had made to Shaun over a number of years. According to the forensic accountant's report Wally hadn't lent him anything in over a year.
"Yes. I had an opportunity to invest in a surefire winner, a metaphysical shop, but Wally claimed he was tapped out. I knew better. That bitch was back from Italy. Royce convinced Wally not to loan me any more money."
Mitch leaned against the wall of the old-fashioned wood telephone booth outside the Sacramento courtroom and called Paul. Honest to God, most of the time he hated being a lawyer. Take this case—pleeeze somebody take this case. Talk about boring. Talk about needless delays.
Typical, though. A white collar crime that called for high-priced lawyers in a legal face-off. Armadas of expert witnesses were set to testify for each side.
He had struggled to keep his mind on the case, but odd things triggered images of Royce. The gleam of the bailiff's holstered gun reminded Mitch of the shimmery dress Royce had worn the night of the auction. His hand down her back stroking her soft skin. Christ, he could get an erection just thinking about her.
Where was she now? He'd been tempted to call her last night, but resisted. He wanted her to get accustomed to being in his house. Being with him. Mitch conceded he should move Royce out of his home before someone found out and accused him of conflict of interest. But he couldn't.
Was he crazy? Damn straight. Who could blame him? Craziness ran in his family. That was a fact. Even so, he'd worked hard to maintain a sterling reputation in a profession famous for sleaze-balls. But he was crazy—too crazy about Royce to let her go.
The phone in Mitch's hand rang until Paul's secretary answered and put him through. "Hey, Mitch, how's it going?"
"Same old crap. It looks like a short trial, though. I shouldn't be here long. How's Royce's case coming?"
Mitch listened while Paul told him about interviewing Shaun. "Royce didn't know Shaun had asked Wally for money the night of the auction."
"True," Paul agreed. "I checked with Wally. Christ, is he ever touchy about Shaun, but Wally did say he'd never mentioned it to Royce. He refused to make the loan because he was sick of Shaun's wild schemes."
"Is Shaun crazy enough to try to get rid of Royce?"
"Nah. Shaun is hot and heavy with someone else—someone very rich. Looks like a dead end."
"How's Royce doing?" Mitch hoped he sounded casual.
"I have her checking on Farenholt, Weintraub and Gilbert's phone records. I doubt if we'll find anything at the law firm, but who knows? I've been taking a closer look at the Farenholts' finances. Eleanor doles out money to Brent and Ward—a dollar at a time. They have to go to her several times each month."
Brent was a wuss, a mama's boy. It gave Mitch a perverse sense of satisfaction to know how much money he'd made— on his own. When his clients could afford it, he charged outrageous fees. If he liked a case, and a client couldn't afford him, Mitch waived the fee. No matter. He'd still gotten rich—all by himself.
"Caroline is coming into an enormous trust next year. If I were Brent, I'd marry her for her money and get away from Eleanor." Paul laughed. "Still no leads on that informant, Linda Allen, but I'm working on it just as hard as Royce is working on your computer."
Mitch tried to envision Royce at his computer, spending every day in his home, but he couldn't. He liked the idea, though. Hell, he loved it. She belonged with him and by the time he got her off, she'd understand that the past was behind them. He'd been wrong to prosecute her father, but she'd forgive him once she'd been acquitted.
Paul announced, "I've hired Valerie Thompson in the credit card fraud department."
It took a second for the name to register. Oh, yeah, Royce's friend. "You what? She's a suspect."
"She's in a totally different department. Val doesn't have access to computer codes. She can't possibly find out anything about this case. Besides, I need competent help in that section. It's the fastest-growing segment of my company."
Mitch recognized that tone—a mule digging in, burrowing his legs in sand. Mitch didn't like it; he remembered Wally thought Val had framed Royce. But what could he say? Paul ran his own business; he didn't take orders from Mitch. Even more important, Paul was his only close friend. And the most honorable man he'd ever met.
Paul let out an audible sigh. One hurdle over. Mitch was pissed, but he accepted Paul's authority. The one friendship Paul valued most was Mitch's, not because it was the hardest won or the longest in duration, but because when Paul needed Mitch, he'd been there.
He'd quit the force and his marriage—already in trouble —had failed. All he had was a friend. Not that Mitch was the sentimental I'm-your-buddy type. No way. Mitch had kicked butt, saying: "Know where you can find sympathy? It's in the dictionary betw
een shit and syphilis. Now get off your ass and go for that PI firm you've been yacking about."
Paul had taken Mitch's advice. And the result? A lucrative private-investigation firm unrivaled in the country. Mitch had believed in him when he hadn't had faith in himself. It took a lot of nerve to cross Mitch. But Val was worth it. Paul believed in her as much as Mitch had believed in him.
Paul's secretary announced Valerie Thompson. He heard her come in, his stomach clenching. She must know he wasn't a lowly detective or she couldn't have found his office.
Val walked with the quick, graceful stride he found so alluring. She halted in front of his desk, her dark eyes serious. "Why didn't you tell me you owned Intel Corp?"
He came around the desk to stand beside her. "I was testing you," he admitted sheepishly. "I've met too many women who come on to me because they think I'm rich or powerful."
She gazed at him with the most serious eyes he'd ever seen. "I had plenty of money when I was married. In the end it won't make you happy." She leveled an even more intent look at him. "The only thing that matters is how we are together."
He had the uncomfortable feeling she meant sex. They talked, sure, a lot, but Val needed constant physical contact. She wanted to cuddle and make love twice a night—at least.
"Why did you offer me a job?" she asked.
"You're too talented to waste time inspecting rest rooms in fast food dives. And I don't want you out at night. It's dangerous."
Her bottom lip dropped and she stared at him for a moment. Then she moved closer, a smile on her face. He was half sitting on the desk now, one hip resting on the top. She touched his knee and bent forward to kiss his cheek.
"Oh, Paul, that's the sweetest thing anyone ever said." Her hand traced its way up his inner thigh. "No man ever cared about me. Ever."
Her hand reached his crotch the same time as his jaw fell open. She kissed him, a long, lingering open-mouthed kiss, while her small hand cradled his shaft. She squeezed gently as her tongue plied his, stroking, until he gasped.
"Paul," she whispered, her lips against his, "I'll never let you down. I promise."
Royce had already been in Mitch's office fifteen hours when the phone attached to the answering machine rang. Mitch seldom received messages on his private line. Since she'd been using the computer the only message that had come in had been from some kid named Jason. She was curious about this call because it was so late at night.
She heard Mitch say, "Pork chop, if you're there—"
She grabbed the receiver. "Mitch, you creep. I'm not a pork chop. I'll have you know I've lost four pounds."
He laughed and she had to remind herself that fate, not choice, had thrown her together with this man. A surge of the old anger swept through her—thank heavens—she didn't want to soften toward him. It was too dangerous. Despite her wariness his laughter rang in her ears, bringing with it the comfort of human contact. The days were unbearably long. And lonely.
"I put Oliver on a diet too. He's the fattest cat I've ever seen. I figured if I had to suffer, so should he."
"Aw, Christ, you didn't." Mitch laughed again. "Ollie gets pissed and kicks gravel from his litter box to kingdom come if he's hungry."
Royce stifled a giggle, remembering finding the near-empty litter box. "He already did."
"Next he'll steal Jenny's food."
"He tried, but I stood beside her with a broom while she ate."
"Give Ollie a break. The vet cut off his balls. All he has to enjoy in life is food." Mitch said, his tone teasing. "Did I mention I'm gaining weight? Right now I'm lying on my bed pinching my spare tire."
Usually a witty comeback would have sprung to her lips. Instead she saw a mental image of Mitch stretched out across a bed. The telephone was cradled against his right ear, his good ear, and his lips... his lips were close to the receiver. His hand was toying with the phone cord, long tapered fingers twining through the coils. The same fingers that had covertly dipped down the back of her dress. She shifted in her seat, aware of a subtle, unwilling change in her body.
Why had he used a phony birth certificate? she asked herself, trying to recapture the suspicious feeling she'd had earlier, trying to escape Mitch's sensual lure. Her intuition told her there was probably a reasonable explanation. After all, back then he'd been a boy. It had nothing to do with the present.
"Still there?" Mitch asked, a husky pitch to his voice.
"Yes. I was just wondering if it's all right to take Jenny for a walk at night. I'll wear a wig."
"Sure. Stay in the neighborhood where it's safe. Starting next Monday you'll be spending the afternoons at the office. We'll be prepping you to go on the witness stand using a videotape. That way you can see what you look like, and you'll be prepared for the prosecution's cut throat questioning."
Royce shuddered, imagining Abigail Carnivali questioning her. It had been frightening enough at the preliminary hearing when Carnivorous convinced the court to try Royce on one count of grand theft and three narcotics violations that carried mandatory sentences if she were found guilty. The prelim had come just four days after her bail hearing before Judge Sidle. Abigail had been so convincing that Royce had almost believed she had committed the crimes.
"Will you be here to help?"
"No. This trial won't go to the jury for several days. Just remember to look directly at the camera while you're practicing. At the trial look right at the jury. Have they shown you the tape of the William Kennedy Smith rape trial yet?"
"I have it, but I haven't watched it yet."
"Do it before Monday. Notice how Smith didn't let the prosecution rattle him. Then read the report on Kim Basinger's breach of contract trial. Jurors said she didn't seem sure of herself and she kept looking down. It cost her almost ten million dollars."
She closed her eyes, dreading the trial and frightened that the investigation hadn't turned up any solid leads. "I'd rather give up ten million than ten years of my life."
After a short pause Mitch said, "Stop worrying. Didn't I tell you to trust me?"
The next day Royce walked up the path to her house with Paul Talbott. Ahead she saw the boards nailed over the front door—what there was left of it—and the yards of black and yellow crime scene tape. Even at this distance she saw her father's beautiful stained-glass door was damaged beyond repair.
"Wait till you see the inside."
Paul was right; the interior looked like the aftermath of a tornado: every drawer emptied, every book tossed on the floor. Staffing ripped out of the furniture.
"Why?" she gasped.
"They were looking for drugs and an address book with the names of your clients, your connections."
"Where's my computer?"
"The police are examining it." He withdrew a huge computer printout from his briefcase. "It's listed here along with several other items."
"Why?" She looked around at the attic room that had been her father's office, the room where he'd shot himself, the room she'd so carefully restored and made into her own office when she'd returned from Italy.
"The police figure you have records in your computer."
"Great. What next?"
"I'll get a crew in here to straighten things."
"No. That'll be expensive." She pointed to the daybed in the corner that was no more than a pile of ticking peeking out from beneath shredded chintz. "I'll order a new mattress and sleep here in the attic. I can straighten the house a little at a time between breaks from the computer."
"Aren't you forgetting something? The computer's at Mitch's. Anyway, you'll have to ask Mitch to let you come home."
"He won't mind. The media has forgotten me. I've had my fifteen minutes of fame."
Royce returned to the apartment with Paul, determined to take up the matter with Mitch. Late every night he called, and she waited until "Are you there, pork chop?" came through the answering machine. Pork chop, really. Just wait until he saw her. Now she'd lost five pounds thanks to a liquid diet that
tasted like chocolate sawdust in nonfat milk.
Paul stopped in the alley behind her apartment. He handed her the thick computer printout, saying, "Give this to Mitch. Bring it back to me Monday."
"Mitch? He's here?"
"Back for the weekend recess."
She climbed out of the car with a sense of dread. She'd expected Mitch to be gone at least two weeks. She liked him at a distance. Talking to him on the phone was far easier than seeing him in person. Less tempting by half.
Well, there was nothing she could do about it. She'd have to face him. Should she tell him what she'd found on the phone calls from the Farenholt law firm? No. It was probably nothing, probably just coincidence. She need to check a little more before she mentioned anything to Mitch.
CHAPTER 13
Mitch answered the knock at his back door, nudging Jenny aside with his knee. The dog was beating the wall with her tail, obviously as anxious to see Royce as Mitch was. The porch light shone down on Royce, making her blond hair seem even more golden. The consultant had restyled her hair with a sleek cut that tamed her rowdy curls, and it hung just below her chin, curving in slightly to frame her jaw. Sexy as hell.
She handed him a computer printout as thick as a Bible. "Paul said to give you this. It's the police inventory of the contents of my house."
He moved aside and motioned for her to come in. "Let's go over it together."
"Why?" Her tone was guarded. "The evidence list is on top. We can see what they're using."
He tossed the printout on the kitchen table where she'd have to sit next to him to examine it. "We can tell what they were looking for by the way the inventory is arranged." He pulled out a chair for her. "First, I'm ordering a pizza. Want some?"
"And give you a reason to call me 'pork chop'?" She flashed him an insolent smile. "I'll have a salad with the dressing on the side... please." She slid into the chair and began thumbing through the printout.
He ordered the pizza, joking with Ernie, the owner of the pizza parlor that Mitch called almost every night. While he talked, he studied Royce. He'd decided to take a different tack with her—a more subtle approach.
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