***
Matthew McCreary sat in the front seat of his car, his head back, his eyes closed. The key was in the ignition but hadn't been turned. The radio was silent. The windows were up but he ignored the suffocating heat. He could see Grace in his mind's eye but he saw her as she used to be. Young. So trusting. So sweet. Grace was almost beautiful when she was afraid. Even as a kid. Funny, he could remember Grace as a child but he couldn't remember his wife's face for the life of him. It was all sad. He opened his eyes and started the car, Helen Crane was expecting him to call but Matthew had enough of women for the night. He'd even had enough of politics and that wasn't like him at all. What he needed more than anything was to regroup and figure out how he felt about this turn of events. Grace had told Josie she was with Michelle the night she died. That was worrisome. Putting the car in gear, he looked over his shoulder to check the traffic. Instead of pulling out, he was caught by the sight of Josie's place. It was just big enough, just cool enough, just rich enough. How different they had become. He kept running forward and she was all settled. He had bigger and better things but hers seemed more valuable. He envied that a little and he admired her a great deal for figuring out what was important. But he didn't admire her enough to go back and tell her the one thing she needed to know that might help Grace, the one thing Helen Crane would kill to know, the one thing that, if anyone knew, would ruin him forever. Thinking again, he headed toward the freeway, knowing there was someone he had to see before the night was over.
***
"This place is great."
Pete slid into a back booth at Sharkeez. His head was square, his hair shaved and his chin sported a goatee. He looked as out of place as Kevin O'Connel, who was well into his fourth beer before his buddy made it through the door.
"Check it out, man. There must be fifty televisions in here. And this! I had a Chevy once, looked just like this."
Lovingly, the man ran his hand over the sparkly, neon blue plastic bench upholstery. His head rotating on his nonexistent neck made him look like a bobble-head doll. He gave Kevin a nudge in the ribs and yelled in his ear to be heard over the din.
"You see all these chicks? They are hot, man. So hot." He flicked his hand like he'd just been burned, then grinned as if he honestly thought he had a chance with one of them.
"Shut up. Shut up," Kevin muttered into his beer, drinking, then shoving aside the empty mug. He raised his voice. "Was it her?"
"Yeah." The big man ran the back of his hand over his nose and sniffed a time or two like he was important. "It was her. Man, she's tall. She runs fast. I followed her all the way past the pier. She walked back again, otherwise I woulda lost her. I'd like a piece of that, though. Never had a really tall woman before."
"I'd like a piece of her, too, shitty little bitch." Kevin put the bottle to his lips and poured the contents down his throat. "So. Now we know where she lives."
"There was a guy there. A suit."
"She's married?" O'Connel was surprised. The phone book listed only one resident, J. Bates. He didn't want to mess with a husband.
"Naw, I don't think so," his companion hollered back. "I don't think he lives there. He took off and she like stood and watched for a minute but that was it."
"Anything else?'' Kevin asked.
Pete raised his hand, caught the waitress's eye then held up two fingers of one hand and Kevin's empty mug with the other. She gave him a heads-up. He was satisfied she got it and checked out her rear end a second longer before he got back to Kevin.
"There's a girl. Heinz 57. Know what I mean?"
"Well, how about that." Kevin laughed and crossed his arms on the table. "She's got a kid and she's not particular who she sleeps with. Well, well."
His head hung low. He swung it one way, then the other, looking at every woman, then every part of every woman. The only thing that seemed to ward off Kevin's scrutiny was another man taking exception to his leering. It just pissed Kevin O'Connel off to be challenged by those beach boy jerks. Nonetheless, he turned his eyes away.
"Yeah," Pete muttered. "A kid. Teenager. A babe, considering."
"Nobody else?" Kevin snapped.
"Not that I could see." The waitress put two beers in front of them. The man with the square head grinned at her. She skedaddled with eight bucks. "Anyway, I don't think Suzy's there. I didn't see no one else."
"Okay, but the lawyer knows where she is."
"Like she's going to tell you?" Pete sniggered.
"She'll tell me," Kevin assured him.
"Yeah. Right. What are you going to do? Beat it out of her?"
Pete chuckled and snorted into his beer, then fell silent when he saw the way Kevin O'Connel was looking at him.
***
Grace McCreary lay awake on her bed in the women's wing of the central prison. Blocks away were the Los Angeles Music Center and the Disney concert hall where Grace had listened to symphonies and enjoyed theater. The cathedral that the cardinal had built in his own image—large and cold, crowned with a red altar—was blocks away, too. Michelle had prayed there while Grace had wished some of Michelle's faith would find its way to her soul. All of it was a world away, a life away, and Grace missed Michelle more than anyone would ever know. She mourned her death more deeply than anyone could guess.
Turning on her side, Grace pulled the thin blanket up around her shoulders. The jail was air-conditioned and too cold. The pillow beneath her head was hard. The night noises were harsh. None of that bothered her. She had been in worse places. But the confinement, the doors closing, the people watching, the fact that she couldn't leave bothered Grace McCreary a great deal.
So Grace closed her eyes and imagined she was in her own bed. She touched her throat. She touched her breast. She laid her hand low on her belly and thought of the person she loved—had loved—still loved.
But before she could sleep a guard came and told her to dress. They walked down the hall, through the now silent jail, stopping at an interview room. Grace asked no questions and was offered no explanation. Whoever was inside had pulled some strings to visit at this hour. They were important.
The guard opened the door. Grace went inside. She hugged the wall, watching her visitor carefully to gauge his mood.
"I was afraid you wouldn't come."
"I had to see Josie first." Matthew stood up. He stepped back, not forward. Unsure of who was watching or what Grace was thinking, he kept his distance.
"How did you feel when you saw her?" Grace asked, her voice low.
"For God's sake, Grace, it wasn't like that. I wanted to find out what was being done to help you."
"So you talked about me?"
"Yes, we talked about you," Matthew said wearily. "Are you alright?"
Grace nodded. "Will you take me home now?"
"Not now. I'm sorry."
"Is it better for you this way?"
Matthew nodded. "And for you. We need to do things exactly right."
"All right, Matthew. If that's what you want."
"I think it has to be that way."
"You came a long way to tell me that," Grace said. "Isn't there anything else you want to tell me?"
"No, Grace. Not here." Matthew turned his eyes away. He couldn't stand to see the neediness in his sister's eyes.
"Oh, I see. Yes." Her eyes cut left and right as if she saw the walls closing in on her. One hand was on the other, looking for her ring. But the ring was gone, taken away, and she was nervous. "But then you'll get me out of here. I mean you won't leave me, will you? You won't—"
"Grace," Matthew said. "Grace. It will be all right if you just stay quiet. Okay? Just stay quiet."
"Yes. I will." She smiled gently at her brother.
Matthew's jaw tightened. He looked at his sister a little longer. Looked at her and tried to see the girl he had loved. She was nowhere to be found. This woman scared him. With a tip of her head she smiled once more and knocked on the door.
<
br /> "Grace, I'm afraid," he suddenly whispered.
"I know," she whispered back just as the door opened.
CHAPTER 16
"I don't want to do this. I don't think I can do this."
Susan O'Connel paced the floor. The studio apartment felt like a cage even to Josie: nondescript, furnished by a landlord who probably hadn't been inside the place since he bought the building. Susan had only the bare necessities: a few donated mismatched dishes, clothes from the shelter. Three months ago when she left the safe house and ventured out on her own, there was only the promise of a settlement against her husband. The promise had been fulfilled and now Susan had cold feet.
"Susan. Sit down. Down."
Josie touched her client on the next pass and was immediately sorry. Susan O'Connel cringed, unable to differentiate between help and hurt. Embarrassed, Susan muttered "Sorry" and sat primly on the edge of a worn chair, her hands beside her, palms down on the cushions, ready to run for her life if necessary.
"Look, now isn't the time to quit. If you go back to that man you're as good as dead," Josie argued.
"But it's different now because I know why Kevin is angry," Susan insisted, needing to share her flawed logic. "Josie, it would have been one thing if we just won enough to keep me living until I could get a job, but that jury gave me everything Kevin has. Everything he worked for."
"And your point is?"
Josie moved to the far end of the couch so she didn't have to look at Susan in the bright white glare of the light that came through the window. The woman's nose was flat and misshapen. The nerves at her temple had been damaged. Her right eye didn't move. A long, ragged scar ran across her neck, a souvenir from a bout with Kevin when he thought slashing her throat would get her to shut up. After each incident Susan O'Connel had refused to press charges, fearful that doing so would make her husband angrier still. Until the last time. Until she met Josie and found her courage. Now Josie wasn't about to let Susan's newfound strength of purpose waiver. Second guessing was a luxury neither of them could afford. Susan had to stay the course; Josie had to get to Grace McCreary's place. Unfortunately, Susan wasn't on the same page.
"But if we ruin him then he'll never stop coming after me. Don't you see?" Susan insisted anxiously. "You've already proven you've got power over Kevin, so he knows if he hurts me again you'll take him back to court and—
"It doesn't work that way," Josie interrupted. "The civil case is over. You won. No judge in the world will be sympathetic if you go back to Kevin and he beats you again. And don't think for a second Kevin will be grateful that you let him off the hook. Beating him in court made him crazy. If you pity him, he'll see that as an opening. Let me find the assets, get the money and you can go anywhere you want." Josie lowered her voice even further. "You know there's no going back, don't you?"
"I do," Susan whispered miserably.
"Okay," Josie said, satisfied for the moment. "Good. So, you're going to be all right if I take off?"
Josie was on her feet, anxious to be away from this dreary place and a problem that had already been solved. Grace McCreary was at the top of the client list now. Yet when Josie turned to say her goodbyes and she saw a tear slip from Susan O'Connel's paralyzed eye, she was ashamed to have dismissed her so quickly.
"Let me get you a cup of tea before I go," Josie offered, knowing that to linger was slight penance for putting Grace above Susan.
Susan shook her head. She wiped away the tear. When she looked up, Josie saw that the fear and uncertainty had been joined by a good deal of determination.
"No. You go to work. I could use that money if I'm going to Wisconsin."
"I didn't know you had family there," Josie said as she gathered her things.
"I don't," Susan laughed. "I just like the sound of it. Wisconsin. I'll buy a little house and when I die I'll leave all this money to help women like me. People will say, 'Who knew that crazy old woman had all that money!"
"Sounds like a plan." Josie smiled and put a hand on Susan's shoulder. "But it's going to be a long time before you kick off. Just hold on a little while longer, Susan. I'll get your settlement, I promise."
Satisfied with Susan O'Connel's frail courage, Josie left her standing in the middle of her shabby little apartment trying to imagine a safe place far away. When she couldn't, Susan went to the window and shaded her eyes. On the street below the jeep pulled out fast and Susan felt lucky to have an attorney like Josie. Josie was a friend. Susan O'Connel was repeating that thought when she saw something wasn't right.
A big, expensive car was driving down the street after Josie and that was odd. The cars on this street were usually old, secondhand jobs that either stayed put during the day or came and went on the nine-to-five schedule of working people. This car had been stopped near the fire hydrant, not so much parked as waiting. Maybe waiting to see where Josie had gone inside the building.
Susan's heart beat fast and heavy in her chest, her palms clammy with perspiration. The scar on her throat throbbed. She imagined it was Kevin who had been waiting until Josie left. He would park somewhere and come back. Maybe he was coming back now. Maybe he was coming up the stairs ... to the third floor.
Susan backed away from the window, trying to remember everything about the car and sure of one thing: a man was driving. That man could have been checking directions or taking a rest or he could be coming for her.
Susan O'Connel sank to the floor and pulled her knees up to her chest. She watched the door of her little apartment, her sanctuary, her cell. What had ever made her think she would see Wisconsin?
***
The place where Grace McCreary lived was expensive and understated.
A gorgeous wooden fence encircled the property, broken only by a hand-carved gate. Beyond lay a fringe of deep grass and a serene garden. Impatiens spilled from their beds onto the flagstone walk. Lilies held their heads up in the patches of sun; ferns thrived in the shade. This was a private, luxurious space, one that lent itself to anonymity.
Eight units of stucco and glass shared four footprints. Front doors did not face one another; windows were set at discreet angles. No one need know who you brought home, if you came home at all or if you languished alone in your luxury. Grace lived in number six and Josie had the key.
The door swung open and Josie entered a place cocooned in poignant solitude. Josie's own home may have felt that way before Hannah arrived but she doubted it had ever been quite this lonely. While Josie's house was a work-in-progress, Grace's was finished to perfection. The furniture was exquisite; the walls were filled with important pieces of art. Everything was clean—almost untouched. Yet there was also a devotion to family that surprised Josie, given Grace's history and her brother's reluctance to embrace her.
Everywhere she looked there were personal pictures. The largest—a five-by-seven of Matthew—sat on a beautiful glass coffee table. Others were positioned on the wall of bookshelves. Beside the deep, soft chenille sofa was a low antique table piled with books on art and politics. A pictorial book about sisters was on top.
Josie ran her hand over it and then opened it to the flyleaf. I couldn't love you more. The inscription was signed with a simple initial—M. Michelle McCreary had indeed welcomed Grace, as Matthew said. Yet it was a strangely sentimental gift from someone who didn't keep a single personal photo in her own home. Putting the book down, Josie perused Grace's pictures more closely. The frames were expensive and freestanding. Grace could move them on a moment's notice, banishing those who weren't in favor, paying homage to those who were.
Josie touched one, then another, unable to help comparing herself to the women in Matthew's life. Maybe she was more like Michelle than Grace. Josie's few photographs were hidden away. The small album that belonged to her father had been packed in a box along with his uniforms. There was no reason to remember people who no longer existed—or at least no reason to remember them every day. Thinking of them only opened old
wounds and raised questions that had no answers.
Josie bent down and looked at a picture of the younger, happier Matthew and Grace. Grace seemed more beautiful with her wide smile and her long hair; Matthew was full of youthful promise. Grace's jeans were tight. She wore a man's dress shirt over a tank top and held Matthew by the waist. His arm was around her shoulders. They were smiling at each other as if there was no one else in the world.
And another.
Grace was beaming at the camera. The look in her eye playful, as if asking for the photographer's approval. She was so young. Thirteen? Fourteen?
And another.
Matthew sunning himself in the mountains. Grace behind him, hungry for his attention. Matthew growing into a handsome man; Grace a needy young woman. Josie picked up that picture. Maybe this was the real reason she and Matthew never had a future together. While Josie was truly alone in the world, Matthew's missing link wasn't missing at all. Grace had always been out there and he had fooled himself into thinking she didn't matter. Suddenly, Josie laughed at herself. These were pictures, not a Rorschach test, and the clock was ticking.
She had come for clothes and she was going to get them. But when Josie walked into the bedroom she was taken aback. It was almost a carbon copy of the bedroom in the penthouse except for the three formal portraits nestled into subtly lit architectural alcoves on the far wall. Matthew's portrait was on top, the McCreary's wedding portrait in the middle and beneath that, Michelle's. For the first time Josie clearly understood that Michelle's death was as much Grace's loss as Matthew's. The love and admiration Grace felt for Michelle McCreary negated any complicity in Michelle's death and—
"Did you find what you were looking for?"
"Jesus!" Josie turned so fast she lost her grip on her purse. It dropped to the floor with a thud. Tim Douglas walked across the bedroom, picked it up and handed it to her.
"At least I know you're not going to whack me with this thing."
"Did you ever hear of knocking? Maybe hollering to let me know you were here?" Josie complained.
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