by Tami Hoag
“Oh, he'll have to wait a decent interval after they bury old Franken. A week or so, I should think. By the way, the viewing is tomorrow at Oglethorpe's. Funeral Friday, three-thirty at Grace Lutheran.”
“Grace Lutheran? All this time I thought he was Methodist. He struck me as a Methodist.” He dusted the filbert-shell shrapnel off his cardigan and reached for a pecan. “Dinner after the funeral? Friday's all-you-can-eat fish at the Scandia House.”
“Yeah, sure,” Rudy mumbled dreamily, imagining himself delivering a stirring eulogy before a congregation that would include judges and lawyers and politicians from all over the state. Franken had lived a long time, accumulating a long list of powerful friends and colleagues. The funeral seemed a fitting time for Rudy to impress them all with his eloquence and sincerity.
The intercom buzzed, and Alice Zymanski's voice snapped out of it like a bolt of lightning. “Ellen is here to see you. I'm leaving.”
“Send her in.” Rudy forced himself to his feet, though it seemed too late in the day for manners. Once he was firmly ensconced in his judgeship, he was going to give up manners.
Ellen let herself in, manufacturing a smile for Manley Vanloon. Manley had amassed a small fortune in real estate during the agriculture depression of the seventies, buying out farms on the fringe of Deer Lake and developing the land into pricey subdivisions for the influx of yuppies from the Cities. He had then bought a trio of car dealerships and had made himself another fortune luring car buyers out of the Cities with his hayseed image, then cleaning their pockets for them.
“Hey, there, Ellen.” Manley lifted himself out of his chair no more than he would to fart and settled back down to the business of digging his pecan out of the shell. “How's that Bonneville running? Heck of a nice car.”
“Just fine, Manley.” She turned her attention to her boss. “I just got a call from the assignments clerk. They're giving Garrett Wright to Judge Grabko. I thought you'd want to know.”
“Are you all right with that choice?”
She shrugged. “We could do worse.”
“Will you recuse?”
And let Tony Costello throw a public fit about the prosecution delaying his client's right to a speedy trial, to say nothing of alluding to the maneuver as the tactics of someone with a weak case? He had already made noises on both those points at his four o'clock press conference in the courthouse rotunda.
Ellen had sent Phoebe to the press conference as her spy, refusing to show up herself and give Tony the golden opportunity of engaging her in some impromptu sparring. When he marched upstairs to the county attorney's offices afterward, with reporters in tow, she made the receptionist lie and tell him she was out, for the sole purpose of spoiling his big moment of confrontation.
That small victory had been sweet, but the fact that she was letting Costello affect her decision making irritated her in the extreme. Strategy, she told herself. She had to think in terms of strategy rather than in terms of being manipulated. Always put a positive spin on a negative possibility. Control was the name of the game.
“No, I won't recuse Grabko. He knows his stuff. He's fair. I've never had any big complaints about him other than that he tends toward pretension.”
Rudy shot an I-told-you-so look at Manley, who pursed his lips as if holding back a belch.
“I'm still amazed Wright got Costello to represent him,” Rudy said.
“I'd like to know how that happened,” Ellen said. “Who called him in? Wright isn't allowed to make long-distance calls from jail. I doubt Denny Enberg would have been so gracious as to contact his own successor. Who does that leave?”
“Wright's wife.”
“Who is barely functioning. I saw her myself the other night. Unless that's all been an act, she could no more have had a coherent conversation with Tony Costello than my golden retriever. That leaves Wright's accomplice.”
“Which could mean Costello has been in contact with the kidnapper of that Campion boy,” Rudy surmised.
“And fat chance we'll get him to tell us anything.”
Rudy made a serious, contemplative sound, arranging his features in an expression he thought would look judicial. “Yes, well, do what you can, Ellen. I'm confident you can handle Costello.”
Ellen took the platitude for what it was worth, which was nothing. She left Rudy to his scheming for Franken's seat on the bench and headed back to her own office. The staff was clearing out for the day. Sig Iverson and Quentin Adler were headed out the door, heads bent toward each other as they discussed some point of law or gossip. Phoebe was pulling on her llama poncho over her daisy-print dress and thermal leggings. Her head popped up through the opening and she pulled her mass of kinky hair free.
“I put a stack of messages on your desk,” she said, straightening her glasses. “Mr. Costello called again. Mitch called to say no news is bad news and that he's going to Minneapolis tonight.”
To check on Megan. The thought warmed Ellen and left her feeling a little empty at once. She leaned a shoulder against her office door and rested her hand on the knob. “Thanks, Phoebe. See you tomorrow.”
The secretary frowned at her. “Don't stay too late. You look tired.”
“I'm fine.”
Phoebe didn't buy it, but she let it drop. Ellen let herself into her office and picked up the stack of pink slips. She noted the fact that there wasn't one from Jay Butler Brooks and told herself she was glad. Still, she caught herself thinking of the moment just before he had left her house last night, when he had stood a little too close to her and held her gaze with his a little too long.
“You can't avoid me forever.”
She wheeled around, half expecting to see Brooks standing there, but the timbre of the voice registered a split second before her eyes focused on the man standing inside the door. The light from the outer office cast him in relief, giving him a menacing darkness that seemed fitting. Tony Costello was a shadow from her past coming back to haunt her. She reached around and flicked on the desk lamp to break the spell.
“Avoiding you, Tony? As usual, your ego is working overtime. It never occurred to you that I'm a busy woman with more important things on my agenda than playing an obliging role in your media drama.”
“Contrary as ever, aren't you?” he said pleasantly, closing the door behind him. “I was afraid living in the boondocks might have mellowed you.”
Ellen settled into her chair, slipping her glasses on and pretending attention to the message slips she had yet to set down. “It has.” She glanced up at him over the rims of the glasses. “If you had sneaked up on me like that when I was working in Hennepin County, I would have broken your nose. I've let my self-defense skills slide completely.”
“Lucky for me.”
He smiled what she knew he considered to be the most charming smile in his arsenal. She remembered it well—square, white against his dark complexion. A smile he had splurged on to the tune of fifteen thousand dollars, mortgaging the house his parents had left him to pay for porcelain caps. He considered it a business investment.
He looked as fit and perfectly groomed as a show horse. The suit today was just a shade bluer than navy, tailored to show off the build he honed in a private gym with a personal trainer. He casually undid the buttons of the double-breasted coat and settled himself easily into her visitor's chair.
“What can I do for you, Tony?” she asked with just enough indifference to irritate him.
He ignored the bait, his gaze steady on hers. “It's been a long time.”
“Not long enough.”
The hurt appeared genuine but, then, so had his feelings for her, once upon a time.
“You still blame me for what happened with Fitzpatrick,” he said. “I was hoping time might have given you some perspective.”
“My perspective on criminal tampering with a case isn't liable to change in this lifetime.”
He shook his head, frowning. “How could you believe I would do that, Ellen? Ethics aside, ho
w could you believe I would turn on you that way after everything we'd been to each other?”
“Ethics aside.” She gave a harsh laugh and rose again, anger humming in her muscles as she paced the small confines behind her desk. “Someone feeds Fitzpatrick's side information, virtually off my desk. The case blows up, and the next thing I see is you and Fitzpatrick's attorney palling around—”
“We were having dinner. That's not against the law.”
“It's certainly not against your law.”
“Oh, Jesus, Ellen,” he growled, pushing to his feet. “It was a business dinner—”
“I'm sure it was.” Ellen advanced toward him. “Did he slide your thirty pieces of silver to you under the table, or did he have the waiter bring it on a platter?”
“There were plenty of people in your own office who had access to that information. Fitzpatrick could have paid off any one of them.”
“Yeah, but you know, Tony, none of them was suddenly driving a Porsche or hanging out at Goodfellows with Gregory Eagleton—”
“And, of course, it never occurred to you that your case blew up because Fitzpatrick was innocent,” he shot back. “It never occurred to you that the girl was lying, pressing criminal charges after Fitzpatrick refused to meet her blackmail demands.”
The argument touched a nerve that sent a red mist across Ellen's vision. He didn't deny her charges; he diverted attention, tried to shed the blame onto someone else. Pointing the spotlight on the victim crossed the line. She stepped toe to toe with him and thrust a righteous finger at him. “Art Fitzpatrick raped that girl because he believed his money and his position entitled him to do as he damn well pleased. And the thing that makes me sickest is that he was right. He bought his way out of a conviction, and you sold yourself into his good graces.”
“Then prove it!” he shouted.
He didn't deny it. He never had.
They had been over this ground so many times, they had worn it to dust. Ellen knew she couldn't prove a thing against him. All she'd had were puzzle pieces and a gut feeling that drilled into the core of her. No hard evidence. Nothing she could take to the county attorney or to the bar association. At the time she had racked her brain trying to come up with a way to punish him, to publicly burn him at the stake, to get him disbarred, to send him to jail. But in the end there had been only the realization that any such effort would blow up in her face. She would be the one publicly humiliated, scorned, and professionally ruined. She was the prosecutor who had been foolish enough to get involved with an ambitious defense attorney.
She had gone into the affair cautious, convinced she was smart enough to handle it. She had come away from it with her self-esteem battered. He had drawn her in, charmed her into believing he had integrity. And just as soon as all her shields were down, he had betrayed her.
Nearly three years had passed and she still wanted to cut his heart out. Not because she had loved him, but because he had used her, made a fool of her, mocked the system she prized so highly.
She turned away from him and rubbed her hands over her face, trying to clear away the lingering haze of emotion. She didn't want to feel any of it. She especially didn't want to feel it in front of him. Control. Hadn't she just been preaching that word? Hadn't she told Cameron not to let Costello get under his skin? And here she was, going off like a bomb the first time he set foot in her office.
“I cared about you, Ellen,” he murmured.
“Well, it's all in the past tense, isn't it?” she said, sliding down onto her chair. “Ancient history.”
Tony took his seat in the visitor's chair. Like boxers retiring to their respective corners, she thought. The tension dissipated to a tolerable level.
“I certainly never meant to drive you from the city,” he said.
“Don't flatter yourself, Tony,” she returned. “You were just a symptom of a much bigger problem. I left Hennepin County because I was fed up to my eyeteeth with all the bullshit game playing. Obviously, you're not content to contaminate just the metropolitan judicial districts. You've decided to take your show on the road.”
“I'm representing Garrett Wright.”
“So I heard.” Ellen fixed her gaze hard on his face. “And how did that happen?”
“It's a fascinating case.”
“High profile, you mean. What I want to know is how you came to be Garrett Wright's attorney. Who contacted you? Or did you come sniffing?”
“Are you accusing me of soliciting a client?” he asked with a healthy show of affront.
“No, you would never be that crass. So who called you? I know it wasn't Wright himself or Dennis Enberg.”
“You also know I won't discuss this with you,” he said, poker-faced. “It's privileged.”
Ellen leaned toward him, her arms braced on the desktop. “You think so? If Garrett Wright's accomplice contacted you—if you can reveal to us the identity of the kidnapper of the Holloman boy and do not—I will sink my teeth into charges of obstruction and shake you like a dead rat.”
Costello smiled like a lover, his dark eyes glowing. “Ah, you're still my Ellen at heart—or should I say at my throat?”
“I never belonged to you, Tony,” she said coldly. “I just slept with you. Trust me, it wasn't that big a deal.”
“Ouch.” He winced. “Hitting below the belt. How unlike you.”
“What can I say? You bring out the mean in me. You'll find out the hard way if you're aiding and abetting a kidnapper.”
“You're going on the assumption my client is guilty,” he said soberly. “I presume him to be innocent, therefore can have no knowledge of an accomplice. I certainly have no knowledge of the Holloman kidnapping.”
“God help you if you're lying to me, Tony,” Ellen said tightly. “A child's life could be at stake.”
“I know what's at stake, Ellen. I always know what's at stake.”
He opened his Louis Vuitton calfskin briefcase on the chair beside him and withdrew a sheaf of documents. “Demand for Discovery. Since you have virtually nothing on which to base your case, I expect disclosure to happen quickly.”
“We've got more than enough for the hearing,” she said. “Your little ‘rush to justice' ploy is only going to cramp your efforts, Tony, not mine. Send one of your minions around tomorrow afternoon for the papers.”
“I'll stop by myself,” he said, slipping into his topcoat. “Judge Grabko will be hearing my motion to reduce bail. Admirable the way the district is striving to keep the wheels of justice turning, isn't it?”
“I suppose you're trying to take credit for the work of our assignments clerk.” Ellen strove to sound bored. “As if anyone in this district could care less who you are.”
Costello narrowed his eyes. He looked cruel, and she knew he had the potential for it.
“I think you could care less, Ellen,” he said in a low voice. “Let's hope for the sake of the case you don't let your vindictiveness cloud your judgment. I don't want anyone saying it wasn't a fair fight.”
She wanted to pick up her paperweight and hurl it at him, but it was out of reach, and restraint dictated a cooler response. “Why don't you take your ego out for a nice big dinner, Tony? The energy it consumes must be tremendous.”
His mouth twisted into a thin smile. “As a matter of fact, I am on my way to dinner. I'd ask you to join us, but . . .”
“I have other plans.”
He tipped his head. “Until tomorrow . . .”
He stepped into the dim light of the hall, turning back to look at her. “You know, Ellen,” he said softly, “aside from the circumstances, it really is good to see you again.”
Ellen said nothing. When he was gone, she raked her hands back through her hair and blew out a sigh as tension rushed out of her muscles. A logical assessment of their conversation told her it hadn't been a total bust. She had scored some points, held her own. Beyond logic, she felt naked and vulnerable.
He had found a way to hurt her before, when she had thoug
ht she was invulnerable. She had chosen to walk away, but here he was again, invading her life. No logical argument could take the edge off her uneasiness.
And at the heart of that disquiet was not Tony Costello, but Garrett Wright.
Why had he chosen Costello? How could he have known the one man she would least want to face in court or out? Who had contacted Costello for him?
Who was the other part of us?
“As a matter of fact, I am on my way to dinner. I'd ask you to join us . . .”
Possibilities sprang up like mushrooms in her head. He could have been talking about members of his staff, but he might have been referring to the person who had contacted him on Garrett Wright's behalf.
Grabbing her coat and briefcase, she hustled out of her office. The purveyors of justice had closed shop for the night, and the dimly lit halls echoed with the hollow, lonely sound of a single pair of heels. She hurried down the stairs, cut across the rotunda, and made for the side door closest to the parking lot. She braced herself for the cold as she pushed through the door, then stood on the step.
She scanned the parking lot, looking for Costello, hoping to catch a glimpse of him driving away. But she didn't see anyone. Mumbling a curse under her breath, she started toward her car. She hoped he had gone back to his office first. If she could pick him up there and follow him to the restaurant—
“Ms. North?”
The dark form seemed to fly out of the shadows like a wraith. Ellen bolted sideways, broke a heel, turned her ankle. Stumbling, she dropped her briefcase. Adam Slater stood stock-still, wide-eyed, watching her flounder. The wind blew his hair into his eyes and he swept it back impatiently.
“Jeez, Ms. North, I didn't mean to scare you. I'm really sorry.”
Ellen scowled at him. She picked up the amputated heel of her shoe and stuffed it into her coat pocket.
“Mr. Slater,” she said, trying to hold her patience. “There really isn't a need to rush at a subject when you are the only reporter in the vicinity.”
His lean face contorted into a variety of sheepish looks. “I'm really sorry. It's just that I wanted to catch you before you—well—got away.”