by Tami Hoag
Then again, maybe he didn't have to pretend. Jay reserved the comment, filing it away for future use in print. He let his gaze slide to Wright's wife, who sat beside him, pale almost to the point of appearing translucent. She flicked a nervous glance up at him, and a fleeting smile trembled across her mouth as she looked away. She looked distinctly unhappy when Christopher Priest slid into the chair beside her.
In an effort to look hip, the professor had dressed himself up in a black turtleneck a size too small. It clung to his bony shoulders like a diver's wet suit, the effect making his head look gigantic. He leaned ahead of Karen Wright to snag Garrett's attention.
“We've sold out of T-shirts. The boys are ecstatic.”
“They should be proud,” Costello interjected. He turned a shrewd eye back to Jay, shifting his position subtly to block Wright and the professor from view. “You know, Jay, this story could be told from a number of perspectives. Dr. Wright's innocence—the rallying of his friends, colleagues, students—”
“The brilliance of his attorney.” Jay forced a grin. “Damned if this isn't sounding like a sales pitch, Tony.”
Costello didn't bother to feign contrition. “I would be remiss if I failed to cultivate all possible venues to express my client's innocence.”
“Yeah, and we've all heard what happens to attorneys who don't defend their clients with vigor,” Jay said dryly, making a gun out of his thumb and forefinger and holding it to his temple.
Costello's face reddened. “Dr. Wright was still in jail at the time of Enberg's death. He would have to be something other than human to have been involved.”
Jay arched his brows, just for the pleasure of seeing Costello's blood pressure jump a notch. To his credit the attorney reined in his temper before it could do more than tighten his smile.
“Jay,” he said, slapping the sore shoulder again. “You're wasting your talents. You'd give Lee Bailey a run for his money in cross-examination.”
“Yeah, but then that'd be work,” Jay drawled. “I'd sooner watch. Leave the tough stuff to you and Lee.”
Ellen watched the exchange of grins and handshakes from just inside the door.
“What would you say if I told you I don't know Costello from a sack of pig feed?”
That you're a liar, Mr. Brooks.
She had wanted to believe him and he had betrayed her. A sense of loss accompanied the anger as she watched them together.
It certainly had the look of best pals. A laugh, a grin, a slap on the back. Brooks and Costello, the law-school alums. A complementing pair of sharks—Costello the formal predator in a steel-gray Versace suit, Brooks the yuppie-turned-street person in creased Dockers and battered, unshaven face. And beside Costello, Garrett Wright, who turned and looked straight at her across the room. He smiled slowly, knowingly.
Ellen moved, seeking out the cover of a gaggle of tall college boys, cursing herself for giving in to the urge to come here. She and Cameron had worked until nine—Phoebe had begged off at eight, urgently needed in places unknown—then gone for a late dinner at Grandma's Attic. She should have gone home after Grandma's hot apple crisp. She should have, at this very minute, been deeply unconscious in her bed.
But the temptation had been too great—just to slip in for a few moments, to see for herself the kind of turnout, the mood and look of the crowd. The event had started at seven. The press would be long gone by nine, sound bites recorded, photos shot. She would be able to slip in, stay in the shadows, observe. By the time the money takers at the door spread the word of her presence, she would have seen enough and slipped back out. It seemed worth five dollars, even if that money was going to Wright's defense fund.
Now, in retrospect, it was a stupid idea. Wright himself had spotted her. She felt as if everyone in the room were turning to look at her. The tide of the crowd seemed to be running against her, taking her deeper into the midst of the enemy when she wanted nothing more than to make her way to the exit.
“Hey, what's she doing here?”
“Isn't that Ellen North?”
“She's got a lot of nerve.”
The comments came with barbed looks and pointed fingers. Ellen answered none of them, feigning calm as her heartbeat raced. She moved against the grain, her focus on the exit sign at the back of the room. She could have sent Cameron as her spy. She could have relied on the reports of Mitch's men. But no. She had to see for herself. She couldn't trust anyone else's perceptions. She had to sink herself into this thing up to her chin. Now she felt as if she were drowning in it.
A hand closed on her elbow. She tried to jerk free but the hold only tightened.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Brooks asked, his voice a low growl.
“I'd ask you the same question, but it was fairly self-evident.”
She tried once again to jerk herself free, but he was too close, moving with her—no—herding her. The course had changed without her consent. The exit was drifting off to the right. They were moving, instead, toward the dark hall where the coat check was located.
“You're drawing conclusions without facts, counselor,” he said as they passed the small oasis of light that was the coat check and moved to the edge of darkness.
Ellen put her back to the wall beside the emergency exit and gave him a furious look. “And I'd be an idiot to accept your version of facts, Mr. Brooks. Besides, I thought you didn't care what I believed or didn't believe.”
“And I thought you didn't care what I did or didn't do,” he shot back.
“I care that you lied to me. Beyond that, you can go to hell.”
“I didn't lie to you.”
“Ha! You tell me you don't know Tony Costello, that you don't have anything to do with his being on this case. Then I walk in and hail, hail, the gang's all here, the whole team rallied round the table, smiling, joking, slapping backs. Forgive me if I have a hard time believing a word that comes out of your handsome mouth, Brooks, but I wasn't born yesterday. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to go. I've seen all I need to see.”
Ellen could see curious glances being directed at them, and she hoped she had been right in assuming the reporters had all come and gone. What a hell of a photo op this would be—the prosecuting attorney having a tête-à-tête with Jay Butler Brooks at a rally for the defendant.
One of Mitch's plainclothes guys stepped past the gawkers, his right hand inching discreetly beneath the tweed sport coat he wore.
“Is everything all right, Ms. North?”
Brooks released her arm and stepped back into the shadows.
“Yes, thanks, Pat,” Ellen said, smoothing her coat sleeve. “I was just leaving.”
“Would you like an escort out?”
“No, don't bother. I'm parked close by. I'll be fine. You've got better things to do here.”
She stepped past him and found a clear path to the front hall. The band had come back onstage from their break. The attention of the crowd turned toward them as the lead guitar took off on a wild, wailing riff.
Ellen berated herself mentally all the way to the main doors. It doesn't matter what he does, what he says, what he thinks. You know better than to trust anyone. You don't have time to care.
The people coming in from their cigarette breaks gave her a wide berth and sidelong glances.
Let them think what they want. What difference does it make if they believe in Wright? You know the truth.
Of course, she didn't. None of them knew the truth—except Josh, and he was keeping it locked tight within his mind. What part of the truth she did know she would wield like a club come Tuesday, and if Wright's believers came away with their illusions bruised and broken, it was nothing to her.
Ducking around a pair of incoming Harris students, she stepped outside into the cold night. The parking lot in front of the dance hall was full. A green-and-white Deer Lake cruiser sat in the far corner, waiting for action that wasn't likely to happen. Ellen made her way to the east side of the old clapboard building. Sh
e had been lucky to get the spot on a residential street, pulling into the slot just as a Lincoln Town Car pulled out.
“Hey, lookee here, boys. It's Ms. Bitch Lawyer.”
The voice brought her up short. A crucial mistake on her part, Ellen realized, as Tyrell Mann and his cohorts took advantage, moving away from the deeper shadows along the side of the building to step in front of her. A quick assessment of the situation told her she could be in trouble. They were out of view of the parking lot. To the east, a cedar privacy fence blocked the view into the neighboring house. The nearest house across the street was dark. The Manley Vanloon Pace Car sat at the near curb a dozen feet ahead. So close and so far. The music from the dance hall penetrated to the outside world, loud enough to mask the sounds of a struggle.
Tyrell's smile flashed bright in his dark face as he flicked away his cigarette. “You got a fuckin' nerve coming here, lady.”
“I paid for the privilege,” Ellen said. “That's all you should care about.”
“We care about the Doc. He's our man,” J. R. Andersen said.
“Yeah,” Speed Dawkins chimed in. “He's our man. He's the man—”
“And you tryin' to throw his ass in jail,” Tyrell said, the smile gone.
The image of the switchblade that had been left in her tire came sharply into focus in Ellen's memory. She had spent part of the evening going over the file on the Sci-Fi Cowboys, with an eye to possible suspects in her vandalism. Andersen was a white-collar criminal, stealing money electronically. Dawkins had been in and out of drug-related trouble. Tyrell was a fairly recent addition to the group, a bright kid with a rap sheet that skirted the edges of some serious stuff—assault charges that had been bartered down, robbery charges that had been reduced because he wasn't the principal player and the county juvenile facility was bursting at its seams, a rape charge that had been dismissed.
At seventeen Tyrell was already a hard case. Vandalism wouldn't have been anything to him. Where he would draw the line was questionable. Ellen had seen too many kids just like him who made no distinctions at all, kids who wouldn't hesitate to pull a gun and shoot someone for their starter jacket or kick their head in for pocket money.
“I don't have to tell you how the system works, Tyrell,” she said. “And I shouldn't have to tell you that your hassling me won't help Dr. Wright's cause.”
“I don't want you tellin' me nothin', bitch.”
“I'm sure you don't, but you'd better listen.” In her coat pocket she singled out the biggest key on her ring to use as a defense weapon and curled her fist around the rest. “You and your buddies fuck up here and you go to jail, and the Sci-Fi Cowboys will be no more. How do you think Dr. Wright and Professor Priest and the rest of your backers would feel about that?”
She wanted him to see reason. He heard only challenge.
He took half a step closer. “Is that a threat, Ms. Bitch Lawyer?”
“It's a fact. You and I both know the only reason your ass isn't sitting on a Hennepin County cot right now is the Sci-Fi Cowboys. You want to trash that, Tyrell?”
“Naw. That's not what I fuckin' wanna trash.”
Ellen chanced a quick glance at the other two. Dawkins was watching Tyrell, ready to take his cue. Andersen stood back a little, his expression blank, his thoughts unreadable. In some ways he was more a wild card than Tyrell. His IQ was in the genius range, his probation officer's comments laced with hints of well-camouflaged sociopathic tendencies. He could intervene with charm or just as easily be the mastermind who came up with the foolproof way to dispose of her body.
“The dance is inside the building, boys.”
Ellen did her best to swallow her sigh of relief at the sound of Brooks's voice.
Impatience flashed in Tyrell's eyes. “Who the fuck are you? The Lone Fuckin' Ranger?”
“More like the Lone Fuckin' Witness.” Jay stepped in front of Ellen, then backed her up to put some space between them and the angry-looking kid in the Bulls jacket. “With the lone fuckin' cellular phone and my finger on the lone fuckin' speed-dial button for the cops. Do you understand what I'm fuckin' tellin' you, you fuckin' little shit?”
His voice rose with each angry word. He had come out here to confront Ellen. Now he found himself in the unlikely role of rescuer, holding his pocket cellular phone up as if it were a live grenade.
“Come on, Tyrell,” Andersen said, cuffing his buddy's shoulder. “I'm freezing my dick off. Let's go in.”
He started toward the building. Dawkins hesitated. Tyrell stood his ground.
“Come on,” Andersen said impatiently. “Before the professor blows a circuit.”
Tyrell thrust his chin out at Jay. “Fuck you, man. We was just talkin' to the lady.”
The trio swaggered off together toward the yellow light of the parking lot. Ellen watched them go, slowly letting the air out of her lungs.
“Thanks,” she said to Brooks. “He's a loose cannon in Wright's arsenal. I wasn't sure what he might do.”
“Yeah, well, I'd'a looked pretty damned stupid if he would have pulled a gun and gone off on me. The worst damage this phone can do is leak battery acid.” He held it out to her. “You want to call this little encounter in?”
“They didn't break any laws. I just want to go home.” And double-bolt the doors, and sink into a hot bath and a big glass of brandy. “Good night, Mr. Brooks,” she said, starting for the Cadillac.
“Not so far, it isn't.” His footsteps crunched over the snow behind her. “I came here for the same reason you did—to observe.”
“I think, then, that maybe you should look the word up in the dictionary. You seem to have observation confused with participation.”
“Costello is as much a part of this story as you are, Ellen. Of course I'm going to speak with him.”
“I don't want to hear about it.”
Ellen let herself in the car. She hit the power locks, even though Brooks had pulled up on the curb. She turned the key in the ignition, but the big engine made no sound at all, made no effort to start, made not even a grumbled refusal to start. The Manley Vanloon Pace Car had died.
“Hell and damnation!” Ellen swore, smacking her gloved fist on the steering wheel.
Fuming, she popped the hood, dug the pocket flashlight out of her purse, and climbed out of the car. The Cadillac's engine was the size of a small country, but parts were parts—or, in this case, parts were nowhere to be seen. The distributor was gone.
“Shit!”
“Ms. North . . .” Jay clucked his tongue. “Such language.”
Ellen shot him a scathing glare.
He held up his phone like a prize. “Want to call a cab?”
“Don't be an ass.”
“Want to call a cop?”
What would be the point? The Pla-Mor was packed to the rafters with suspects. The possibility of anyone's coming forward as a witness was laughable. Although Tyrell and Andersen and Dawkins had been in the immediate vicinity, they wouldn't have been foolish enough to hang on to the distributor. The offense was too petty for the amount of time and energy it would consume.
“Come on.” Brooks pocketed the phone and pulled out his keys. “I'll give you a ride.”
“I think you've already taken me for a ride,” she said dryly.
“I'll take you straight home. Scout's honor.”
He took her straight to his home.
Ellen gave him a speculative look across the cab of the GMC Jimmy he had talked Manley into renting him. “You were never a Boy Scout, were you?”
He grinned. “No, ma'am, I never was.”
“I could use that phone now,” she grumbled, “to report my own kidnapping.”
“Or you could relax and enjoy my famous southern hospitality.”
“So far, ‘enjoyable' is not the word I would use regarding our association.”
“What word would you use?”
Unsettling. It came to her instantly, but she kept it to herself. She knew instinctively it wou
ld please him. He enjoyed knocking her off balance, used it to his own advantage—like now.
“It's time we had a talk,” he said. “I figured it was best held in a place you can't have me thrown out of or walk away from.”
They turned off Old Cedar Road and drove into the development area around Ryan's Bay. The moon was waxing toward fullness, its light casting the bay in other-worldly shades of silver and white. Ellen had biked the trails out here many times in warm weather, had always felt a certain parklike comfort about the area. Now every time she went by that spot on the trail, she would think about Josh's little ski jacket planted among the reeds, a note tucked into one pocket.
“‘My specter around me night and day like a wild beast guards my way. My emanation far within weeps incessantly for my sin.' ” She murmured the lines from William Blake's poem, her gaze on the frozen reeds that thrust up from the drifts of snow. “That was the note left in Josh's coat pocket.”
“I know,” Jay said softly.
“How? We didn't release that one to the press.”
“I'm not the press.”
He turned the Jimmy in at a driveway and hit the remote switch to raise one door on a three-car garage. The house was enormous by Deer Lake standards. And outrageously priced by Deer Lake standards—Ellen had seen the ads in the newspaper. She imagined he was paying a hefty price to rent it, but the money probably meant nothing to him. He had made a sizable fortune turning crime into entertainment. He would do so again with this case, and she would be part of the story.
He had the kind of money it would take to hire Tony Costello, the kind of money it had taken to bail Garrett Wright out of jail.
And she had wanted to trust him.
Without a word to Brooks, she left him in the gourmet kitchen and walked through the living room to the wall of glass that looked out on the frozen countryside. She could hear him pouring drinks, then, nearer, starting a fire in the stone fireplace. When he came to stand beside her, he had shed his parka.
“Whiskey and soda,” he said, handing her a paper cup.