by Pat Warren
Belting her jacket, she met his unwavering gaze, but didn’t answer. Finally, he turned and left.
Hannah listened to his muffled footsteps going down the stairs, then moments later, heard the back door close. Slowly, she walked to the windows and saw him march to his Mercedes, the collar of his black overcoat turned up.
It was cold, but a beautiful evening, the sky clear and the snow no longer falling. Probably, stars would be visible soon. It would have felt good to be outdoors, to free her mind and skate with the wind. To laugh, maybe have a hot chocolate later.
The revving of Joel’s powerful engine caught her attention. He’d cleaned off the windshield and was backing out. He swung the little car around and headed down the driveway more cautiously than she’d have guessed. He’d revealed some telling things tonight. She got the impression that his childhood hadn’t been as happy as she’d imagined. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all and…
Hannah shook her head. What was the matter with her? Whatever he was, she had no business thinking about Joel Merrick or any other man.
Grabbing her briefcase, she walked out the door.
* * *
“That’s it, sweet lady,” Joel said into the Dictaphone mike. “Don’t forget to add love and kisses from their favorite attorney at the end of each letter. I’ll sign them sometime late Monday afternoon. See you then and thanks, Marcie.” He turned off the machine, sat back and rubbed the tense muscles at the back of his neck.
It was past six on a Friday after a long week that he was glad to see end. He had a trial beginning at nine on Monday that would tie him up for quite a while. Murder for hire, a messy one. The State of Massachusetts v. Amanda Fowler, his client.
Amanda had been arrested after a part-time gardener had told the police that she’d paid him ten thousand dollars to kill her wealthy, ailing husband, Blake Fowler. The newspapers had had a field day crucifying the pretty blond young woman who stood to inherit an estate of over seven million. Blake’s two grown sons kept popping up on the six-o’clock news condemning their scheming stepmother, crying for justice.
But Amanda had told Joel she was innocent.
After six months of interviews and research and preparation, Joel wasn’t sure whom he believed. He had his suspicions, his theories, but would he be able to prove them in court? That was the question.
Rising, he walked to stare out the window. His office was in the front of the building and looked out on the circular driveway and snow-covered shrubs beyond. The streetlights were on, and most sane people were either home or on their way.
Hurrying home didn’t appeal to Joel tonight. He liked his apartment on Beacon Street in the Back Bay area. The building was old but recently renovated, his place on the tenth floor overlooking the Charles River Basin. A good location, a great view. He’d spent time, money and energy decorating his living space himself.
And still it felt lonely.
Annoyed with himself and his own discontent, Joel frowned out at the darkening evening. By all standards, he was a success, if success could be measured in status, money, position. He knew how to win cases, to garner large fees, to finally succeed after leaving his father’s firm because corporate law had bored him. Criminal law was arduous, exacting and demanding, but rarely boring.
At thirty-two, he had plenty of money, a great place to live, a super car, work he enjoyed most of the time, a family and lots of friends. He even had an impressive list of women he could call, most of whom would be eager to spend time with him. Last year, he’d been voted Man of the Year by the Massachusetts Bar Association. He seemingly had it all.
Why, then, did he feel this vague restlessness, this feeling that something was missing?
Joel ran blunt fingertips through his hair, wondering if he was just one of those men who would never find contentment, who’d always be striving for something just out of reach. He’d been like that since boyhood. The trouble was, he didn’t even know what that something was. Unlike some people, who seemed to have been born knowing exactly what they wanted.
Like Hannah Richards.
His mind had drifted to their new tenant more than once over the past week. He’d caught glimpses of her in the courthouse halls, rushing to some appointment, buried in research books in the upstairs library, brushing snow from her Volkswagen in the back parking lot before hurrying off. He’d scarcely said ten words to her since the evening she’d finished putting together her office, yet she bounced into his thoughts more often than he liked.
She was so focused, so intense, so energetic, such a fierce workaholic. What had made her like that? he wondered. What did she do to unwind, to relax? Surely she had a life outside her work. And what was she working on for such long hours since she’d just arrived in town? Was she just putting on a good front to keep Will from being concerned about her? Joel knew Will worried anyway, hoping Hannah would make it, since he’d been the one who’d convinced her to move to Boston.
Maybe he should try to help her, Joel thought. She was temperamental as hell about anyone lending her a hand. But surely she wouldn’t turn down clients. He had an overflowing case load, one he could easily share with her. Some of the easier, lighter cases. They’d help get her established in town, get her started, and then if she did well, referrals would follow.
Yes, that’s what he’d do, Joel decided. Only, he’d have to handle her with care. God knew she offended easily.
At the back door, he checked the parking lot and saw that Hannah’s car was still there. He climbed the stairs and saw that her door was open, but her office empty. He walked on to the library next door.
She was seated at the largest table, head bent as she wrote on a legal pad, law books spread out before her every which way. She was too absorbed to have heard him approach. She was wearing a classic navy suit with a white blouse, a pencil stuck into her red hair, which was coiled into some sort of a twist as always. Her oversize, dark-framed glasses were perched low on her nose, giving her oval face a whimsical charm. Joel felt a smile form as he leaned against the doorframe and cleared his throat.
“How’s it going, Counselor?” he asked as she looked up in surprise. He saw a trace of annoyance flicker across her features as she removed her glasses and leaned back.
“So-so.” She’d been avoiding Joel Merrick and now felt the guilt of it. He made her uncomfortable, so, from long habit, she solved the problem by evading him. However, for Will’s sake, she could at least be polite. “How are things with you?”
“Tough one coming up Monday.” He turned serious, strolling in, pulling out one of the chairs and sitting down. “Murder One.”
“I guess they don’t get any tougher than that.” She really couldn’t spare the time, but there was something different about Joel tonight. Almost as if he were worried, when so far, every time she’d noticed him, he’d been smiling and confident. “Want to talk about it?”
It was the first interest she’d shown, the first opening for a conversation she’d given him. He decided to grab it. “If you’re sure I’m not interrupting.”
He was, but she could make up the time later. After all, there might come a day when she’d need a willing ear. Will, she’d discovered, was seldom in. Besides, she felt just the tiniest bit flattered that Joel would want to talk over a case with her.
Hannah put down her pen and set aside her legal pad. “It’s all right. I’d like to hear, really.”
Joel didn’t think she could offer much insight with her limited experience, but often just talking out loud with another attorney helped clarify things in his mind. Will hadn’t been in for days, gone ice fishing with a couple of pals.
He leaned forward and began explaining his case, inordinately pleased at the thorough way she listened, inserting a question now and then, totally absorbed in what he was saying.
“Blake’s two sons, Kent and Peter, I don’t feel are as innocent as they’re trying to make themselves appear to the media. Kent’s a heavy gambler, and Peter’s been in tr
ouble with the law over minor skirmishes since he was in his teens.”
Of course, Hannah had read about the high-profile case in the papers. Odd how she’d missed noticing that Joel was representing the beautiful widow. “Did they resent their father marrying such a young woman after their mother died?”
“Probably. But their mother had been dead for ten years before Blake married Amanda.”
“She’s a nurse, isn’t she? Came to take care of him after he had a stroke?”
“Yes, that’s right. I know how suspicious it looks. A young woman moves in on a vulnerable old man who just happens to be filthy rich. He marries her, changes his will and the kids are suddenly out in the cold. When he dies, she’s the first suspect.”
Hannah picked up her pen, toying with it as she thought of possibilities. “Who else would have hired the gardener to kill the old man? One of his sons?”
“Possibly. But there’s more. Blake’s sister, who’s never married and was totally dependent on him, also lived with them. And he’s got a penniless brother who moved to Boston just months before the old man died. Word was that Blake disliked him and had had him barred from his home. Lots of suspects.”
“Just goes to show you being rich isn’t worth the aggravation. Even your relatives are willing to kill you for your money.”
“I’ve never thought money bought happiness.” And he should know, since his family had it by the bucketful. Some of them were happy, he supposed. But certainly not all.
Hannah studied Joel from under lowered lashes. Gray seemed to be his favorite color, for he had on charcoal slacks with a pale gray shirt and paisley suspenders, his matching tie hanging loose. His hands, resting on the table, were large and strong, the fingers long and lean. Lost in thought, he stroked the jacket of the book in front of him, and had her wondering how his touch would feel on her skin.
Hannah sat up, clearing her throat. What was it about this man that always had her thinking uncharacteristically? “Do you think Amanda Fowler is innocent?”
“I don’t honestly know.”
She frowned at that. “Doesn’t it bother you, representing someone, trying to get them off, when they might be guilty of murder?”
“Everyone’s entitled to fair representation. As an officer of the court, I’m sure you know that. I’m there to protect the rights of my client. The rest is up to the jury and the judge.”
“I’m not terribly comfortable with that.”
It was Joel’s turn to frown. “Are you so sure that all of your clients are in the right?”
“Fortunately, yes. The women I represent have been wronged. Unquestionably wronged.”
He found that hard to believe unequivocally. “Give me an example.”
“All right. Take Ellen Baxter. Her husband has been physically abusing her for years. She finally went to a women’s shelter and, after some convincing, she’s going to take action against him.”
“You mean get a restraining order?”
“More than that. She’s pressing charges. No matter what differences the two of them have, there’s no excuse for a man hitting a woman.” Hannah sighed. “Of course, I’ve done some of this type of work before. The problem is that all too often, women say they’ll press charges, but later, they change their minds. The abuser threatens her or their children, and they drop the charges. It’s so frustrating.”
“So why do you specialize in women’s rights, then?”
She looked up at him, honestly shocked. “Because there’s such a need. There are too few attorneys willing to work in this field, and the need is huge.”
Joel leaned back. “I’ll bet I can guess why lawyers steer clear of those cases. You get to collect very little if any fees. While I applaud what you’re doing, I’m wondering how you’re going to make a living representing these people, most of whom are close to indigent.”
“Not all of them. Custody battles, for instance, are often between a man with money and a wife with none, but if he loses, he has to pay attorney fees. And rape can happen to anyone, regardless of income. The others, well, I’ll manage.”
He had to admire her, though he truly doubted that she’d make it. He wondered if she knew just what she was up against, and knew his face reflected his doubt.
“Don’t say it,” Hannah told him, raising a hand. “I can tell you think I’m crazy. But this is important. Someone has to help these people.”
Joel sighed. “I don’t doubt that you’re right. But a body has to eat.” He hoped he would be able to word his offer so as not to offend. “Maybe I can help. I’ve got a couple of cases in the early stages, not terribly timeconsuming ones. You’d still have time for your work. But they pay well and they’d tide you over until you got going. I’d refer these clients to you and—”
“Thanks, but no thanks.” Picking up her glasses, Hannah put them on, then hurriedly began straightening the books she’d spread out. “I don’t need your help, nor do I want it. I thought I made that clear. I already have a large referral base from Sanctuary, with several more on a waiting list, actually.” She got up and turned to replace the books on the proper shelves.
Touchy, touchy. Damn, but he hadn’t meant to offend her. “Listen, I didn’t mean…”
“I know.” Hannah shoved the books into place with more force than was necessary. “And I appreciate your offer. But please, I need to do this my way, on my own.”
“All right. I respect that.” Joel stood, wondering why anyone would get so huffy over an offer of help. Hannah Richards had to be the most difficult-to-understand woman he’d ever met.
“Thank you.” Scooping her papers up, she moved toward the doorway.
He stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Could I ask you one more question?”
Warily, she looked up at him.
“You have such beautiful hair.” His hand reached to touch a small strand that had escaped the tight control of the twist. “Why don’t you ever wear it down?”
What an odd question. The man certainly knew how to keep her off balance. Hannah stared into his eyes, wondering if this was one of his little put-ons. But she saw only interest and an unnerving awareness. “I…I’ll think about it.”
He dropped his hand and gave her his lazy smile. “Thanks.”
Hastily, she went to her office and closed the door.
Still smiling, Joel stuck his hands in his pockets and began to whistle as he made his way downstairs.
Chapter Three
Sanctuary was housed in a converted three-story brownstone that had been standing years longer than its residents had been alive. The two top floors each had one bath and several bedrooms, some double, some triple occupancy, with an occasional crib or trundle bed stuck here and there. The lower level was dominated by a large, airy kitchen, a big dining room, a good-sized TV room, an enclosed porch that ran the width of the back of the house and a small anteroom by the front door.
There, the front desk was presided over by Daisy Jones, a small, energetic black woman of indeterminate age who proudly displayed one gold front tooth and had a huge heart made of the same material. One of the “graduates” had found the time and money to have a nameplate of sorts made for her, which sat on her desk. It read If Daisy Ain’t Happy, Ain’t Nobody Happy.
Daisy clucked over and cared for all the residents like a mother hen. She dispensed Band-Aids and hugs to the little ones, and tea and sympathy to their mothers. It had taken Hannah only one visit to realize that Sanctuary couldn’t operate without Daisy, who manned the phones and screened visitors, releasing a series of locks only if they passed muster.
On Monday morning, Hannah stomped snow from her boots on the small front porch and rang the bell. Recognizing her, Daisy buzzed her in. “Can you believe it’s snowing again?” Hannah asked, setting down her briefcase and unzipping her leather jacket.
“Not only that, but it’s the full of the moon,” Daisy commented. “All the crazies are out en masse.”
The tempting smell of bacon
and onions lingered in the warm air, and the drone of a television game show could be heard along with the insistent cry of a very young baby. Stuffing her coat into the small hall closet, Hannah frowned. “Did you get some new admittances?”
Daisy nodded. “Four, to be exact, since Friday—two women, two babies.”
Hannah nodded toward the kitchen. “Is Lee back there?”
“Sure is. She’s working on the week’s menu plan so Cookie can go to the store.” Daisy lowered her voice. “That always puts her in a bad mood ‘cause there’s never enough money for all we need, so you might want to tippy-toe around her.”
“I thought Father Ray was supposed to help out last week.” Hannah had been told that a local Catholic priest was wonderful about getting his parishioners to contribute food and clothing, as well as obtaining financial donations.
Daisy shrugged. “Father says there’s a recession and donations are down across the board.”
The same old story, never enough money. Hannah didn’t know how Lee managed to keep a cheerful attitude most of the time when she was always having to stretch a dollar until it cried uncle.
“You just visiting or here to see someone special?” Daisy asked.
“I need to talk with Ellen Baxter. She’s here, isn’t she?”
“Oh, yeah, she’s back. But you’re not going to like the shape she’s in.” Daisy knew that Hannah had been working with Ellen, preparing to file charges against Rod Baxter.
A frisson of apprehension ran up Hannah’s spine. “What happened?”
Daisy decided she might as well prepare Hannah before she went upstairs to see Ellen. “On Saturday, she went back to their apartment when she thought Rod was at work, just to pick up some of the kids’ clothes. He came in and…well, it was pretty bad.”
Hannah felt like groaning out loud. She’d specifically warned Ellen not to go back home, that a restraining order alone wouldn’t keep Rod away. “Thanks, Daisy. I’ll see you before I leave.” Grabbing her briefcase, Hannah went through the swinging doors to the kitchen.