by Nora Roberts
to whales sing and eat chicken.”
“And mashed potatoes.”
“Son, you might just see a grown man cry.”
Noah laughed again and trooped inside with his father. But he, too, loved enough to understand. And he was sure he would hear his father pacing the floor that night, as he did when his job troubled him most.
four
Confession may be good for the soul, but in Sam Tanner’s case it was also good for snapping reality into sharp focus. Less than an hour after he wrote his tearful statement admitting the brutal and drug-hazed murder of his wife, he exercised his civil rights.
He called the lawyer he’d claimed had only complicated his marital problems and demanded representation. He was panicked and ill and had by this point forgotten half of what he’d confessed.
So it was a lawyer who specialized in domestic law who first claimed the confession had been given under duress, ordered his client to stick to his right to remain silent and called out the troops.
Charles Brighton Smith would head the defense team. He was a sixty-one-year-old fox with a dramatic mane of silver hair, canny blue eyes and a mind like a laser. He embraced high-profile cases with gusto and loved nothing better than a tumultuous court battle with a media circus playing in the center ring.
Before he flew into L.A., he’d already begun assembling his team of researchers, clerks, litigators, experts, psychologists and jury profilers. He’d leaked his flight number and arrival time and was prepared—and elegantly groomed—for the onslaught of press when he stepped off the plane.
His voice was rich and fruity, drawing up through the diaphragm like an opera singer’s. His face was stern and carefully composed to show concern, wisdom and compassion as he made his sweeping opening statement.
“Sam Tanner is an innocent man, a victim of this tragedy. He’s lost the woman he loved in the most brutal of fashions, and now that horror has been compounded by the police in their rush to close the case. We hope to correct this injustice swiftly so that Sam can deal with his grief and go home to his daughter.”
He took no questions, made no other comments. He let his bodyguards plow through the crowd and lead him to the waiting limo. When he settled inside, he imagined the media would be rife with sound bites from his entrance.
And he was right.
After seeing the last news flash of Smith’s Los Angeles arrival, Val MacBride shut off the television with a snap. It was all a game to them, she thought. To the press, the lawyers, the police, the public. Just another show to bump ratings, to sell newspapers and magazines, to get their picture on the covers or on the news.
They were using her baby, her poor murdered baby.
Yet it couldn’t be stopped. Julie had chosen to live in the public eye, and had died in it.
Now they would use that, the lawyers. That public perception would be twisted and exploited to make a victim out of the man who’d killed her. He would be a martyr. And Olivia was just one more tool.
That, Val told herself, she could stop.
She went quietly from the room, stopping only to peek in on Olivia. She saw Rob, sprawled on the floor with their grandchild, his head close to her as they colored together.
It made her want to smile and weep at the same time. The man was solid as a rock, she thought with great gratitude. No matter how hard you leaned on him, he stayed straight.
She left them to each other and went to find Jamie.
The house was built on the straight, clean lines of a T. In the left notch Jamie had her office. When she’d come to Los Angeles eight years before to act as her sister’s personal assistant, she’d lived and worked out of the spare room in Julie’s dollhouse bungalow in the hills.
Val remembered worrying a bit about both of them then, but their calls and letters and visits home had been so full of fun and excitement she’d tried not to smother the light with nagging and warnings. They’d lived in that house together for two years, until Julie had met and married Sam. And less than six months afterward, Jamie had been engaged to David. A man who managed rock and roll bands, of all things, she’d thought at the time. But he’d turned out to be as steady as her own Rob.
She’d considered her girls safe then, safe and happy and settled with good men. How could she have been so wrong?
She pushed that thought away as useless and knocked lightly on Jamie’s office door before opening it.
The room had Jamie’s sense of style and organization. Ordinarily the sleek vertical blinds would have been open to the sunlight and the view of the pool and flowers. But the paparazzi and their telescopic lenses had the house under siege. The blinds were shut tight, the lamps on though it was mid-afternoon.
We’re like hostages, Val thought as her daughter sent her a harried smile and continued to talk on her desk phone.
Val sat in the simple button-backed chair across from the desk and waited.
Jamie looked tired, she noticed, and nearly sighed when she realized how little attention she’d paid over the last few days to the child she had left.
As her heart stuttered, Val closed her eyes, took several quiet breaths. She needed to focus on the matter at hand and not get mired in her grief.
“I’m sorry, Mom.” Jamie hung up the phone, pushed both hands through her hair. “There’s so much to do.”
“I haven’t been much help.”
“Oh, yes, you have. I don’t know how we’d manage without you and Dad. Livvy—I can’t handle this and give her the attention she needs right now. David’s shouldered a lot of the load.”
She rose and went to the small refrigerator for a bottle of water. Her system had begun to revolt at the gallons of coffee she’d gulped down. In the center of her forehead was a constant, dull headache no medication seemed to touch.
“But he has his own work,” she continued as she poured two glasses. “I’ve had people offer to field some of the calls and cables and notes, but . . .”
“This is for family,” Val finished.
“Yes.” Jamie handed her mother a glass, eased her hip on the desk. “People are leaving flowers at the gate of Julie’s house. I needed to make arrangements for them to be taken to hospitals. Lucas Manning, bless him, is helping me with that. The letters are just starting to come in, and though Lou, Julie’s agent, is going to help handle them, I think we’re going to be snowed under in another week or two.”
“Jamie—”
“We already have a mountain of condolences from people in the business, people she knew or worked with. And the phone calls—”
“Jamie,” Val said more firmly. “We have to talk about what happens next.”
“This is what happens next for me.”
“Sit down.” When the phone rang, Val shook her head. “Let it go, Jamie, and sit down.”
“All right. All right.” Giving in, Jamie sat, let her head fall back.
“There’s going to be a trial,” Val began, and this had Jamie sitting up again.
“There’s no point in thinking about that now.”
“It has to be thought of. Sam’s fancy new lawyer’s already on TV, prancing and posing. Some people are hot to say he couldn’t have done it. He’s a hero, a victim, a figure of tragedy. More will say it before it’s over.”
“You shouldn’t listen.”
“No, and I don’t intend to anymore.” Val’s voice went fierce. “I don’t intend to take any chances that Livvy will hear any of it, will be exposed to any of it or be used as she was the other day when she got outside. I want to take her home, Jamie. I want to take her back to Washington as soon as possible.”
“Take her home?” For a moment, Jamie’s mind went completely blank. “But this is her home.”
“I know you love her. We all do.” Val set her glass aside to take her daughter’s hand. “Listen to me, Jamie. That little girl can’t stay here, closed up in this house like a prisoner. She can’t even go outside. We can’t risk her going to her window without knowing some p
hotographer will zoom in and snap her picture. She can’t live like that. None of us can.”
“It’ll pass.”
“When? How? Maybe, maybe it would have eased up a little, but not now that there’s going to be a trial. She won’t be able to start preschool in the fall, or play with her friends without bodyguards, without having people look at her, stare, point, whisper. And some won’t bother to whisper. I don’t want her to face that. I don’t think you do either.”
“Oh God, Mom.” Torn to bits again, Jamie rose. “I want to raise her. David and I talked about it.”
“How can you do that here, honey? With all the memories, all the publicity, all the risks. She needs to be protected from that but not locked in a house, however lovely, in the center of it all. Are you and David willing to give up your home, your work, your lifestyle, to take her away, to devote your time to her? Your father and I can give her a safe place. We can cut her off from the press.” She took a deep breath. “And I intend to see a lawyer myself, right away, to start custody proceedings. I won’t have that man getting near her, ever again. It’s what’s right for her, Jamie. It’s what Julie would want for her.”
What about me? Jamie wanted to scream it. What about what I need, what I want? She was the one who soothed Livvy’s nightmares, who comforted and rocked and sat with her in the long dark hours. “Have you talked to Dad about this?” Her voice was dull now, her face turned away.
“We discussed it this morning. He agrees with me. Jamie, it’s what’s best. You and David could come, spend as much time as you like. She’ll always be yours, too, but not here, Jamie. Not here.”
Frank pushed away from his desk, surprised when he saw Jamie Melbourne. She took off her dark glasses as she crossed the squad room, then passed them restlessly from hand to hand.
“Detective Brady, I’d like to speak with you if you have a moment.”
“Of course. We’ll go in the coffee room.” He tried a smile. “But I’m not recommending the coffee.”
“No, I’m trying to stay away from it just now.”
“Do you want to speak with Detective Harmon?”
“It’s not necessary to pull both of you away from your work.” She moved into the cramped little room. “I came on impulse. Not an easy feat,” she added as she walked to the stingy window. At least it was a window, she thought. At least she could look outside. “There are still reporters. Not as many, but a number of them camped out. I think I ran over that snippy one from Channel Four.”
“Never liked him anyway.”
She leaned her hands on the windowsill and laughed. Then couldn’t stop. The bubble of sound had burst a hole in her dam of control. Her shoulders shook and the laugh turned to sobs. She held on to the sill, rocking back and forth until Frank drew her gently into a chair, gave her a box of tissues and held her hand.
He said nothing, just waited for her to empty out.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Frantically she pulled tissue after tissue out of the box. “This isn’t what I came here to do.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, Mrs. Melbourne, it’s about time you let that go. The longer you hold it in, the bigger it gets.”
“Julie was the emotional one. She felt everything in big soaring waves.” Jamie blew her nose. “And she was one of those women who looked gorgeous when she cried.” She mopped her raw and swollen eyes. “You could have hated her for that.” She sat back. “I buried my sister yesterday. I keep trying to take a step back from that now that it’s done, but it won’t stop coming into my head.”
She let out a long breath. “My parents want to take Olivia back to Washington. They want to apply for full custody and take her away.” She pulled out another tissue, then began to fold it neatly, precisely, into squares. “Why am I telling you? I was going to tell David, cry on his shoulder, then I found myself going into the garage, getting into the car. I guess I needed to tell someone who wasn’t so involved, yet wasn’t really separate. You won.”
“Mrs. Melbourne—”
“Why don’t you call me Jamie now that I’ve cried all over you? I’d certainly be more comfortable calling you Frank.”
“Okay, Jamie. You’re facing the worst anybody faces, and things are coming at you from all directions at once. It’s hard to see.”
“You think my mother’s right, about Livvy.”
“I can’t speak for your family.” He got up, poured some water. “As a parent,” he continued, offering the paper cup, “I think I’d want my kid as far away from this mess as possible, at least temporarily.”
“Yes, my head knows that.” But her heart, her heart didn’t know how much more it could take. “Yesterday morning, before the service, I took Livvy out in the backyard. It’s screened by trees, it seemed safe enough. I wanted to try to talk to her, to try to help her understand. This morning there was a picture of the two of us out there in the paper. I never even saw the photographer. I don’t want that for her.”
She drew in a deep breath. “I want to see Sam.”
Frank sat again. “Don’t do that to yourself.”
“I’ll have to see him in court. I’ll have to look him in the face, day after day during the trial. I need to see him now, before it begins. I need to do that before I let Livvy go.”
“I don’t know if he’ll agree to it. His lawyers are keeping him on a short leash.”
“He’ll see me.” She got to her feet. “He won’t be able to stop himself. His ego won’t let him.”
He took her because he decided she’d find a way to do what she felt she had to do with or without his help.
She said nothing as they dealt with security and protocol. Nothing when they entered the visitors’ area with its long counters and glass partitions. Frank showed her to a stool. “I have to back off here. I can’t have any contact with him without his lawyer at this point. I’ll be right outside.”
“I’ll be fine. Thank you.”
She’d braced herself so she didn’t jolt at the harsh sound of the buzzer. A door opened, and Sam was led in.
She’d wanted him to be pale, to look ill and gray and battered. How could he, she thought as her hands fisted in her lap, how could he look so perfect, so carelessly handsome? The hard lights didn’t detract from his appearance, nor the faded, ill-fitting prison clothes. If anything, they added to the appeal.
When he sat, offered her a long, pain-filled stare out of those deep blue eyes, she all but expected to hear a director call out Cut! Print!
She kept her gaze level and reached for the phone. He mirrored the move on the other side of the glass. She heard him clear his throat.
“Jamie, I’m so glad you came. I’ve been going out of my mind. Julie.” He closed his eyes. “Oh God, Julie.”
“You killed her.”
His eyes flew open. She read the shock in them, and the hurt. Oh, she thought, oh yes, he was good.
“You can’t believe that. Sweet Jesus, Jamie, you of all people know how much we loved each other. I’d never hurt her. Never.”
“You’ve done nothing but hurt her for more than a year now, with your jealousy, your accusations, your drugs.”
“I’m going into rehab. I know I’ve got a problem, and if I’d listened to her, if I’d only listened, I’d have been there that night and she’d still be alive.”
“You were there that night, and that’s why she’s dead.”
“No. No.” He pressed a hand to the glass as if he could pass through it and reach her. “I found her. You have to listen to me, Jamie—”
“No, I don’t.” She felt the calm slide over her, into her. “No, Sam, I don’t. But you have to listen to me. I pray every day, every hour, every minute of every day that you’ll suffer, that you’ll pay for what you’ve done. It’ll never be enough, no matter what they do to you, it’ll never be enough, but I’ll dream of you, Sam, in a cage for the rest of your life. That’ll help me get through.”
“They’ll let me out.” Panic and nausea spewed
into his throat, burned there. “The cops don’t have dick, all they want is headlines. And when I get out, I’m taking Livvy and I’m starting over.”
“Livvy’s as dead to you as Julie. You’ll never see her again.”
“You can’t keep my own daughter away from me.” Rage leaped into his eyes, with glimmers of hate at the edges. “I’ll get out, and I’ll take back what’s mine. You were always jealous of Julie. Always knew you were second best. You wanted what she had, but you won’t get it.”
She said nothing, let him rave. His voice was an ugly buzz in her ear. She never took her eyes off his face, never flinched at the violence she saw there, or the vileness of the names he called her.