Finger Prints (18 page)

“Ryan….”

Suddenly he was sober. “We have to talk when you get back, babe. You know that, don’t you?”

Her hand was suspended, holding the phone. Tremors of excitement blended with those of apprehension. Oh, yes, they did have to talk. She’d known it was coming, just hadn’t been sure when. Since that night when she’d nearly flipped out in his arms, Ryan had been the essence of propriety. But he wasn’t a monk…thank God. And they could only avoid things so long.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“When you get back?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then—” he sucked in his lower lip, let it slip slowly from beneath his teeth “—you have fun. You’ll call again?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And Carly?”

“Yes?”

“Merry Christmas.”

Slow tears gathered at her lids. “To you too, Ryan.” Her voice cracked. “Talk to ya later.”

It wasn’t visions of sugar plums that danced in Carly’s head that night.

That was on Thursday. Knowing she’d be returning to Boston the following Tuesday, she called again on Sunday. Ryan was full of news.

“This place is mine! Isn’t that great? The Amidons called this morning. They’ve bought something down there and want their stuff shipped as soon as possible.”

“No kidding? That
is
great! But what are you going to do when everything’s gone? You haven’t got any furniture.”

“Not yet. We’ll go looking when you get back.”

“We?”

“You’ll help me do the place up right, won’t you? I mean, your place is gorgeous. What do I know about decorating?”

“Seems to me you had some pretty solid opinions on that score.”

“Yeah. Well. I was just talking. I don’t know if any of that will look good.” In fact, the one thing he
really
wanted for his new home would take some doing. He’d seen the finished needlepoint Carly had been about to send to her father. It was beautiful, from the subtle blending of reds and oranges to the tiny robin she’d set in the corner. Her mascot, she’d called it, passing it off as a personal quirk unworthy of notice. He’d noticed, and he wanted something with a robin in its corner, too. He wondered if she’d mind working in navy. “I need your help, Carly. And your company. Won’t you like going shopping with me?”

More than she would have thought possible. “Of course. It’d be fun. Sure, I’ll help you.”

“Good. You get back on Tuesday. Maybe I’ll take Wednesday off and we can spend the day together.”

She couldn’t resist teasing him. “And this is the man who had so much to do that he couldn’t get home for Christmas?”

Ryan took it all in good humor. “Heeeeey, there are priorities and there are priorities. I need a bed. I mean, hell, I’ll be good for nothing in the office if I have to spend my nights on the floor.” His voice lowered. “Unless, of course, my upstairs neighbor offered to share her—”

“Ryan.” Tingles shot through her. Her whispered, “Please,” was muffled into the phone.

Ryan stared down at the coiled black wire he clutched. He’d said they had to talk and precisely about this topic. In the face of Carly’s reticence, he grew more determined than ever. But he didn’t want to upset her. Not now. Not when she was so far away. If he had a case to argue, he wanted to do it face to face. “Okay.” He took a breath. There was something else he wanted to tell her. “Anyway, I think I have an interesting new case.”

She was more than willing to go for the diversion. Besides which, contrary to what she might have expected such a short time ago, she found Ryan’s practice intriguing. “You think?”

“I have to do some preliminary work to find out if it’s feasible.”

“It’s a good one?”

“Could be. I got a call from the president of a construction firm in Revere. He wants to take on the
Globe
and one of its reporters.”

“The
Globe
? Really?” She sounded puzzled, as though she couldn’t understand someone wanting to do a thing like that. Ryan found her puzzlement, and its suggestive naiveté, amusing.

“Uh-uh. The reporter did an in-depth story on my client’s company. The article led to an investigation by the attorney general’s office, indictments against the president and several of his top people and a trial. This week an acquittal came in. If I decide to take the case, we’ll be suing for damages.”

“Did you represent the company before?”

“No. The guy who did was a cousin of one of the vice-presidents. He did okay; he got the acquittal. But the president doesn’t think the fellow is aggressive enough to successfully argue for the plaintiff.” Left unsaid was that Ryan’s reputation for aggressiveness in the courtroom had preceded him. “In the most general sense, forgetting sides, it’d be a fascinating exploration of the issues of freedom of the press and editorial responsibility.”

“I’ll say,” Carly murmured. She pulled her blanket tighter around suddenly chilled feet. “Do you have much of a case?”

“That,” he sighed, “is what I have to find out. According to the president, his company has suffered significant losses as a result of both the original publicity and that surrounding the trial. With the acquittal, the law states that he’s not guilty.”

“
Was
he innocent of whatever he was accused of?”

“Negligence and fraud. The jury said he was.”

“The jury just wasn’t convinced beyond a reasonable doubt of his guilt,” she corrected, working to keep her voice light. “I don’t know, Ryan. If that reporter came up with substantiated evidence, the paper may have been justified in printing its article.”

“And,” Ryan pointed out, playing the devil’s advocate, “the grand jury did see cause to return indictments.”

“Isn’t it possible that the company’s gone sanctimonious on the rebound? You know, the indignant rogue?”

Another time and with another person, Ryan would surely have argued, for the sake of argument if nothing else. Now, though, he was filled with generosity. “Mmm. It’s possible. But I hope not. It’d be a fun case to try. The mood lately has been in favor of the press; we’d be the definite underdog, which makes it more challenging in a way. I’ll have to go over the trial transcript in detail before I make any final decision.” It suddenly occurred to him that he was talking on Carly’s dime. “Listen, we can talk more when you get back.” He gave a sheepish grin. “You’re good to run things past. You think. For a layman,” he drawled, “you seem to know the score. Are you sure you haven’t got a law degree stuffed up your sleeve somewhere?”

Not quite a law degree, but certain other qualifications that would enable her to carry on quite a discussion. She would have to be careful. He was hitting close to home.

“I’m sure,” she murmured. Wanting to change the subject yet not quite ready to let him go, she tried a different tack. “Did you get that snow?”

“Oh, yeah. Three inches worth. Not enough to ski on, just enough to snarl traffic.”

“Poor baby.”

“Don’t ‘poor baby’
me
. You’ll have to deal with it in a couple of days.” Two, to be exact. He was counting them closely.

“Maybe it’ll be warm when I get back. After what you said about New England weather….”

“Don’t count on it, babe,” he said softly. “Winter’s here. It’ll be a while before we’re free and clear.”

Those words would haunt Carly long after she hung up the phone.

Tuesday evening found Ryan sitting in a coffee shop at the airport sporting a frown. Carly’s plane was late. It would be another thirty minutes at least. That much more time for him to brood.

Elbows propped on the table, he distractedly stroked the bristle of his mustache with his thumb. It had to have been a mix-up. That was all. He must have mistaken the name of her hotel. All he’d wanted to do last night was to hear her voice. It had seemed like an eternity since he’d spoken with her Sunday.

Sitting back, he raised his coffee cup, drained the last of its tepid contents, then shot a glance at his watch. Stretching his leg, he dug some change from the pocket of his pants, tossed it on the table and stood. Head down, he walked slowly toward the arrival gate, wondering how he could feel so very close to a person yet so distant. It was irrational, he knew, and thoroughly emotional. But then, Carly meant a hell of a lot to him.

The sight of her coming into the terminal, though, was enough to chase all brooding from his mind. Her skin a golden tan, she looked well rested and positively beautiful. She was here. And she was looking for him.

He waved once, then quickly wove through the incoming crowd. No less impatient, she did the same toward him. Then they were in each others’ arms and Ryan was lifting her clear off her feet.

“Ahh, Carly,” he moaned, “it’s good to see you.”

At that moment, Carly wondered if the whole purpose of her trip hadn’t been to come home to Ryan this way. She held on for dear life, reacquainting herself with the feel of him, the smell of him, the wonderful warmth that had no rival in the sun she’d known all week. When he finally set her back down, the eyes that looked up at him were misted with happiness.

“You look great,” she breathed.

“Not as good as you,” he teased back. “Health personified. I’m jealous.”

Her cheek dimpled becomingly. “No need. It’ll fade in no time.”

They stood there then, grinning at each other, happy to neither move nor speak. Later, in his apartment, when Ryan was to think back on that moment, he would be all the more perplexed. She’d been his then, fully his. Heart and soul. He was sure of it.

Until that phone call had come through.

a
FTER LEAVING THE AIRPORT, THEY’D STOPPED
for a bite to eat downtown, then picked up fresh eggs and juice at the supermarket before returning to her apartment. Ryan had wanted to hear about her trip; Carly had wanted to hear about all he’d done while she’d been gone. They sat on the sofa facing each other, knees touching, arms and hands astir in tune with the discussion. Ryan felt as alive as Carly looked, their mutual animation reflecting the excitement of being together again.

Then the phone rang, and Ryan had watched the bubble pop. He could remember every word of that half conversation, as well as the slow crumble of Carly’s features as she spoke.

“Hello?” she’d answered with a smile. “Sam! How are you?” Eyes on Ryan, she set her hand on her hip. “It was great! The weather was gorgeous!” Then she glanced at the wall clock and looked slightly puzzled. “Is everything okay?” As she listened to Sam’s response, her brows knit, her hand fell to her side. When she spoke again, there was an incipient tension in her tone. “Oh.” She slowly revolved until her back was to Ryan. Though she lowered her voice, he heard every word. “Oh, God. When? I know, I know. What? Tomorrow?” She shook her head and seemed to shrivel into herself. “I’m spending the day with Ryan.” Ever so softly, the slightest bit apologetic. “No. Mmm. Are you sure? Okay.” Barely a whisper. “Yes.” Then, head down, she put the phone back on its hook, leaving her hand clinging there for several long moments before she turned back to him.

She’d refused to discuss the phone call, other than to acknowledge that it had indeed been her friend, Sam Loomis, that he had a personal problem, that she’d connect with him later. Though she made a valiant attempt to recover from whatever it was Sam had said, the moments of unblemished pleasure she and Ryan had shared were gone.

Thinking back now, Ryan paced to the window and planted both fists on its sill. He’d half hoped to be spending the night with Carly, but she hadn’t been in a mood to discuss lovemaking, much less do it. Oh, she’d forced several smiles and had clung tightly to his hand when he’d finally walked to the door, but she’d been so obviously preoccupied that he hadn’t had it in himself to push the issue. Instead, he’d simply kissed her goodnight and left, trying to curb his own mounting frustration, which was precisely the state he was in now, and in which he remained for a good part of the night.

Come sunup, in defiance of the slush outside, he stubbornly laced his sneakers and headed for the street. To his surprise, Carly materialized behind him on the stairs.

“It’s pretty messy,” he warned.

“That’s all right,” was her quiet response. “I need it.”

And well she did. Jaws clamped tight, fists clenched, she ran hard. It had been a horrendous night. She needed the outlet. Ryan’s unquestioning if somber company was some solace. From time to time, when she felt his eyes on her and met his gaze, she consciously relaxed her facial muscles and gave a semblance of a smile. But inevitably, eyes back on the path, the tension returned.

By the time they returned home, sneakers wet, running suits filthy, they looked as though they’d been through a war. Panting, they walked idly around the front steps for a while before entering.

“Feeling better?” Ryan asked.

She nodded and shot him a look of gratitude. He was so good, she mused. And she’d hurt him last night. He was no fool; he had to know she was being more secretive than usual. Guilt consumed her. She and Ryan had come to share so many things. Having to shut him out now was an agony in itself.

“Are you still game to go shopping?”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

He bit his upper lip for a moment as he studied her. “I wasn’t sure. If you’d rather—”

“No, Ryan. I’d like to go with you.”

“Then I’ll come up for you at, say, ten?”

“That’s fine.” With a tentative smile, she headed into the building.

It was well after nine when Sam arrived. Having showered and dressed as soon as she’d come in from running, Carly was trying unsuccessfully to pass the time reading the morning paper when his quiet knock came. Running to the door, she peered through the viewer, then quickly released the bolts. Her barrage began the instant Sam was over the threshold.

“How did you get in downstairs?”

“Someone was leaving.”

She made a face. “So much for security.”

“It was only me,” Sam offered gently.

“But it could have been
anyone
—”

“Which is why you’ve got a viewer and all these bolts. Listen, Carly, just relax. It was only a matter of time before they filed the motion for a new trial. We knew they were going to.”

“But it’s different, somehow, knowing it’s done. What did John Meade have to say? He was the one who called, wasn’t he?”

They sat on the sofa, facing each other as Carly had done last night with Ryan. Then the air had been charged with excitement; now it was filled with apprehension.

“Actually, my counterpart in Chicago called first. You remember Bill, don’t you?”

“Of course I remember Bill,” she countered with uncharacteristic gruffness. “He called the shots while I was in protective custody.”

“Bill’s got an ear to the ground, not to mention well-placed sources. He called me as soon as he heard. That was Monday morning. Meade called soon after that.”

“Monday? But why didn’t you call me? You knew where I was staying!”

“And ruin your vacation?” He tossed her a quelling glance. “Come on, Carly. What good would that have done? There’s nothing for you to do just because they’ve filed for a new trial.”

Her fear-filled eyes held his. “Then why are you here now?”

“To tell you what’s happening before someone else does.”

“Who else?” she shot back guardedly, at which point he leaned forward and patted her knee.

“Take it easy. Your father will have seen it in the paper. Your brothers—”

“It was all over the press? Damn it, I thought these things usually happened without a mess of fanfare.”

“Remember, Culbert used to be a state legislator. And he still maintains his innocence. You can bet that his lawyer will try to soak the public sympathy for everything it’s worth—which isn’t much. But that means press conferences whenever possible, media leaks—”

Carly held her breath. “Will it work? I mean, I know the
Tribune
would never print anything even vaguely sympathetic about him after everything, but the
Tribune
isn’t the only paper in Chicago.” Her eyes widened. “Public opinion can be so fickle. Do you think there’s a chance that the mood will sway in his favor?”

“Not a chance.” Sam’s firmness didn’t waver. “If anything it’ll go the other way. He was a legislator, Carly, a man whose salary came out of the taxpayers’ pockets. As a legislator, he was given the public trust, and he violated it. Not only was he getting insurance kick-backs on the buildings he burned, but he was responsible for four deaths.
Four deaths
.” He shook his head. “People don’t forget that kind of stuff quickly.

“Besides, in the end it doesn’t matter what the public thinks. Culbert was convicted on the evidence before a judge and jury. Even if there
is
a new trial, and I can’t imagine that happening, the evidence won’t have changed. He’d be convicted a second time.”

“Was that Meade’s opinion too?”

“For starters, Meade can’t envision a new trial being granted. He’s been over the transcript from start to finish, and he doesn’t see any possible error on which to base a new trial.”

It suddenly occurred to Carly that a piece of information was missing. And in that instant she realized the true reason for Sam’s visit. Pressing damp palms to the wool of her skirt, she fought to calm her stomach’s slow churn. “What
have
they based their motion on? Mancusi would have had to cite something. What was it, Sam?”

Sam spoke more softly then, his eyes filled with a kind of apologetic haze. “They claim they have new evidence.”

“What new evidence?”

“About you. They
claim
—” he emphasized the word “—that you were emotionally involved with Peter Bradley, and that that involvement warped your thinking.”

“Of course I was emotionally involved with Peter Bradley! We were good friends. We worked together. He was the one person who was willing to work on the investigation with me.”

“Romantically. That’s the kind of involvement they imply.”

“It’s not true,” Carly stated slowly. “There was never anything like that between us.” There couldn’t have been, though only she knew that. Her fingers clutched her skirt now for warmth. “What…evidence…have they got?”

Sam gave his head a quick shake. “I don’t know yet. Neither does Meade. That’s what we’ve got to find out. I just wondered—” he seemed to hesitate “—if you knew of any evidence they might have.”

Those cold fingers suddenly clenched into fists. “If someone’s given evidence of a romantic relationship between Peter Bradley and myself, that person is either mistaken or lying. Peter and I spent a lot of time together. We had to. If there were late nights at one or the other of our apartments, it was in his darkroom or in front of my typewriter. Never once did I wake up in his place; never once did he wake up in mine. I swear it, Sam.”

Sam reached forward and, taking her hand, spoke gently. “I believe you, Carly. No need to get defensive. You’re a free woman. You can do whatever you want with whoever you want to do it. No one’s trying to pass judgment.”

“Mancusi will!”

“Maybe, but that’s beside the point. Meade just wants to be sure he’s got the whole story so he can plan his offense if, and I do mean
if
, the motion for a new trial is granted. Besides, if he knows the facts, he’ll better be able to ward off that possibility.”

“Well, he knows the facts! There was nothing romantic between Peter and me! We were very dear friends. We thought the same way. I would be less than human if I didn’t mourn his death, if I didn’t feel guilty at having involved him in the arson investigation.”

“Don’t blame yourself. He knew the risks.”

She sank against the cushions, her energy spent. “Oh, yes, he knew the risks. So did I, for that matter. But we were committed to getting that story. I wish—”

“Don’t say it, Carly. What’s done is done. There is no way you can bring Peter back. But you can help ensure that the men responsible remain in prison.”

“What does that mean?” she asked.

Sam sighed, wondering if he was handling this all wrong. He’d come to see Carly in hopes of keeping her calm. His presence seemed to be having the opposite effect. “All it means is that you should be aware of what’s happening. The more you can tell us about your relationship with Bradley, the better it’ll be.”

“But I’ve told you everything! There just isn’t any more.” Her face contorted in sarcasm. “I mean, I wish I had it in writing. But Peter and I just didn’t think to document the fact that we weren’t lovers. It had nothing to do with our investigation. It was—it is—totally irrelevant!” Just then there was a knock at the door. Sitting forward stiffly, Carly lowered her voice. Her hands fidgeted in her lap. “That’ll be Ryan. We’re going shopping for furniture. The Amidons bought a place in Florida and want all theirs shipped down.”

Sam stood and brought Carly up with him. “Good. Go with him, and enjoy yourself. Maybe he can take your mind off all this.”

She raised timid eyes. “You’ll let me know if you hear anything, anything at all?”

“Sure I will. You know that, Carly.” He squeezed her hand and nudged her toward the door. “Go on. He’s waiting.”

Ryan was indeed waiting. He was about to ring the doorbell in the suspicion that Carly might not have heard his knock when she opened the door. The thought that she might still be finishing dressing was instantly dispelled by the sight of Sam at her side.

“I’m…early.” His eyes held Carly’s for a minute before sliding to Sam, who held up a hand on cue.

“I’m just leaving.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he extended that hand. “Sam Loomis.”

“Ryan Cornell.” They shook hands. It was a formality. Each knew the other’s name, though the benignancy in Sam’s gaze contrasted with Ryan’s more intense scrutiny.

Then Sam tossed Carly a gentle smile. “Have a good time. I’ll talk to you later.” Nodding toward Ryan, who took a step into the foyer, he left, at which point Ryan turned that intense scrutiny on Carly. Though she was outwardly calm, he knew her too well to miss the tension in her eyes.

“Is everything all right?” he asked cautiously.

“Just fine.” Her response was a little too quick, too pat.

“Sam worked out his problem?”

She nodded. “For now.”

“Are you all set to go?”

“Yes.” Feeling terribly awkward and well aware of keen brown eyes following her every step, she got her coat and bag. They walked downstairs in silence and were at the front door when Ryan spoke. His head was down, one hand jammed in the pocket of his fleece-lined jacket.

“Listen, maybe we ought to forget this.”

“Why?”

He looked up then. “It’s obvious you’re not in the mood.”

“But I am—” she began, only to be interrupted by a deep growl.

“You’re not! You’re as coiled as a whip! What is it that happened, anyway? Is Loomis in some kind of trouble?”

She winced at the sound of his voice, in part because she felt responsible for his anger. Of course he would wonder. Seeing Sam this morning would only add to his curiosity. And since she had to be so tight-lipped about it all….

“He’s not in trouble,” she began, drawing into herself. “I told you. It was a personal matter.”

“Then there
is
something between you two? Hell, I’ve asked you that before and you said there wasn’t. I thought we had something good going, Carly.” The sudden softening of his voice cut through her.

“We do,” she whispered. “There’s nothing between Sam and me. We’re just good friends. Don’t you ever share your problems with friends?”

“Not usually. Not until I met you. I thought
we
were friends. What happened to
that
sharing?”