Finger Prints (25 page)

She hated herself for what she was doing but felt, and not for the first time, that she was controlled by others. “Yes.”

“His heart?”

She cringed. If all was well, as she assumed it was, John Lyons was playing golf with his brother in Phoenix. She’d called him there a few days earlier, before Ryan had come home from work. “Yes. His heart.”

“How is he?”

“He’ll be all right. It was just a scare. I think I’ll stay with him for another day or two. You found the key, didn’t you?”

“Right in my mailbox.” He managed a half laugh. “How do you think I got in?”

She’d called her own number, just assuming he’d be there. “Right. That was stupid of me. I guess…I guess I’m not myself.”

“You sound awful. Damn it, I wish you’d waited. I would have gone with you.”

“I couldn’t wait, Ryan. The call came early this morning, and I caught the first flight out.”

“Want me to come? I can be there in the morning.”

“No. No. Really. It’s not necessary. It was just a scare. I’ll be okay once I get over the shock.”

“Then let me have the number so I can reach you. Or the address.” If he couldn’t be there he wanted to send something—flowers, candy,
anything
to cheer her up. As it was he felt thoroughly helpless.

“Ah…no.” She tried to think quickly, but it wasn’t easy with her heart torn in tiny pieces. “Listen, I’ll call you again tomorrow night. Besides, I’ll be at the hospital most of the time. I don’t know when I’ll be back.” She swallowed hard, aware of a cold sweat on her palms. “Ryan, I miss you.”

“I miss you, too, babe. Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?”

“I’m sure. Just take care of things back there, okay?” Her voice cracked, and she knew she had to get off the phone quickly.

“Okay. Carly, I love you.”

Hot tears trickled down her cheeks and, in that instant, she knew that she felt the same. “I…I’ll see you soon,” she whispered, then added a choked, “Bye-bye,” and hung up the phone.

“Okay, let’s go over this one more time.”

John Meade stood over her, her inquisitor. Brozniak, his assistant, leaned indolently against the far wall of the office, relentlessly staring, saying nothing. Had it not been for Sam’s reassuring presence, Carly would have screamed. If she’d thought a full day of quizzing on Tuesday had been bad, this Wednesday morning was unbearable. She’d barely slept for two nights and was nearly at her limit. Not to mention the fact that her scalp ached. Lacking the patience to blow her hair straight and let it hang long as Robyn Hart used to do, she had pulled it tightly back into a bun for the third day running. Now, for the first time, she could fully appreciate the beauty of letting it curl free and soft in the manner of Carly Quinn.

“I met Peter Bradley when I first came to work at the
Tribune
,” she droned. “He was a staff photographer. I was a reporter.”

“Had you ever seen him before that?”

“No.”

“But you’d heard of him?”

“Yes. He’d won any number of prizes for photojournalism. Nothing like a Pulitzer, but local things. I’d always admired his pictures.”

The prosecutor’s eyes narrowed. “Admired?”

She scowled back. “Yes. Admired. They were striking, more dramatic than most of the other newspaper stuff.”

“Had you ever bought one of his photos?”

“No.”

“Had you ever cut one from the paper and framed it?”

“No.”

Meade ran a hand over the few remaining hairs on the top of his head. “Okay. You’d never met him.”

She shook her head and spoke slowly, feeling as though she were enunciating for a dimwit. “Not until I started at the
Tribune
.”

“How well did you know him then?”

“Not very. I saw him in passing from time to time. It wasn’t until I joined the investigative team that we actually worked together.” She sighed and raised pleading eyes to the state’s attorney. “John, do we have to go over this again? I’ve already told you as much as I can.”

Meade picked up on the slight catch in her voice. “Then there’s something else—something you
can’t
tell us?”

“No! I’ve told you! Peter and I were
friends
. That’s it!” Annoyed and tired, she looked away. “I just don’t see the point in all this. You’re looking for something that
isn’t there
. If Culbert’s lawyer thinks he can prove something, let him try.”

“Unfortunately, if it comes to a trial, the burden of proof is on the state. All Mancusi has to do is to plant a seed of doubt in the minds of the jurors.
We’re
the ones who have to prove there was no deep emotional involvement between you and Bradley.”

Frustrated beyond belief, Carly nearly went wild. “But there was!” she cried. “Nothing romantic, maybe, but we were very good friends. We worked together, sometimes ate together or took in a movie together. You have to understand the kind of camaraderie that develops when you work with someone on something like the arson probe. In a sense you become co-conspirators. You know a story’s there and that there may be danger involved, but you believe strongly enough in your cause to go after the story.

“It was a team that did the initial investigation. I was just one member of that team. When things began to get sticky, most of the others bowed out. Our editor felt that we couldn’t prove a thing. I disagreed. Most of my investigation was carried out without the formal sanction of the paper. The publisher was scared. One state legislator was involved; no one knew who else might turn up.”

She took a breath. “Peter Bradley was the only person willing to go out on a limb to help me. He read my notes and came to believe as strongly as I did. For that I owed him a lot. So maybe Mancusi’s got a point. Maybe my testimony
was
jaded by Peter’s death.”

Meade’s eyes were hard and chilling. “Did you ever lie on the stand?”

“No.”

“Did you ever so much as stretch the truth?”

“No!” She squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed her forehead.

“Then what we’ve got to do is to anticipate whatever it is Mancusi’s going to produce.”

“Manufacture,” she corrected angrily, eyes flying open.

“Okay.” He sighed. “Let’s take it from where you left off. You first worked with Bradley when you joined the investigative team.”

“Yes,” she gritted. “He was the one we requested when we needed pictures.” She had to have said it ten times before.

“Weren’t there others?”

“Staff photographers? Of course.”

“But you only worked with Bradley.”

“I didn’t say that. He was the one we
requested
. If he was busy someone else was assigned.”

“He was always your first choice.”

“Yes.” Her head was splitting.

“Why him?”

“Because he was good!”

“He was also very attractive.”

She glared and said, “So’s Sam,” then swiveled in her seat. “Are we making it, Sam?”

Despite the tension of the moment, Sam had trouble suppressing a grin. He admired her grit, always had. “No, Carly, we are not.”

Satisfied, she whirled on John defiantly. “Whether or not a man’s attractive doesn’t mean a thing.”

Meade didn’t blink. “Sam’s married. What was Bradley’s excuse?”

“He was gay!” she blurted before she could stop herself, then, realizing what she’d said, she stiffened.

All three men did the same. It was Sam who came forward, kneeling by her chair. “What did you say?”

In mental pain, she frowned, wishing she could take back the words but knowing it was too late. Her voice was a mere whisper. “I said, he was gay.”

Understanding the agony she felt at betraying a man so close to her once, he spoke very softly. “It’s true?”

Knotting her hands in her lap, she nodded.

Meade exploded. “Well, why in the hell didn’t you say something sooner!” he thundered. “Damn it, what was the big secret?”

At that moment Carly positively detested John Meade. She spoke very slowly, with a quiet force that made Sam proud. “It’s not your business or anyone else’s what Peter Bradley’s sexual preference was. He chose not to broadcast it in his lifetime; I wanted to respect his wishes after his death. It doesn’t have any bearing on whether or not Gary Culbert or Nick Barber are guilty of arson-related murder. And anyway—” she lowered her voice “—you can’t prove it one way or the other.”

The state’s attorney was not averse to trying. “Did he have a lover?”

“I assume so.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“You know, but won’t tell—”

“John,” Sam broke in, standing once again, “take it easy.”

Carly put her hand on his arm, but her eyes had never left Meade’s. “No, it’s okay, Sam. I won’t tell because I can’t tell. I just don’t know. Peter was very sensitive about the whole thing. I didn’t learn about it myself until we were working together on the arson investigation. There were long hours and lots of pressure. One day it just slipped out, maybe because he knew I’d keep it in confidence.” Her voice grew low and bitter. “Some confidante I turned out to be.”

“It needed to be said, Carly,” Sam reasoned gently. “For your sake, in more ways than one.”

“Sure. I’m off the hook, but Peter’s on.”

“Don’t you think he would have felt it a good enough cause?”

“I don’t know,” she murmured miserably.

“Aw, come on.” Meade scowled. “Times have changed. Gay liberation’s brought them out of the closet.”

She stared. “Not all of them. Not Peter. He felt frightened and guilty. He said his parents would die if they knew. He didn’t want to hurt them that way. Which is just one of the reasons I should never have spoken, one of the reasons you all should forget what I said.”

Meade rolled his eyes and mumbled, “My God, you’d think this were a tea party. Listen, Robyn,” he stated forcefully, “you seem to be missing the point, which is that Gary Culbert has filed a motion for a new trial based on evidence suggesting that
you
were having an affair with the deceased and therefore may have been less than an objective witness.”

“I was
not having an affair
with the deceased.”

“Then you were emotionally involved—”

“
Of course I was emotionally involved
!” she cried, clutching at the back of her chair as she turned to face the pacing prosecutor. “I’m a human being! When I witness death first hand it affects me!
But that doesn’t make me any less of an objective witness
! When I was on the stand, I told what I did, what I learned, what I saw. That’s all!”

Sam touched her shoulder. “It’s okay, Carly. Relax.”

“I’m sorry, Sam,” she murmured brokenly. “This is just so absurd. We’re going round and round in circles, getting nowhere. If it’s proof that John wants, he’ll just have to pay some witness to perjure himself. Evidently that’s what Mancusi’s done.” She turned to glare at Meade. “Your time would be better spent trying to find out who
that
witness is and discrediting
him
.” Defeated, she sagged back in her seat. “Beyond that, I don’t know what to say.”

Sam turned to the prosecutor. “I think she’s had enough, John. She just doesn’t know any more.”

Meade stared long and hard at Carly before relenting, and then only after darting Brozniak a meaningful look. “Okay. That’s it then.” He looked at his watch. “You folks want to join us for lunch?”

Food was the last thing Carly wanted, the first being to get on a plane and leave Chicago far, far behind. Attuned to her needs and well aware of his own, Sam answered. “Thanks, John, but I think we’ll be on our way.” He dug a crumpled piece of paper from his jacket pocket and scanned it. “There’s an early afternoon flight we can catch. Give me about ten minutes’ lead, then send Carly along with Marie.” He turned to Carly. “I’ll see you on the plane. Okay?”

She forced a wan smile and nodded, then watched him shake hands with the two men and leave. Without him, she felt suddenly more vulnerable, fearing for an instant that Meade might take the opportunity to grill her further. Standing awkwardly, she smoothed her skirt.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help you more.”

“You helped us.”

Something in his tone sent a shaft of fear through her. “You’re going with the homosexuality thing?”

Meade was surprisingly gentle. “Only if I have to. Believe it or not, I understand and admire your feelings. And I’m not inhuman myself. If there’s any other possible way—
including
investigating Mancusi’s witnesses—I’ll do it. But you’ve got to remember what’s at stake here. A new trial will mean a huge expense for the state, not to mention the manpower involved. More important, if there
is
a new trial and Mancusi manages to cast doubt on your credibility as a witness such that a jury is swayed, Culbert may go free. You don’t want that any more than I do.” He paused. “I’m not really your enemy. Your enemy is up there in the slammer, and I’m just doing my best to try to keep him there.”

Carly dropped her chin to her chest, then took a deep breath and raised very weary eyes. “I know, John. It’s just that it’s difficult for me to have to deal with all of this again. Leaving Chicago last July was one of the hardest things I’d ever done. I felt like I’d been given a life sentence for a noncrime. But I’ve adjusted. Things are going well for me. I don’t want it all spoiled.” Seeing Marie at the door, she extended a hand to John. “No offense, but I hope I won’t be seeing you.”

He grinned. “No offense taken. For the record, I hope the same. Sam’ll keep you posted.”

“He always does,” she said with a rueful sigh, then, with a perfunctory nod toward Brozniak, she took her leave.

When they arrived back at Logan, Sam waited while she repaired to the nearest rest room, switched her contact lenses, loosened her hair, dampened it, and finally, using her blow dryer from her suitcase, let it dry curly. When she emerged, she felt almost normal.

Shaking his head, a grin on his face, he stared at her in amazement. “I can’t believe the difference. I mean, you were gorgeous enough the other way, but this way you’re…you.”