Keep No Secrets (24 page)

Only then does he realize she's not reading, she hasn't turned a page for some time. Her eyes are directed at the page, but she's not registering the words. With one finger he barely brushes her arm, just above the elbow, to break the trance. Her skin is cold.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

She blinks, gives the slightest nod. "I guess I'd better stop reading. It's going to be a long week." She carefully folds a corner of the page to mark her spot and sets the book aside. When she stretches to turn off the lamp, he reaches over and touches her back. She tenses but

otherwise doesn’t react, doesn't respond.

And then it's dark.

All he wants is for her to let him press the full length of his body against hers, skin to skin. He needs something, anything, to reassure him that Mark is wrong.

"Claire?" he whispers. "Did you . . .

back then, with the Web Watcher . . . did you find out what you needed to know?"

He hears her breathing. He thinks he almost hears her thinking.

"I thought so. I thought I found out my husband had come back." She inhales deeply, as if buying time while she decides whether to say more. "Now I'm wondering if he really did."

Even in the dark, she must sense his surprise. He props himself up on one elbow. "I'm right here." He brings his hand to her face and gently turns it toward him. "Hey," he says more insistently. "I'm right here." She sniffs, and he realizes she wasn't buying time.

She was trying not to cry. Suddenly, unexpectedly, she's next to him,

burrowing herself in close, and his hands are in her curls, gripping her head, his lips first on her forehead and, then, on her hungry mouth. Their legs twist together seamlessly, thoughtlessly, the beneficiaries of years of practice. Small, pleading sounds come from her throat and her need feeds his own appetite until he's on top of her, sliding one knee between her legs, and then another.

"Dad!"

Jack freezes at Michael's voice outside the bedroom door. Claire quickly pushes Jack away.

An impatient knock. "Some girl from your office is on the phone."

Monica, who had on-call duty for the weekend. Jack heaves a sigh.
What now?

He slips into his robe. When he opens the door, Michael stands there, holding the phone. "Sorry," he says without meeting Jack's eye. He seems to know what he interrupted.

Jack swipes the phone from his son's hand. He knows the interruption isn't Michael's fault, yet he's still annoyed.

"Hey, Monica, what's up?" He closes the bedroom door and moves into the hall.

"Uh, Boss, I think we've got a problem."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

JACK PULLS UP to the curb in front of the courthouse. If they tow him tonight, he'll know for sure that someone's out to get him.

He's not alone. Several empty police cruisers also line the curb, cherry lights still flashing. At the side he sees vans from four different television stations. He wonders if the police presence outside the courthouse brought the media or if they received a tip.

It's just after eleven p.m. Except for this spectacle, the downtown streets are mostly empty, and stoplights at each intersection blink yellow. But the office buildings that tower over the Gateway Mall and Keiner Plaza glitter against the cold, night sky, alive and humming productively even approaching midnight on a Sunday. He imagines young,

ambitious attorneys standing at their office windows, watching with voyeuristic pleasure. Anything's better than the tedious drafting of another contract or researching some archaic point of law.

As he steps from his car, the news crews rush toward him, shouting. He spots Earl standing safely just inside the doors and tries to jog up the courthouse steps to meet him, but the reporters and their cameramen block his passage. His eyes can't adjust fast enough to the blinding lights and flashing cameras, so he raises his hand against the glare and pushes through, relying on his other senses to reach the top. "Let him through," Earl demands. Jack moves like a mole in the direction of the voice. Earl holds open the door, and as soon as Jack's inside, he pulls it shut. Only then does Jack see the guards stationed just outside the doors to keep the media out.

"Well, at least they gave me the courtesy of doing this after hours," Jack says. The calm quip disguises his anxiety over the distinct possibility that not only are Jenny's letters about to be discovered, but so too the fact that he asked Dog to investigate them. Did the state trooper recognize her after all?

"Fuck'em," Earl says. "This is uncalled for and unprecedented." With his head down and his eyes on his phone, he starts for the elevators. Jack follows. "What the hell do they think they'll find in the DA's office?"

Jack knows the last question was

rhetorical, so he answers with one of his own. "Which judge signed the warrant?"

He presses the Up button since Earl is still absorbed in his device.

"Judge Lehman. I've put in my call.

Everything's on hold until he hears us."

"Don't we usually argue you can't quash a search warrant in Missouri? That the remedy is a retrospective one via a motion to suppress, not prospective?"

Earl finally glances up from the screen.

His look says,
Whose side are you on?
"Yes,
you
usually make that argument. I used to.

But now we're on the other side. If I have any say in the matter, we'll make new law."

Making new law might help Jack's

cause, but it certainly won't help the state prosecute criminals. "I'm not sure I want to—"

The sudden change in Earl's expression stops Jack. His gray eyes narrow

suspiciously as if he's seeing Jack for the first time. "Are you sick?"

"No." Jack self-consciously runs his hand through his hair. "Just exhausted.

I'm not sleeping."

"You look like hell."

The elevator comes to a rough stop.

When the heavy doors lumber open to the foyer of the DA's office, the first person they see is Elias Walker, the special prosecutor. He's made himself comfortable in the chair behind the receptionist's desk. Like a naughty child caught red-handed, he sits up straight and adjusts his cowboy hat as Jack and Earl step out of the elevator. Three cops hover in the corner, chatting with Monica while waiting for their instructions. Chief Matthews is nowhere to be seen. Jack's not surprised. The Chief will make sure to stay as far away from this as possible.

Jack and Walker eye each other like boxers in a ring. Jack has known the identity of the attorney prosecuting his case since the day of the appointment, but this is the first time they've come face to face in sixteen years. Walker attended the same law school as Jack and Claire, in the class above them. In most instances, this would mean minimal interaction, and it wouldn't be unusual if Jack didn't remember him.

But he remembers. He never spoke to the man, but because of Claire, they know of each other well.

During the fall of Jack and Claire's first year of law school, Walker invited Claire to a Halloween party. At the time, Jack and Claire hadn't even been on their first date, though not from Jack's lack of trying. Unbeknownst to him, Walker's invitation came only days before Jack convinced Claire to picnic with him in Forest Park. They had their picnic, but Claire, feeling guilty about cancelling on Walker, still accompanied him to the Halloween party the following week. It was Walker's first and last date with Claire; the picnic was the first of many dates for Jack, who by Easter had asked her to marry him.

Except for a few dirty looks from Walker when they passed in the halls of the law school, the two men never interacted. Walker soon ceased to be on either Jack or Claire's radar. Jack didn't even know his former rival—if he could call him that—had become a DA of a rural county in upstate Missouri until he heard Walker's name announced as the special prosecutor. Even then, it didn't concern him. Certainly the man wouldn't hold Jack responsible for Claire spurning his interest all those years ago.

But now, as Walker nods slightly and regards Jack sardonically from under the rim of his ridiculous hat, Jack's not so sure.

"Elias," Earl says, and leans across the desk to shake Walker's hand. Walker's smirk fades for the exchange with Earl.

Jack has the urge to remind Walker that this isn't his office and suggest that he come out from behind the desk. Instead, he quietly returns the nod and moves to the corner to greet the three cops, whom he recognizes. He hopes their loyalty to him will trump any sense of obligation to Walker.

"What's this about?" Earl asks as he reads the copy of the warrant Walker hands him. Jack, Monica and the cops listen carefully. Searching the DA's office is highly unusual. Earl isn't the only one who wants to hear the answer.

"We had a tip. I'm merely following through on it." Walker speaks out of the side of his mouth. The words are muffled by what appears to be a big wad of chewing gum.

Earl glances up at Jack; Jack shrugs and shakes his head.

"And what exactly did that tip suggest you'd find here?" Earl asks.

Walker rises, but to Jack's frustration, he segues to a half-standing, half-sitting position and plants his behind firmly on the desk. "Read the warrant. Evidence.

What else?"

Jack is surprised by the speed at which Earl gets in the man's face. "Look, cowboy," he says, leaning across the desk, his voice low but menacing, "maybe you country lawyers follow a different law, but around here the Constitution still reigns, and you'd damn well better have something specific in mind when we get on the phone with the judge. This is the DA's office."

"I know exactly where I am, Mr.

Scanlon." Walker's sudden formality makes clear he didn't appreciate the

"cowboy" comment.

Jack can't control himself. He returns to Earl's side. "Then maybe you should show a little respect and get off the desk,"

he says. "Our receptionist won't appreciate having your ass all over her stuff."

Earl flashes Jack a look—
you, shut up!

But Jack's not having any. Maybe it's the fact he hasn't had a decent night's sleep since the night he took Celeste home.

Maybe it's because Walker interrupted the first intimate moment Jack's had with his wife since Jenny showed up and he has no idea when he might have another. But his pent-up frustration refuses to stay contained.

"I may be the defendant in this case, Walker," he continues, purposely leaving off the honorific, "but unless and until you convict me, I'm still the DA in this jurisdiction, and this is still
my
office.
You
, on the other hand, are a mere guest. So get the hell off the desk and take a seat in the waiting area"—he motions toward the cops—"until the judge calls and gives you permission to go anywhere else."

In the weighted silence, Walker's jaw works furiously. Now that he's closer, Jack realizes it's not gum he's chewing; it's tobacco.
I dare you to spit
.

Walker stands, but he insists on the last word. "I already have permission. It's called a signed search warrant. The fact that I'm holding off on executing it is my small contribution to professionalism in the practice of law." As if he read Jack's mind, he leans over the wastebasket next to the desk and spits into it.

Earl sees that Jack is about to explode.

He speaks Jack's name under his breath as if commanding a dog to stay. "Why don't you wait in your office and let me handle this?" he says.

Without taking his eyes off Elias, Jack says, "I want to be in on the call with the judge."

"I'll come get you."

"He is
not
to go to his office unaccompanied," Walker says. "You think I'm a fool?"

Jack lunges, and Earl grabs his upper arm to stop him. But Earl can't stop Jack's mouth. "What the hell are you insinuating?"

"I'm not insinuating anything. I think my meaning is clear. I don't trust you. If given the chance, you'll do anything to save your butt—including the destruction of evidence."

Jack's arm strains against Earl's grip.

Earl squeezes tighter. "Don’t play into it!"

he whispers harshly at Jack's ear. "That's exactly what he wants."

The ringing phone startles them all.

During the day, when assorted attorneys, secretaries, cops, investigators, victims and witnesses wander in and out of the lobby, the chime of the phone is simply another noise among the myriad sounds of the office. But now, in the still of the night, the volume of the ringer seems set too high.

Earl grabs the receiver. "DA's office.

Earl Scanlon here." He laughs then, and Jack is certain the judge made some comment about the irony of Earl's greeting.

"We're all here, Your Honor. Mr.

Walker, Mr. Hilliard, Ms. Foley, and the officers who would conduct the search.

May I put you on speakerphone?"

He presses a button and replaces the receiver.

"Good evening, gentlemen, Ms. Foley."

Judge Lehman's voice booms from the speaker. "Or perhaps I should say good morning? What is it, almost midnight?"

Jack can't tell if the judge's annoyance is directed at Walker for his decision to execute the warrant at this hour, or at Earl and Jack for resisting it.

"Your Honor, I apologize for the late hour," Earl says, apparently deciding to take the blame. Jack knows every move he makes is strategic. "This search warrant took us by surprise and we couldn't convince Mr. Walker to hold off until morning. We—"

"What
is
the point of this, Mr.

Walker?" the judge interrupts. "I signed this warrant earlier today. Why did you wait until tonight to execute it?"

Jack resists a smile. As usual, Earl called it right.

Walker comes closer to the phone, but neither Earl nor Jack move aside to make extra room for him. He has to raise his voice to be heard, and doing so makes him sound as if he's yelling. "I'm sorry, Your Honor, but I thought it would be better to execute it after hours so as not to cause the DA's office any additional embarrassment."

Like hell
, Jack thinks.

Judge Lehman must think the same