Keep No Secrets (34 page)

He makes his way through the wide entranceway leading into the lounge. A flash of color—so out of place among the subdued blacks and grays—catches his eye. He stops and quickly moves behind a post. The hostess says, "Sir, would you like me to show you to a table?" She doesn't recognize him.

What kind of bar requires a hostess to show the clientele to a table? he wonders, even though he knows. This kind, where tea and petit fours trump the cocktails.

Realizing she's waiting for an answer, he says quickly, "No. No thank you."

The color comes from the rear of the room, near the bar and grand staircase, where a woman in a turquoise blue sari and headscarf perches on a sofa across from a young woman who can't be more than twenty-four or twenty-five years of age. The younger woman is dressed in jeans and a short black leather coat. Her legs are crossed, one swinging as she talks, and her black boots sport unusually high heels. Her highlighted auburn hair is pulled back into a stylish ponytail, giving him a clear shot of her face. She's attractive in a tough, urban sort of way.

The face of the woman wearing the sari is hidden; the head scarf blocks his view.

But he sees her hand when she picks up a cup of tea from the table between them.

He knows that hand.

He finds it odd that she’d wear such a bright color when she doesn't want to be noticed, but then, maybe the ones who look as if they're trying to hide are the ones who stand out.

"Sir?" the hostess tries again. She can't discern what, exactly, Jack wants.

"You wouldn't happen to know the name of the woman in the sari, would you? Did she have a reservation for high tea, maybe?"

The hostess hesitates. Jack sees it's a privacy concern, so he pulls out his credentials and flashes them so fast that she gets the point without reading his name.

"No reservation, sir. But the other woman arrived first and said that if an Indian woman came in looking for her, I should direct her over." She motions to the woman in the sari as if to say
And
there she is
.

"And the young lady's name? Do you know it?"

"Rebecca Chambers, I believe she said."

The name means nothing to Jack, but thanks to the internet, it soon will. He stares, waiting for Jenny to turn even just a bit so that he can confirm it's her.

Although the scarf covers most of her face, he's certain he'll recognize her eyes.

"Are you sure I can't seat you, sir?" the hostess asks again. He hears voices approaching; the question is her way of telling him she has others to attend to.

He pulls out a twenty and hands it to her. "No, thank you. You've already helped me more than you'll ever know."

While he waits them out, he uses his phone to search Rebecca Chamber's name on the internet and discovers she works for a private investigator named Lee Randolph. Does this mean Jenny told Mark the truth, that she really did hire someone to help her investigate the letters? But then, why involve Jack in the first place? And why did she lie to him?

Why did she want him to think she'd returned to Chicago?

He thinks of the comment Earl made when Jack told him about the threats:
Thirty years after the fact? Doesn't that strike
you as odd?
It
does
strike Jack as odd. He's certain Jenny is the woman Demetri described from the tapes, but if she sent the letters to herself, why would she hire a PI? It has to be for some other reason.

If Jenny won't tell him, he'll have to find out another way.

After the Dodson woman leaves for her room upstairs, Rebecca takes off on foot for her car, which she parked several blocks away. As she turns the corner at Bemiston, she senses she's being followed.

The tentative tapping of her boot heels on the slippery sidewalk is matched by a more solid footstep. She tests her theory by ducking into the lit alcove at the entrance to The Fatted Calf. No one passes, and when she reemerges, the masculine tread resumes behind her. She digs in her purse for a compact, slowing to open it and then pretending to check her hair in the mirror. She stifles a gasp when she sees who's on her tail.

He waves at her reflection and says, "I don't mean to scare you. Can we talk a minute?"

She stops and lets him catch up.

Despite the cold, her face grows hot as the blood rushes to her cheeks. Whether her blush comes from her assumption that he saw her with Jennifer Dodson, or from the girlish thrill she feels in his presence, she can't say. She only hopes the dark hides it.

"There's a Starbucks a block over," he says. His voice has the same smooth quality as when he speaks to reporters.

"Can I buy you a coffee?"

"I don't really like Starbucks," she says, managing, she thinks, to speak the words breezily, "but okay, sure."

He laughs, and a small dimple appears in his right cheek. "You do look a little anti-establishment."

He holds open the door and helps her shrug off her coat. She can't remember the last time a guy did either for her.
Get a
grip, Rebecca
.
This guy cheated on his wife
.
The
chivalry is skin deep
.

"What's your pleasure?" he says as he carefully hangs the coat over a deep leather chair. It's apparent he believes introductions are unnecessary. He's right, of course.

"A regular coffee with cream. Thanks."

In the land of grande lattes and vente cappuccinos and assorted chais, she sees he appreciates her simple request.

He returns with one cup and hands it to her. "I have enough trouble sleeping at night," he explains, answering a question she hasn't even asked.

"'There's no pillow so soft as a clean conscience.'"

With an amused grin, he watches her take her first sip. "Is that so?"

Rebecca shrugs. "It's a French proverb."

He laughs again. "Where'd she find you?"

"Who, Mr. Hilliard?"

"I'd rather you call me Jack. 'Mr.

Hilliard' makes me feel like I'm your dad."

"Okay. Where did
who
find me, Jack?"

It sounds so unnatural coming out of her mouth. He's always been "the DA" to her.

"Ayanna Patel. Who else?"

The use of the alias reminds Rebecca that she's playing a game with someone much more experienced at it than she is.

She suspects it was his way of telling her he knows more about Jennifer Dodson than she ever will.

"My communications with Ms. Patel are confidential."

"You're aware that's not her real name?"

"Yes. And I also know why she chooses to use an alias."

"Well, not exactly. You know the reason
she
gave you."

He holds her gaze until she relents and looks down at her coffee. She has no idea where things stand between him and his ex-mistress. The two women never

discussed the DA. For all she knows,
ex-mistress
is the wrong term. She doesn't even know if he's aware of the previous surveillance.

His phone rings. Muttering "Excuse me," he pulls it from the inside pocket of his coat. Anyone else and she would have walked away right then, but she figures the DA has no choice but to be

perpetually on-call. She's impressed when he doesn't answer. "Sorry about that," he says, replacing the phone. She nods to let him know she took no offense.

"Mr. Hilliard, why did you want to talk to me?"
And why did I agree?

He frowns, she assumes, from her

reversion back to his surname.

"I'd like to know why she hired you."

"What makes you think she did?"

"Well, I saw you together in the bar, and you're a little young to be an old friend. Why else would she be hanging out with you?"

She notices how others in the coffee shop recognize him and then glance at her. He seems not to care. If she hadn't seen him in the garage that night four years ago, and then sitting on the stoop outside Dodson's house the next

morning, she would think he's always as cool as he appears to be now. "
If
she hired me, you know I couldn't answer that question. It would be an egregious breach of duty. But I will tell you this: she didn't."

One eyebrow goes up. "Really? Why?"

"I have a conflict."

He leans back and rests one arm along the back of his chair. He still has on his overcoat, and he wears it well. Perhaps it's simply an expensive brand, but on a prosecutor's salary, she doubts it. She suspects anything looks good on him. She really wishes she'd stop idolizing him.

He's just another man
.

"What kind of conflict?" he asks.

She shakes her head. "You're used to having your questions answered, aren't you?"

"It's what I do."

"Well, I'm not on the witness stand and I have no obligation to answer. In fact, my obligation is to her, to
not
answer. I would think you'd respect that."

"I do. She chose wisely."

Her curiosity gets the better of her.

"Maybe you should ask
her
."

"I don't trust her."

The blunt, obviously honest remark stuns Rebecca, and confirms that he knows nothing of Lee's report. "Why not?"

He tilts his head as if to say,
Oh, come
on
.

She sets her cup on the table next to her and leans forward. "But they dropped the charges against her. They convicted her boyfriend. You testified for her!"

His expression softens as he looks away. She sees in his eyes the same thing she saw in the garage. He's still wild about Jennifer Dodson. Even if he did forsake her, he's a married man smitten by a woman he thinks is a murderer and it's killing him.

"I testified
against
him. Some people like to interpret that as testifying for her.

But she wasn't on trial." As he talks, he avoids her eyes. He watches the other patrons in the coffee shop, he stares at the floor. It's almost as if he's talking to himself. "And as I'm sure you know, subsequent to that trial, information came to light that calls into question whether the charges against her should have ever been dismissed. And now that her

boyfriend gets a new trial—"

"What do you mean?"

"You haven't heard? The appeals court granted Alex Turner a new trial."

She hesitates, lets out a helpless sigh.

How could she have missed that news?

And why didn't Jennifer Dodson mention it? Probably because she feared that if Rebecca knew, she wouldn't have agreed to meet. "I know you're the DA and you probably know things that are never made public, but you don't really think she had something to do with that woman's murder, do you?"

Finally he looks at her, his startling blue eyes narrowed in accusation. "I don't know. Did she?"

As strongly as she wants him to know what he so desperately wants to hear, she can't tell him. Not without betraying the confidence of several people. Even if she could get beyond the ethical implications, she senses Dodson had her own reasons for not showing him Lee's report. Who knows what consequences Rebecca might wreak if she opens her mouth?

No, the information is not hers to disclose. Sharing the report with Dodson back then to help her defense was bad enough, even if Rebecca meant well, but telling the DA now what she knows merely because she has some silly idea about the two of them being star-crossed lovers and she wishes, just once, star-crossed lovers could have a happy ending

. . . well, that's something else entirely.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Hilliard, but I can't help you." She rises and reaches for her coat. To her dismay, he rises, too, and holds it while she slips her arms in. She doesn't want him to be nice to her. "If you think I know something that will help the State bring her to justice, by all means, subpoena me. If a judge orders me to speak, I guess I'll have to decide then what to do. But—"

She stops talking when she realizes he's not listening. His eyes are focused intently on the screen of a laptop at the next table.

She turns to look, too, but catches only the words BREAKING NEWS before

the laptop owner closes the lid and rises to throw away his cup. When the DA returns his attention to her, his face is flushed and he's clearly agitated. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. Is there something wrong?

Is something happening?"

He stares at her as if he'll find the answers on her face. "Can I ask you one more thing? Did anyone, anyone at all, know about your meeting with Ms.

Patel?"

"No. Why?"

He shakes his head. "It's nothing." An awkward silence follows; whatever he saw has him extremely distracted. "Listen, about what you said . . . If you get subpoenaed, it won't be my doing. I have no say what happens in that case."

She nods and he offers his hand. She shakes it and thanks him for the coffee.

"My pleasure. Thank you for your time, Rebecca."

He says it pleasantly, but her ears hear something else entirely.

Thanks for nothing
.

Jack hangs back in the coffee shop for a few minutes to give the young woman a good head start. Once he's confident she's gone, he steps outside onto the sidewalk where he won't be overheard and returns Earl's call.

"Are you anywhere near my office?"

Earl asks before Jack speaks. Jack knows he means
We need to talk
and he'd rather not do it over the phone.

"No, I'm in Clayton. What the hell's going on? I just saw something on the internet about Jenny." He scans the intersection for familiar faces as he talks.

"I got a call from Gunner a while ago.

I tried to call and warn you but it went to voicemail. They've received a tip that she's back in town and they want to talk to you."

Jesus
. Fearing his legs will give out under him, Jack collapses on a nearby bench.

"He says if you cooperate, he's willing to do it all off the record. But if you don't come in voluntarily, all bets are off."

Jack tries to make his brain fastforward through all the possible scenarios of how they know whatever they know, but he can't concentrate.

"Jack?"

"Sounds like I'm being blackmailed by the police chief."

"I think he'd say
persuaded
. If I were you, I'd consider myself lucky they didn't just pick you up without advance notice.