Ring of Truth (30 page)

Authors: Nancy Pickard

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths, #Thrillers, #Suspense, #General

BOOK: Ring of Truth

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“I called Lyle,” I continue, “and told him what I was thinking. It offended him so much that he hung up on me. But afterwards, after I called, he said he couldn't stop thinking about it, and about his sister, as he knew her. He decided that as much as he hated the idea, there was the slim possibility I might be right.”

Tammi's cell phone rings. Steve looks startled and I wonder if he has ever heard or seen one before. He watches closely as she takes it out, looks at the caller ID, then takes the call. Five quick sentences and she hangs up, and says to us, “I'm sorry. That's a client. I hate to do this, but I've got to go. Marie, take care of the bill, will you, and I'll pay you back. Steven, call if you need anything, okay?”

She gets out of the booth, and hurries to the door.

It doesn't take Steve two seconds to move over to the other side of the booth. Am I happy to be left alone with him? I am not.

He doesn't ask me to continue my story, and I don't volunteer it. We hadn't even gotten to the cake tin yet, and somehow it doesn't seem important.

“What are you going to do next?” I ask him after a few minutes.

“Finish my eggs.”

We eat in silence again until I say, “Are you going to sue anybody?”

“Lauderdale Pines. Bahia. Sheriff's Department. Prosecutors,” he says, as cool as if I had asked about the weather. “Tammi's taking care of it.”

“Any individuals?”

“Every one of them.”

“Lyle, too?”

Steve Orbach's cold, appraising eyes glance up at me. “Yes,” he says, and then he shovels in the last of his meal.

“But he set you free.”

“No.” He looks at me. “You did that. He was going to let me rot, just like every other cop.”

I have run out of questions.

When I reach for the bill, he beats me to it.

“But Steve, Tammi wants—”

“No. I'll get it.” He insists on buying, even though it's expensive. The truth is, I'm afraid to argue with him over it. I'm afraid of him, period, guilty or not. But I don't want him to sense that, so I smile and say, “Thank you.”

“How much tip?” he asks me.

“Twenty percent.”

“It was fifteen the last time I was out.”

We part on the street, after he refuses my offer of a lift to his apartment. I'm happy for him. And glad he doesn't want to ride with me. I don't know what we've done to the world by springing Steve Orbach on it, but he is finally free as justice demands that he be. Whether this has been a good deed or not remains to be seen, however. And I will probably never know, unless some day I read his name in a newspaper again.

I watch him disappear into the crowd and hope that never happens.

This same Sunday is the last day of the month I've given Franklin.

Normally I wouldn't see him on a Sunday, but he called just a little while ago to ask if he could drop by. Maybe he's going to plead for an extension. I'm not inclined to grant one.

“You've violated your parole, Mr. Prosecutor.”

For this bittersweet occasion I've taken particular care in dressing, putting on my makeup just so, arranging my hair in a way that suits me, choosing the prettiest colors in my closet.

I want him to miss me, dammit, because I'm sure going to miss him.

What's that sound? Is that my doorbell?

Isn't this where I came in? But this time, it won't be Jenny and her mom, and this time I check a mirror before I open the door.

“Hi, Marie.”

It's Franklin, smiling at me in a tentative way, as if he's not quite sure of his welcome today. But I see he has brought some insurance with him. Two small children.

My heart rolls over in my chest and I am awash in relief and gratitude. He didn't have to go this far—I never expected this, or would have asked for it—but how very good of him to make his statement in this particular way.

Feeling desperately shy, I smile at the children. “Hi.”

Their dad places one of his big hands on each of their small heads. First he introduces the little girl. “This is Back-Flip Bertha—”

“Dad!” his beautiful six-year-old daughter protests.

“And this is Soccer Head.”

His three-year-old son giggles up at me.

“AKA Diana and Arthur,” I say.

They're the budding gymnast and the boy who can't wait to play soccer.

“What's hay kay hay?” little Arthur asks. He's so cute I want to scoop him up and embarrass him with kisses. No wonder Franklin wants to devote his entire weekends to them. I don't know how he can bear to leave them on Monday mornings and be so loving and uncomplaining to me by Monday night.

“AKA is ‘also known as—’ ” Franklin stops when he sees that's too much for the child to grasp. “It'll make more sense after you know your alphabet.”

“I know my alpabet! A, B—” Arthur's still reciting letters as the three of them troop past me. Diane looks watchful, suspicious of me, of why her dad has brought her to see this strange
woman they've never met before. This woman who is not her mother.

“We're going out to supper,” Franklin tells me, “and I wondered if you'd like to join us.”

His daughter looks as if she wants nothing to do with this idea. Arthur, meanwhile, up to his XBZ's, is racing for one of the sliding glass doors, which he throws himself against with a thud that sends us all hurrying after him to make sure he survived.

“Oooo,” he exclaims, pointing to the bridge.

His dad shakes his head, then looks at me, waiting for my answer.

“Thank you,” I say directly to him. But then to Diana I say, “But this is your time together. I think you should have it all to yourselves. May I take a rain check?”

“It's not raining,” Arthur explains to me.

His sister looks up at her dad to see if he'll insist that I go with them.

“I really want you to go,” Franklin says to me.

“I appreciate that,” I say. My tone of voice is light and casual, but I hope the look in my eyes tells him how intensely I mean those words. “But I have a compromise idea. Stick around long enough for some pink lemonade. And then you guys go off on your own, because I've really got to work tonight.”

Diana's whole little body relaxes.

Franklin smiles at her, and then at me. “I think we could take a few minutes for lemonade, if that's okay with you kids.”

“Mo-nade!” Arthur yells.

“Yes, please,” his sister says, happy enough now to join him at the glass and to exclaim over the view.

I went out to lunch with Antonio Delano last week—not on a date, just to talk about the Wing case—but it wasn't much fun. He spent most of the meal bitching about the trials, pardon the pun, of being a prosecutor. The man in my living room at this moment will never do that; he's doing what he was born to do. Does it conflict too much with what I was born to do? Maybe
not if we do it out in the open, in the sunlight of public opinion. That should keep us honest. Not only that, but he's willing to put up with a writer who goes underground for weeks at a time and who looks like Medusa when she surfaces. There's a lot to be said for a man like that. And, anyway, there's nothing wrong with Franklin DeWeese—or with me—that a few movie dates and some pink lemonade won't cure.

I believe I'll pick up some vacation travel brochures tomorrow.

Table of Contents

Contents

Susanna 1

Anything to Be Together