Sawyer, Meryl (13 page)

What did he expect? Gratitude? Ha! No way. If anything, Royce
hated him more for seeing her so vulnerable. Not that he cared. The world was
full of women.

"So why does she have you running in circles like a crazed
possum? She's a heartbreaker. A ball buster. Why can't you forget her?"

The answer hit him like a straight shot of Kentucky moonshine. Five
years hadn't changed a damn thing. He still wanted her.

"Goddammit!" He was royally pissed. That stunt she'd
pulled on TV still had him fried.

The pictures in today's edition of that rag, the
Evening
Outlook,
had sent his blood pressure into the stratosphere. They showed
Royce in dental floss that passed for a bikini, lolling on the beach with
Lover-Boy Farenholt. Tobias Ingeblatt's headline shrieked: sexpot columnist
heists jewels.

"Get the hell out of here," he told himself.

But leaving her was the hardest damn thing he'd ever done. A grim
reminder of the past. His mother. She'd refused his help too. Swear to God, you
never knew what a woman would pull. She could love you one minute and try to
kill you the next.

Ahead, Mitch saw the flashing lights from the armada of police
cars had attracted a crowd of neighbors clad in robes and curlers. No sign of
the media barracudas. Yet.

The K-9 unit pulled up and four German shepherds leapt out just as
the police video crew arrived. There you go. The narcs did expect a big find.

"Mitch... Mitch." He turned and saw Royce hurrying
toward him, streamers of blond hair billowing over her shoulders, her shoes in
her hand.

"Well, I'll be jiggered." He couldn't keep the undertone
of bitterness out of his voice.

She stopped a few feet from him, hesitated, taking a frantic look
at the legions of narcs swarming around her home. Then she came closer, a step
at a time. Her soulful green eyes glassy with unshed tears.

"I want you to be my attorney," she said, heartfelt
emotion breaking in her voice, but the earnest plea came as much from her eyes
as her voice. "Don't... leave me."

Despite her stricken expression she squared her shoulders. He'd
bet his life those were the hardest words she'd ever spoken. She was scared to
death, and he didn't blame her. Someone wanted to make dead certain she went to
prison for years.

Every instinct he possessed, instincts that had never failed him,
told him to turn his back and get the hell out of there. But she looked so
forlorn, standing clutching her high heels, the flashing strobes from the
police cars washing her face red-then-white-then-red.

"I'll represent you, Royce, but I have several
conditions."

"What?" She was shaking. Obviously she needed a good
night's sleep to pull herself together.

He shucked his jacket and put it over her shoulders, then lifted
her long hair free. His hand lingered, testing the softness of her hair, the
spring in the curl. "I want you—and your uncle—to promise that you'll
never write or reveal anything you find out about me during the course of this
case. Not one word about me. None of that shit you pulled on the TV program,
understand?"

"I promise. I'll never write—or say—one word about you. Ever.
I swear."

"Absolutely no questions about my past."

"All right, Mitch, I understand."

"And you'll have to agree to do whatever I tell you." He
arranged the silky length of her hair over the lapel of his jacket as it hung
from her like a choir robe.

"That's fine with me. I don't know what to do. I'm on the
ropes here."

"No, babe. You're down for the count." He tilted her
chin up and looked directly into her eyes. She had the damnedest eyes.
"It's going to be hard for you, Royce, but you're going to have to trust
me."

She gazed at him, her eloquent eyes expressing her deepest
emotions. Fear. Anger. Guilt over accepting his help. And overwhelming
vulnerability. She didn't want to put her life in his hands, but she had no
choice.

He resisted the urge to cradle her in his arms. She'd allowed him
to help out of sheer panic. Anything more would have to wait.

From inside the house someone yelled, "We've got a thousand
smackers here."

"Recount it," yelled another cop. "Tell 'em to dust
it for coke."

"That's my earthquake money," Royce explained to Mitch.
"After the earthquake the credit lines were cut off. No one could use
charge cards or cash checks. I wrote a humorous column about it, saying along
with quake supplies everyone should keep some cash. They aren't going to find cocaine
on it."

"Tell that to the FBI. Their stats show eighty percent of all
the money in this country shows traces of coke. That's how much cash goes
through drug dealers' hands, then to the bank."

"Kill the baby," yelled someone inside the house.

Royce clutched his arm. "What baby?"

"Just cop talk. It means they found what they came for."

"They couldn't have. I don't... it's impossible."

A sergeant rushed over to them, pulling a laminated index card
from his pocket. "Royce Ann Winston. You're under arrest for possession of
cocaine." He looked down at the card. "You have the right—"

"Can it," Mitch said. Jesus, you'd think the guy could
memorize the Miranda. "She knows her rights. She isn't saying a damn thing
until we're in court."

A screech of tires announced the arrival of the press corps. You
could almost hear their collective sigh of relief: They hadn't missed
all
the
fun. The sergeant unsnapped handcuffs from the side of his belt.

"Cuff her and I'll nail you for harassment. You jerk-offs let
every two-bit drug dealer walk into the station with their attorneys. You're
not dragging my client off in cuffs for some media circus. I'm riding in with
her."

The sergeant backed off. Lately every lawyer who wasn't chasing an
ambulance was suing the police department—the newest legal boondoggle.
Sometimes they deserved it; sometimes they didn't. But the thought scared the
piss out of them. It meant suspensions, appearances before Internal Affairs, a
black mark on your record. And that's if everything went in your favor.

They marched over to the cruiser with Mitch shielding her from the
cameras with his body, his arm protectively locked around her. He got in the
back with Royce while the police had their moment of glory giving the media
maggots their nightly dose of mayhem. Royce had stopped shaking, but her eyes
had a distracted look. The same look he'd seen at her father's funeral.

The cops jumped into the car and pulled out, leaving the special
operations units to go over the house. Interesting, Mitch thought, they're
throwing everything they have at this. Why?

He pulled Royce close, angling his head so his good ear was
closest to her, then whispered, "Listen to me."

Her expressive green eyes were inches from his. She seemed more
angry than frightened. A good sign. "Yes?"

He put his lips so close to her ear that when he spoke, he brushed
it. "You're going to be in there another two days."

"I can't. Please, help me."

"You're tough. You can gut it out," he said, more to
bolster her confidence than anything else. Life in jail was as alien to the
middle class as life on Pluto. Stephen King couldn't invent some of the people
inside prison walls.

She nodded bravely. "I can handle it."

He gave her a reassuring squeeze, whispering, "Don't discuss
this case with anyone. There are snitches everywhere who'll invent anything.
They'd roll over on their own mothers just to get their sentences
reduced."

"I talked about the case already. But I'm certain Helen Sykes
isn't a snitch. There was this horrible woman, Maisie Something, she threatened
to hurt me. Helen came to my rescue."

Aw shit!
Mitch cursed to himself. He liked to
think of himself as the meanest son of a bitch in the valley. But even he
couldn't muster the gall to tell Royce she'd put another nail in her own
coffin.

After Mitch left Royce at the police station, he found a pay phone
and dialed Paul's number. "What did they get?" Mitch asked. Although
Paul no longer was on the force, he kept a radio that monitored transmissions
from the police station.

"They got half a kilo."

"Christ." Mitch hadn't known exactly how much dope
they'd found at Royce's. Possession for personal use was one thing, but for
every gram more the mandatory sentence escalated, the assumption being the
person was a serious drug dealer.

"Mitch, are you sorry you pushed for mandatory
sentences?"

"No way. There was too much bargaining for lighter sentences,
but, hell, the law should have been written so judges would have some leeway in
sentencing first time offenders. If Royce is convicted, she'll be sentenced to
five years."

"I talked to her friends. Talia Beckett had already given a
statement to the police."

Mitch frowned. "If this were a mass murder, the cops wouldn't
take secondary statements for weeks. Damn suspicious."

"Sounds like pressure, right? The Farenholts?"

"Or the DA's office. Go on, what's Talia like?"

"A knockout, black hair, dark brown eyes. She's a recovering
alcoholic who's into every variety of therapy known to mankind."

"Any chance she put the earrings in Royce's purse?"

"Don't rule it out. Talia's the type that likes to chat, and
she told me an interesting story. It seems that she's known Brent Farenholt for
years. After Royce moved to Italy, Talia began dating Brent. He had a party
just after Royce returned and Talia brought Royce and Val. Shortly after, Brent
asked out Royce. It's possible Talia's upset with Royce for stealing
Brent."

"What about Valerie Thompson?" Mitch vaguely recalled
the redhead Royce had introduced him to. She and Talia had come up to him after
Royce had been arrested, but Talia had done all the talking.

"Val refused to talk to the police without a lawyer."

"My kind of woman."

Mine, too, Paul thought, but didn't say so. He hesitated,
listening to Mitch as he drove into his garage. Paul still felt the heat
surging through him the way it had when Valerie Thompson had answered his knock
earlier that day.

Val. Honey-brown eyes. Thick auburn hair. Long, slim legs. He had
flashed his ID, but she'd glared at it. Most women had a glorified vision of
private investigators, honed from too many television programs. Not Val.

"I work for Mitchell Durant," Paul had said. "I'm
here to help your friend, Royce Winston. May I come in?"

She admitted him to a small apartment that overlooked a back
alley. A mouth-watering aroma wafted from the kitchen into the living room
furnished in garage-sale rejects. "I need to ask you a few
questions."

"Just a minute. I have to turn off the oven."

He smelled lasagna and his stomach contracted, but not as much as
it did looking at the provocative sway of Val's rear.

She returned and sat just near enough that he could see the gold
flecks in her eyes. "How can I help?"

"Was Royce near the earrings?"

"Everyone was near them."

Smart-ass. "A witness says you were with Royce examining the
earrings." He didn't add their friend, Talia, had volunteered the
incriminating information.

She looked down, revealing the gold tips of her lashes. "We
passed by them, talking, not really looking. I left Royce with Mitchell
Durant—near the earrings."

There was a cutting undertone to her voice. He didn't pursue it.
Mitch had told him how Royce felt about him. Obviously, Val shared her opinion.
"Do I smell lasagna?"

"Yes. I was just sitting down to dinner."

He gazed at her shamelessly. If she invited him for dinner, he'd
have an excuse to draw out the interview.

"It's tofu lasagna."

"Love it. I've given up red meat."

"Really?" She looked genuinely pleased. "I took
third place at the Tofu Sculpting Contest in Golden Gate Park."

Tofu sculpting? S'okay. It takes all kinds. "Amazing. What
did you make?"

"An eagle. A peacock took first." She led him into the
kitchen and gave him a hearty portion of lasagna, then poured him a cup of
coffee.

"Did Brent Farenholt ask you out?"

"Why?"

She sounded on guard, more than just defensive. Was she hiding
something? "Background info."

"I didn't go, so he took Royce."

Interesting, Brent had asked out all three friends. And Royce had landed
him. Had one of the others been jealous enough to frame Royce? "What do
you think of Brent?"

"I don't like him. He's too... too smooth."

Paul had never formally met Brent, but he knew him by sight and
reputation. San Francisco was widely regarded as a big city, although less than
a million people lived there. Everyone in legal circles knew each other. Brent
was well liked; Mitch's in-your-face personality won him few friends. But he
was respected for his ability and for having built a powerhouse firm. Brent was
a legal lightweight who'd be nothing without his father's law practice.