PRIVILEGED WITNESS

by

REBECCA FORSTER

For my husband

Privileged Witness

Copyright © Rebecca Forster, 2006

All rights reserved

First published by Signet, 2006

Cover art by Rebecca Forster

Smashwords edition 1.0, October 2009

Visit: Rebeccaforster.com

CHAPTER I

The half-naked woman came from the penthouse - she just didn't bother to use the elevator. Instead, she stepped off the balcony eleven stories above Ocean Boulevard. Her theatrics kept Detective Babcock from a quiet evening with a good book, a glass of wine and some very fine music. Detective Babcock didn't hold a grudge long, though. One look at the jumper made him regret that he hadn't arrived in time to stop her.

Beautiful even in death, the woman lay on the hot concrete as if it were her bed. Her arms were out: one was crooked at an angle so that the delicate fingers of her right hand curled toward her head and the other was by her side so that her left hand was open-palmed at her hip. She wore a diamond and sapphire bracelet. A matching earring had come off at impact and was caught in her dark hair. Her slim legs were curved together. Her feet were small and bare. Her head was turned in profile and her eyes were closed. The wedding ring she wore made Horace Babcock feel a little guilty for admiring her. She carried her age well so that it was difficult to tell exactly how. . .

''Crap, I think I felt a raindrop.''

Babcock inclined his head. His eyes flickered toward Kurt Rippy. The man was hunkered beside the jumper's head. The pool of blood under her cheek was the only sign that something traumatic had occurred. It would be a different when the coroner's people had their way with her. When they cut off the yellow silk and lace teddy at the morgue. Naked on a metal table, they would find half her head caved, her ribs pulverized, her pelvis broken from the impact. Her brain might fall out and that would be a sad, indeed. How glad Babcock was to see her this way. Elegant. Asleep. An illusion.

Raising a hand toward the sky, he checked the weather. Even though the day was almost done it was still hot. The thunderheads that had hovered over the San Bernardino Mountains for the last few days were now rolling toward Long Beach. Pity tonight would be wet when the other three hundred and sixty four days of the year had been bone dry.

''Are you almost done?'' Babcock asked knowing the rain would wash away the blood and a thousand little pieces of grit and dust and things that Kurt needed to collect as a matter of course.

''Yeah. Not much to get here. I bagged her hands just in case but she looks clean.''

Detective Babcock bridled at the adjective. It was too pedestrian for her. Hardly poetic.

She was pristine.

She was beautiful.

She was privileged.

She was a lady who was either going to or coming from an important engagement. She wore jewels, her hair was coiffed and her make-up just so. She was going or coming alone because no one had run screaming from the building distraught that their loved one had checked out of this world in such a manner. With a huge grunt, Kurt stood up and rolled his surgical gloves off with a snap. He pocketed them, sniffed, rubbed his nose and grunted. It was an effort for a man of his size to work close to the ground.

''That's it for me. I'm going to let them bundle her before we all get wet. I hate it when it's this hot and it rains. Reminds me of Chicago. I hate Chicago. . .''

He took a deep breath and stood over the woman for a minute as his train of thought jumped the tracks. His hands were crossed at his crotch, his head was bent, his eyes were on the victim. He seemed to be praying and his reverence both surprised and impressed Detective Babcock. Finally, Kurt drew another gargantuan breath into his equally humongous body, flipped at the tie that lay on top of his stomach and angled his head toward Babcock.

''How much you think a thing like that costs?'' he asked.

''What thing?''

''That thing she's wearing?'' Kurt wiggled a finger toward the body.

''I believe that type of lingerie is quite expensive.'' A sigh was the only sign of Babcock's irritation before he moved away. Lord the indignity the dead suffered at the hands of the police.

Just as it began to rain, diluting the blood, draining it into the cracks of the sizzling concrete, Detective Babcock walked across the circular drive, past the exquisitely lit fountain of the jumper's exclusive building and went inside. There was still so much to do, not the least of which was to talk to one Mr. Jorgensen, the poor soul who had been making his way home just as the lady leapt. Mr. Jorgensen, surprised to find a scantily clad dead woman at his feet, made haste to leave the scene as soon as the emergency vehicles arrived. He probably couldn't offer much, but a formal statement was necessary and Babcock would take it.

He rode the elevator, breathing in the scent of new: New construction. New carpet. New fittings and fastenings. Shining brass and glittering mirrors. Babcock preferred the Villa Riviera a few buildings down. The scrolled façade, the peaked copper roof, the age of it intrigued him in a way new never could. He got out on the third floor, turned right down the hall and knocked on the second door on the left. He waited. And waited. Eventually, the door opened and Babcock looked down at the wizened man who clutched his walker as if he was trying to break it in half.

''Mr. Jorgensen? I'm Detective Horace Babcock.'' He held out his card. The old man snatched it.

''It's about time you got here,'' he complained and turned his back. The thick carpet swallowed the thumping of the walker but the acoustics of the spacious apartment were impeccable. Babcock heard the old man's every mumble and word. ''I should be in bed by now but how in the hell am I supposed to sleep? Lucky I didn't have a heart attack or a stroke. Damn upsetting at my age to see something like that. You think she could have put on some clothes.''

Mr. Jorgensen halted. He turned his head and glared at Babcock.

''Bet you can't even find that husband of hers to tell him. He's in Los Angeles somewhere. Giving a speech or some such nonsense. Should have been all over the news by now. Since nobody's saying anything, I figure you haven't told him yet. You haven't, have you?''

''No.''

Jorgensen raised his chin, satisfied that he had read the situation correctly and started on his way again. Deferentially slow, Babcock followed the old man but Mr. Jorgensen was annoyed with him and stopped again. He paused just long enough to flash a look of pure disgust at Horace Babcock as he said:

''You don't even know who she is, do you?''

CHAPTER 2

The last time Josie Baylor-Bates saw Kevin O'Connel he had been wearing prison issue that marked him as the criminal she knew him to be. Unfortunately, a jury of his peers hadn't been convinced that he had beaten his wife, Susan, to within an inch of her life.

Partially paralyzed, she lived in fear of her life since her husband had not been incarcerated and was in hiding. She would never work or fully enjoy life again. And, during the civil trial, Josie had argued that Susan deserved every last dime Kevin O'Connel had ever – or would ever – make. Bringing a civil suit was not much of a risk. The burden of proof was less than in a criminal trial and Susan O'Connel was a credible and effective witness. Now that the trial was over, Kevin O'Connel squirmed as solemn faced jurors filled the box. He shot Josie a nervous, hateful look that she didn't bother to acknowledge. Instead, she watched the foreman hand the decision to the clerk who read the settlement with all the passion of a potato growing:

''The jury finds Kevin O'Connel guilty of assault with intent to kill and awards Susan O'Connel special damages in the amount of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars and general damages in the amount of one and a half million dollars. We further find that the assault was committed with malice and awards Susan O'Connel five hundred thousand dollars in . . .

''That's crap! That's just fuc . . . '' Kevin O'Connel shot out of his seat. Instantly, O'Connel's attorney grabbed him.

''Go no further, Mr. O'Connel!'' The judge snapped.

Josie heard the scuffle, heard Kevin O'Connel curse his attorney for not doing more and, finally, heard him fall silent as the judge threatened him with contempt and incarceration. It was quite a scene, exciting to watch for everyone but Josie. She sat quietly at her table pushing her fountain pen through her fingers. Over and over again that pen twisted, met the table and pushed up through her fingers. She was concentrating hard on that task so no one would see the unseemly grin of satisfaction that threatened to pop right out. She couldn't be happier that she had come close to ruining Kevin O'Connel. He deserved worse. He got it a second later. Another five hundred thousand in punitive damages was awarded.

Now Josie smiled at the jury. Two of the women and one man smiled back. They were dismissed with court's thanks. It was over. Susan O'Connel was a rich woman on paper and Josie would do everything could to collect for her client. Kevin O'Connel's wages would be garnished, his retirement account cleaned out and the house they had shared would be sold. Josie would make sure Kevin O'Connel surrendered his car, his boat and his jet ski. She would take his toothbrush if she could. He wouldn't have a pot to piss in when she was done. Every time Kevin got a little ahead, Josie would be there with her hand out on behalf of her client. It was too bad Susan couldn't have heard this, but Josie understood why she didn't want to be in the same room with her ex-husband.

Picking up her briefcase, Josie reached for the little swinging gate but Kevin O'Connel put his hand on it first. He held it, looked Josie in the eye, then pushed it back with a cool loathing that was meant to intimidate. It didn't. Josie walked past him. His hatred trailed after her and stuck like sweat.

From her height to her confidence and her power Kevin O'Connel despised everything about Josie Baylor-Bates. He hated that she won. He hated that she was taller than him. Kevin O'Connel hated her intelligence. He hated that she dismissed him when she put her fancy little phone to her ear. He knew who she was calling and that pissed him off royally. This wasn't over by a long shot.

When she pushed open the doors to the hall Kevin O'Connel was right behind her. It appeared he was trying to maneuver around Josie but stumbled instead, knocking her off balance.

''Hey,'' Josie cried as her phone clattered to the floor. Her ankle twisted and she flung her arm to the wall to steady herself. When she was on her feet again, she bent to pick up her phone but it was gone before she could get to it. Snatched away by a large hand. Josie looked up, not at a Good Samaritan, but at Kevin O'Connel. His face was a play of delight and disappointment. Delight that he had hit her hard enough to knock her into the wall; disappointment because he hadn't done any lasting damage.

''Guess I need to look where I'm going,'' he teased. ''Someone coulda got hurt.''

Setting her jaw, Josie straightened. Without a word, she reached for the phone but he held it back like an evil little boy who had pinched her hair ribbon. Slowly he put the phone to his ear, smiling with malicious glee as he spoke to his ex-wife.

''Good news, Suzy. You got it all, babe. Everything and then some. Enjoy it while you can.''

Kevin O'Connel must have liked what was hearing. There was a glint in his eye that turned to a self-satisfied sparkle before fading to mock disappointment. He held the phone away from his ear. He shrugged. He hid his cruelty behind mock incredulity.

''She hung up, Josie. Oh, sorry. I mean Ms. Bates.''

''Are you stupid or just a glutton for punishment?'' Josie didn't bother to try to wrestle the phone away from him. She had no intention of creating a scene. Although, if he was stupid enough to hit her – as she knew he wanted to – she could see him behind bars yet.

''That's funny, you calling me stupid since I got to Suzy first, didn't I?'' Kevin twirled the little phone. It disappeared into his big hand and he looked at that fist as if he admired it. He looked at Josie as if he didn't hold her in the same esteem.

''If the shoe fits,'' Josie answered dryly, her eyes narrowing. It was time to take back the power. ''Push me again and I'll bring charges for assault. Hand over the phone or I'll have you arrested for robbery and assault. Say one more word to your wife and you'll go down for stalking. And, if you are as smart as you say you are, you'll quit while you're ahead.''

''And you better think twice before you let me see your bitch face again.'' His rough and handsome face closed so fast Josie felt his breath before she could retreat. He had her back up against the wall. ''I don't go down that easy and I sure don't go down for a dike like you. Tell Suzy she's got one more chance. She can come home and everything will be fine. If she doesn't, she won't get a penny and I'll take you both out. I swear, I will.''

''The only way Susan will ever look at you again is over my dead body, Mr. O'Connel.''

Josie had enough. She put out her hand for her phone. Taken aback by her confidence, Kevin O'Connel almost let it go. Then he thought again. He held his fist high and, with a laugh, dropped it at Josie's feet.

''Ooops.'' The mischievous light melted from his eyes.

Josie looked down then up again. Kevin O'Connel was waiting for her to get it. The problem was that Kevin O'Connel wasn't on the same page as Josie Bates. As far as she was concerned, the man could wait until hell froze over. Josie wouldn't spend one second at his feet. The stand-off unnerved him. But he wanted out on his own brutish terms. He raised a hand. She didn't flinch. His gaze faltered. He spoke:

''Think about what you said. That dead body thing. . .''

''Excuse me?''

Surprised to find that they weren't the only two people in the universe, O'Connel stepped away and Josie looked at the lady who was retrieving the phone. She wasn't exactly the type you'd figure for a good deed and not exactly the kind of woman who had business with the San Pedro court. A good two grand was on her back and thousands in jewelry on her fingers and at her neck. When she righted herself, Josie had the impression that the woman smiled.

''I think this belongs to you.''

She held Josie's phone out on her palm, putting her hand between Kevin O'Connel and Josie like a peace-maker. Josie took it with barely audible thanks. Her eyes never left Kevin O'Connel who thought for a moment then backed off. With a cock of a finger he shot Josie an imaginary bullet filled with hatred, arrogance and warning. Dismissing her with a grunt, he turned on his heel and walked away leaving Josie and the lady to watch.

''He doesn't seem very pleasant,'' the woman noted.

''He isn't,'' Josie answered.

With a quick ‘appreciate it' she walked away, too, keeping her eye on Kevin O'Connel's back. Josie didn't give the woman another thought as she got Susan on the phone again. But the woman in the bright blue suit, the woman with the fine leather shoes and the in-your-face jewels was still thinking about Josie as she started down the hall; close enough to follow, too far away to be in Josie's orbit.

''Don't worry. Enjoy the victory,'' Josie said to Susan O'Connel. ''No, I promise you, he's just trying to get under your skin. . .''

Josie opened the door and absentmindedly held it for the woman behind her. She said her goodbyes to Susan and paused on the sidewalk to make her second call. Eleven rings and Hannah answered. Home from school on a half day, homework done, she was readying her last painting for her exhibit at Hermosa Beach's Gallery C. The girl had come a long way since Josie had taken her in. A casualty of adult folly, Hannah was now legally under Josie's guardianship and anxious that Josie would not only be home, but be home in time for the exhibit.

''Only the end of the world could keep me away from this,'' Josie promised. ''You're going to be great. You're okay, aren't you?''

Hannah actually laughed – a good sign that her therapist would find encouraging. It had been nine months since there was a hint of distress bad enough for her to cut herself. Even her obsessive compulsions of checking on Josie's whereabouts, touching things to make her feel safe, had diminished. Josie had never considered herself maternal, but for a never-married single woman she wasn't doing half bad when it came to Hannah. Satisfied all was well, she dropped the phone in her purse, slipped on her sunglasses and gave was checking out her restaurant options for lunch when someone put a hand on her arm.

''Josie Bates?''

''Yep,'' Josie looked first at that hand and the obscenely large emerald ring that adorned it and then at the lady in blue who had followed her outside.

''I wonder if I could take a few minutes of your time? Perhaps lunch? It's already past noon.''

This time she did smile but it never reached her eyes. Those were filled with apprehension. Still, she talked as if their meeting were the most natural thing in the world.

Josie inclined her head, peeved at the interruption, perplexed by the invitation and dismayed by the woman issuing it. Josie had sworn off this kind of client long ago: the kind with more money than good sense, the kind you usually found in Beverly Hills or Hollywood, the kind who had a different sense of justice than the rank and file. This one looked to be particularly bad news.

Like a high priced car she was sleek, high maintenance and tuned to powerful, itchy idle. If Josie let her, she would press the gas and Josie would have no choice but to go along for the ride. The trick was to get out of the way before the flag dropped. Today was for kicking back for a few hours to enjoy her victory on behalf of Susan O'Connel and tonight was for Hannah.

''I have an office in Hermosa Beach. You can reach me there.''

Josie reached for a card. When the woman put out her hand again a sudden chill crackled up the back of her neck. Something was amiss but Josie couldn't get a handle on it. She moved away to avoid contact but the woman was persistent.

''I'd like to talk to you today. It's very important,'' she insisted in a voice as subtly deep and rich as her perfume. ''It's personal matter. There's a place not too far from here where we could speak privately.''

''I'm sorry, I don't work that way. Call my office. If you've got something I can help you with I'll let you know; if I can't, I'll refer you.''

Josie started to leave but the woman's fingers dug in hard on her arm. It took less than a second for Josie to note the change in the lady's demeanor, to see the flash of fury behind those dark eyes. It took less than that for Josie to break the woman's hold and make herself clear.

''You better find someone else to help you.'' Josie pulled her arm away and showed her back to the woman. It wasn't enough. The rich lady moved quickly, determined to have her say.

''No. I need to talk to you now. It's about Matthew. Matthew McCreary.''

Josie stopped mid-stride. Her heart stopped beating; her breath was caught in her throat. Slowly she turned back and this time she stared at the woman in blue. Slowly, a beautiful smile spread across her face. Triumph, delight, happiness were all hers as Josie's annoyance turned to surprise. Her abracadabra had conjured up a past Josie had left behind long ago. Now it rushed toward her in a dazzle of memories that left her mesmerized, almost hypnotized, and definitely frightened. The lady came close again. This time both hands reached out and took Josie by the shoulders as if relieved that a long search was over.

''I'm Grace. Grace McCreary. Matthew's sister.''

Josie shook her head hard. She stumbled as she tried to free herself but the woman in blue tightened her grip. It was enough to make Josie came to her senses and jerked away as if burned.

''You're dead.''

CHAPTER 3

Josie threw cold water on her face, dried it with a rough paper towel and looked at herself in the mirror. A second later, she did it again but this time she skipped the mirror. She knew what she looked like: pale under her tan, the blue of her eyes almost black, her cheekbones too prominent because shock had sucked the life out of her. She was shaken by Grace McCreary's appearance, was unsure how she felt about it and resented having to figure it out standing in the bathroom of Anthony's Restaurant two blocks down from the San Pedro Courthouse.

From the third stall there was a flush. Josie yanked at the paper towels stuck in the dispenser. When the door opened, a waitress came out adjusting a frilly white apron over her full black skirt. She looked like an aged showgirl: great legs and a face that long ago lost its allure. She rinsed her hands while she watched Josie pull harder at the towels. Finally, Josie was rewarded with a handful of coarse white paper. The waitress plucked two sheets from the pile in Josie's hands.

''You okay, honey?'' She sounded like a carnival barker.

''Yeah. Sure. I'm great.'' Josie put the extra towels on top of the dispenser. There was nothing better than finding out that your soul mate didn't have a soul to begin with but that wasn't something you shared with a waitress in the ladies room. She turned away but couldn't rid herself of the memories of Matthew.

Josie lived with Matthew McCreary for three years, knew him a full year before that, had an intimate-as-hell relationship only to find out that he'd forgotten to mention one little thing: his sister was alive and well somewhere in the world. Family was the one thing Josie longed for and Matthew had treated his own cavalierly. He led Josie to believe his sister died in the same accident that took his parents' lives. How cruel to the memory of his parents, how unfair to Grace McCreary, how malicious to play on Josie's emotional weakness.

Good Lord.

She had skinny dipped with Matthew McCreary in the ocean and made love on the floor of their house. She had told him about her mother's desertion and her father's lonely death. Josie had respected his pain, recognizing that he lived with tragedy the same way she did. Josie had taken Matthew McCreary's shirts to the laundry because she wanted to, not because he expected it. He had allowed her to believe a lie; she had lived with a liar.

Christ.

Matthew had told her he was alone in the world. He said he felt whole with her and that made Josie feel safe, important. He was the first man she had loved. She admired Matthew. She believed in him. They parted like adults for all the adult reasons, but that didn't keep the parting from hurting or the memory of him from lingering even after all these years.

Damn him.

Josie was happy when she heard Matthew married. She was so proud when he threw his hat in the ring in a bid for the Senate nomination. Josie thought he was close to perfect, just that she wasn't perfect for him. She didn't want to find her identity subservient to his political ambition or his money. Josie believed that was her failure and she'd lived with that regret all these years. But what really made her angry was that the mere idea that Matthew McCreary was in her world again made her heart race.

Damn it all, Matthew and your sister, too.

Crumpling the paper towel in her hands, Josie tossed it in the trash on her way out of the bathroom. She paused in the small dark hall by the pay phone. Anthony's was a restaurant without windows; a throw back to the fifties. At night, the piano bar filled with ancient people decked out in cocktail finery any vintage store would kill for. The women shaded their eyes in blue and tinted their silver hair pink. The men wore toupees that had seen better days and polyester pants in shades the rainbow had never heard of. The place served a decent steak and management watched out for the folks who got drunk and wept as they sang the old songs and danced cheek-to-cheek. But that was night and this was noon. The place looked shabby, smelled like smoke and was nearly deserted except for Grace McCreary who waited patiently at a corner table for Josie to return. When she did, Josie slid onto the black leather banquette, put her purse by her side and gave Grace McCreary the once over.

She had seen a picture of Grace as a gawky youngster so it was no surprise that she didn't recognize the woman she had become. God had played a cosmic joke on her and that was a pity. He had given Grace everything Matthew had: a high-bridged straight nose, quick, dark eyes protected by lush lashes, elegant cheekbones to draw attention to them and artistically shaped lips. Unfortunately, where the sum of the parts made Matthew look intellectual and intensely handsome they made his sister appear untrustworthy and tough. Grace McCreary looked like Matthew in drag except Matthew would have been prettier.

To make matters worse, Grace made no attempt to soften her features. Instead, she chose to accentuate them with a short slash of dark hair that she swept behind her ears. Moons of Mabe pearls hung from her ears. Dark liner winged out at the corners of her eyes. Her red lipstick was the perfect shade for her pale skin. Grace was pulled together with frightening precision and spoke with an accent so slight Josie might have missed it if she hadn't been hanging on every curious word that came out of the woman's mouth. She was East Coast neurotic all over. That, in and of itself, was strange considering Matthew was as West Coast as a body could get.

''I ordered you a beer. Matthew said you liked beer.'' Grace tipped her head back and a plume of smoke seeped from between her berry-colored lips.

''That's illegal in California. You can't smoke in restaurants.'' Josie gave a nod to the cigarette.

''The waitress smokes. She brought me her ashtray from the back room. You won't turn me in to the police, will you?''

Grace cut her eyes slyly toward Josie, inviting her to share a giggle at this bit of naughtiness. It would have seemed a little girl trick if the glint in her eye wasn't so sharp, if there didn't seem to be a dare to bend the rules lurking in her tone. When Josie didn't react, the smile faded and the cigarette was extinguished. Ground out. Pushed down until the accordioned filter was half-buried in a bed of shredded tobacco. Josie stayed silent. Grace's brow furrowed as she rubbed the bits of the brown stuff from her manicured fingers, talking all the while.

''Then again, maybe you would tell on me. Matthew said you were a letter of the law woman. He said you could be counted on to always do what's right.''

''Do you believe everything Matthew says?''

Josie pushed the beer away, insulted by everything about this woman: her odd small talk, her ladies-who-lunch suit, her giant emerald ring and huge pearl earrings, her assumption that Josie would drink beer for lunch while she sipped ice tea. Grace cut her eyes toward Josie and the conversation seemed to turn adversarial despite the compliments.

''I think there was reason to believe him. He told me you were an amazing woman. He said you put yourself through college on a volleyball scholarship. He said you were beautiful and smart and trustworthy.'' Those black eyes caught Josie's blue ones in the oddest way. It was as if Grace had studied the technique of eye contact but lost the art of it. Josie could see a vacant place in those eyes even as Grace recited her speech with such verve. ''I'm not athletic myself and I know how much Matthew admires that. He told me you were as tall as he was, but I didn't expect you to be so beautiful.''

''I'm not.'' Josie said sharply.

''Handsome then,'' Grace amended in that practiced way women like her could. ''I saw you in the newspaper when you defended that man - the one they said killed the poor boy at the amusement park? The picture didn't do you justice but it was the only one I'd seen. Matthew didn't have a picture of you.''

''I doubt his wife would have appreciated him keeping one around.''

''He wasn't always married,'' Grace reminded her and with the mention of Michelle McCreary, Matthew's wife, the emerald ring turned ‘round and 'round. Only the thumb of Grace's left hand moved as it reached for the ring. Grace seemed oddly unaware of the motion even though it was accompanied by the slightest tic that made her well coiffed head pull up as if someone had bridled her and the bit was painful.

''But he always had a sister.'' Josie reminded her. Then, anxious to shift the spotlight where it belonged, she said: ''Listen, Grace, is it just me or don't you find it just a little disturbing that Matthew led me to believe you were dead?''

''Matthew told me you always wanted to live at the beach. He said you were a bleeding heart. . .'' Grace talked over Josie as if she hadn't spoken. That was the last straw.

''Okay. I don't know why you're here but this conversation is going nowhere. If Matthew wants to see me he can call.'' Josie reached for her purse. She was sliding out of the booth when Grace leaned over the table and stopped Josie as easily as if she had erected a wall.

''Matthew didn't stop thinking about you when he married Michelle,'' she confided. ''He would see you on the television or see a picture in the paper. I could tell what you meant to him. You should know that.''

Josie paused, confused by this little bit of intimate information. Grace's own hands slipped beneath the table and Josie had no doubt the emerald was still whirly-gigging. Annoyed by Grace's liberties, frightened of them because the past was insinuating itself into the present, Josie pulled her lips together in annoyance. Grace's mere presence was rewriting Matthew's history and Josie's right along with it. Archer and Hannah, Billy Zuni and Burt, Faye and Josie's life by the beach could be lost in the backwash as Grace raised the wreckage of a lost love.

''Matthew and me, that was a long time ago,'' Josie muttered. ''And our history is private. Now, if there's something you want, tell me. If you were just curious, you've seen me. And, when you see Matthew, tell him to take care of his own business instead of sending a sister he was ashamed of to say it for him.''

Josie was about to leave, to forget she had ever met the woman, when she realized that Grace was struggling with a revelation of her own. A fascinating play of emotions rippled across her expertly made up face. Her shoulders broadened as if steeling for an assault – or trying to absorb a possibly fatal blow.

''Oh, I see. How ridiculous. I never realized that's what he felt. He's been asham . . .'' She couldn't bring herself to finish that sentence so she started on another. ''I thought he had told you something – enough that you would understand our early relationship.''

Shaking back her black hair, she hid her hurt behind a studied composure and apologized in a modest voice. Her sudden subservience was unsettling. That's when Josie realized Grace McCreary's composure was a sham. She had probably always known the truth but now that it was said and she was devastated. It seemed a living Grace was less important than the memory of Josie. Both of them knew it but it cut one of them to the quick.

''Christ.'' Josie shifted and pulled her purse close, uncomfortable with the turning of this particular tide.

''Christ,'' she muttered again.

''No, it's all right.'' Grace put up a hand to ward off any sympathy. The emerald, slipped to the wrong side of her finger, flashing like some alien sign of peace. ''You mattered to him, I didn't. Please, don't be angry with Matthew. He had his reasons and they aren't important now.''

''Then what is important?''

''Matthew is in trouble. I need you to help him.''

Grace leaned close. Josie could see that her eyelids were dusted with two shades of shadow: silver and chrome. She could see that her liner wasn't black at all but the deepest, richest grey. She saw that Grace McCreary's skin was beautiful and her hair was luxuriously thick. Josie should have been able to admire her but under the scrutiny of those dark, narrow, too close together to be beautiful eyes, Josie was uneasy. She had the feeling she was being drawn into something she wasn't ready for.

''Why would Matthew need anyone's help?'' Josie asked cautiously.

Grace's face lit up like that of a lonely child thrilled to find someone would play with her. She pulled a manila envelope from her purse and pushed it across the table.

''The police don't think Michelle committed suicide. They think Matthew killed her. His own wife, if you can believe it.''

CHAPTER 4

Some say that adults can't remember their childhood; that those who profess to recall a mother's song, a special gift, a poignant moment before they reached the age of reason are only parroting things told to them. Josie knew that was untrue because she remembered being five years old.

When she was five, her family lived in military housing in Texas. Their little house was neat but not perfectly kept. Her mother's stamp was everywhere: a compact by the lamp, a magazine left open, a coffee cup lipstick-stained by her full, wide mouth, a note written in her precise printing with the odd little flourish crossing every ‘t'.

The day Josie remembered clearly was hot as only Texas heat could be. The base was still as only a military installation could be when men have gone off to do important things and women waited at home doing not much at all. Josie's father had been gone a long time so it had just been Josie and her mother in the house. Late that hot morning, though, a man in uniform came to visit. He stood in their house taking to Emily Bates. He never sat down.

Josie wore a pink T-shirt was too big and green dungarees that were too short. She was shoeless and she was quiet. She stood on the patch of hallway that connected the two small bedrooms to the living room. She was half hidden, not because she meant to hide but because she was shy when people came to the house while her father was away.

The officer talked in a voice that reminded Josie of the idling motor of their old car – low and constant and reassuring. Her mother's dress was splashed with yellow daisies; her flat white sandals had jewels on the strap between her painted toes. She stood eye to eye with the man because she was tall. Her shoulders were back. Her hair was pinned up carelessly. She looked beautiful but that was all she looked. She didn't smile when the man talked nor did she frown. Emily didn't answer him back and seemed to be only half listening. When he was finished talking, the man waited. When Emily still didn't say anything, he left.

Josie's mother went after him a second later but stopped at the screen door, watching until she was satisfied he was gone. She put her fingers on the screen as if gauging the strength of it. Josie inched into the living room, sticking close to the wall, watching her mother. Finally, Emily closed the front windows and drew the shades despite the heat. When she was finished, she walked to her bedroom, seemingly lost in her own thoughts. Yet, when she passed, her hand slipped over her daughter's silky hair and Emily murmured:

''Don't ever let them know you're surprised, baby.''

The words were like liquid. They washed over Josie who nodded but didn't look up in time to see her mother's sad smile. Emily was already locked behind the closed door of her bedroom. Lickety-split, Josie ran into her room, put her ear against the wall, and pulled her doll blanket up to her chest. Just when she thought her mother had fallen asleep, Josie heard crying. She put her ear tighter to the wall, pulled the blanket closer still and listened until all she heard was silence. It was a day and a lesson Josie would never forget so she kept her gaze steadily on Grace despite her surprise.

''If what you say is true, then I should be talking to Matthew,'' Josie said evenly.

''No, no.'' Grace whispered even though the place was deserted. ''He doesn't even know I'm here. He doesn't think anything is wrong at all. But I know there are people who would use Michelle's death to cast aspersions on Matthew. People can be cruel, even the ones closest to you.'' Grace's voice dropped to intimacy. ''But, of course, you know that, don't you? I mean, your mother.''

Josie ignored the personal reference. Her history was none of Grace's business and Matthew had been wrong to share it.

''Matthew's in a tight race for the nomination but it's hard to believe that there's a conspiracy to take him out of the primary on the back of his dead wife. Besides, the death was investigated. It was suicide.''

''Then why haven't the police let us back into the penthouse? Why have they interviewed us so often? They even talked to Tim Douglas, Matthew's campaign manager.'' Grace didn't wait for an answer. ''I can tell you why. It's because the police want to find something wrong. Someone is manipulating them.''

''Or the police are being thorough,'' Josie countered but Grace McCreary's paranoia could not be stopped.

''Or the detective in charge – his name is Babcock – '' Grace nudged the envelope another inch. ''Maybe he wants to make a name for himself. I've seen it a hundred times. A small man wanting to bring down someone larger than life; a woman wanting to attach herself to a powerful man. People can be so petty and selfish. Loyalty is the exception. Please,'' she begged, ''I just need you to look into this. If they have nothing, then stop this harassment. If there is a problem, then tell me so I can get our lawyers involved.''

''Why wait? Matthew's swimming in money. You've probably got a small army of attorney's who can handle this with a phone call.''

''They all have agendas.'' Grace overrode Josie's advice. ''Information can be leaked. If the papers got wind of this, they would have a field day. It would be so tawdry. Right now Matthew is enjoying a bounce from the sympathy factor after Michelle's death. If people thought he was actually involved, though, if it was even suggested. . .'' Grace shook her head soulfully as if to say he might as well be as dead as his wife. ''Please, just look at what I've brought you. Please.''

She took a few sheets of paper out of the envelope and laid them out like the dealer's hand. A crime scene report. A clean copy of the coroner's report. Matthew's schedule for the day Michelle McCreary threw herself off the balcony of their penthouse. Another schedule for a man named Tim Douglas.

Now and again Grace McCreary looked up to gauge Josie's interest and she was pleased with what she saw. Curiosity had gotten the better of Josie Bates. She was curious about the man she once loved, about this resurrected sister, about his dead wife. Josie was interested for all the wrong reasons and that kind of curiosity was like throwing a boulder into the quiet pond of her life. The ripples would rock every boat she had floating and Josie wasn't sure she wanted to take a chance on capsizing even one.

''I don't think I can help you,'' she shied away gracefully but even she heard the shadow of uncertainty in her voice. She cleared her throat and began again. ''I work solo. My only back up is Faye Baxter, she owns a neighborhood firm in Hermosa Beach. The investigator I use isn't even in the country. My life is very different than it was when I knew Matthew. There's a lot at stake here and you need a lawyer with the resources to deal with it.''

''No, I need someone who will have Matthew's best interests at heart,'' Grace pleaded. ''I'm just asking for a couple of hours, a short conversation with the detective in charge.''

Josie drummed her fingers on the table as her eyes swept over the information again. Grace had a point. This was a no-sweat deal. More billable hours could be created out of nothing than normal folk could imagine. Still, there was one problem with taking this job.

''Look, it's not the work or the time I'm worried about. The problem is you can't hire me on Matthew's behalf. If he wants me to check this out then he'll have to hire me. I'm sorry.''

Josie swung her legs out from under the table. She was ready to go but Grace McCreary took her hand. She took it like a little girl and looked up at Josie with those worldly eyes of hers. Those eyes were bright with an almost frantic neediness that Josie had seen in Hannah's not all that long ago.

''Please, don't go. Help me. I really love Matthew. I thought you still did, too.''

Josie was transfixed by the other woman's voice, her jewels, the quickness of mind that seemed to be in perpetual motion, the constant changing of her tactics. Grace dropped Josie's hand as if she suddenly realized the other woman's aversion to such a liberty. They looked at one another a second longer. It was Grace who broke the spell. She picked up her cigarettes. Josie wasn't sure if this was a diversion to hide the embarrassment of begging and being passed by or calculated strategy but it was amazing to see.

''I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. And you're right. This is business.'' She had a cigarette between the fingers of one hand; her lighter was in the other. She offered a solution. ''I would like to hire you on behalf of the Committee to Elect Matthew McCreary to the United States Senate. This is a committee which I head. The committee would like you to determine if there is some pending police action that might harm our ability to function on my brother's behalf.''

With that, Grace McCreary dipped her head toward the lighter's flame and, as she did so, it illuminated her face. In the glow, her lashes slashed deep, spidery shadows over her cheeks, her nose seemed to narrow and lengthen, her cheeks hollowed. When Grace raised her head again she held the cigarette away, snapped the lighter shut and looked up at the ceiling. The smoke curled upwards as she spoke.

''Besides, you're interested. If you weren't, you would have left long ago.'' Grace lowered her chin, looked at Josie and said: ''Admit it. You were never really going to walk away, were you?''

CHAPTER 5

Josie stood on the sidewalk beside an old woman. The old woman wore a flowered dress, sensible shoes and held a polka dot umbrella to protect her against a blazing fall sun. Together they watched the body of a woman hurtle through the air from the top floor of the fancy apartment building. The old lady let out a little squeal when the body hit. She jerked around as if she expected Josie to gather her into her arms, realized what she was doing and recoiled with another little squeak before they made contact. Josie smiled. Disconcerted, the old lady hurried on as fast as her legs could take her.

Sliding off her Ray Bans, Josie went the opposite direction, chuckling all the way into the building. The display had been damn impressive – just about as impressive as the lobby of this building overlooking Long Beach's pristine shoreline. The entrance was chiseled out of white marble and warm woods then iced over with cool metal. The elevator was roomy and quick. At the top floor the doors slid back to reveal a private entrance hall that led to the open door of Matthew McCreary's penthouse home.

Josie was no stranger to the trappings of wealth. Money had been her constant companion before she walked away from the kind of clients that made lawyers rich. After defending Kristin Davis – a woman who killed her husband with an impressive casualness and her children just after Josie successfully defended her for the first murder – Josie Bates knew she was not a champion who could be bought merely for money. Still, she had a great appreciation for the things it could buy and the things Matthew McCreary's money bought were exquisite: a spacious penthouse with canary colored walls, white moldings, floral sofas, Louis the XIV chairs covered in plaid silk washed with the colors of a summer sea. Oriental rugs. Real art. Big bucks. So different from the way he and Josie had lived.

When Josie lived with Matthew they traveled light with their money: big spaces, minimal furniture, maximum indulgences. Sex, friends, food. They were successful and sought after. They were brilliantly suited because of their age, their intelligence, and their accomplishments. They were hungry for success so they cut a swath through their respective industries: Matthew turning his father's tech business into an empire and Josie topped the list of go-to criminal attorneys when you were bad, wealthy and didn't want to pay for what you'd done. That was a long time ago; a time she thought she had forgotten. But now, standing in this place where Matthew lived his wife, Josie was amazed to find there was still hurt and regret to be had.

Matthew had not only chosen a life diametrically opposed to the one he shared with Josie, he had chosen a woman who was the antithesis of her.. Michelle McCreary was as petite as Josie was tall, as refined as Josie was self-reliant, as stylish as Josie was careless of the rules of fashion. Funny, Josie had always imagined Matthew with a woman who reminded him of her. Michelle McCreary's portrait hung above the fireplace. Her image smiled graciously down on Josie as if she understood it was hard to lose

Josie turned away from the picture and crossed the cavernous living room, went out on the huge balcony, pulled up beside the man she was looking for and parked her arms on the balcony wall. Rather than look at him, she leaned over to watch the activity below.

The jumper who had fallen through the air minutes earlier lay unmoving on the huge inflatable mattress that had been precisely positioned below the penthouse. A Matrix Stunts truck was parked on the plaza. Two uniformed cops kept looky-loos at bay. It was quite a production and Josie gave Grace McCreary credit for her intuition. The Long Beach Police Department was spending a pretty penny investigating Michelle McCreary's suicide.

''This is a crime scene. Invitation only.'' The redhead detective next to Josie never took his eyes off the woman on the mattress as he spoke.

''That's funny. Since the coroner released the body and allowed a burial, I would assume I'm standing at the scene of a tragic suicide. That would mean you're the one trespassing.''

Josie swiveled her head. The detective did the same. Josie smiled, the detective did not. Yet behind his long red/blond lashes, the detective's hazel eyes registered a blip of amusement. His poker face was admirable and tough to pull off for a guy who looked like he did: porcelain skin that wouldn't last more than a minute at the beach, red hair shot with bronze, freckles. Josie couldn't quite pinpoint what made the difference between him looking like an escapee from Mayberry and a man a woman would like to know better. Whatever it was, it was potent.

''Josie Baylor-Bates. Attorney.'' She gave him a nod.

''Babcock. Detective, Long Beach PD.'' He graced her with courteous smile.

''What are you doing?'' she asked.

He straightened but kept his eyes on the ground below and his hand on the stucco balustrade.

''Testing the trajectory of Mrs. McCreary's fall.'' Before Josie could ask why he would be doing that, someone else joined the conversation.

''Want to do it again?''

Josie looked over her shoulder. Framed in the doorway was a small woman with horrid hair and high color in her cheeks. Babcock patted the balcony rail.

''If you wouldn't mind, Honey.''

Josie cocked her head. The detective caught her look as the woman squeezed between them. She seemed bored as she balanced on the wall and Babcock positioned her. Then she noticed Josie expression.

''Lighten up, lady. Honey's my name,'' she drawled before turning to Babcock. ''Whenever you're ready, sweetie.''

With one hand on the woman's shoulder Babcock winked at Honey and pushed. She fell silently, calm and serene as she hit the blow-up mattress hard. Babcock's team scurried around to take measurements and outline the angle of her landing one more time.

''Amazing what some people do to make a living,'' Josie clucked.

''It's better than the dummy they used investigating that incident in the Valley. That testimony was useless when they got to court. Dead weight doesn't fall the same as a live person.''

''Sounds like you're planning to go to court,'' Josie noted.

''I'm not planning anything.'' He smiled a lovely, old world smile that didn't impress Josie one bit. Sweeping a hand in front of him, he ushered her back inside.

''Then you won't mind cooperating,'' Josie asked as she walked ahead of him.

''I wasn't aware I was being uncooperative. Mr. McCreary said he was eager to find out exactly what happened to his wife, and I'm doing my best to discover that.''

''Really and when, exactly, did Mr. McCreary say that?''

Babcock turned left into the master bedroom. Josie paused in the doorway. Babcock was standing over a champagne colored evening dress crumpled on the floor, his brow furrowed as if he couldn't quite figure out what this said about the night – or the woman – in question. Josie looked away, letting her eyes wander to the bed. A lavender satin negligee was laid out neatly. Michelle McCreary had intended to go to bed it seemed. But that's not what Josie was thinking about as her bottom lip disappeared between her teeth and she felt a flush of embarrassment. Both gowns – so feminine, so sexy - would have been worn for Matthew and that was a man Josie didn't know. Josie's Matthew liked things simple. Straightforward. Bare. That's how Josie had gone to their bed. She cleared her throat. She had almost forgotten why she was there. Babcock looked up.

''You're out of line, here, detective. My client indicated that Mr. McCreary was never asked for permission to search the premises.''

''We're re-enacting, not searching.'' His shoulders rotated, his fingers flicked in the general direction of the balcony.

''You've dusted,'' Josie countered. ''I can see the residue. I imagine you've looked in a few places that were off limits without a warrant.''

''That's what we do when we're called to a scene where there is high profile, violent death. We still might be examining a crime scene.''

''You're the only one who seems to think so. You've kept Mr. McCreary from his home without any explanation of why you think an investigation is necessary.''

''It's my responsibility to investigate. I was told Mr. McCreary would be going to San Francisco for a while. Mr. Douglas gave me his schedule but didn't ask that I vacate the premises. That indicates to me that Mr. McCreary and his staff are anxious to assist us.''

Babcock ticked off his list as he circled the bedroom. Finally, to Josie's relief, he exited to the living room. She turned on her heel and stayed close to argue her point.

''Come on, Babcock. Whatever you're looking for it isn't here if you haven't found it by now. Clear the premises or you'll be the one with the problem. Matthew McCreary had nothing to do with his wife's death.''

''Did I indicate he was a person of interest?'' Babcock raised a brow with the look of a tolerant man who had heard everything and knew he was doomed to hear it again.

''Actions speak louder than words,'' she reminded him. ''You've got a production going on outside that looks like you're putting together an exhibit that would give the DA a wet dream. Since when does the LBPD pick up a tab like that for a suicide?''

''Are you a criminal lawyer, Ms. Bates?'' Babcock buttoned his jacket - navy over a pair of perfectly pressed khakis. A white shirt. An old school tie. An American flag pin on his lapel. He was central casting at its best.

''Do you read the newspapers, detective?'' She countered, even knowing that the matter of Timothy Wren's death and Hannah's trial for murdering her step-grandfather, a California Supreme Court Justice, before that were now only media memories. Other trials, other horrible crimes, more flamboyant attorneys had been in the public eye of late while Josie kept to the ever day matters of every day people.
''I try not to,'' Babcock said easily, moving constantly. ''It just strikes me as odd that you're concerned about my investigation. Why would Matthew McCreary feel the need to hire a criminal lawyer to stop me from doing what I'm doing? All he had to do was pick up a phone and ask me.''

''If Matthew McCreary had hired me I suppose I would wonder, too. But he didn't. I work for the Committee to Elect Mr. McCreary because they understand that perception is everything in politics. The perception of the committee is that you are dragging your feet trying to make something out of nothing. You've got the deceased's fingerprints, her husband's, his sister, his campaign manager's all over this place. You've got a few unidentified partials that will probably match the cleaning lady and some friends of the McCreary's. Those people had reason to be here and are proof of nothing.''

''Anything else?'' Babcock asked, amused and impressed that she had read the files.

''The coroner indicated Michelle McCreary had wounds on parts of her body that were inconsistent with the impact,'' Josie said, obliging him. ''So what? You get some expert to testify that they were made by an assailant, and I could get ten experts to say they were the result of a clumsy jump, or an attempt to save herself because she changed her mind at the last minute. It's all smoke and mirrors.''

''So this committee would like me to pack up my toys and go home because you like your interpretation of the facts better than you like my questions?'' Babcock suggested.

''Come on.'' Josie rolled her eyes. ''You have better things to do than this. Either someone is pulling your strings to make political hay, or your department is worried because this is big and nobody in Long Beach knows how to handle it so you're covering your ass.''

''Are those my only two options?'' Babcock asked.

''I would say so. Look, unless you get the D.A. to issue a search warrant or an arrest warrant this looks like harassment. I can make an awful stink about politics and the police. I know what reporters want to hear and I'm not stopping with the Press Telegram. I'll talk to anyone who will listen because Mr. McCreary's tragedy is of statewide, if not national, interest now that this primary is heating up. Your chief won't like what I have to say, the D.A. won't like it and, I promise, you won't like it.''

Josie shrugged as if to say she was willing to give Babcock a break. Compared to Los Angeles, Long Beach was just a sleepy city on the edge of the ocean and Josie hadn't forgotten how to work the system.

''I don't even like thinking about it,'' Babcock answered amiably. ''But I also don't care to be threatened. Nor do I like leaving a job unfinished. Mrs. McCreary was from a very old and wealthy family whose land holdings go back to the time when this area was nothing but rancheros. Nobody in Long Beach is going to like the messenger who brings bad news about her or her husband.''

''So all this is about covering your bases?''

''It's about a dead woman. If I have questions about how or why Michelle McCreary died I will ask them. I owe her that much. If this was your mother or sister, wouldn't you want to know the truth?''

''Some truths are subjective,'' Josie snapped, surprised that Babcock's little dart had pricked her at all. If that had been Emily Bates, Josie would have left no stone unturned to find the truth about her life and death.

But Michelle McCreary wasn't Josie's mother and her job was very simple. She needed to get Babcock back on track but he was gazing at the forest of the high-rises that had changed the profile of Ocean Boulevard, the sapphire ocean that sparkled under a clear sky and naked sun. He looked sad.

''Don't try to figure out which way the wind blows, Babcock. Let Michelle McCreary rest in peace and her husband get on with business. What you're doing now is cruel,'' Josie suggested, sure that compromise was near. It wasn't.

''Did you know her?'' he asked softly, turning his amber eyes on Josie.

''No.'' Josie shook her head.

''I never had the pleasure, either.'' Babcock's gaze was drawn to the window again as if he could just make Michelle McCreary out behind the curtain of wispy clouds. ''I saw her, though. Michelle McCreary was a beautiful young woman with everything to live for and, yet, she left nothing to indicate why she killed herself. Not a note. Not a message scrawled on the wall. Most suicides want people to know what kind of pain they were in or they want to point a finger at someone or apologize for something they did. Most of them have histories of self-destructive behavior. Drug use. Severe mental problems. So far, I've found nothing to tell me why she might have jumped.''

''And some suicides leave everyone guessing,'' Josie countered.

''Not this one. If she had a reason, I would have found it. And, I haven't found it so, perhaps, she didn't jump.'' Babcock was decisive and passionate but Josie diluted his speculation with common sense.

''You haven't found a reason for her suicide because Michelle McCreary that jump was a thing of the moment. She might have fallen. She couldn't have left anything behind because she wasn't planning on dying. Either way, there was no crime.''

''She was too short to fall from the balcony unless she was standing on one of the chairs around the table and lost her balance.''

Babcock smiled tightly and she saw that those eyes of his had something strange preserved in them. Conscience, maybe? A soul? Then again, perhaps it was as simple as the reflection of intelligence and integrity. Whatever it was seemed to have made this investigation a crusade and Josie didn't like evangelical cops.

''Maybe that's what happened.'' Josie muttered, giving her watch a quick check as much to break their connection as to note the time. She had another fifteen minutes. Babcock, however, seemed to have all the time in the world.

''The chairs were around the table. Two were pushed out slightly as if they had been used and not put back properly. Unfortunately, they weren't close enough to the edge of the balcony that Mrs. McCreary could have fallen even if she was standing on one of them.'' He came back smoothly and continued to think aloud. ''Even if I accept the premise that she might have fallen, I'd have to ask myself, what would she be doing standing on a chair in her lingerie?''

''There's an evening dress on the floor in her bedroom. She had been out. People have a few drinks. They get silly,'' Josie assured him. ''They get careless.''

''But she hadn't been out and, from what I understand, Mrs. McCreary wasn't careless. Just the opposite. She was very organized and methodical.'' Babcock smiled gently. ''But of course I've only spoken with a few of the people who were close to her. I am extrapolating given how she ran her household. But most people run their household quite like their lives, don't you think?''

Josie thought of her own home, a work in progress, an extension of her life. He was dead on right but still she wouldn't budge.

''How she arranges her kitchen isn't important. The people close to her are satisfied that this was suicide, the coroner is satisfied. Look, there could be a million reasons why she jumped and all women don't keep diaries. I don't write anything down that I don't want to show up in a court of law. Give me a break, detective, you don't have a thing.''

''But I'd like to have something, Ms. Bates.'' The angle of his head, the expression on his face made Babcock look like a priest trying to hold onto his faith despite his experience with the ways of the world. ''Mrs. McCreary was in the prime of her life. She was smart, quietly personable. By all accounts, beyond the expected pressure of a public life, her marriage showed no signs of strain. She visited a psychiatrist and took medication to stabilize a normal depression that could be explained by a chemical imbalance. A million people do that everyday and they don't walk off a balcony. So why did she? Why did she?''

Josie no longer seemed to be part of the conversation. Babcock wandered outside again. The Matrix Stunts truck had moved on. The plaza was empty. Traffic on Ocean was moving at a good clip and Detective Babcock had another thought. He also remembered Josie. He turned to her. She lingered in the doorway.

''You know, Ms. Bates, Mrs. McCreary might not have wanted her husband to find her note too early. Then he might have stopped her. Perhaps she sent something to his office or his campaign headquarters where it would be lost in the daily deluge of correspondence. Perhaps there's something in their home up north that hasn't been found. It wouldn't take long to check it all - with Mr. McCreary's permission, naturally. Then I think I could close this. Once I was satisfied that there was absolutely nothing to find.''

Josie's lips twitched. She reached up and pulled her fingers through the long bangs that swept across her forehead. There was sweat at her hairline. It was an excruciatingly hot day but this little meeting had just cooled off. She smiled at her new friend. She loved a smart man.

''You are so good, Babcock. I almost bought your choir boy act about being concerned for the victim.''

Josie ambled out and joined him at the balcony wall. She put her hands on it and leaned back loving the smell of the sea and the bite of a breeze at this height. It was a beautiful view. The sea was defined by the peaks of the whitecaps and brushed horizon, the sky by the brush of the clouds. Oil islands sat just offshore looking like little lands of Oz, palm trees disguising the derricks. Josie pulled her chin up a bit.

''You don't have a thing on Matthew McCreary, do you?''

''No, I actually don't have anything on the gentleman,'' Babcock confirmed.

''How have you been getting in here?''

''Mr. McCreary told the manager that we could have anything we needed.''

''And exactly when did he make that offer?'' Josie faced him full on, her hip against the wall that kept her from the same fate as Matthew's wife.

''I believe it was the night Mrs. McCreary died,'' Babcock answered honestly.

''A man in shock makes a simple statement just before he has to arrange for his suicidal wife's funeral and you take that as carte blanche?'' Josie laughed incredulously but Babcock was not embarrassed.

''He wanted to help.''

''Well, let me make a suggestion. Ask Mr. McCreary one more time if you can have access to his home or his office or his campaign headquarters. Only this time tell him you're investigating a homicide, not a suicide. See what he says then.''

''And if Mr. McCreary is reluctant to assist us that would certainly pique my curiosity.''

''As uncomfortable as it is for a man's curiosity to be piqued, I can't sympathize. This has been interesting, Detective,'' Josie said, amused that he had tried to intimidate her. ''Get a warrant or close up shop. And I mean before the end of business today.''

Josie stood tall, shifted her shoulder bag and said her goodbyes. Babcock politely responded and they parted without another word. Josie headed to her car, noting that she had lost most of the day. The detour from the San Pedro Courthouse to Long Beach hadn't taken long but add in her time with Grace and the commute back to Hermosa and she would be cutting it close to get to Hannah's exhibit before the festivities began. It would be a long, hot drive across the Vincent Thomas Bridge and the one lane wind through the horse properties of Rolling Hills. Hopefully, Pacific Coast Highway through Torrance and Redondo wouldn't be backed up. This was Hannah's night and Josie wasn't going to screw it up for anyone – not even Matthew McCreary.

CHAPTER 6

Horace Babcock watched Josie Baylor-Bates leave. It was a pleasure he indulged in without prurient interest. While he could appreciate her handsomeness, his tastes ran to a more lady-like woman: the kind who preferred dresses, whose hair was long and soft, who understood that making a cup of tea could border on art. It was hard to find that kind of woman in Southern California but Horace never gave up trying. Meanwhile, he honed his powers of observation by appreciating women in much the same way he appreciated wandering room to room at the Getty Museum. Art, after all, was art; beauty came in many guises.

As impressions went, Josie Bates's attractiveness was particularly heady. One seldom saw an extraordinarily tall woman who carried herself well and confidently: shoulders back, head held high. Very proud. Very self-assured. She walked from the hips, taking long strides, wearing heels that added more to her already impressive height. Very comfortable. Her body was honed like an athlete. Her voice had a resonance that added weight to her words but her ability to articulate what she wanted made an impact.

She had money.

Evidence: her well cut clothes, the fine leather of her purse and shoes, the fact that she was unimpressed with this place.

She was practical.

Evidence: her nails were short; her hair shorter.

Josie Bates didn't care about the money she had nor did she share it with anyone.

Evidence: no jewelry, no tan line from a wedding ring, no frantic sense that she should have one.

There was one thing that Babcock noted with great interest, though. While Josie Baylor-Bates was an interesting lady to spend forty-five minutes with and, while she would be a formidable adversary, she also had a flaw. She walked without looking around, focused only on the thing that held her attention: the door, him, the opening that would close an argument, the argument that would close an investigation. She stopped when she assumed she'd won instead of when the fight was actually over. That was a notable observation for Horace Babcock. He never stopped until he made sure the fight was over.

Standing on the balcony, waiting until she crossed the plaza, Babcock smiled as he saw her get into a black Jeep. The top was down. The interior was black. When the Jeep nosed out onto Ocean Boulevard, made a daring and illegal U-turn and took off like a jack rabbit for the Bridge, Babcock walked through the McCreary home one last time.

Despite the grandeur, it seemed shabby and lonely. It was as if Michelle McCreary had left a vacuum that sucked the life out of this place when she jumped. Yet Babcock could still detect that part of her was left behind: the lingering scent of a perfume, a sadness that he could feel as clearly as if it were a mist on a California winter morning. He knew those things belonged to Michelle McCreary. She was the kind of woman he would have liked to have known.

With quick steps he crossed the living room and let himself out. In the hall, Detective Horace Babcock locked the door. He would not be coming back again. He dialed his cell phone. On the other end a cheery girl welcomed him to the campaign headquarters for Matthew McCreary, the next Democratic candidate for the U.S. Senate. Mr. McCreary was not in. Babcock spoke to Tim Douglas who was happy to relay the message that Mr. McCreary could return to the penthouse. Babcock did not mention Josie Bates's visit.

The traffic outside had thinned and the wide boulevard that ribboned the coast was pleasantly quiet. The windows of the high-rises glinted in the bright afternoon light. Babcock knew it was terribly hot but heat didn't bother him. His parents said his tolerance was genetic, passed down from his great-grandfather, an Irishman who spent many years in India.

The real estate in this area was made up of office buildings and high-rise condominiums that couldn't be built fast enough to satisfy the demand to live near the water. Many had big pots on the balconies that sprouted trees or bubbled with flowers. Afternoon shadows cut building facades into fanciful fractions of light and dark serrations. Babcock glanced up to Michelle McCreary's balcony, wondering again what her last thought had been when she took that fateful step. There were no units beside hers so there was no neighbor to see or hear her last moments. The people on the tenth floor had been questioned. They heard nothing. Mr. Jorgensen had been on the ground and privy only to the sounds and surprise of impact. This was Long Beach, not New York, so there was no guard to log in visitors, no doorman to take note of Mrs. McCreary's demeanor in the days leading up to her death. The security cameras on the main floor were not functioning that day.

According to her husband, they had only disagreed about his schedule. Indeed, he had been away from home much of the time. Mrs. McCreary had kept to her normal appointments: hair, nails, fittings. She spoke to some friends but, in the final days before her death, her calendar had been free, her phone log minimal and the security cameras had not recorded her leaving her home. According to friends, she often removed herself from social activities and indulged in extreme privacy.

Babcock's eyes panned across the small street that intersected Ocean Boulevard and dead-ended at the beach. He looked up at the first building that came into his line of sight. The second. The third was his destination. He had been going to that building since the day of the incident in an attempt to talk to one of the people who had called emergency services. Nine-one-one received three calls within seconds of one another. Two of those callers had been checked out and had nothing of interest to say. The third person proved elusive and that was curious. That person was the first to call for help and the last who wanted to talk to a human being. She lived in the building where the balconies were angled on the side of the building like wings and the view was expansive. The phone was registered to a woman who lived on the eleventh floor directly across from the McCreary penthouse.

Babcock knew there was probably nothing to be learned from that caller since they would have already shared their information is they had it. Still, it was a loose end and loose ends made him uneasy. He crossed the street and opened the door of the building. He held it open for an elderly couple. The woman was brisk; the man a bit slower. The man tipped his baseball cap and murmured his thanks. Babcock waited with them at the elevator, rode up to the fifth floor where they exited and then watched as the digital numbers counted off the next six floors.

Babcock walked down the hall to the corner unit, knocked on the door and waited. Nothing. Babcock rang. This time his ears pricked. There was someone on the other side of the door. He knocked once more, louder still, until, finally, the door opened a crack. The eyes peering out at him were angry and suspicious. There were two chains across the door, neither strong enough to keep him out if he wanted in.

''I'm Detective Horace Babcock with the Long Beach Police Department. I was wondering if I might have a minute of your time.''

''I don't have to say anything. You can't make me. I've talked to my lawyer,'' the woman behind the door warned.

Babcock smiled sweetly.

''I'm here. I'm here.''

Josie called out to Hannah before she even had the key out of the lock. Max-the-Dog struggled to his feet, his tail wagging, happy as a puppy to see her. Josie bent down and ruffled his jowls and got a lick back for her efforts.

''Good boy. Is she mad?'' Josie muttered and then cooed once more. ''Good boy.''

''No, she is not mad and she wouldn't have been a lunatic if you didn't make it home in time.''

Hannah Sheraton, Josie's charge, stood framed in the doorway of her bedroom – the room that used to be Josie's office. Dark skinned, green eyed, black hair spiraling down her back and spilling over her shoulders, Hannah was as beautiful as the first time Josie had seen her in prison incarcerated for a murder she didn't commit. And, like the first time, Hannah's demons made themselves known as she tapped out a tune Josie had come to know well.

Twenty notes on the door jamb or anything else within reach. Her obsession with checking her boundaries wasn't as frantic as it once had been; the compulsion to touch was not as tortuous. Still Hannah's fear of being left alone, forgotten or thrown away by adults stuck in her mind like the residue of a nightmare. Yet the touching and worrying were small burdens compared to the way Hannah used to cut herself, slicing her skin to let the terror of abandonment and abuse flow from her along with her own blood. Thankfully, the cutting had stopped – or so Josie hoped.

''I had a little unexpected business.'' Matter-of-factly Josie peeled off her jacket and tossed it on a chair as she went to Hannah, took the girl's hands in her own. Josie looked directly into those green eyes the way the psychiatrist said she should. ''I never forgot about your opening. Give me some credit for a fast learning curve, okay?''

''Okay.'' Hannah laughed once while still trying to remain aloof. The teenager nodded once. . .twice. . .five times. ''I wasn't worried.''

Josie dropped Hannah's hand though the doctor had said it would be better to weather the entire episode in contact with her. But Josie was wary of such intimacy and unused to Hannah's constant vigilance. She was not a mother, just a better alternative than the mother Hannah had drawn or a system of child services that wouldn't give Hannah the time of day.

''So, I'm a little nervous about your opening, too. I bet this is the way the mother of the prom queen feels.'' Josie retrieved her jacket and talked over her shoulder on her way to her bedroom. Hannah followed, giving Josie some distance but not too much.

''Except you're not my mother, and I'm not the prom queen.'' Hannah raised her voice as Josie disappeared into her room.

''Thank God for small favors, huh?'' Josie stuck her head through the doorway. ''I'll settle for being the guardian of Hermosa Beach's best new artist. Almost seventeen and you're having your own showing at Gallery C. Not bad.''

''It's not like The Met or anything,'' Hannah nitpicked, uncomfortable with the praise, proud of her accomplishment but fearful of drawing down bad karma if she rejoiced aloud.

''Archer didn't call, did he?'' Josie hollered.

''Nope. I'll take Max out while you get ready. We have to leave like instantly, you know.''

Hannah raised her voice. She picked up the frayed neon pink leash Max-the-Dog had been wearing when Josie found him cold, lost and hungry under the pier. It was the only leash he would ever have if Josie had her way. Like the decorative hula girl plates hanging in the dining room that were Josie's link to her mother, that leash was the only link to Max's past.

''Five minutes. I promise.''

Josie changed fast. The brown suit she had worn to court was tossed aside in favor of black drawstring pants, flat sandals, a white cotton crop top, the sleeves banded by fabric salvaged from an antique kimono. She splashed water on her hair, gelled it back. It had been a winning day. Kevin O'Connel brought to justice and a few lucrative billable hours to Grace McCreary who was delighted to hear that all was well. Hannah couldn't miss tonight.

Josie swiped gloss on her lips, added hoop earrings and found herself thinking again about Grace McCreary. Their conversation ended with the promise of a check and no mention of Matthew. Not that there should have been; not that Josie was expecting it. Still, it was odd to have been so close to him again and yet make no contact.

Sinking onto the bed, Josie put her hand on the phone and looked through the French doors to the patio and the garden beyond. She was proud of her work-in-progress home. Matthew would never believe how handy she had become. Her gaze wandered back inside to the leather chair, the bed with its white duvet and mounds of pillows. She smoothed the comforter. Though her thoughts had gone to Matthew, she was really missing Archer.

Josie wondered if he was missing her, too. Maybe he was thinking that shooting pictures alone in the Sonoran Desert for a month was no way to heal the wounds inflicted by his dead wife's betrayal. Maybe he was wondering why Josie hadn't called. She picked up the phone and punched out the number to Archer's cell but before she hit the dial button the front door opened and Hannah called.

''Josie, come on. We're going to be late.''

Reluctantly, Josie held the phone away from her ear. Archer was as close as the next ring but she couldn't wait..

''Okay. Okay,'' she sighed. ''Let's go shake up the art world.''

Slowly Josie got up, smoothed her pants and chalked up another experience to that ritual of surrogate parenthood: child before self, before love, before everything. Not that it mattered. Archer could wait. He was always there for her.

CHAPTER 7

Grace McCreary stood in the darkened knave of St. Anthony's Church and watched a woman kneel, make the sign of the cross and bow her head to do penance for her sins. She had come from the confessional, the ornate little boxes in which sins and secrets. This was an old fashioned way to confess, Grace knew. Most people liked to sit with the priest face to face and tell their sins. Grace preferred the idea of going into the little room where the priest couldn't see you and would pretend not to know you even if he recognized your voice.

That's what Michelle had told Grace about the confessional. Michelle told Grace that God knew your sins but you always had to tell the priest if you wanted to be forgiven. Grace liked the notion that a man could release a person from guilt, wipe away the dark places of a heart and settle a tortured mind. Michelle was always happier, more content and easier to be with after she confessed. At least she was until she thought she had committed another sin.

But Grace wondered what the plain person kneeling in front of the altar had to confess. A sharp word? A bad thought? A minor infraction hardly seemed worth the effort of saying out loud the thing that had offended God.

''Excuse me. May I help you?''

Startled, Grace turned to find that a priest had come upon her, silently, stealthily, skillfully. Over one arm he held a white robe trimmed in gold; in his other hand he held a golden cup. He was young and unattractive except for his eyes. Behind his less-than-fashionable glasses his eyes sparkled as if he was excited to be about the business of God.

''No. No,'' Grace said quietly. ''I was just looking.''

‘Oh, that's great. Look all you want. In fact, I hope you'll stay. It's an hour until Mass but I can promise you a rousing sermon if you hang around. Definitely one to keep you awake.''

Grace shook her head. She smiled slightly at his eagerness even though it made her uneasy.

''No. Thank you. I came. . .'' her voice trailed off. Grace wasn't sure why she was in the church but now that she had spoken the young priest was listening. She took a breath and started again. ''I came to see Father Sidney. My sister-in-law said he was a good man to speak with.''

''Oh, I'm sorry, he's gone on sabbatical. I'd be happy to take a moment if you like. I'm not as wise at Father Sidney but I am a superior listener, if I do say so myself.''

Eager, eager beaver.

His eyes were almost exploding with sincerity and it was enough to blast Grace back. There must have been something in her expression that made the priest realize she did not share his enthusiasm for soul baring. Quickly, he retraced his steps.

''But you're also welcome to just sit and contemplate. Sometimes contemplation is just as good, you know.''

''Yes. Thank you .I think I'll do that,'' Grace murmured.

''So, I'll be off. You just sit. God's casa es su casa, as they say.''

Off he went down the aisle, an absolute spring in his step. He paused to raise a hand and offer the sign of the cross over the woman in the flowered dress. So fervently was she fingering her rosary bead, she didn't seem to notice the blessing. When the young priest was gone, Grace walked slowly down the center aisle. Her eyes slid over the stained glass windows, the statues in their alcoves, the wooden pews, the altar ahead. Her gaze lingered on the Stations of the Cross. Grace had sat in these pews twice: once for her sister-in-law's funeral and once while Michelle contemplated these pictures. Michelle had even managed to make that short pilgrimage dramatic as she raised her beautiful eyes to contemplate what Christ had suffered on her behalf.

Grace cocked her head at the fallen Christ. The weight of the cross he bore was so heavy that he crumpled beneath it. Her eyes clicked right. Christ on the cross. There was a picture of a dead Christ in his mother's arms. She looked back to the fallen god – man - god. Grace understood how man could be god and still frail; sinful and still offer salvation. Grace understood the weight of a cross because she bore one so heavy that it threatened to crush her.

It was then that despair seemed to be a living thing. It put its arms around Grace and squeezed. Her breath was suddenly loud and the kneeling woman whipped her head around. She was upset her prayers had been disturbed. Grace blinked. No, that wasn't right. The kneeling woman still caressed her rosary, her eyes were still closed, her head was still bent. Grace trembled. How horrible that she had imagined the woman's anger. A pious woman would not look her way while in the throes of prayer. Grace put a hand to her chest and then to her cheeks. They burned with embarrassment. She was a fool. She wanted to hide. She didn't want anyone to see her and she didn't want that priest coming back to help her.

Trying to get to the side door, Grace started to sidestep through the pew but stumbled and fell. One knee struck wood, the other the padding on the kneeler. Righting herself, Grace put a hand on the back of the pew and looked over her shoulder toward the back. The main entrance was shadowed and ominous looking. Now the woman at the front of the church was rising. In a moment she would turn and see Grace's panic. She might put her hand out to help but Grace didn't want help. She wanted an escape.

Suddenly, the door of the confessional opened. A young boy emerged. He had barely cleared the door when Grace scrambled forward, twirling into the little room and laying herself against the wall. She was safe in the stillness and the dark.

Shivering, sweat trickling between her breasts, Grace clutched her purse more tightly to keep her hands from shaking. Her lips were dry and her eyes were screwed shut, almost sealed with tears of terror. Terrified of her panic, Grace was also relieved to be blessedly alone. Suddenly, the wall opposite her moved and she cringed further into the shadows. Slowly, a panel slid open exposing an ornate metal grate and a soft yellow light. Behind the grate was a man. His profile was sharp. He was young, but not as young as the priest she had spoken with. His head was inclined, the fingers of one hand were raised to his chin and his eyes were lowered.

He was dressed in black, a piece of narrow purple satin hung around his neck. He seemed asleep. Grace held her breath and hoped that he did not sense her presence. She was terrified that he would turn his eyes on her and demand to know what she was doing. She wanted him to close the panel as slowly and deliberately as he had opened it and leave her alone in the dark. But the panel stayed open and the priest dropped his hand. Without looking at her, he said:

''You have sinned, my child.''

Slowly, Grace slid down the wall to the floor. There was nothing to do now but tell the truth.

''Yes.''

CHAPTER 8

Everyone who was anyone in Hermosa Beach had been at Hannah's showing. Strike that. Everyone who was anyone, except Josie, was still at Gallery C sipping wine, nibbling on chocolate dipped strawberries and viewing the sum total of Hannah's recent artistic endeavors. Twelve canvases had been hung in the marvelous space that had once been the Bijou Theatre on Hermosa Avenue. Gutted, painted, exquisitely lit, the place was hot, the party cool and Josie was damned proud of Hannah Sheraton.

Billy Zuni had come, shedding his shorts and t-shirt for a polo shirt and khakis. Fancy dress for the teenager save for the leather flip-flops. Josie asked after his mother. She hoped to catch a glimpse of the woman who shut her son out of his own home when she entertained her male friends. Josie was disappointed but not surprised to find that Billy had come alone. Faye Baxter was there, Carla Merriman from the Chamber of Commerce, the mayor, the head of the school board, a sprinkling of friends Hannah had made at Mira Costa High School and Mrs. Crawford, the principal. Burt had left the restaurant in good hands and was squiring a sweet young thing that looked half his age and sounded like a mere child. Jude Getts, gorgeous, rich and happily full of himself, had come from Brentwood and purchased the first painting.

Josie was on her second glass of wine, making her way toward Faye and Hannah when her cell rang. She answered it, fully expecting to hear Archer calling from Mexico, pretending he didn't remember this was a special night, unwilling to admit he had a soft spot for the girl who had turned their very independent lives upside down.

But it wasn't Archer calling. In the minutes it took Josie to process what she was hearing time ground down to a crawl while everything around her came into sharp focus: the petite blonde with a new boob job who moved across the room, leading with her chest, a napkin fallen on the floor, one strawberry left on a platter, a man wearing a wig. Josie felt the strain of her own smile as it faltered and the weight of the phone against her ear. She saw Faye's large body shaking with laughter, her expression turning to concern as she made eye contact with Josie. Hannah's head turning. Her lips moving as she accepted congratulations. Hannah's fingers hitting her denim-clad thigh in a slo-mo count of twenty.

The moment was over as quickly as it had come. Josie squeezed through a worm hole of surprise only to find herself suddenly on the other side of the universe, noise rushing in on her, amplified a thousand percent. She turned toward the wall, put a hand over her ear and hollered into the phone as she tried to confirm what she had just heard. Once that was done, she filled Faye Baxter in on this turn of events and walked out of Gallery C. Forty minutes later Josie swung out of the Jeep, slung her purse over her shoulder and jogged through the Long Beach Police Department parking lot. She never made it into the building.

''Ms. Bates?''

Josie stopped. She was on her guard. She searched the perimeter of the lot and saw a dumpster, two cars, a wall, surveillance cameras posted on the corners the building, and a shadow that moved and morphed into a man. She planted her feet wide and firm; let her leather saddlebag purse slip off her shoulder and into her hand. With a flick of her wrist, she wrapped the straps around her fist as the man came into the light in bits and pieces.

Young. Medium height. Thick at the waist. A shock of corn silk hair fell over a wide brow and small oval glasses shot back the dim light from the outdoor floods. His cheeks were round and red, his lips a little fleshy. When he was close enough Josie could make out the creases on his brow, a trilogy of furrows between his eyes. Nervously he eyed the purse-turned-weapon. He stopped just out of striking distance.

''It's okay. I'm Tim Douglas, Matthew McCreary's campaign manager. We spoke on the phone. I wanted to fill you in before you. . .''

Josie drew in a deep breath and blew it out through her pursed lips. Josie held up her free hand and unfurled the purse straps from the other.

''It's not smart to sneak up on people in a dark parking lot, Mr. Douglas,'' she said. ''I'll find out what I need to know when I get inside.''

Filled in. Get their stories straight. How insulting. She had no use for his nonsense. Josie started to leave but Tim Douglas was like a reflection, mirroring her movement. She took another step and when he dared to do it again she growled:

''Get out of my way. I'll talk to Matthew.''

Josie skirted around him, her long strides carrying her away quickly but not fast enough to miss Tim Douglas's warning.

''I want you to know he isn't in there. You should know he isn't here.'' Josie paused. He had her attention. Tim Douglas got as close as he thought prudent, close enough to speak as if they were conspirators and that made Josie feel dirty. ''We didn't think it would be wise. We wanted to avoid the press if at all possible until we could work out a strategy. We understand this can't be kept completely quiet, but I've been assured that you will know exactly what needs to be done to minimize the impact of this arrest.''

Josie's blue eyes bore into Tim Douglas's unimpressive ones. To his credit, he didn't look away. He was a good soldier, waiting to report back to headquarters that those assurances were reliable. What a fool. She showed him her back.

''Go away, Mr. Douglas,'' Josie said just before she slammed through the front door of the Long Beach police department and walked up to a wary desk officer. She put both hands on the counter.

''You're holding Grace McCreary on a murder charge. I want to see her now.''

CHAPTER 9

''Don't bother going back in, detective.''

Josie caught Babcock just as he was about to open the door to the interview room three.

''Ms. Bates.'' Calm and composed, he didn't seem the least surprised to see her.

''A head's up would have been nice this morning,'' Josie snapped, as peeved at him for holding back as she was with herself for failing in her charge.

''This morning you were representing the Committee to Elect Matthew McCreary,'' he explained.

''And now I'm representing Grace McCreary,'' Josie announced knowing it would be an exercise in futility to convince him that splitting hairs wasn't going to get him anywhere.

''She didn't tell me.''

''I'm telling you,'' she answered back. ''You're done.''

Babcock opened the door for her. Josie went into the room where Grace McCreary sat. She was still dressed in her beautiful suit. The ring on her left finger was twirling like a top just as it had at noon. Unlike noon, Grace's confidence was shaken and the face she turned toward Josie was as hopeful for a reprieve as a frightened virgin on her wedding night. Grace's eyes tracked Josie and then ricocheted back to the door. Josie never figured out that it was Matthew Grace expected. Jose was too busy checking out the lay of the land: plain walls, no two way mirror, a metal table, four chairs, a notepad with nothing on it. Her eyes followed the line of the ceiling.

Wired.

''If you're recording, Babcock, stop it.'' Josie threw that out for consideration then planted herself in front of Grace. ''Were you advised of your rights?''

Grace nodded.

''You're sure?'' Josie pulled out a chair. Its metal legs grated on the linoleum. She sat across from Grace. The legs grated again when she pulled up close once more.

''Yes. Yes, Detective Babcock advised me of my rights,'' she said quickly, unconcerned with protocol. ''I'm so glad you came. Did Matthew come with you? Is he here yet?''

''No, he isn't,'' Josie said truthfully, damning the shot of conscience that made her hesitate. She hated herself for leading Grace to believe her brother was going to come at all.

''At least you're here. I was so worried that he wouldn't want to call you.'' Grace put her hand on the table almost as if she expected Josie to hold it. She offered a shaky smile. ''I knew you wouldn't say no to Matthew. Thank you. Thank you so much for coming.''

''You're welcome and for the record, I came for you.'' Josie averted her eyes. She wasn't going to tell Grace she didn't rate a phone call from her brother much less a personal appearance. It had been Tim Douglas who had ordered Josie up like a fast food. ''Anything rough when they arrested you?''

''No, Detective Babcock was very concerned and kind.'' Grace's razor cut hair winged out as she shook her head.

''Goodie for him,'' Josie muttered and bit her bottom lip, buying time so she could put her head in the right place. This wasn't what she had expected.

Assumption: Matthew would be here, Matthew would be strategizing with her, Matthew would align himself and together they would champion Grace.

Reality: Josie barely knew Grace McCreary and it looked like Matthew didn't care what happened to his sister. Surprisingly, that realization calmed Josie immeasurably. This made Grace just like every other client: unknown to Josie, alone, in need of help. They would start from the beginning. Just like every one else.

''Grace, you're going to have to make some fast decisions. I will be very clear with you so that you can act in your best interest,'' Josie began.

''Can't Matthew come in, too?'' Grace asked, those restless eyes of hers looking for him, those busy fingers gesturing as if she could conjure her brother. ''I think he should be here to help me. I. . .I need him.''

There were the tics again. The odd tipping of her chin, the stretch of her neck, fingers to the back of her ears. And there was the ring. Always the ring. A manifestation of anxiety that bordered on obsession. But Josie had seen true obsession in Hannah and this wasn't it.

''No, you don't need Matthew,'' Josie answered. ''Look, Grace, I want to apologize. You wouldn't even be here if I hadn't screwed up today.''

''It's not your fault. You did the best you could.''

Josie was not reassured. Such largesse wasn't normal. Anyone else would be livid to find themselves in this position. They would be begging for answers, guarantees and demanding apologies. Grace's attitude was as off-putting as an opponent who dinks the ball over the net when you're braced for the spike but Josie let it go.

''Okay, then, let's get to business. I'm assuming that you would like to amend our agreement and that I will now be representing you against the charge of murder and not be retained by the committee to elect. Is that correct?''

''Of course. I don't want anyone else. I wouldn't trust anyone else. Matthew said . . .''

''This isn't about Matthew or what he said.'' Josie cut her off sharply. ''If I represent you, I'll keep him advised. I will not allow him to make decisions for you. You'll have to do that on your own.''

''Talking to Matthew is the same as talking to me. He'll do what's best. He loves. . .me. . .'' Suddenly the ring stopped twirling around her finger. Her voice vaporized as if she couldn't quite convince herself of that. He was, after all, absent.

Josie could barely look at her. How pathetic that a woman like Grace depended on a man who couldn't be bothered to even pick up a phone for her. It was one thing for Susan O'Connel, a woman without resources, beaten and brainwashed, not to know which way to turn but Grace's complete lack of self-reliance was inexcusable. She had already proven that she was capable of making an independent decision when she ambushed Josie at the courthouse.

''Look, Grace,'' Josie said impatiently. ''You might as well know, Matthew isn't here. I doubt he's coming. You're going to have to work with me.''

''What do you mean he's not here? I asked Tim to call him, to let him know that. . . .Oh, I see.''

Josie watched as Grace McCreary went through the motions. Anger. Impatience. Amazement. Devastation. Mostly anger in those first few seconds when she realized Matthew couldn't be bothered with her. Perhaps, this was her memory of childhood. Perhaps this was why they had been estranged all those years. Grace: young and bothersome was now older and still vexing. Then the muscles under Grace's skin contracted, hollowing her cheeks, tightening her jaw. Her lashes lowered, her chin dipped to her chest. A second later Grace cautiously made eye contact with Josie and, like a small child emboldened by her attention, began to spin a yarn that made Josie cringe.

''Well, of course Matthew wouldn't be here. He knows you'll have everything well in hand so he'll be talking to people who can help us. Matthew knows so many powerful people. All we have to do is wait.''

''I hope that's not what he's doing. A political favor isn't going to get you out of this mess.'' Josie crossed her arms on the table, trying to imagine how this woman's mind worked. She should be thinking about herself, doing for herself, looking to Josie for help and, yet, her only thought was of her brother.

''Look, Grace, Matthew can get you a dream team of attorneys if you want but he can't pull a string or call in a favor to make everything better. This is a serious situation and you need to treat it that way. Now, if you want a different attorney, fine, but don't rely on Matthew. This is your choice, Grace. Not his.''

''But Matthew will have to be involved. This will affect him,'' she insisted.

''Listen to me. Listen.'' Frustrated, Josie rapped the knuckles of one hand on the metal table. ''If we work together you will be my client. I will give you my best advice, I will advocate for you and when there are decisions to be made we'll talk about them. Bottom line, Grace, you're accused of killing Matthew's wife and a wife trumps a sister any day. If Matthew even thinks that there might be a kernel of truth in the charges, he'll cut you loose. He wouldn't waste a political favor on you.''

Tears came to Grace McCreary's eyes as fast as a gully floods. Fine. A good psychic slap was just what she needed. Josie's father had pulled no punches all those years ago when he confirmed Emily Baylor-Bates wasn't coming home again even for Josie. She had been devastated but now she thanked him for his bluntness. Illusions had no place in the real world. Still, Josie found it hard to be the one to shatter Grace's.

''Do you understand that, Grace?'' Josie lowered her voice to kindness.

''Yes, I do,'' Grace murmured and then her voice grew strong, her determination began to set. She wiped those eyes with the back of her hands and her mascara smudged. ''But I want you to understand me, too. Matthew and his career will always be a consideration. That was Michelle's choice and that is my choice.''

''Fair enough. It will be a consideration,'' Josie agreed, pulling her lips together in what passed for a smile. ''Just know that whatever you tell me stays with me. In return, I expect the truth. If you can't give me that, then I can't represent you.''

''Of course.''

Dead air filled the next second and Josie thought she saw Grace's eyes hood. She could have sworn she saw a snake-like shudder of muscle along Grace's throat as she struggled with the charge to tell the truth. The emerald turned just once. Josie's eyes went to it, this barometer of Grace McCreary's anxiety. When she looked up again, Grace's expression was as naked as a back laid bare to the whip. It seemed the truth was going to be painful and it was time to see exactly how deep the whip went.

''What didn't you tell me this morning, Grace?''

The tears returned. Honest tears. Big tears. Painful tears had been held back for hours and days along with the truth.

''I was with Michelle,'' Grace whispered. ''I saw her jump.''

CHAPTER 10

''I lied when I hired you. I wasn't concerned about Matthew, I was worried about myself and I was scared. If anyone knew I'd been there, Matthew's life would be turned into a sordid soap opera. I would be responsible for his failure. I couldn't live with that.''

Grace took a deep breath. She sat up straight and put her hands on the table, fingers entwining, always going to the ring, touching the stone as she spoke.

''Contacting you was a calculated risk. Matthew's attorneys are loyal to him. If I went to a stranger I would be open to blackmail or they could sell the story to the newspapers. Oh, I know,'' she gave her head a dismissive toss. ''Lawyers are supposed to be above all that but what does an oath mean in the face of big money or a power grab? No,'' Grace said emphatically, making Josie, her confident, her confessor, her comrade in arms. ''Matthew has enemies, Josie. I wasn't going to give them anything to use against him. That's why it had to be you. You understand that, don't you?''

Josie didn't give Grace the satisfaction of agreeing and in the ensuing silence Grace's hands began to shake when no pact was made to protect Matthew at all costs. The emerald stuck at her knuckle. She flicked her fingers to loosen it. Those fingers were angry and impatient and impotent. She threw herself back in her chair, frustrated by Josie's silence. It was as if Grace McCreary was made up of parts independent of the whole. The mind was rationalizing, the body was holding up but the hands were ready to fight.

''No, I don't understand,'' Josie answered finally. ''If you believed I was trustworthy then you would have been completely honest this morning.''

''You wouldn't have given me the time of day if I told the truth. No one does. Not if you tell the truth,'' Grace complained.

''If that's the way you feel then I might as well walk right now,'' Josie countered.

''If you think its best, I understand.'' Grace waved her away, fingers itching to scratch at something. ''Go. It's fine. It doesn't really matter what happens to me as long as Matthew is all right.''

Grace's little tirade was harsh, her words chosen from conviction, not resignation. Yet it was clear that she was scared. The clothes and the jewels, the make-up and the hair could not camouflage what was at Grace McCreary's core. She believed she deserved to be sacrificed just like every other abused woman Josie had ever known.

''Jesus,'' Josie breathed. ''Who ever made you think you weren't worth spit? Matthew? Was he the one?''

''Don't be ridiculous. Matthew loves me the same way he loved you.'' Grace jolted upright. Her face went pale at Josie's accusation.

''What about Michelle? Did he love her that way, too?''

''Of course. Don't even think that he didn't,'' Grace breathed. ''But we're talking about what the world is like. Most people don't stick around when things get hard. You don't blame them, you just expect it. You deal with it. You're grateful when someone does. The way Matthew came back for me.''

Josie picked up a pen and taped it once on the table. She knew it would do no good to argue with Grace or agonize over her skewed view of honor and loyalty. The pen went through her fingers again as she thought about her own situation. Her plate was full with Hannah, Archer, her own needs and plans. She was Grace McCreary's lawyer, not her shrink or her friend or her personal champion. The pen twisted once more before she dropped it.

''You're right,'' Josie said ''The world is imperfect and so am I. But I'm good at my job and I take it seriously. All you have to do is be straight with me, Grace, and leave my history with Matthew out of this. I gave you the time of day out of courtesy to him, so stop trying to play that card.''

Grace's chin lowered, her lashes fluttered then she fixed her gaze on Josie. She licked her lips and Josie could swear she heard the gears of Grace McCreary's mind working. What she really heard was a question.

''Can I have some water?''

Josie got up. Babcock was waiting in the hall. She asked for water and when he came back he had two cups and news.

''I'm going to transport her,'' he said.

''Don't be ridiculous. She'll post bail,'' Josie scoffed as she took the Styrofoam cups.

''The DA says no bail. No special treatment.''

''Tell the DA she'll post the max. You can't keep her unless you're denying bail on special circumstances,'' Josie argued.

''That's how we're holding her,'' he answered.

''Charming,'' Josie muttered just before she closed the door with her foot.

She put a cup in front of Grace and sat down. Grace put her hands around it and looked everywhere but into Josie's eyes and that ticked Josie off royally. She had no use for martyrs or teases. She had no use for women who hid their guilt behind feminine wiles. Kristin Davis, the woman who had shaken Josie's faith in both human nature and the legal system had pushed Josie to the breaking point. Now here she was again with a rich woman who wanted her help but insisted on playing games. Or was she? Josie was close enough to see Grace's lips quivering, naked without the gloss; eyes tired looking with the smudged mascara. She was pathetic, vulnerable, fearful. If it was an act it was darn good.

''Look at me, Grace. Tell me what happened that night?''

A tremor shook Grace from the bottom up, until her spine was locked, every muscle in her body was taut and the story was haltingly told.

''When I got there Michelle was dressing and I couldn't figure out why. I wanted to know where she was going. She told me . . . It was nonsense what she told me. . .she was angry with Matthew.''

Josie listened, knowing now was the time to listen even though every fiber of her being wanted to know what Matthew and done to make his wife despair.

''She told me to leave and threatened to have me evicted if I didn't. I had never seen her angry like that before. When I tried to sit her down, she screamed at me not to touch her. She ran out of her bedroom and I ran after her. I thought she was going to the front door to open it so I would leave but she went to the balcony instead. I don't know if Michelle planned on jumping but I sensed what was going to happen. God, it made me feel sick. . .I couldn't speak. . . I couldn't move. . .''

The cup danced in Grace's hand and she let go of it. She planted her elbows on the table. Her forehead fell forward onto her clasped hands. Grace sucked in her breath but she couldn't seem to get it deep enough to fill her lungs. She panicked and breathed faster.

''I grabbed for her. I reacted. . . . I reached out and I think I touched her.''

She gestured with one hand, painting a swirl as if cleaning an imaginary window with a view to the past. Then she put her hands on the side of her head and pushed at her hair, slicking it back, plastering down.

''Michelle looked back at me. She was so beautiful. . .'' her voice got smaller as the story got bigger. ''Every bit of her face was so gorgeous and awful all at the same time. She should have been happy and she wasn't. I knew in my heart what was happening, but I don't know exactly what did happen. One minute Michelle was with me. . . She was right there. . .''

Suddenly, Grace threw herself back in her chair and shoved the cup away from her. The water waved and jumped the rim. Her hands came together and that obscenely large emerald was turned and twirled until the skin beneath it looked bloody red while the heels of her hands rested in the wet puddle.

''I heard our voices. I heard her voice. I thought we were arguing. Or maybe it was my voice and I was begging. And then. . .'' The breath she took was shallow. Short. Shorter still. ''. . .and then. . .she was. . .just. . . gone.''

Grace opened her hands as if to show Josie she held no secrets.

''I didn't see her anymore. I didn't hear her voice. She didn't scream.'' Grace's hands lowered to the table palms down. She let them slip off until she was holding it by the edge with her fingertips. In a daze, she repeated herself. ''She didn't scream.''

''Then what?'' Josie whispered.

Grace shook her head. The horror of that moment and that night was forgotten. Her shoulders squared and her hands were put into her lap.

''I ran away. I ran through the living room and I opened the door and I left.''

''You didn't go downstairs and check on your sister-in-law? You didn't want to see if she was alive?''

''No one could have survived that fall. I knew that. '' Grace answered, wiping away an errant tear with the back of her hand. ''I was in shock. I got in my car and went home. I waited for someone to come but no one did.''

''Did you call Matthew?''

''No,'' Grace said sorrowfully. ''That would have been so wrong.''

''Don't you think Matthew would have wanted to know what happened?''

''Yes, of course. He just shouldn't have heard it from me. I've caused him so much hurt in his life. I didn't want him to look at me and know that I couldn't save her. Don't you see? He would have blamed me for not saving her.'' She shook her head as she bowed it in shame. ''But I didn't think about that until later. I only thought that I was afraid and I didn't want anyone to find me there.''

''But if it was a suicide, why would you care?''

Grace leaned far over the table, Josie did the same, drawn in by her deep voice, and the eyes close as the double barrel of a shotgun.

''I just didn't want to make it worse,'' she answered conspiratorially. Before Josie could suggest that nothing was worse than Michelle McCreary going off the balcony, Babcock was back wanting to take Grace away. That was just plain wrong. She stood up and put herself between Babcock and Grace.

''Let me call the deputy who pulled the case,'' Josie insisted. ''There's absolutely no reason to hold her.''

''I'm sorry, Ms. Bates, this isn't my call.''

Babcock passed her and reached for Grace with one hand while he retrieved his cuffs with the other. Grace whimpered and shrank away. She leapt from the table. Her chair toppled and fell as Josie tried to jockey between them again.

''Come on, Babcock.'' She pushed him back. He flinched and caught her hand. Josie threw her hands out and backed off. An assault charge would do neither of them any good but she didn't have to be quiet.

''Give me five minutes to run it down. That's all the time I'll need to work on it.''

Josie's head snapped left and right, from Babcock to Grace. Babcock was listening but he was moving in on Grace even as she backed up against the wall. Her hands were out to ward him off.

''Josie, call Matthew,'' Grace pleaded. ''Tell Matthew I need him to help me. I can't go to jail. Please, Josie. Don't let them lock me up.''

Expertly, Babcock cornered Grace McCreary. His hand was on her wrist, he twisted her arm behind her back. She bent forward and cried out, hurting herself as she struggled. There was a snap and a ratchet of metal as the teeth caught and tightened. Josie was right there, holding Grace's shoulders, talking to her, steadying her. Grace's free hand snatched at Josie, catching at her blouse.

''Oh, God. Oh, God,'' Grace cried and clutched at the air until Josie grabbed her hand and held it tight as the litany continued. ''Please don't do this, detective. Please, don't let them lock me away. Where's Matthew? Please call Matthew. . .''

Josie's jaw set as she was dragged deep into the rumble of her hysteria, pulled into Grace's whirlpool of fear.

Don't abandon me. Stay with me. Don't go. Save me.

''Grace. Grace, listen. Look at me. Focus on me. Grace.'' Josie called her name and when Grace calmed it was Josie who helped bend her arm so that Babcock could cuff her.

''Grace. Stand still. Stop. Stop,'' Josie ordered her gently. ''I'll find Matthew but you have to think now. You have to take care of yourself. Give me time, Grace. . . .''

Josie's arm went around Grace McCreary's shoulders. Her fingers pulsed with Grace's trembling. Then Josie's eyes touched Babcock's and held. She didn't like to beg but it wasn't beneath her. In the next second the sound of metal on metal cut through the room again. Grace jerked. There was an accusation in Josie's eyes but it faded to gratitude when he stepped away and secured the cuffs at his belt as Grace latched on to Josie.

''Thank you.'' Josie acknowledged the favor with a curt nod, a look of admiration as she held on to Grace.

''It's all I can do,'' he said to Josie then addressed Grace. ''Ms. McCreary.''

Grace understood that a favor had been granted. With a deep breath, she let go of Josie, and held herself erect. The muscles in Grace's jaw twitched and ran tight down her neck. Within moments the scent of fear had been diluted by that of acceptance. It was as if Grace was gone, leaving her body to deal with the likes of a common cop and a lawyer who, without the trappings of the court, was nothing more than a powerless woman. Babcock was leading Grace out the door when Josie stopped them. There was something she had to know.

''Why did Matthew's wife kill herself?'' She asked. Grace didn't look back as she answered.

''I couldn't tell you.''

And then she was gone.

CHAPTER 11

Hot. Dark. Night.

Josie sat in the Jeep in a nearly empty parking lot. Door open. One foot on the running board. The other stretched out in front of her. Foot flat on the ground. It wasn't late but it was late enough. Josie called Faye. Hannah's party at Gallery C was wrapping up. Three paintings had sold. It was an unbelievable evening, Faye enthused and Josie couldn't argue. It had been an unbelievable night all around.

Assured that Faye would see Hannah home, Josie swung both legs into the car and dug in her purse for her keys. What she found instead gave her pause. It was Grace McCreary's business card, pushed across the table at the restaurant, the little card that enticed Josie so early in the day. Flipping on the overhead light, Josie checked the address for Matthew McCreary's campaign headquarters on Pine Street. Spitting distance. Tossing it aside, she fired up the engine and threw the Jeep into gear. Tim Douglas might still be toiling. Maybe he would be curious about what happened to Grace McCreary. Maybe he could tell Josie how to reach Matthew. Maybe, if Josie was real lucky, Matthew would be there, too.

God help him if he was burning the midnight oil.

''Can I help you?''

Josie looked around the seemingly empty office only to find she wasn't alone after all. A woman was nearly hidden behind the mountain of envelopes. Her head popped up and the tower of paper started to tumble. With an uncomfortable laugh she righted the mess and grinned at Josie. The woman was passingly attractive and had the ridiculous aura of a true believer: exhausted, befuddled, yet radiating a lightness of being that only comes from being brainlessly in love with a man, his politics or both.

''I'm looking for Matthew McCreary,'' Josie said.

''Oh, he's. . .''

''Matthew is out, Ms. Bates.''

The woman looked over her shoulder. Tim Douglas smiled at Josie as he put his hand on the woman's shoulder. ''It's okay Francis. I'll take care of this lady. Why don't you go on home.''

''Oh, I couldn't possibly. These need to get out tomorrow and I'm so far behind.''

''I'm going to have to tell Matthew that you're working too hard. You know how he feels about people giving too much.'' Tim lectured lightly, got her on her feet smoothly and moved her to the door. ''I'd hate to have to ask him to talk to you privately about wearing yourself out on his behalf.''

''But I don't mind at all. . .''

Francis's face brightened at the prospect a few minutes alone with Matthew McCreary. But it was not to be. Josie didn't hear the rest of the conversation as Tim steered Francis out the door. He returned with an apologetic smile, his hands clasped together, asking Josie's pardon for keeping her waiting.

''Sorry about that. But, hey, I owe you an apology. I guess I should have stuck around the police station to see if you needed any help. My fault. I just didn't know what the protocol is in a situation like this.''

''I didn't need any help,'' Josie said, unimpressed and unconvinced of his chagrin. ''Grace might have liked someone to wave at her when they took her off to jail, though. Maybe someone to hand her a tissue when she was fingerprinted. You know, a friend – or a relative – someone who cared that she'd just been arrested for murder.''

To his credit, Tim Douglas had the decency to blush before he engaged Josie again.

''I didn't know it would be so serious. I figured it was a mistake. Listen, she's got support. She's invaluable to the campaign. I mean it. I'd do anything for Grace.''

''I was thinking more along the lines of her brother showing some interest.'' Josie ambled around the room. She touched things. She asked: ''Is he here?''

''No,'' Tim answered again. ''A candidate is booked months in advance. Half the time he's double booked. Now that the primary is so close he's seldom here.''

Josie pivoted. She smiled.

''His wife's death must have put him so far behind that Grace's arrest just threw the whole calendar into a tizzy.'' Josie's broad, mirthless grin underscored her displeasure and Tim Douglas had the courtesy to be uncomfortable.

''Look, Ms. Bates, it's just not that simple. . .''

''Funny, it seems simple as pie to me. A member of your family dies, you bury them. When one of them is arrested for murder you move heaven and earth to help them out.''

''I've called our attorneys,'' Time interrupted. ''They'll be calling you to . . .''

''To what, Mr. Douglas? To debrief me? To take over? To spin this or work some angle and try to make it go away?'' Josie shook her head. ''Won't work. This is a huge problem and it's not going disappear because you want it to. Maybe I should talk to the media and explore why you insist on trying to pull strings and ask favors. They might care what Grace has to say about the night Mrs. McCreary died even if her brother doesn't.''

''Okay. Calm down.'' Tim pumped his hands open palmed toward the floor.

''I am calm.'' She moved closer, intimidating him with both her height and her righteousness. ''You don't want to see me when I'm upset. So, why don't you tell me what Matthew knew about the police investigation and when he knew it? Otherwise, I might start thinking that Grace is being fed to the lions to keep the cops from poking their noses around your precious little campaign or, worse, your candidate.''

''I don't appreciate the insinuation,'' Tim objected, stuffing his hands in his pockets and standing his ground. ''We're as surprised as anybody by what's happened. Threats and theatrics aren't going to make this any better. This is a mistake and we will clear it up.''

''I wouldn't be so sure, Mr. Douglas. The district attorney wouldn't have agreed to the arrest much less a hold on bail if this was a mistake. This isn't some lady off the street. They know exactly who they have in custody. With that in mind, let me point out that any end run you try to make will be construed as obstruction of justice if the DA gets wind of it.''

Josie turned away in disgust. Tim Douglas pissed her off and this place gave her the creeps. It was a patriotic funhouse: giant posters of Matthew posed against red, white and blue bunting were unfurled from the ceiling, plastered on the windows, strung over tables. Plastic buttons banded with Matthew's name and bumper stickers that promised unity and prosperity were set out in boxes like party favors.

Beneath the streamers and posters, the signs and buttons were second hand desks, a scarred floor and walls that were pockmarked with thumbtack holes. It was cheap space and the labor came even cheaper. They were bought, not for money, but for love of the candidate: his ideas, his ideals and sometimes just because of the way he smiled, the fall of his hand on their shoulders. Josie couldn't help but wonder if Francis would care that Matthew McCreary had allowed his sister to be taken off to jail without lifting a finger to help her.

Then she chuckled. A woman like Francis wouldn't care if Matthew McCreary were the devil himself. She was star struck and starry eyed. Josie wondered if she had ever been so ridiculously in love with the man. She doubted it, but then there was a lot of water under the bridge and memories had a way of washing clean.

''I'll tell Matthew that you were here, Ms. Bates,'' Tim Douglas said with all the graciousness of a host exhausted by his company.

Josie looked away from a particularly fetching picture of Matthew to find that the campaign manager had changed while she zoned. There was a little sagging at the jaw line, deeper shadows under his eyes. His voice had lost some of its verve. He was dog-tired and seemingly resigned to weathering her tenacity. Yet, there was something else happening here. Josie could feel the roil of anxiety somewhere just left of his center. More than likely it meant nothing. Tim Douglas was a lackey, a messenger boy, afraid of a political scandal because it would mean his job.

''Why don't you let Matthew know I'm here now.'' Josie picked up the phone on the desk closest to her and held it out to him.

''Matthew checks in with me. I only call him in an emerge. . .'' He caught himself and Josie gave him credit for a sliver of conscience as he realized what he was about to say. She put the receiver down.

''When he calls, tell him Josie wants to see him. And, if I don't see him soon, I'll be issuing a public invitation to chat.'' Josie picked up a campaign button and rubbed her fingers over it as if she could divine Matthew's location. When that failed, when she tired of Tim Douglas's stonewalling, Josie tossed the button back on the desk. ''I wonder how his constituents will feel about all this unity crap when they find out he can't even be bothered to help his own sister?''

Tim Douglas stood at the door and watched Josie Bates disappear into the night. He wanted to leave, too. It had been a long time since he had opened the door to his apartment before one in the morning. Matthew thrived on a few hours sleep and Tim thought he could do the same if he just worked hard enough. Pick up a great man's habits, a successful man's habits and he, Tim Douglas, would become great and successful himself. Unfortunately, all he got was tired and when he was tired he didn't think straight. Like now, when he was thinking that maybe Matthew had been wrong about this whole, stinking mess. Grace was on his mind, too. He didn't like thinking about her because all he could imagine was her face. He'd seen her when she looked unsure of herself, worried, concerned and it always made him feel bad. A frightened Grace must be a sad sight, indeed.

Tim was also thinking about the election and whether or not their polls were correct. If Matthew really did have the edge in the primary it might not be a good thing. Tim was wondering if maybe Matthew McCreary wasn't the right man for the job. Maybe he was too controlled, to objective. It struck Tim odd that a man could lose his wife, see his sister in trouble, and still keep his nose to the grindstone. Then again, that's what separated a leader from those who were led; decisiveness in times of crisis.

Taking a deep breath, Tim pulled the shade over the front door, turned around and looked at the posters that papered the walls. As he looked at Matthew's picture, Tim realized that face was half the reason why Matthew McCreary was the candidate and he, Tim Douglas, was not. A few steps and he was at Francis's desk and picking up the phone. How things had changed in a few weeks. Michelle was dead. Grace arrested. The receiver felt as heavy as his heart but he held it to his ear as he dialed. The phone on the other end was answered on the third ring and Tim asked for Matthew. When he answered, Tim said:

''Grace is in jail, Matthew. Her attorney was here.'' He waited for a directive, an expression of shock or dismay but all he heard was the other man breathing. When Matthew failed to lead Tim got just a little scared. ''Matthew? We need to get Grace out of jail now. We can't just leave her there. Who do you want me to call?''

''Don't call anyone. I'll handle it, Tim.''

Matthew McCreary cut him off with a touch of a button. He could still hear Tim objecting to the decision with the kind of well-chosen words an ambassador would use to note a hostile act by the host country. It was a gift, that quickness of mind that allowed reason to be voiced while emotions tugged at the heart. Poor Tim, talented and loyal though he may be, he was too decent to understand that there were times when one must divorce themselves from the immediate so that a problem could be made right down the road. That was the mark of a good politician and a smart man, a man who had been through worse than this.

''Matthew? Is everything all right, dear heart?'' Helen Crane called to him from the doorway of the library. Matthew raised his head. He allowed himself another minute before facing his hostess. Her brow knit with the utmost concern and still she looked lovely.

''No.'' Matthew walked toward her, taking the crystal tumbler she so thoughtfully held out. Their fingers touched. Her hands showed her age.

His scotch and water had been refilled; the ice was fresh. Helen had given him just enough time on the telephone for privacy, appearing an instant before he might decide not to share the news with her. Behind all of Helen's graciousness and thoughtfulness was the exquisite timing of someone who didn't want to be left out, who felt entitled to put in their two cents because they had already put a few hundred thousand into a candidate's coffers. He appreciated her money but it was her style and acumen, her contacts and drive that Matthew coveted.

Helen Crane was the better half of George M. Crane, an industrialist who had made a few senators in his time. Unfortunately, his time had come and gone. He had died three years earlier leaving Helen, still beautiful in her sixties, with a fortune and a legacy she relished. Now, solo for the first time, Matthew McCreary was the man she was backing. If he did as well as she anticipated, Helen would be in the middle of things on her own terms: a hostess, a shaker, a mover, the woman who politicians would court. Matthew was her test case.

Of course, his package had been much more attractive when Michelle was alive. Of Spanish descent, the daughter of a politico herself, her Hispanic roots were a plus in California. Matthew had weathered his wife's death well among the voters who saw him as courageous in the face of tragedy. Now, though, as they moved from her late husband's dark study into the light of the marbled foyer, Helen Crane saw that Matthew McCreary wasn't just bothered by this phone call, he was truly disturbed.

''Am I going to have to guess or do you want to share, Matthew?''

''Grace has been arrested. She's being charged with Michelle's murder.''

''Really?''

Helen took another step in tandem with Matthew McCreary then glided ahead of him. She was impossibly slim, and could be mistaken for a woman half her age at a casual glance. When she turned and took her seat on the deep, dark red sofa, she didn't look much older. Handsome woman. Stylish woman. Smart woman. She motioned to a chair across from her. Matthew wandered past it to stand next to the great stone hearth.

''Sit down, Matthew,'' Helen ordered wearily, dismayed that he should challenge her on so small a thing. ''I can't think when you're standing there looking like a little lost boy. This is a bad turn but it's not the end of the world unless, of course, you think she did it?''

''Don't be ridiculous. Grace couldn't have done that.'' Matthew dismissed the idea with a long pull on his drink. Finally, he sat down, deliberately choosing the chair that was less attractive but more comfortable than the one Helen had indicated. Compromise. There was always that where women were concerned.

''Fine,'' Helen muttered. ''We'll get her an attorney who will understand the ramifications of Grace's arrest. This needs to be put down very quickly.''

''She has an attorney. A woman,'' Matthew said.
''She retained someone without consulting you. That's a surprise,'' Helen mused. ''Is this woman any good?''

''Actually, yes.'' Matthew took another drink and smiled wryly. ''She's had some notoriety of late. Do you remember Fritz Rayburn?''

''That old sack of shit Davidson appointed to head the California Supreme Court? Of course I do. Ugly way to die. Burned up in his own house,'' Helen muttered. ''So Grace's attorney is the one who pulled that little girl's fanny out of the fire, so to speak. At least she's competent. Do you think she understands that moving this through and getting Grace back behind the scenes is critical to your campaign?''

''I would imagine she does. The question is, does she care?'' Matthew laughed without humor. ''Tim says she's going to be the one screaming from the roof tops about what a bastard I am if I don't make an appearance soon.''

''Charming.'' Helen picked up her cup of coffee. Instead of drinking, she fingered the Limoge as if it were a prized cat. She thought out loud. ''Perhaps, if you were more than generous with her hourly fee she might rethink her loyalty.''

''That's the last thing you'd want to do with Josie.''

''Josie?'' Only one of Helen's brows arched in surprise.

''You might as well know, I lived with her for a while. Long before Michelle.''

''Then, maybe you can persuade her to care about your future for old time sake,'' Helen suggested, her curiosity no more evident than the scars from her last facelift.

''I wouldn't mind trying, Helen.'' Matthew drained his drink and his expression melted into one of wistfulness and that made Helen a wee bit nervous. It was too soon after Michelle's death for Matthew to become entangled in any liaison.

''Well, first things first I suppose,'' she said briskly. ''You take care of Grace and her lawyer however you see fit. Meanwhile, I'll find out what I can about the district attorney. I'm assuming she's being charged in Long Beach.''

''Yes.'' Matthew downed the rest of his drink. ''They've refused bail. They've taken her to jail.''

''Oh, dear. Well, your opponent won't fool with this bit of news. He already had his hat handed to him when he tried to suggest your grief over Michelle would keep you from being an effective candidate.'' Helen sipped her coffee, looked up and added, ''Not that anyone doubts that you are grieving, of course. It's just that you seem to understand life must go on.''

''That's a philosophy we share, Helen,'' Matthew agreed.

''But Grace's problem is a little different. ''

''Different?'' Matthew asked.

''She is unusually dedicated to you considering your history. But, be that as it may, Grace is a problem at this moment precisely because she isn't dead.'' Helen set aside her cup and rested her well coiffed head on an upturned hand. ''The republicans are going to start asking some very public questions about your ability to run for office while your sister is accused of killing your wife. An affair or a crass relative is one thing, murder is quite another.'' Helen ruffled her fingers in the air. ''Where there is suspicion of murder, there is suspicion of motive. Do you really want reporters and voters wondering what could possibly be going on in your life that would leave one woman dead and another accused of killing her?''

''Of course not. It would be ridiculous speculation. Even if Grace had a motive for wanting Michelle dead, there is no way she could have killed her. None. Grace wouldn't do anything that would hurt me.''

''But it would be riveting entertainment and that's a distraction. We have to make this go away as quickly as possible.''

''I couldn't agree more.'' Matthew set aside his glass with a sigh, sat upright and unrolled his shirtsleeves. Standing, he straightened his tie and went to Helen Crane. When he put out his hand she closed her fingers around it. Matthew gave her a little shake then he picked up his jacket.

''There isn't anything I should know, is there, Matthew? Anything about Grace or that attorney? Or you for that matter.''

He shrugged into his coat and stooped to kiss the cheek his benefactress offered him.

''No, Helen. There's nothing more you should know about me and Grace.''

CHAPTER 12

Ten thirty at night and the restaurants were busy catering to people willing to pop for dinner as long as the place was air-conditioned. Others were sitting on the beach with their feet in the water. Some had brought sleeping bags hoping to catch some Zs along with a cool breeze. They got neither. The unseasonable temperature was relentless; the mercury was refusing to budge. Those without central air in the older houses and apartments would spend the night naked and spread-eagle on coverless beds cursing nighttime that melted too slowly into day. The only bright spot was that the thunderheads had moved on after a spate of half-hearted downpours. Now the coast sizzled instead of steamed.

Josie ignored the trickles of sweat that coursed between her breasts, the sticky coat of perspiration on her skin. It was Max who suffered. The dog's tongue lolled out of his mouth, his panting was pitiful as he walked slowly by her side: tail down, head down, heart down. Josie let her mind wander to nothing in particular and everything all at once.

A call was in to the D.A. and Josie had no illusions that it would be returned before Monday. Hannah and Faye were at The Bottle Inn celebrating. Archer had left a message telling her the weather was mild in Mexico. He hung up after promising to call again. Translation: he missed her. She would return the call later and reciprocate the sentiment. She ought to call summon Faye and Hannah home, offer to pick up ice cream, congratulate Hannah because she had sold so many of her paintings. Instead, Josie decided to bed Max down, try not to think about Grace McCreary, get her head in order and then call the Bottle Inn. It was a good plan that evaporated a second after it was formed.

Matthew McCreary was leaning against the low wall that surrounded Josie's house. How long he'd been waiting she couldn't tell because he showed no relief or surprise as he watched her come. Josie didn't hurry even when he stood. He hadn't changed much. Tall and handsome, Matthew was the lithe athlete to Archer's strong man.

''Hello, Josie.''

She stopped in front of him, Max held close to her knees.

''Have you seen Grace?''

Matthew shook his head.

''When did you become such a bastard, Matthew?''

''Can I get back to you on that?'' he asked with only the barest hint of shame.

Unamused, Josie gave him wide berth, went ‘round behind him and flipped the latch on the low gate. Matthew followed as naturally as if years hadn't passed and other lovers hadn't intruded. In that second Josie caught his scent and from the corner of her eye saw the curve of his lips. Damn if she didn't remember what love was like with him and that made her pulse quicken.

Matthew closed the gate behind them and Josie smirked at her ridiculous self, at this situation. Trailing her, Max turned his head, unsure if the man who loitered behind was friend or foe. He skirted by Josie the minute the door was open and went for his water bowl. Her head down, Josie held onto the knob, shifted her weight and thought for only a minute before looking back.

''You've got five minutes, Matthew.'' She opened the door wider and he walked toward her, pausing before he passed.

''You look wonderful, Josie.''

''Take off that stupid jacket before you broil,'' she answered.

''Tim told me you wouldn't give him the time of day.''

Matthew settled on the couch, tossing his jacket aside, crossing his legs, sitting as if he had always been there. Josie circled and took the big chair.

''I get nervous when I'm ambushed in a dark parking lot. I don't like that you sent the second string, Matthew. You should have come.'' Josie planted her elbows on the rolled arms of the chair and clasped her hands at chest level. ''Why didn't you tell me about Grace when we ere together?''

''Because I cared about us.''

''Oh, please.'' Josie chortled, a look of disappointment on her face. ''You can do better than that.''

''Think what you want.'' Matthew loosened his tie. ''But we were both tired of carrying around all that baggage about our parents leaving us or dying on us. Neither of us needed any more misery.''

''Grace wasn't your parent and she was alive,'' Josie reminded him.

''I didn't care whether she was or not. Grace was gone long before I met you. I never intended for her to be part of my life again so telling you would have served no purpose. Besides, you would have made me go find her.''

''All you had to do was tell me she existed,'' Josie countered. ''That would have been decent.''

Matthew laughed outright, startling Josie. Archer, a man who kept his own counsel, didn't throw his head back and laugh like that, he didn't lounge on the sofa, comfortable in her house as if he owned it even if he had every right. Yet, here was Matthew acting like it was yesterday, as if the day was long and it was good to be together at night.

''When has a lawyer ever worried about being decent?'' he asked. ''They have a class at law school that teaches you how to get people to talk about things they don't want to talk about. If you'd really wanted to know details about my family you would have pushed until I caved.'' Those arms came off the back of the sofa, the beautiful laugh was gone as he got down to it. ''I didn't want to remember Grace much less talk about her. As far as I was concerned she was as dead as my parents.''

''Then why the resurrection? Did you want to round out your family for the campaign posters?'' Josie drawled.

Matthew rested his elbows on his knees. His shoulders were broad, his legs long. He was tan, sinewy and he was a damn handsome man who carried something under his skin that Josie had always found irresistible.

''I can see where you might be a little ticked off at me for not telling you about Grace but, truthfully, Josie, I'm not really worried about how you're feeling right about now. My wife is dead and the police think my sister killed her. My plate is kind of full with women who have problems.''

''You're right. You don't owe me a thing.'' Even if Matthew couldn't see the burn of embarrassment, he knew it was there. He knew her too well. ''That's not my beef, Matthew. The fact that you weren't with Grace tonight tells me you might think she had something to do with your wife's death? Do you think that?''

''God, no. Of course not,'' Matthew shook his head emphatically. ''Grace loved Michelle.''

''Then why weren't you there?'' Josie insisted. ''It was pitiful how worried she was about you.''

Matthew's head pulled up ever so slightly. A mirror of Grace's involuntary gesture. There was that same glint deep in the eye, that same peevishness that flickered when either brother or sister felt cornered. Funny, Josie had never noticed that in Matthew before. Yet, as quickly as she saw the flash of annoyance it was gone. ''Grace is very loyal and I'm very cautious. Bottom line, when I got word of this I was with a group of very important, very nervous people.''

''Money type people?'' Josie asked, unable to keep the disdain from her voice.

''People who have a lot invested in me,'' he answered. ''They have connections. They have expectations. Politics does make strange bedfellows and I wasn't going to kick off the covers and go running until everyone was tucked in tight. I'm not going to apologize for that.''

''I didn't ask you to,'' Josie pointed out.

''You look disgusted; like you just found out I still go to frat parties. I guess in a way I do. I don't blame you for being disappointed,'' he chuckled sadly. ''The parties are the same just the people are older and the booze is better. These people have a right to be nervous and they expect me to act in their best interests.''

''I don't think I like those people,'' Josie said.

''That was pretty clear when we parted ways. Politics were never for you. Do you know they conducted a poll on how many sympathy votes I was going to get after Michelle died?''

''That's disgusting,'' Josie scoffed.

''It is. It never occurred to them to think about my feelings.'' Matthew touched the coffee table. He ran a finger along the fine edge. ''Now they'll do another poll. They'll want to find out if I'm still perceived as the stiff-upper-lip, grieving widower or a shadowy man related to two very disturbed women.''

''Are you?'' Josie asked. ''Related to two disturbed women?''

''All three of us had issues. I'd venture to guess you still have a few, too.''

''Enough to kill for?'' Josie asked, ignoring the personal reference.

''No, and that's the truth,'' Matthew stated flatly. ''But, still, there was damage control to be done and I did it. Besides, keeping this as quiet as possible, for as long as possible, would give you and Grace time to sort things out. Hopefully you could get her home. Grace's arrest, Michelle's suicide and an ex-lover retained to defend my sister would bring an incredible amount of attention.'' Matthew sat back and looked around. ''If I read this set up right – the beach house, the dog - you're nesting and you don't want to upset the status quo. I didn't want to see any of our faces splashed all over the front page tomorrow either so I sent Tim to tell you all that. In true Josie fashion, you blew him off.''

''Nice speech.'' Knowing the wrist slap was warranted she gave him an inch. ''Do you want a drink?''

''Before you bring out the chips and salsa, maybe I should tell you that I'm not thrilled Grace has retained you.''

''Don't let the nest fool you, Matthew.'' Josie hesitated under the half finished arch between the living room and dining room. ''I've still got the smarts.''

''What about the leverage? Grace is in jail. I think a bigger firm might have brought some pressure to bear.''

''You're wrong. The DA was dug in.''

''Okay, but your resources are still limited. I know you're a sole practitioner.''

''I'm of counsel with a small firm. When that's not enough, I'll tell you.''

Matthew got up and walked around the living room, touching things. He put his hands on the glass of the French doors and looked onto the darkened patio. Josie, her shoulder against the wall, her arms crossed, watched and waited.

''Did you know the first thing that happens when you decide to run for office is the party asks if you have anything to hide. It's like a psychic strip search. Do you have a fetish? A girlfriend? A boyfriend? Have you ever killed anyone? Do you think you see aliens?'' Matthew chuckled and then went on dreamily, as if he was thinking back to the beginning of a great adventure only to realize it hadn't been so wonderful after all. ''They want to know if you have a relative who might make trouble. So I told them about being estranged from Grace and I told them I didn't want to contact her. ''

''What were you afraid of?'' Josie asked.

''Everything,'' he chuckled quietly and turned his back to the bank of doors. ''Grace was a hurt, rebellious girl when she took off. I figured she'd turned into an angry, resentful woman. I also wasn't sure how this would set with Michelle since I hadn't filled her in on Grace either.''

''Bet she was as thrilled as I was,'' Josie drawled.

''Actually, my wife was a bit more gracious.'' Matthew admitted. ''Grace turned out to be a bridge between my home life and my political one. Everyone wanted Grace to be where we could keep an eye on her - except me, of course. What I wanted didn't matter. It was always about what the campaign needed. So you see, public or private, my life is the stuff of soap operas and I think a big firm might be able to deal with this new twist a little better than a good looking woman in a beach house.''

Matthew shrugged. The argument had its merits but Josie was unconvinced.

''So you'd rather anticipate the worst instead of finding out the truth,'' Josie suggested. ''Ever think you're just making this too complicated too fast, Matthew?''

Josie let him think about it all for a minute while she went to the kitchen and poured him a glass of wine and got a bottle of beer for herself. When she returned, she sat on the couch and held the glass out. Matthew took it and sat next to her.

''Look,'' Josie said. ''Grace has already retained me. I've put in the initial calls. Monday morning, if I can't make this disappear or bail her, then we can talk to Grace about making a change. But I think hiring a large firm would draw exactly the kind of attention you don't want. I also think Grace should make her own decisions unless you're footing the bill.''

''No. No.'' Matthew shook his head and set aside his glass. There was weariness in his voice now. ''I inherited the company but Grace has always shared fifty-fifty in the profits.''

''That was generous of you considering you did all the work.''

''Generosity has nothing to do with it,'' Matthew assured her. ''My parent's will was specific. Grace and I shared half of everything unless one of us contested the will. If we did that, we got nothing. I'm not even sure Grace was aware of the stipulation. She never asked to see the will. She never asked where the money came from. It was automatically deposited in the same bank as a trustee until she was eighteen. She never changed the arrangement except to retain an investment counselor at that bank at some point. As far as I was concerned, she was just another entry on the balance sheet.''

''Grace never worked in the business?''

''Nope,'' Matthew answered. ''She ran away from school then she ran away from home. By the time she was nineteen I stopped looking for her. I had a life to live and a company to run. I let her go.''

''And now?'' Josie prodded.

''And now,'' Matthew clucked, raising his eyes to heaven. ''Now, I will do what needs to be done because Michelle would want it and Grace is innocent of whatever charges they've trumped up. She turned into a good woman, Josie. I don't want to see her railroaded.''

''Did you know Grace was on the balcony when Michelle jumped?'' Josie asked this without preamble.

Matthew dropped his head, he lowered his eyes. He was close enough that Josie could see a sparkling of silver in the dark waves of his hair and the clenching of his jaw as he absorbed the information.

''She told you that?'' he asked quietly.

`''She did,'' Josie confirmed.

''Damn.'' His head swung back and forth.

''It doesn't mean anything except that she was stupid not to tell anyone before now.'' Josie dipped her head trying to catch Matthew's eye. ''Look. Grace told me she was trying to stop Michelle and I believe her.''

''You do?''

''I've seen the coroner's report. I've seen the crime scene report. I don't believe for an instant that Grace is guilty of first degree murder. But if you know something that would change my mind, tell me now, Matthew.''

Josie put both hands on his shoulders and held tight. He was trembling like a man ill-prepared for the sudden frigid wind that had kicked up. Josie's hands slipped down his arms to his hands. Matthew's fingers intertwined with hers. It had been a long time since they had touched but it seemed no more than a moment ago. If she closed her eyes then opened them fast the intervening years would be gone and they would be lovers again. Young. All those wonderful things meant nothing when you had them and everything when you didn't. Matthew leaned closer, pulling her hands toward his chest, whispering, needing her, tightening his hold.

''All I know is. . .'' Matthew whispered only to pull up short when they heard the door open.

''I'm home. . .''

Startled, Josie looked over her shoulder, Matthew's head pulled up and both of them stared at Hannah Sheraton who stared right back, her green eyes sparking and a scowl on her face.

CHAPTER 13

''You should have come to dinner with us. He could have gone to the office on Monday. You didn't have to see him.''

''I don't have to do anything, Hannah,'' Josie reminded her. ''But it made a lot of sense to take the time to hear what Matthew had to say, don't you think?''

Josie leaned against the door jamb of the room that had once been her office. It had become Hannah's place without either of them really making a decision about it. There were clothes on the chair, on the floor, spilling out of drawers. Near the window stood Hannah's easel, a jumble of paints and brushes in an order only she understood. The red lacquer stool Hannah had brought from the Malibu house, the last place she had lived with her own mother, was by the bed. In the corner was a desk with Hannah's books, a picture of Josie torn out of the newspaper when she had defended Archer after he'd been accused of killing his stepson. There were cosmetics and scarves. There was a jar of seashells, a gift from Billy Zuni, that Hannah pretended meant nothing. The fact that the jar had not been relegated to the trash or a closet told a different story.

Now Hannah was sitting on her bed, cross-legged, her hair plaited into two braids that she pinned atop her head. She was beautiful. She was a pain in the ass. Hannah thought the world revolved around her when, in fact, it revolved around no one. Not a teenager, not a politician, not even a woman in jail.

''Yeah, I guess it was smart,'' she mumbled, attending to the purple polish on her fingernails. ''It just looked weird to have a guy here. I mean a guy who isn't Archer.''

''Matthew McCreary is a very old friend whose sister is in trouble. This wasn't exactly the way I would have chosen to see him again but I wasn't going to turn him away.''

Hannah's gaze slid toward Josie, ''I think he's more than a friend.''

''And you say that because?'' Josie led her on, curious about what Hannah thought she had seen.

''Have you forgotten how many men my mother had around?'' Hannah answered smugly. ''It's not hard to tell.''

''And have you forgotten I'm not your mother?''

''It doesn't matter. Sometimes there's just the pull, you know? Like my mom. She used to say that sometimes there was just something about a man that made her crazy. I'm never going to be like that. I didn't think you were like that.''

Hannah uncoiled her legs and did a half somersault as she got beneath the sheet then pulled it up around her shoulders. The bedspread had been kicked to the floor.

''Some women know when it's not real, Hannah. Some women don't want to jeopardize what they have.'' Josie almost took the sheet to tuck it under Hannah's chin then thought better of it. Instead, she turned out the light and changed the subject. ''I'm really proud of you. You were amazing tonight. I'm not just talking about your paintings. You were amazing because you didn't freak when I left the party.''

When Hannah stayed quiet, Josie took a few steps to the window. Hannah's room sat at the juncture of Hermosa Boulevard and the end of their walking street. Thanks to the double panes noise was minimal. Because of the right angled bank of windows the room was flooded with moonlight.

Slowly, thoughtfully, Josie closed the plantation shutters. Her mind was a jumble with everything that had happened that day, not the least of which was Hannah's reaction to seeing Matthew in the house, close to Josie, touching her. In Hannah's mind there were only two reasons a man touched a woman: to hurt her or as a prelude to sex. Hannah didn't like either option with the tall, handsome man who eyed her with the same suspicion she afforded him.

''You know, your friend thought I was your daughter. He didn't like thinking that.'' Hannah's voice was muffled as she snuggled into the pillow but Josie heard everything she needed to hear.

Hannah was right. Josie had seen the flight of questions and conclusions in his eyes. A black lover? A husband in the wings? A bastard child? As quickly as those thoughts came, they went. The timing was off. The girl was too old. The truth was fascinating to Matthew because Josie had never wanted children. Now here was one, almost grown up, smart, sharp eyed and not even Josie's biological child.

''Matthew was just surprised. He didn't think I had a maternal bone in my body.'' Josie closed another shutter.

''He's wrong you know. You're. . .''

Josie almost turned her head to look at Hannah but she tuned out as she noticed the big car across the street and the man leaning across the hood, his arms crossed. It was dark outside and Hermosa Boulevard was wide so Josie couldn't see his face but she could feel his interest; as if he was looking through the house and into Hannah's room zeroing in on Josie, forcing her to acknowledge him.

Adjusting the louvers, Josie narrowed her eyes but all she could make out was the angle of a shoulder, the shape of a head. Perhaps Matthew had paused and looked back. But she couldn't imagine him driving an SUV no matter how state of the art. Maybe it was Tim Douglas waiting to drive Matthew home. Oh, Lord, maybe it was Kevin O'Connel come to make good on his promise to come after her.

''Josie?''

Hannah was sitting up in her bed, the sheet falling away as she reached for the light.

''Don't.'' Josie held out a hand to stop her.

''What's wrong?''

''Nothing. I just thought I saw something across the street.''

Josie looked out the window again. The car was still there but the man was gone. She had imagined his interest, yet the unsettling sense of the perceived surveillance lingered. Josie closed the windows and locked them.

''Josie, I'll die in here if you don't leave the window opened,'' Hannah complained.

''I'll leave the air-conditioning on all night. I'll feel better when the trees grow up and give us a little privacy from the street.'' Josie held the sheet high and Hannah lay down once more. Before she left, Josie put a hand on the girl's head. ''Congratulations, Rembrandt.''

''Thanks.'' Hannah turned on her side and Josie could hear contentment in her voice.

Josie was smiling as she went to her own room. There she turned on the news, put away her clothes, waited for Hannah to check to make sure Josie was still in the house and all was well. She only poked her head in three times. They were doing okay.

Hannah was growing out of her obsessions and compulsions and Josie growing more comfortable with her new role. When she was sure Hannah was down for the night, Josie took her father's gun out of the drawer in the bedside table. For a long while she sat and looked out onto her patio, waiting to be sure that the world around them slept. As the night wore on, the gun in her lap grew as heavy as the feeling in her heart that something bad was coming down the road.

Matthew McCreary sat in the front seat of his car. The key was in the ignition but hadn't been turned. The radio was silent. The windows were up but he ignored the suffocating heat. He had been too busy making calls in the last few minutes to worry about it. Tim Douglas was working on a press release. Helen Crane had spoken to the District Attorney of Los Angeles, a dear old friend who would, she hoped, touch base with the D.A. in Long Beach. They could only wait and see if any of this would help Grace. Finally, Matthew McCreary turned the key and the big engine came to life.

Looking over his shoulder to check for traffic he found himself unable to turn the wheel, unable to drive as he caught by the sight of Josie's place. It fit the kind of woman she was now. Just big enough, just cool enough, just rich enough. He threw the car into park . He should go back, tell her what she needed to know about Grace. A second later he changed his mind. What Josie didn't know couldn't hurt her so Matthew McCreary turned out of the parking space and went on to the next item on his agenda.

''Jesus, this place if fuckin' incredible.'' The big man who slid into the back booth at Sangria's had no neck. His head was square, his hair shaved and his chin sported a goatee. He looked as out of place as Kevin O'Connel who was well into his fourth beer before his buddy made it through the door. ''Check it out, man, there must be fifty televisions in here. And all this fuckin' neon blue sparkle plastic. I had a chevy once looked just like this.''

Lovingly, the man ran his hand over the sparkly, sky blue bench upholstery. His head rotated on his nonexistent neck and made him look like a bobble-head doll. He gave Kevin a nudge in the ribs and yelled in his ear to be heard over the music.

''You see all these chicks? They are hot, man. So hot.'' He flicked his hand like he'd just been burned then grinned as if he honestly thought he had a chance with one of them.

''Shut up. Shut up,'' Kevin muttered into his beer. He took a long pull and shoved aside the empty glass. He raised his voice. ''Was it her?''

''Yeah.'' The big man ran the back of his hand over his nose, sniffed a time or two like he was important. ''It was her. Man she's tall. She runs fast. I followed her all the way past the pier. She walked back again otherwise I woulda lost her. I'd like a piece of that though. Never had a really tall woman before.''

''I'd like a piece of her, too, shitty little bitch.'' Kevin put the bottle to his lips and poured it down his throat. ''So now we know where she lives.''

''There was a guy there. A suit.''

''She's married?''

''Naw, man, I don't think so,'' the man said. ''I don't think he lives there. He took off and she like stood in the doorway and watched for a minute but that was it.''

''Anything else?''

The guy beside Kevin raised his hand and caught the eye of the waitress, held up two fingers of one hand and Kevin's empty mug with the other. She gave him a head's up. He was satisfied she got it and checked out her rear end a second longer before he got back to Kevin.

''There's a girl in the house, too. Heinz 57. Know what I mean?''

''Well, how about that,'' Kevin laughed and crossed his arms on the table. ''She's got a kid and she's not particular who she sleeps with. Well, well.''

His head hung low. He swung it one way then the other looking at every woman, then every part of every woman. The only thing that seemed to ward off the scrutiny was the look of a man who took exception to Kevin leering at his woman. When he was challenged that way, It just pissed Kevin O'Connel off royally but he turned his eyes away.

''Yeah,'' Kevin's friend muttered, ''A kid. Teenager. A babe, considering.''

''Nobody else?''

''Not that I could see.'' The waitress put two beers in front of them. The man with the square head grinned at her. She skedaddled with six bucks. ''Anyway, I don't think Susan's there. I didn't see no one else.''

''Okay, but the lawyer knows where she is.''

''Like she's going to tell you?'' Square Head laughed.

''She'll tell me,'' Kevin assured him.

''Yeah. Right. What are you going to do? Beat it out of her?''

Square Head chuckled and snorted into his beer, drank deep then fell silent when he saw the way Kevin O'Connel was looking at him.

CHAPTER 14

''I don't want to do this. I don't think I can do this.''

Susan O'Connel paced the floor. Even to Josie, the studio apartment felt like a cage. Nondescript, furnished by a landlord who probably hadn't been inside of the place since he bought the building, the closets and cabinets held only the bare necessities: a few donated, mismatched dishes, clothes from the shelter. Six months ago when Susan O'Connel left the safe house and ventured out on her own there was only the promise of a settlement against her husband. The promise had been fulfilled and now Susan had cold feet.

''Susan. Sit down. Down.''

Josie touched her client on the next pass and was immediately sorry. Susan O'Connel shrank away, unable to differentiate between help and hurt. Embarrassed, she muttered ‘sorry' and sat primly on the edge of a worn chair, her hands beside her, palms down on the cushions, ready to push off, to run for her life if necessary.

''Look, now isn't the time to quit. If you go back to that man you're as good as dead,'' Josie argued.

''But it's different now because I know why Kevin is angry,'' Susan insisted, warming to her logic. ''Josie, it would have been one thing if we just won enough to keep me living until I could get a job but, that jury gave me everything Kevin has. Everything he worked for.''

''And your point is?''

Josie moved to the far end of the couch into the shade. It was hard to look at Susan O'Connel in the sunlight. The glare that came through the window made it impossible for Josie to even pretend the woman was still pretty. Her nose was flat and misshapen. The nerves at her temple had been damaged, her right eye didn't move. A long, ragged scar ran across her neck, a souvenir from a bout with Kevin when he thought slashing her throat would teach her a lesson. After each incident Susan O'Connel had refused to press charges, fearful that doing so would make her husband angrier still. She was terrified until she met Josie and Josie wasn't about to let her knew found strength of purpose waiver now. Second guessing was understandable but it was also a luxury neither of them could afford. Susan's job now was to stay the course and Josie's was to get to Grace McCreary's place. Unfortunately, Susan wasn't on the same page. She still squabbled.

''But if we ruin him then he'll never stop coming after me. Don't you see?'' Susan insisted anxiously. ''You've already proven you've got power over him and he'll know that if he hurts me again then you'll take him back to court and. . .''

''It doesn't work that way, Susan,'' Josie interrupted. ''The civil case is over. You have a judgment. No judge in the world will be sympathetic if you go back to Kevin and he hurts you again. And Kevin isn't going to be grateful that you let him off the hook. You know that,'' Josie insisted. ''Susan, think. The fact that we beat him in court is enough to make him crazy. If you let him know you pity him he'll see that as an opening. Let me find the assets, get the money and you can go anywhere you want.'' Josie cajoled softly before lowering her voice even further. ''You know there's no going back, don't you?''

''I do,'' Susan whispered miserably.

''Good,'' Josie said, satisfied a tragedy had been averted. ''Good. So, you're going to be okay?''

Josie was on her feet the minute Susan nodded. She was too anxious to be away from this dreary place and a problem that had already been solved. Those with the higher stakes got the attention and Grace McCreary was top of the list. Yet, turning to say her good byes, seeing a tear slipped from Susan O'Connel's paralyzed eye, Josie was ashamed that she had been so quick to dismiss her.

''Let me get you a cup of tea before I go,'' Josie offered, knowing to linger was slight penance for putting Grace above Susan.

Susan shook her head and wiped the tear away. When she looked up, Josie saw that the fear and uncertainty were still there but there was still a good deal of determination.

''No. That's okay. Why don't you go to work. I could use that money if I'm going to Wisconsin.''

''I didn't know you had family there,'' Josie said as she gathered her things.

''I don't,'' she laughed sadly. ''I just like the sound of it. Wisconsin. I'll buy a little house and when I die I'll leave all this money for women who need help. People will say ‘who knew that crazy old woman had all that money?'.''

''Sounds like a plan.'' Josie put a hand on Susan's shoulder. ''But it's going to be a long time before you kick off. Hold on just a little while longer.'' Satisfied Susan's frail courage was getting stronger, Josie took off.

When the door closed, Susan stood in the middle of her shabby little apartment trying to imagine what it would be like to live in Wisconsin. When she couldn't, she went to the window and shaded her eyes from the early morning blaze of the sun. On the street below she saw Josie's Jeep pull out fast and she knew she was lucky to have an attorney like her. Josie would make everything alright. Susan O'Connel let that thought run through her head like a mantra. Unfortunately, the words stopped as she noticed something on the street.

A big, expensive car was driving down after Josie and that was odd. The cars on this street were usually old, second-hand jobs that either stayed put during the day or came and went on the nine-to-five schedule of working people. This car hadn't really been parked at all. This car had been stopped near the fire hydrant, not so much parked as waiting. Maybe the driver was waiting for Josie to come out of the building. Maybe the driver was waiting to see where she had gone inside the building.

Susan's heart beat fast and heavy in her chest; her palms were wet with perspiration. Suddenly it was hard to breathe because the scar on her throat throbbed. Then Susan had a thought that almost paralyzed her. Maybe the person in the car was Kevin. Maybe Kevin had been waiting until Josie left. He would park somewhere else and come back. He was coming back now. Up the stairs. To the third floor.

Susan backed away from the window trying to remember everything about the car but only sure of one thing: a man was driving. That man could be anyone. That man in the dark car could have been checking directions or taking a rest or he could be coming for her.

Susan O'Connel sank to the floor and pulled her knees up to her chest and watched the door of the little apartment, her sanctuary, her cell. Maybe this was where she would die; maybe she would never see Wisconsin.

The place where Grace McCreary lived was expensive and understated.

A white stucco wall encircled the property broken by a hand carved wooden gate. Beyond lay a well kept fringe of grass and a serene garden. Impatiens spilled from their beds onto the flagstone walk. Lilies' held their heads up in the patches of sun; ferns thrived in the shade. This was a private, luxurious space, one that lent itself to anonymity.

Eight units of stucco and glass shared four footprints. Front doors did not face one another; windows were set at discreet angles. No one need know who you brought home or even if you came home. Grace lived in number 6 and Josie had the key.

The door swung open and Josie entered a place cocooned in poignant solitude. Josie's own home had felt that way before Hannah but she doubted it had ever been quite like this. While Josie's house was a work-in-progress; Grace's was finished to perfection. The furniture was exquisite, the art on the walls were important pieces. Everything was clean – almost untouched. Yet there was also a devotion evident that surprised Josie.

Everywhere Josie looked there were personal pictures. The largest – a five-by-seven of Matthew - sat on an exquisite coffee table carved out of a single piece of rosewood. Others were positioned on the wall of bookshelves. Beside the deep, soft chenille sofa was a low antique table piled with books on art and politics. A pictorial of sisters was on top.

Josie ran her hand over it then opened it to the fly leaf. I couldn't love you more. The inscription was signed with a flourished M that touched Josie. Michelle McCreary, it seemed, was sentimental where Grace was concerned. Josie couldn't remember a single personal photo in the penthouse but at least she had taken the time to welcome Grace as a sister. Josie put the book down and perused Grace's pictures. The frames were expensive and freestanding. It was as if Grace wanted to be able to move them on a moment's notice, rearrange her life depending on her mood, banishing those who weren't in favor, paying homage to those who were. Grace was queen and the pictures were courtiers.

Josie touched one, then another, unable to help comparing herself to the women in Matthew's life. Maybe she was more like Michelle than Grace. The few photographs Josie had were hidden away. She had a small album that belonged to her father that she couldn't recall ever opening. There was no reason to remember people who no longer existed – or at least no reason to remember them everyday. Thinking of them only opened old wounds and raised questions that had no answers.

Josie bent down and looked at a picture of the younger, happier Matthew and Grace. Grace seemed more beautiful with her wide smile and her long hair; Matthew was full of youthful promise. Grace's jeans were tight. She wore a man's dress shirt over a tank top and held Matthew by the waist. His arm was around her shoulders. They were smiling at each other as if there was no one else in the world.

Another one.

Grace beaming at the camera, the look in her eye playfully, asking for the photographer's approval. She was so young. Thirteen? Fourteen?

And another.

Matthew sunning himself in the mountains. Grace behind him, hungry for his attention. Matthew growing into a handsome man; Grace a needy young woman. Josie picked up that picture and wondered if this was why she and Matthew didn't make it. While Josie was truly alone in the world, Matthew's missing link wasn't missing at all. Grace had always been out there somewhere.

Josie laughed at herself. This was a picture, for God's sake, not a Rorschach test and the clock was running. She had come for clothes and she was going to get them. But when Josie walked into the bedroom she was taken aback. It was almost a carbon copy of the bedroom in the penthouse except for the three formal portraits. Those were nestled into subtly lit architectural alcoves on the far wall. Matthew's portrait was on top, the McCreary's wedding portrait in the middle and beneath that, Michelle's. Suddenly, clearly, Josie understood Matthew's loss and realized that it was Grace's, too. The love and admiration for her sister-in-law was so obvious, Josie couldn't imagine that Grace McCreary had anything to do with the death of . . .

''Did you find what you were looking for?''

''Jesus!'' Josie started, turning so fast she lost a grip on her purse. Tim Douglas walked across the bedroom, picked it up and handed it to her.

''At least I know you're not going to whack me with this thing,'' he said.

''Did you ever hear of knocking? Maybe hollering to let me know you were here?'' Josie groused.

''Did you ever think that leaving a door partly opened may make someone think something was wrong?''

''Pretty brave to walk in when you thought there was a problem.''

''Not really,'' he laughed. ''I saw your Jeep outside. I thought I'd see what you were doing before I announced myself.''

''Is spying in your job description?''

Josie tossed her purse on the bed and opened Grace's closet without waiting for an answer. Thankfully, her back was to Tim Douglas or he would have seen that even she, the woman who lived in sweats in the off hours, was dazzled. Shoes sprouted from floor to ceiling in custom made shelves. To the right were day suits, to the left bare, couture gowns. Straight ahead, peignoirs: lacy things with flowing skirts that would make any woman look like Venus.

It was the last that was most interesting since there seemed to be no man in Grace's life. Perhaps, Grace McCreary was one of those rare women who dressed to please herself. Or, there was someone waiting in the wings who wanted to see how all this played out before they came forward. Maybe he was married. Maybe he was unsavory. Maybe. . .

Aware of Tim Douglas's scrutiny, Josie walked into the closet, stopped speculating and took a beige suit. A patterned blouse. A pair of bone pumps. She kept talking as she tossed them on the bed.

''I'm getting some clothes for Grace. There's a bail hearing in an hour.''

Tim wandered to the bed. He picked up the sleeve of the blouse. ''I don't think she'd like this one.''

''And the reason you know this is?''
''Because it's my job to pay attention. Grace never wore patterns when there might be a photographer around. She said patterns are distracting.'' Tim blinked behind his glasses, embarrassed, feeling the need to explain. ''I figure someone's bound to have gotten wind of this by now. Photographers might be in the courtroom.''

''Is part of your job to make the candidate's wayward sister look good?'' Josie smiled wryly.

''No. I just think she deserves a fair shot. Grace is very careful with her appearance.''

Tim Douglas's point was well taken. Josie exchanged her first choice for a plain blouse, giving him the once over when she came out. He still looked slightly disheveled despite the good haircut and respectable suit. He still had that soft look of a man who knew he would always be a bit player so he didn't dress for starring roles. He was older than she first imagined, but not by much. Grace's age. No ring. Married to the candidate and the cause.

''So, what are you doing here?'' Josie asked as she opened Grace's dresser drawers, finding what she wanted in the fourth one.

''I was hoping to find some files Grace and I was working on. Some statistics on the foster children program.'' Tim put his hands in his pocket. Josie gave him no more than a glance as she looked in the drawers for fresh lingerie, jewelry, stockings. Tim kept talking. ''It's the cornerstone of Matthew's campaign. He believes you can't make changes in education until there are changes in the way we treat children. You know, expecting too much of them too fast, throwing them out of the system before they're ready, lack of parental supervision, poor foster care programs.''

''Really?'' Half listening, Josie gathered up Grace's under things and put them with the suit.

''Did you know that when foster kids are eighteen they're just cut loose from the system? No back-up. No money. Nothing.''

Josie opened another drawer, thought for a second, then swung her head toward Tim.

''Look, it's not that I don't appreciate the political primer but right now I don't care if Matthew wants to put a Mercedes in every garage. I'll just be happy if he shows his face in court, okay?''

Tim's head moved up. Not really a sign of agreement, more an indication that he'd been put in his place.

''Sure. Understood.'' Tim nodded, the reprimand accepted. ''He's going to be in court today.''

''That's good,'' she muttered, picking an old wooden box out of the drawer. Inside there were a few pins, earrings fashioned out of small diamonds and delicate gold. All very feminine. Very tasteful. A young girl's jewelry that would have suited Grace better than ostentatious show of wealth she preferred. Josie was about to put the box back when she saw two unframed photographs pushed back in the drawer.

One was very old: square, black and white, scalloped edges. There was a woman holding a baby in her arms, a toddler leaning up against her leg. A man stood tight in with the little group. No one smiled but they all managed to touch one another. Josie didn't have to wonder who these people were: Matthew and Grace and their long dead parents. The other one showed a middle aged man who seemed surprised to be the subject of a photograph. He was in an office, half turned to the camera. It was more recent than the first.

''Tim, is Grace seeing anyone?'' Josie replaced the pictures and put the box on top. ''An older man?''

''I don't think so. She was always working,'' Tim answered. ''But you should ask her.''

''I'll do that,'' Josie muttered. She gathered up the clothes and headed to the door. ''I've got to go.''

For a second Tim Douglas stood in her way, his mouth open, the rosy red apples of his cheeks even rosier. His eyes were darker than she had remembered, his presence some how more imposing. Josie cocked her head giving him a minute to say what was on his mind. He didn't take it. Instead, he stepped aside then followed Josie out the front door.

''Can you use your key to throw the deadbolt? My hands are full.''

''You got it.'' He turned his back to her.

They said goodbye on the sidewalk. Josie went on to the courthouse, Tim back to campaign headquarters. When they both found themselves stopped at the same traffic light, Josie glanced his way and gave him a perfunctory smile. When she touched the brim of her baseball cap to adjust it, Josie Bates found herself bothered by something more than the bail hearing to come. She was bothered by what hadn't happened at Grace McCreary's place.

Tim Douglas hadn't retrieved the file's he'd come to find. In fact, he hadn't even looked for them. And Josie hadn't heard the deadbolt because it hadn't been thrown. Tim didn't have a key. He had gone to Grace's because he knew Josie was there and that was very interesting.

CHAPTER 15

At least Tim hadn't lied about Matthew.

He was front and center in the courtroom. No cadre of personal attorneys or political advisors waiting at his beck and call. Josie handed Grace's clothes to the bailiff so Grace could dress out, claimed the defense table and now stood quietly talking to him. He listened with his arms crossed, his expression dutifully sober.

''Have you talked to them?'' Josie raised her chin toward the three reporters in the courtroom.

Matthew looked up and then away again when he made eye contact with the woman from the AP.

''I told them there was no doubt that Grace's arrest was a mistake and thanked them for their concern.''

''Good. Keep it at that.'' Josie scrutinized them with interest. Two she recognized, the third was a mystery. All in all, it wasn't a bad draw. There were no television cameras and nothing identifying the third man as a broadcast journalist.

''Easier said than done,'' Matthew muttered and ran a hand through his hair, shifting his weight, sighing from the heart. ''My opponent was on the morning shows bright and early lamenting Grace's arrest and wondering how I was going to hold up under the pressure of a trial. God, he was talking as if Grace was Lizzie Borden.''

''I saw some of it. Only one national show picked up a sound bite so it looks like we skated to some degree.'' Josie offered her empty assurances, making them because they were better than nothing. If the D.A. stuck to his guns then a special circumstances charge would put all of them in the national spotlight and that was the last thing Josie wanted. ''Refer legal questions to me, keep your comments short and we'll be good to go. . .'' Josie's voice trailed off. Matthew sat up then followed her gaze to see what – or who – had caught her interest.

Detective Horace Babcock acknowledged them with a courteous look as he unbuttoned his jacket, tugged on his trousers and sat down on the aisle seat of the last wooden spectator pew. It was curious to see him at a bail hearing where he would have no input. Matthew put his fingers to his eyes. His head bowed. He took a deep breath and then looked at her wearily, as if she was his last hope.

''I'm sorry, Matthew. I know there's no way to make any of this good but I promise I'm not leaving without Grace. Okay?'' Josie touched his arm and looked into his eyes so that he could see her resolve.

Matthew nodded. He took her hand thoughtlessly only to tighten his grip when he could think of no words to express his gratitude. His hand was warm, his confidence in her was great and suddenly Josie realized how high the stakes really were. She eased her hand from beneath his, centered herself and faced the bench.

The court clerk was at her desk, the bailiff was calling the court of Judge Davenport to order. The prosecutor was waddling up the aisle with a grin on her moon face. Josie was in lawyer mode when, in that second before she began to work, she heard Mathew say a quiet thank you and that made put Josie on notice that Matthew McCreary's faith and fate rested in her and only her.

CHAPTER 16

Grace appeared, escorted by the bailiff and Matthew was forgotten. Her hair was impeccable, her make-up, though minimal, was dramatic, the beige suit fit like a glove and her hands were cuffed in front of her. The emerald ring and Mabe pearl earrings were gone, left with her jailers for safe keeping.

As the bailiff released Grace and guided her to the defense table Josie put her shoulders back and smiled. But Grace looked beyond her to Matthew as if he would make everything right. Then Grace's eyes – those unfortunate eyes – were on Josie.

''You okay?'' Josie asked.

Grace nodded. The women faced the bench and the judge who called his court to order with a ‘good morning' and an invitation for them to begin.

''P.J. Vega for the prosecution. And good morning to you to, your honor.'' The deputy district attorney greeted the judge cheerily then, with a flourish, settled her large self into the small chair.

''Josie Baylor-Bates for the defense, your honor.''

Davenport nodded and considered them for a moment. What Josie had in height, P.J. had in breadth. Josie looked like she would fight to the death; P.J. would kill with kindness. Josie glanced at her opponent, determined she wasn't harmless then looked back to the judge, sure of only one thing: P.J. Vega's good humor was that of someone who already thought she had won.

''Does the defendant waive the reading of the complaint?'' Davenport put his old sharp eyes on Josie.

''Yes, your honor, we. . .''

Josie never managed to tell the judge what the defense wanted because P.J. Vega was waving a finger in the air, a stack of turquoise and silver bracelet's sliding down the slope of her arm as she got to her feet.

''Your honor, if I may.''

''You may, but only if you have something of import to say, Ms. Vega.''

''Indeed, your honor. I would like to apologize for wasting the court's time this morning. We will be requesting the minimum bail at this time The District Attorney himself, after careful review the facts upon which this case was brought, and knowing that Ms. McCreary has voluntarily turned over her passport, does not believe the defendant to be a flight risk and an excessive bond is neither necessary or advisable.''

''Fine with me,'' Davenport concurred and with a word that the defendant could post bond he set a stunned Grace McCreary free.

''Your honor,'' Josie said quickly. ''Am I to understand that the district attorney is dropping the murder charges against my client?''

''Ms. Vega?'' Davenport bounced the ball to the prosecutor.

''No, no judge, we are not,'' P.J. laughed and her tummy jiggled under the tent of her dress.

''Well, then, the defendant may post bond and I would like also like to get you on the calendar for a preliminary hearing,'' the judge said.

''We may be proceeding directly to the grand jury, your honor,'' P.J. advised. ''So can we get back to you on those dates?''

Davenport looked over his spectacles. While it was clear he had a soft spot for P.J. Vega, he also had a calendar to juggle.

''When does the grand jury meet, Miss Vega?''

''In three days, your honor.''

''Fine. Three weeks on the preliminary hearing. If you fail to get an indictment from the grand jury and wish to proceed then I've got you covered. Acceptable to you, Ms. Bates?''

''Yes, your honor.''

Josie answered without a hint that she was surprised. This was a far cry from the Friday night's drama of handcuffs and special circumstances. The reporters were closing their notebooks. Matthew and Grace McCreary would rate a big headline and a small article. Grace turned gratefully into her brother's embrace as Judge Davenport dismissed them.

''We're done here. Have a nice one, ladies.''

Disconcerted, Josie put her hand out to get Grace's attention yet before she could speak P.J. Vega was tapping her on the shoulder with a stout finger and flashing a white-toothed grin.

''Got a minute? Make it worth your while,'' she suggested playfully as if she didn't know Josie would have blocked the courtroom doors before she let P.J. get away without an explanation.

''Sure,'' Josie answered, poker face intact.

''Bring your client,'' P.J. suggested and then raised her chin. ''Him, too, if you want.''

Without a second glance at any of them she waddled down the aisle trailing the scent of good perfume, good humor and a deal.

Josie watched her go only to find her eye caught by Horace Babcock's. Obviously unhappy, he broke the connection and followed P.J. out the door. The cops weren't in on the deal that negated all their hard work and that meant Josie wasn't P.J. Vega's only adversary.

CHAPTER 17

P.J. Vega's office was very pretty.

Actually, the office wasn't pretty, the things in it were: pink pens, pastel posters and pillows embroidered with messages that encouraged her to make the most of the day or believe in herself. P.J. needed no cajoling in that department. She believed in herself just fine, thank you very much. On top of that, the District Attorney thought she was pretty spectacular, too. Her reputation had preceded her when she joined the Long Beach District Attorney's Office after a stint up north. Many a defense attorney who faced P.J. listened to her wax poetic about the accomplishments of her children, basked under the glow of her smile and figured her for a push over.

They couldn't have been more wrong. P.J. was tough as nails.

She had crossed the San Diego Border between Mexico and the United States in vitro. Her mother, eight months pregnant, had been smashed into a false bottom of a truck along with six other people by a coyote. He had taken their money then left them along the edge of the 405 when the truck broke down. P.J.'s mother had gone into labor in the stifling heat. She was close to giving birth when her terrified companions finally broke through the floorboards and fled. P.J was born bloody and slightly premature but bouncing and healthy. Her mother had not been so lucky. She died in her hiding place and P.J., a United States citizen, was sent through the system.

One of the lucky ones, she was taken into a middle class Hispanic family to be raised in a houseful of adopted and foster children. P.J. took the family name Vega because no one knew what her mother's had been. Her foster parents had been written up in the Los Angeles Times on half a dozen mothers' day and a couple of times on father's day. The family had turned out three doctors, two teachers and three lawyers. P.J. was the most tenacious of them but she was also smart and good humored. She didn't take loss personally. If God had saved her, given her a family who loved her, a chance to make her way in the world in a respected profession then, by golly, she was going to happily do no less than her best to give back.

Giving back for P.J. included taking care of her own six children, a husband disabled after a construction accident and righting society's wrongs. Today, she said she wanted to right a wrong the District Attorney's office had committed and, as far as Josie was concerned, it all smelled to high heaven.

''Look, I've talked it over with the District Attorney and there are a few things that he thinks we can agree upon. First, some of the facts of this case are open to interpretation. . .''

''Which means,'' Josie cut in, ''that you don't think you can convict on murder one.''

P.J. blessed Josie again with her smile and then ignored her.

''He believes that, given Ms. McCreary's high profile in the community. . .''

''Ms. McCreary has no such profile,'' Josie reminded her and she was again discounted as P.J. forged ahead.

''. ..and might soon be part of a national political campaign, there is a danger of creating an atmosphere in which justice cannot be served if we overreach in our efforts to bring this matter to closure. What we want to do is to be just for everyone, Mr. McCreary,'' she nodded at Matthew, ''including your wife. We are very cognizant that this is a painful and distressing situation for you.''

''And you can stop talking like a television show P.J. and talk to me.'' Josie was sitting with one leg crossed over the other, one arm crooked on the arm of the chair. When she had P.J.'s attention, she sat up. ''Since I think you missed it the first time, let's go over it again. My client isn't a public figure, so there will be no political ramifications if you go to trial – at least not for Mr. McCreary. Unless, of course, the D.A. is worried that, by prosecuting my client for a crime she didn't commit, it might come back to bite him in the butt next time he stands for election.''

''Not at all,'' P.J. laughed heartily as if the suggestion was beyond ridiculous. ''Not that public perception isn't a consideration. Doesn't everyone have a vested interest in the outcome of a situation like this? Then again, we're taking note of the case in Colorado. A well known public figure accused of a heinous crime can create a media circus. No one is well served when that happens. We can all agree on that, can't we?''

''Again, I'll put it to you. My client is not a public figure.''

''Josie, please,'' P.J. smiled as if to say even her patience had boundaries. ''Mr. McCreary is making quite a name for himself up and down the state. His wife's family is well known in California. Her death caused quite a stir that first week. The national media covered the two weeks Mr. McCreary took away from his campaign. A trial involving his sister would - well -.'' P.J. opened her hands to God. ''Politicians, their families, it's all the same to the public. You can go all the way back to the Carter clan. Clinton's brother. The Reagan kids. It would be hard to seat on impartial jury. It would be a mess.''

''Your reasoning is a little far fetched,'' Josie grumbled. ''So let's just leave it that you guys don't want the scrutiny. If you have an offer, make it.''

''As a matter of fact, I do have one. Involuntary manslaughter. Six years, two or three and she's out – we'll leave that to the judge but we'll recommend parole at two. I'd say that's a darn sight better than a first degree charge.''

P.J.'s grin disappeared. The lawyer had come to play. Her black eyes were flinty as she laid it out. Matthew and Grace were dismissed and Josie was barely tolerated. That's when Josie got it. P.J.Vega didn't like any of them. P.J. Vega was prejudiced and it had nothing to do with the color of their skin, only the color of their money. Fine. Josie could live with that. She didn't particularly like P.J. Vega's little jolly act either.

''That's an interesting offer considering you don't have anything that looks remotely like hard evidence,'' Josie answered calmly.

''We have an eye witness who puts her on the balcony helping her sister-in-law take a flying leap.''

''That's not true. . .'' Grace objected.

''Absolutely untrue. . .'' Matthew cried just before Josie put up a hand for silence.

''Grace has never denied that she was on that balcony,'' Josie said. ''She was trying to stop Michelle McCreary from jumping. So, unless you've got some telepathic way of knowing what was in my client's mind at that moment, I'd say you're a little light even on manslaughter without a motive.''

''I think there was a very good motive,'' P.J. purred. ''It seems that the McCreary ladies were having a rather heated argument about Mrs. McCreary's involvement her husband's campaign. Isn't that true, Ms. McCreary?''

Matthew's face clouded as he sat forward on his chair and looked at his sister.

''What's she talking about, Grace?''

''Nothing,'' Grace insisted. ''It wasn't that important.''

''Why don't you tell me what you've got,'' Josie suggested.

''Take a look.''

The prosecutor took a photograph from her drawer and passed it over without fanfare. Josie, Matthew and Grace huddled to look at it.

''Two angry women.'' Josie handed it back. ''I see worse every time I pass the hair salon.''

P.J. took the picture and looked at it again.

''Two women who had been angry for weeks,'' she mused before engaging Josie again. ''It seems Mrs. McCreary didn't want to be part of the campaign. She didn't want to shake hands; she didn't want to show up at fundraisers. She didn't even want to talk about it. Isn't that right Ms. McCreary?''

''Yes,'' Grace admitted. ''I was upset with her about that. Matthew needed her. People were starting to ask questions.''

''I imagine they were,'' P.J. said kindly. ''Especially the television stations that were asking for their money. It seems the Committee to Elect Matthew McCreary accounts were in arrears big time. I imagine you were also angry that your sister-in-law was refusing to make good on her pledge to infuse cash into the campaign coffers. I would further imagine, Ms. McCreary, that you had any number of reasons to be very, very upset with your brother's wife. She was messing with your livelihood as well as your brother's ambition.''

''That's enough,'' Josie insisted. ''This is ridiculous. I can't believe you're making an argument into a motive for murder.''

''I think I could convince a judge that I'm on the right track,'' P.J. said. ''I have feeling Ms. McCreary would do anything to keep from losing.''

''That's why we're such a good team. I don't like to lose either,'' Josie said. ''I'm not going to let my client make a deal and serve one day of jail time or probation based on that nonsense.''

''Is that what you want, Ms. McCreary? Do you want to take a chance that I'm right and your attorney is wrong? You just can't imagine what fifteen years in jail will do to a woman.''

''Oh, please,'' Josie scoffed and as she turned her head she saw that Grace was sitting rigid in her chair, staring straight ahead. Thinking too hard about what P.J. was saying; frightened by the picture P.J. was painting in her silky smooth voice. Josie called P.J. Vega's bluff before Grace was scared into a raw deal.

''Grace, let's go.''

Grace looked at Josie's outstretched hand as if she was coming out of a dream. She put her hands on the arms of her chair but before she could get up Matthew mixed it all up.

''Wait. Aren't you going to give us some time to think about this?'' He looked at P.J. then whipped around to talk to Josie. ''Are you just going to walk away?''

''That's exactly what I'm going to do.'' Josie took Grace's arm to help her up. ''If they had a good case they'd prosecute on the original charge. If they've got no case then, in good conscience, they should admit to it, apologize and drop the charges. This is about the D.A. and the cops saving face, Matthew. They don't want to admit the arrest was a mistake in the first place. They don't want to admit. . .''

''We don't work that way in this office.'' P.J. snapped and her big, beefy hands came down flat on her well ordered desk. The little pink pencil holder jumped and shivered. She pushed the calendar sporting pictures of kittens out of her way. ''I'm ready to go on this. I'm giving you a gift because that's the way it came down from the top but the top says it's my call . . .''

''Then, if the DA is asking you to plead her out he must know something you don't and we might as . . .''

''Hold on.'' Matthew was between the two women, facing Josie, lowering his voice. ''Josie, if what she says is true then there's more room to negotiate. I think we should go directly to the D.A.''

''This isn't a business deal, Matthew. Even if they offered straight probation Grace would still be a convicted felon if she pled out. She'd have a record,'' Josie insisted.

''What would that matter? Grace doesn't have to worry about filing out job applications. She's rich. No one will care. It would probably make her a celebrity.''

''And you're okay with that, Matthew?'' Josie moved in close to him. She lowered her voice and argued. ''Don't you want to clear her name to be sure that Grace had nothing to do with Michelle's death? Doesn't that mean anything to you?''

''And doesn't it mean anything that she's my sister and I've already lived with the guilt that I drove her away all those years ago. Josie, don't play games with Grace's life. Don't let them take her away from me when I need her and she needs me. Negotiate. There's room, here.'' Matthew took his argument to Grace. ''Grace, you don't want to take a chance they might send you to prison? Do you?''

''No. I don't want that.'' Her voice was made small with awe and fear and uncertainty and her eyes never left Matthew. Josie saw exactly what was happening. The pull of family – of a begging man - was awesome. Grace wanted to be saved and Matthew didn't want to take a chance that Josie couldn't do it. Add the fear of the unknown, the distrust of a mysterious legal system and Grace would take what she was offered with no thought for justice or truth. Josie put herself between them before the McCreary's mutual fear and need forced them to the wrong decision.

''Did you do you have any reason to hurt your sister in law?'' she demanded of Grace.

Grace shook her head.

''Did you help her take her own life?'' Josie pressed.

Grace shook her head again.

''Do you think you should admit to something you didn't do even if you don't have to go to jail? Do you want anyone to think that you hurt your sister-in-law?''

Grace's head moved in rhythm with Josie's questions but soon enough her eyes went past Josie again. She whirled on Matthew, pulled him close and turned their backs to P.J. Vega.

''Don't say anything, Matthew.'' Josie's whisper was a warning. ''Please. If you want to make things right, give me a chance. Please.''

''But if you lose.''

''Matthew, I don't want to go to jail.'' Grace reached for his hand. Matthew moved and let it slip out of her grasp leaving Grace mired in the same hysteria Josie had witnessed during her arrest. ''Please. . .Matthew. . .''

''Hold on. Hold on,'' P.J. knuckled on her desk and they broke the huddle. ''Hold on. Take it down. The offer is on the table. Take twenty-four hours. Get back to me. Fair enough?''

Matthew and Grace stood shoulder to shoulder; the same way they stood in the picture when they were so much younger and no one had died, no one had left, no one had made any mistakes. They looked at Josie: Grace so hopeful, Matthew anxious and unsure. Josie took a deep breath and did what Grace hired her to do. She made a decision.

''We don't need time. We're leaving.''

''Grace. There's no guarantee if you walk out of here,'' Matthew warned but a second later something changed. Whatever passed between them made him ask: ''This is what you want?''

''I didn't push Michelle,'' she said quietly and touched his arm. ''I wouldn't hurt you. I won't ever hurt you.''

With that, Grace McCreary walked out of P.J. Vega's office. Matthew and Josie followed.

''Guess we'll see you all at the prelim,'' P.J. Vega called. Josie turned around.

''Looking forward to it,'' she answered then reached for the door and pulled it closed behind her.

CHAPTER 18

The day was blindingly bright.

Not a cloud to shade, not a meniscus of haze to cut the glare. It was so bright the world was one dimensional. Blue water and sky, white sand, buildings and boardwalk shimmied with heat waves. It was so hot Josie couldn't smell the ocean. Instead she smelled asphalt melting, paint liquefying and the scent of coconut oil in the sunscreen that was slathered on everyone within a mile of her. Josie was tired of the local news tracking Matthew's campaign problems on one hand and the bizarre heat wave on the other so she walked two blocks to the Strand with only Grace on her mind. She blocked out strategies, played devil's advocate, mentally perused the witness list. Josie knew there was another shoe waiting to drop and when it did she would be there to toss a few of her own into the ring. Her own preliminary investigation had dug up an interesting little bucket of worms. Michelle McCreary had problems herself and any one of them could have led to a meltdown and a flying leap from the eleventh floor.

The daughter of a fragile mother and a larger than life father, Michelle McCreary had been born into money and privilege. Her mother was of little consequence. The woman pretended her husband didn't exist and her daughter was treated like a barely tolerated acquaintance. Michelle's father had been governor of California, an old school politico who screwed everything in a skirt. He beat back charges of statutory rape when a school friend of Michelle's succumbed to his charms. During his tenure there had been allegations of graft and fraud, some of which were indicted, none of which were proven. The man was a first class pig in private and a hell of a politician in public. He trotted Michelle out like a prized horse when he needed some respectability. The more beautiful his daughter became, the more he thrust her into the spotlight. He was a proud father who loved his daughter. Some thought that poor Michelle had been just a little too loved by her seemingly doting father – but that was a place no one dared go while the old man was alive.

Josie kicked at a stone. It careened into the wall and ricocheted back behind her. She passed Burt's at the Beach. The restaurant was packed even in the middle of the afternoon on a workday. Scotty's was the same. The Sea Sprite hotel was overflowing with people. A family with triplets lounged on the porch of the pink cottage adjacent to the main building. A couple of teenagers could be heard inside playing the music Hannah preferred. In-line skaters came at Josie forward and behind and they all shared the space with bicycles, baby strollers and people who just plain walked. It was March, three months from the primary. It felt like the middle of summer. On Pier Plaza the wild parrots had taken off for cooler climes and the happy hour was starting early. Josie passed the hustle and bustle, but she couldn't stop thinking about Matthew's dead wife.

Fred Delgando was Michelle's father and she couldn't have been dealt a worse hand. She hated that he was a politician. She hated that he was crass. She hated that she was interesting to the press because she was Big Fred's daughter.

Psychiatrists, Catholic school counselors, fleeting friends, a boyfriend or two helped Michelle cope but from what Matthew told Josie it was the Church that kept Michelle sane. Her priest, gone to Ireland on a sabbatical, would be back by the time a trial commenced – if a trial commenced. But that was months away and Josie was positive she could neutralize any of the witnesses P.J. Vega brought to the prelim. In fact, she was sure of it. Almost.

Cutting through a break in The Strand wall, Josie kicked off her shoes and trudged across the sand, one hand shielding her eyes. A foursome at a far volleyball court was loosing a player. Josie knew them by sight and they knew her by reputation. She weighed in with introductions, found out her partner was from Huntington Beach, stripped off her top to the sports bra beneath, dug in and the game began.

Muscles tensing, Josie moved through the deep sand easily, receiving the serves smoothly. Knees bent. Elbows locked. Hands clasped. Thumbs parallel and rigid she popped the ball to her partner for a set up that she put away. She moved as fast as the game. Point after point. Give and take. A bump. A spike. People stopped to watch the tall woman, her body brown and ripped, glistening with sweat. It plastered hair to forehead. She pushed is back, annoyed that even this short it distracted her. Her sunglass slipped down her nose and she whipped them off, tossing them into the sand outside the court boundaries, squinting into the sun.

''You!''

Her partner hollered. Josie ran. She lunged. She hit the sand hard, one fist thrown out in a last ditch effort to save the point. The ball glanced off her hand and spiraled away from the court. Josie stayed down for a second and watched it roll away. Finally she got up and dusted herself off. She used the back of her arm to wipe the sand away from her mouth. With a ‘my bad' apology, her partner sprinted after the ball. Josie raised her chin to call out an ‘okay' when she caught the scent of something. Standing taller she put her forearm to her brow and wiped it then put both hands on her hips and doubled over to catch her breath. All the while Josie kept her head up and her eyes opened. People moved in and out of the bright white light that shot off the sand and water like a laser. Standing again, her skin seared and shrinking with the heat, Josie burrowed her feet into the coolness beneath the surface of the sand.

Rotating slowly, she looked for anything out of the ordinary; anyone who didn't belong; anyone like Kevin O'Connel. But that didn't wash. Josie knew what it felt like to have Kevin O'Connel hating her. Distance didn't matter. The hairs on her neck were not standing up, her heart wasn't beating faster, she wasn't afraid, yet Josie's instincts were seldom wrong. Someone found her damned interesting and when she figured it out Josie was nothing less than surprised.

Putting on her shoes, Josie snatched up her shirt and sunglasses and bowed out of the game. She headed toward the Strand, giving her partner a low five and a ‘thanks' as she passed. She trudged slow through the hot sand never taking her eyes off the man who watched her. When she was close enough, he took off his sunglasses. There were those eyes, the ones that saw everything including Josie's ambivalence.

''What are you doing back, Archer?''

CHAPTER 19

Josie rested her elbow on the railing and checked out her man. They'd been together a little over a year, meeting when he took a picture of her at a pro-am tournament. Josie had missed a critical shot. Her displeasure intrigued Archer. The photograph turned out fine; the woman was even finer. Archer liked the look of her, her competitiveness, the fact that she worked harder after she screwed up. Josie admired his quiet persistence, his experience, his solid look. They liked each other before they loved and never talked about either. Archer stayed clear of her business until he was asked in and always – always – the man was honest. Older than she, wiser in a different way than she, Josie had forgotten how potent his presence was even though he was tired and hadn't shaved in a day – maybe two. He was hungry but he was thirsty, too. The plate of calamari they were going to share remained untouched in favor of the beer. Archer was on his second.

''So,'' Josie foot nudged his leg under the table. ''You and Hannah must have something going on that I don't know about if she called you. I thought you two could barely tolerate each other.''

''I wouldn't exactly say we're best buddies,'' Archer admitted. ''She's just smart enough to know when she needs help.''

''Help? With what?'' Josie chuckled. ''She's been on top of the world since her gallery showing. School is great. I've been watching her. There aren't any problems.''

''You got it backwards, Jo. She's been watching you. You're her worry.'' Archer ran a finger down the glass beer bottle then wrapped his hand around it. He didn't want to have to say, but there was no way around this. ''She was thinking about taking up the razor again, Jo.''

Josie's own beer was halfway to her lips. Her hand trembled as she paused then took a drink.

''I don't believe it.?'' The bottle was back on the table. She didn't as much look Archer in the eyes as check out the truth behind them. ''I couldn't have missed something like that. Hannah would have said something before she cut herself. It was part of the deal. She would have told me before you she told you.''

''I could hear it when she called,'' Archer said softly. ''I know what I'm talking about.''

''You were in the middle of nowhere,'' Josie snapped. ''You heard static.''

Archer laugh was deep and rumbling. Josie loved - and hated - it until she figured out he wasn't making a judgment, he was only trying to figure out what had gone down while he was away.

''I heard what I heard. And I knew about this thing with the McCreary's before Hannah called.''

''She called because she was worried about the McCreary case? I've hardly talked about it at home. Was she reading the papers? Was she worried it was too big? That I wouldn't have enough time for her?''

''Nope.'' Archer picked up a calamari ring and dipped it. He held it up, popping it into his mouth only after he said: ''She thinks you're going to go with Matthew McCreary. She thought I better high tail it back here and stake my claim.''

''Really?'' Now Josie was amused. ''Are you going to challenge him to a duel.''

''Naw, just figured I'd ask if maybe Hannah is on to something.'' Another little calamari donut disappeared into his mouth but his gaze was steady on her. ''So, I'm asking, Jo. Should I be worried?''

''I think you wasted a trip, Archer.'' She hunched her shoulders and touched his big hand, drawing her finger down the back of it before laying her palm down atop it. ''So, that was it? Hannah was worried about you and me?''

''Not exactly,'' he snorted. ''She thought if McCreary was in the picture you might leave her by the wayside. She wasn't exactly worried that you were going to dump me.''

''I guess that's what a teenager would think,'' Josie mused and moved her bottle of beer around until the water ring was a figure eight.

''So there's nothing to be concerned about on either score, is there?'' he asked quietly.

''What would you do if there was?'' She raised her eyes and smiled, meaning for the moment to be light, a tease. It wasn't and she was sorry she had tried to make it so.

''I honestly don't know, Jo,'' Archer said solemnly. ''We've never really worked that way, have we?''

''Guess not,'' she answered, shaken that he would walk away if that's what she said she wanted. They sat together a minute longer, turning their heads, looking out over the plaza below. Josie's hand tightened on Archer's.

''I'm glad you're back,'' she said quietly.

''Then it was good Hannah told me to come.''

''Don't read anything into that. I'm just glad you're back because I missed you. Nothing else. Matthew McCreary is my client's brother, that's it.''

''Then it's good.'' Archer's fingers entwined with hers. He brought it to his lips and kissed the back of her hand. His beard scratched her. Josie wondered why they weren't at his apartment celebrating his early homecoming. Archer dropped her hand, crossed his arms on the table and asked, ''So, you want to talk about this thing? I mean, your plan was to kick back while I was gone and ride out the heat wave.''

''That was the plan,'' Josie mirrored his body language and lowered her voice. ''It's complicated. Matthew is an old friend but I'm really doing this for his sister. She's – different. Richer than God but so needy and unsure of herself. She seems to rely on me but the minute Matthew shows up it's like I'm not even there. I didn't really think about what I was doing when I took this on; I don't want to leave it the same way.''

''Sounds right to me,'' Archer agreed, noting that Josie averted her eyes. She just didn't look away fast enough. Archer saw that Hannah may have been right after all. The brother was in this equation big time. Either Josie just didn't know it or wouldn't admit to it.

''What can I do to help, Jo.''

''Nothing. Really. Nothing,'' she reiterated when he looked skeptical. Josie didn't want him on that turf. This just felt too personal. So she gave him an overview of the problem, her strategy, the loose ends. ''I've got a little more to do tonight. I want to walk that balcony to make sure my experts on the money.''

''I could go with you,'' he suggested knowing full well what the answer would be.

Josie shook her head. ''You look like something the cat dragged in. take a shower. Get some rest. When I'm done at Matthew's place I need to get Grace ready for court. You're a new face. I don't want to have to explain.''

''Okay, Jo.'' He held up the last calamari ring for her. When she declined he left it.

''I'll call you tomorrow,'' Josie said as she got up.

''Okay, babe.'' Archer stood, too. ''But if there's something you need to ease you up on this thing, let me know.''

Archer put his hand on the small of Josie's back and guided her down the narrow staircase and onto the plaza. The sun was setting reluctantly. The evening felt lazy and Josie had to be on her guard against giving in to it.

They walked toward the beach, arms around one another's waist, Josie's hand finding its way to Archer's back pocket. Still Josie felt uncomfortable refusing Archer's offer of help.

''There is something you can do for me, Archer.''

As they walked, Josie filled him on Kevin O'Connel, the settlement, the problem collecting the money. She needed to know if Kevin O'Connel was being paid under the table.

''When do you need to know?'' Archer asked.

''ASAP. Susan O'Connel really needs the money and I. . .'' Josie hesitated, thinking twice before telling Archer that O'Connel had threatened her. It wasn't his fight. ''I just want the son of a bitch to pay up. Susan deserves it and I want to make good on the settlement as soon as possible.''

''No problem. Tomorrow okay?''

''Tomorrow or the next. I just don't want this to fall through the cracks. This guy is brutal.''

''I'll get on it in the morning.''

''Thanks. I'll call you with the info on where to find O'Connel before I leave tonight. I'll be at court tomorrow. . .'' Josie let go of Archer as she gave him her schedule but Archer had something else he wanted.

He took her arm and pulled her close. He kissed her hard with lips warm from the Mexican sun and dry from the desert air. Josie's hand went to his chest then her arm went ‘round his waist and it was over as quickly as it had begun. Still they stood together, lingering on the plaza, no one giving them a second look.

''Did you get some good pictures?'' Josie asked.

''Yeah, I saw some nice things,'' Archer answered. ''Nothing nicer than this, though.''

He kissed her again and this time they parted as easily as they had come together. Josie went home, showered, dressed, called Archer as promised and took off again. She pointed the Jeep toward Long Beach for one last look at the McCreary penthouse.

Archer had gone to home to his apartment on the top floor of the oldest building on the beach. He owned it. He loved it. It was home. He garaged the Hummer. It was coated with Baja grime. Time enough tomorrow to clean it off. Grabbing his gear out of the back Archer lugged it up the three flights to his place. Inside the air was three weeks stale so he dropped the duffle and opened the sliding glass doors to the deck. Everything was where it should be. His bike in the corner, the bar-b-que, the director's chairs covered in canvas, high enough to see over the wall to the beach. For a second Archer just looked then he ambled out, crossed his arms and leaned onto the balcony. He was as gritty as the Hummer; but just seeing the ocean made him feel clean. The phone rang but he only turned his head to listen as Josie left her message. He didn't want to talk anymore. He wanted to think about what had gone down that afternoon.

Josie hadn't been unhappy to see him but she wasn't exactly thrilled either. He was too early. There were things she was working out and they had nothing to do with investigating or preliminary hearings or possible trials. This had to do with something inside her that was unsettled and Archer wasn't even sure she understood that. It was one thing to understand a problem and make a choice, another thing all together when you couldn't even admit there was a choice to be made. That kind of thing itched like a splinter buried too deep. Eventually you had to cut it out because it burrowed too deep to pull. Either way it made you crazy ‘till you got rid of it.

It wasn't like Matthew McCreary was a secret. Archer had known about him from almost the minute he met Josie. But McCreary had been distant then: a picture in the business section of the newspaper then an item on the broadcast news as he moved into politics and, finally, a grieving icon when his wife died. Now he was in Archer's backyard and that just didn't feel good.

With a sigh, Archer went back inside and grabbed his camera bag. He had a few more shots on that last roll and using them just might settle him down. He adjusted t he tripod, mounted the camera and looked through the lens at the brilliantly colored evening sky. Leaning down, he framed the shot, snapped off the last of the roll then took equipment back inside.

Falling into his chair, Archer busied himself until he knew he couldn't avoid the call any longer. He dialed Hannah's cell.

''I talked to her,'' he said when she answered. ''Everything is okay. I got it covered.''

With that Archer hung up knowing he had probably just told a lie.

CHAPTER 20

The sweep of the Vincent Thomas Bridge was beginning to feel like home as Josie maneuvered the Jeep past the trucks, crested the bridge and checked out the harbor on the downhill slide. Far below, the water was black and the docks seemingly deserted for the day. Containers from countries around the world were stacked one on top of one another. Burnt orange and faded blue, tired red. Acres of them. A giant child's building blocks put away for the night. The gangly arms of the gargantuan cranes were paralyzed into painful looking silhouettes. Some clawed at the sky, others grubbed toward the earth, and all were locked into arthritic poses. Barges and container ships were secure in their berths, small craft cut across the waterways and all of it was lit up with kliegs like a carnie. It was the world of Kevin O'Connel and Josie was glad to drive over it rather than wallow in it. Josie slid out onto Ocean Boulevard and it was close to six when she parked outside Matthew's building. She tossed her baseball hat in the back seat and didn't bother to feed the meter.

Ruffling her hair, Josie lifted her face to catch the breeze. The scorch was about to break and she was glad. Her work shirt, thrown over a worn tank and rolled up at the sleeves, billowed behind as she made her way across the plaza. Her rubber-soled clogs made no sound on the concrete as she hurried past the spot where Michelle McCreary died. But she couldn't go fast enough to escape the sense that Matthew's wife had left a mark on the place. Her earthly stake. A soul squatter refusing to depart until someone figured out why she had died. Josie went straight on, pretending that she didn't imagine Michelle McCreary's corpse had raised it head and was looking after her, asking if she was going to be the one to solve the puzzle.

Inside, the air was mechanically cooled, the building was quiet and, as Josie waited for the elevator she thought about P.J's generosity with the discovery documents. There were pictures of Michelle McCreary's face from ten different angles and more pictures taken after they rolled her over. Those weren't so pretty. Josie counted fifteen close-ups of her wrists and forearms; more of her fingers and her thighs. The prosecution would argue the bruises and contusions were made as Michelle McCreary fought for her life. Josie's expert would counter they were made as Grace tried to restrain her sister-in-law. All Josie needed to do now was pace off the balcony again, measure the height of the railing, reenact the scenario that Grace had laid out. If Josie was her own devil's advocate then she'd be ready for anything P.J. Vega threw at her.

Palming the key she rode up the elevator only to find herself wishing she was anywhere else when the doors opened. The place felt like a mortuary where the only thing that came to visit was grief. Skittish, pretending not to be, Josie tossed the key in the air, caught it just right and put it in the door. The tumblers tumbled. She turned the knob. She pushed the door open and exclaimed: ''Oh, my God.''

CHAPTER 21

Still gripping the door, Josie thought twice about taking the next step as her eyes darted left and right and forward again. Cautiously she went in, keeping the door open behind her. She would run but only if she had to. Until then, Josie stayed close to the wall and mentally catalogued what she saw.

The furniture hadn't been moved but the small things were trashed: two thirds of the books on the floor-to-ceiling shelves had been thrown to the ground, papers from the desk were everywhere, computer discs tossed in for good measure. The laptop computer had been thrown into a corner and its screen still pulsated with flat blue light. Whatever happened, it happened in the last two hours or the battery would have been dead.

To Josie's left was the kitchen; to her right were the doorways and hallways that led to the private wing of the penthouse. The hallways appeared to be empty. The master bedroom door was closed. Josie eased herself into the kitchen. It was untouched, gleaming as if it had never been used. Josie slid a knife out of the block on the island. Small enough to maneuver, it was also big enough to do some damage. There was a phone on the wall. She dialed, got a dispatcher and told him to send a car – or ten.

Keeping her shoulder to the wall she retraced her steps, easing past the guest bath. No one was reflected in the oval mirror over the sink. She looked left through the glass to the expansive balcony. It was deserted and she could see people in the adjacent high rise. A woman doing aerobics. A couple eating dinner. A man standing in the middle of his living room as if he didn't know what to do. Another enjoying the evening on his balcony blissfully unaware of Josie and whatever had happened inside the darkened McCreary penthouse.

Licking her lips, Josie took another step and went past a closet. The door was ajar. She pushed it with her foot. It had been rifled but no one was in there. The bedrooms were next. Suddenly, Josie froze sure and her ears pricked. She had heard something. A scratching behind a wall? The sound of a footfall? The wail of a distant siren? But there was nothing except the sound of her own breath scraping against her lungs.

Inching forward she touched the front door knowing she should walk through. Run and not look back. Instead, curiosity and arrogance drove her on. The knife in her hand slipped, sweat loosening her grip. The curious systematic ransacking of this place and the sense that there was something to discover was compelling. There was no place to go but to the closed doors, through the hallway, into the places that were mired in dark. She scuttled across the living room and crouched near the hall, taking inventory of the rooms she could see: a guest room, an office, another bedroom. Only the office had been touched. There were papers on the floor, the desk drawers were opened.

Slowly, she backed out and into the living room. It was easier to breath now. The hand that held the knife was steady. Whoever had done this was specific in their intent. A political foe was the best bet. Or, perhaps, someone interested in Michelle, someone Matthew didn't know about. Whoever it was had a key because there was no sign of forced entry. Grace could not be ruled out and that was a damn scary thought.

Still vigilant, Josie had one last place to look. She put her hand on the knob of the master bedroom door, licked her dry lips then opened it. In the pale little moon of brightness Josie saw something that stopped her heart. Instantly, she was sorry for her small cry of dismay. It was unfair. It was intrusive. It was pitiful. She should have backed away and left before Matthew McCreary looked up from where he sat on the floor surrounded by - almost buried in – his dead wife's clothes.

CHAPTER 22

''Are they gone?'' Matthew's eyes tracked Josie as she joined him on the balcony.

''Yes,'' She answered.

The police had come in force, responding to Josie's call of breaking and entering, whereabouts of the perpetrator unknown. They came with guns drawn to Matthew McCreary's house where something horrible had already happened and something worse might be happening. Babcock was the first to arrive, the last to leave and the only one not convinced that everything was, indeed, alright . Josie had poured a scotch for Matthew, delivering it while Babcock watched. When Josie returned to the living room she wasn't happy with Babcock's continued scrutiny of Matthew McCreary.

Nothing mysterious, Babcock. Grief. Pure and simple

That's what Josie told the detective but it wasn't enough to put a wedge between Mathew and Babcock's interest

A delayed reaction.

No time to mourn.

Needed to deal with his wife's things.

Anger. Can't you understand that?

That happens when people die. The way she died. Without knowing why she died.

For God sake, Babcock, get a clue. Take a hike.

Josie said all these things but Babcock suggested another word.

Guilt?

And, if it was guilt that drove Matthew then Babcock had to wonder what kind he could be harboring, how deep it ran and, most importantly, whether or not it was warranted. Josie showed Babcock to the door without asking him for a theory. When he was gone, she put her palm against the door and her forehead against the back of her hand. She was shrinking, wasting away in this well appointed home.. Exhaustion could make a person think they were less than they were and Josie was no exception. She pushed off the door and found enough energy at her core to go help Matthew. Shoulders back, she crossed the living room giving Michelle's portrait no more attention than it deserved – a look, a glance, a momentary thought of the flawed woman it represented. Matthew needed to understand that he had not failed his wife. Michelle McCreary was as much a coward as Josie's own mother had been. They both ran from their problems and broke hearts on their way.

Needing help with damage control, Josie detoured to the kitchen and called Tim Douglas before joining Matthew on the balcony. He sat there with his legs apart, one arm resting on his thigh, the other on the table. His hand was still wrapped around the drink Josie had given him. A breeze toyed with his hair and then lay it back in charming disarray. Still he looked older, worn out and when she appeared it was a struggle for Matthew to raise his eyes.

''Tim told me you'd gone to San Diego.'' Josie hunkered down in front of him; she touched his knee; affection for an old friend who was hurting. ''He gave me the key. I wouldn't have intruded if I'd known.''

''That's what I told him. I. . .'' Matthew's voice trailed off and she could see that he had to force himself to catch the thread of his thought again. He put a hand over his eyes. It was an effort for him to speak. ''I just needed some time alone. I had to take care of Michelle's things.''

''Does Grace know what you're doing?''

Matthew shook his head.

''No. I don't want you to tell her. Do you understand?''

''No, I don't understand. She might have been able to help.''

''I don't want her help,'' Matthew answered. ''Michelle was my wife and that trumps Grace as her good buddy. This is something I needed to do.''

He bent his legs at right angles. He pushed aside the glass and the ice in it rattled. Slowly Matthew collapsed: elbows on knees, hands cupping his face, shoulders bowing. Josie stood up. She turned away. In the neighboring buildings life went on. The man who had stood aimlessly in his living room was now watching television. Josie could see the stutter of light as he clicked the remote and changed the channels, finding nothing to interest him. The aerobics woman's lights were out. Dinner was over for the couple in one of the units. Finally, Matthew raised his head.

''I haven't had time for myself since Michelle died,'' Matthew said wearily. Josie turned back now that Matthew was ready to talk. ''Everyone kept saying ‘after the election' take some time for yourself. After the election. After what election? The primaries? The general election? Months and months from now? I don't know when after is, Josie? I just hate that word.'' Matthew chuckled sadly. His bottom lip disappeared beneath his teeth and Josie had the feeling his was biting to bring blood. He cut his eyes her way. ''Do you want to know why?''

Josie knew it wouldn't have mattered who was standing in her place so she remained silent, listened and watched. Matthew's right knee jumped like it was keeping time to a miserable tune, his hands were clasped, he shook his head as he revved up to spill his guts.

''Everything about my life has been after. My dad used to say ‘after college there will be plenty of time for you to decide if you want to go into the business'. But there was no after college. There was only after he and my mom died. After the funeral I was told I was legally responsible for the business so my life would start after the business settled. Then after Grace got out of school. But Grace ran away and then it was after you find Grace. After you get over Grace. After you're married. After the election. After, after ,after. . .''

Matthew barked a laugh as his fist pounded the table keeping cadence with the recitation of that hated word. He got up too fast and used the table as leverage. It was a harsh and thoughtless gesture and the crystal glass jumped, toppled then rolled off the table shattering into a million pieces.

The last drops of the liquor made a dark stain on the pale tile, the shards of glass sparkled in the light from the surrounding buildings. Matthew walked through the glass, crushing it, trailing the dust of it into the living room. Josie swung her head and watched after him. He paused in front of Michelle's portrait then disappeared into the bedroom.

When he didn't come back, Josie followed and stood in the doorway watching Matthew pluck things out of the mountain of clothes, his jaw set as he folded them haphazardly, awkwardly, angrily.

''Michelle couldn't wait until after the election. She wanted me to lose.''

He threw an ecru colored ball gown on the pile. The satin skirt billowed up like a cloud. He tried to tame it, putting it on the bed, slapping it down only to find another yard of the shimmery fabric puffing up as the air was displaced.

''Michelle just couldn't wait. . .for me. . .to. . .lose.''

Pounding. Pounding on the skirt of that ball gown whose color was so very close to that of flesh, so very close to the feel of pampered skin. He gave up and left it a mess on the bed only to grab up a pair of slacks. Those he folded once, twice, three times until they were no more than a ball of fabric. He slammed those on the pile atop the evening dress.

''Michelle just couldn't understand what it meant to me. . .'' Twirling on Josie he looked at her as if he was peering through the fog of a fever. ''At least you had the guts to understand what I wanted and leave the right way. You never judged. You would never judge me. I begged her to understand what it was like. What my life had been like. But, no. Her life was always worse. She was higher and mightier and more righteous. I only wanted her to understand that I had it rough and I needed someone to understand me. I needed someone to care about me. . .''

Matthew took a step forward and Josie tipped her head, her brow furrowing. Nothing in memory prepared her for this angry, wounded, vindictive man. This was a true passion. This was a true love. This was a man who railed at the one person – the one woman – who was supposed to share his dream or at least understand it and who, instead, shattered it with so exquisite a statement as death.

''Matthew,'' Josie whispered. ''I'm so, so sorry. I wish I had known. I would have. . .''

''What? What would you have done, Josie if I had come to you and told you all these things about my wife and my marriage and my sister? Come on. Tell me how you'd make it all better.''

His hands up went up, his face flushed and Matthew was wild-eyed in his misery. The shadow of his days old beard made his face look hollow. He kicked aside the fine clothes and, in three long strides, crossed the room, taking Josie by the shoulders. His hands were big and his fingers were long. They dug into her skin, pinching muscle and nerve as he yanked her close. Josie's head fell back. She put her hands against his chest and didn't think, she couldn't think. Those hands were familiar, the emotion wasn't.

Another jerk of her body.

Her hands were wedged between their bodies. She could smell his desperation and, a second too late, realized this was a situation. Matthew's mouth crashed down on hers sp hard he might as well slapped her to the ground. This wasn't affection or need; this was a mindless expression of anger and hatred, frustration and betrayal, terror and longing. All of it was directed at Josie because she was there but it was meant for Michelle, or Grace.

Tears burned in Josie's eyes. There was pain. She tasted blood and felt a fascinating thrill as Matthew let go of her shoulders only to clamp his hands on either side of her head. He spread his fingers over her skull and pressed into her temples. The heels of his hands were over her ears so that his voice was muffled. Words became nothing more than low, insistent pulses of sound. He could crush her should he choose; crush her if she resisted.

His mouth opened and his teeth were bared and Josie pulled back again but she was up against the wall. Up against all of it. There was no place to run. Matthew was as tall as she, stronger than Josie. Whatever he wanted Josie couldn't give him. Figuring that out turned Josie's understanding to fear. If Josie couldn't give what he wanted, Matthew McCreary was determined to take it.

Just as panic came into play, just as Josie Bates realized Matthew McCreary didn't care who was crushed beneath him, Josie was blinded by a white light. She was saved.

Breathing hard, narrowing her eyes against the glare, Josie looked first at Matthew. He still stood close, his face hovering above hers, his hands still on the sides of her head. He was pale and confused, panting and unable to account for how he had gotten to where he was. Not that anyone was asking. Indeed, Tim Douglas's mouth was set in a grim line. He didn't seem to have any questions about the situation.

Not that Josie cared what he thought. It was Grace standing by his side, staring at her brother as if he had just killed Michelle all over again, that made Josie shrink inside her skin.

CHAPTER 23

It was three in the morning. Archer was up, dressed and had a coffee mug in his hand as he stood on his deck looking at the deserted beach. The world was tinged with that promise-of-sunrise color. Not quite blue, almost grey sky with a wash of something akin to a blush wisping somewhere beyond touching. The ocean was black-to-blue, frothing magically white when it touched the shore only to prove itself less than fairy dust as the already hard packed sand sucked up the sparkles. The street lights were off. Lover or drunk would have to find their way home in the half light. Archer looked toward the pier and saw someone moving under it, just this side of the lifeguard headquarters. That would be Billy Zuni, left out of his home again – or someone very much like Billy.

Archer took a drink. The coffee was hot and bitter and necessary – the same as his sleep had been. He had been worn out by the marathon drive from Mexico back to Hermosa and was deep in rest when Josie came to his bed. She pulled herself close. She touched him, insisting he wake. Without a word she made love to him as if needing to be reassured that he was alive and well and loving her back.

He obliged.

She didn't stay.

Hannah, who didn't often wake any more, would be frightened to find she was alone if she did that night. It was a standard excuse that marked Josie's desire to be a better example than Hannah's own mother. Archer had argued that Hannah had seen more in sixteen years than Josie had in forty. Josie argued it was time she saw something different. But last night it had been more than worry over Hannah that sent Josie packing. There was something bothersome inside that she wanted to keep private. Not that he couldn't guess what dogged her. Two and two still made four. Josie had gone to the McCreary place alone. She came back uneasy. That's as far as he took the equation.

Unfortunately, whatever Josie brought with her, enough of it had sloughed off so that Archer was out of sync. He itched like he needed to wash it off, or sweep it away, but it proved as elusive as dust mites on a hard wood floor. The more he tried to collect it, examine it, toss it aside, the worse the feeling of disquiet. So he showered, dressed, had his coffee and now that it was time to go Archer felt better. For a few hours he would forget about last night. If Josie wanted to tell him what went down she would. If she didn't bring it up, he would forget it.

Archer drained the coffee mug and left the patio door open when he went back inside to wash out his cup. Hopefully, whatever Josie had brought with her would air out. The keys to the Hummer were on the bookshelf where he always kept them. Archer touched the rosary that shared the space. Finally, he opened a drawer palmed his revolver. He lifted his shirt and holstered the weapon in the harness under his arm.

He was ready to work.

CHAPTER 24

There was something invigorating in the smell of fish and diesel and metal. It smelled like hard work and big money being made by brawny men.

Archer got to the port by four fifteen and found the berth where Kevin O'Connel was due to offload toys from China from a ship of Turkish registry owned by a Swiss consortium. If O'Connel was around then Archer missed him and that made him doubt that the guy had been there at all. So he nosed around, not bothering to pretend he was anything other than what he was: a P.I. looking at Kevin for something. Anyone who knew Kevin knew the something was the money he owed his ex-wife so there wasn't much chit-chat to be had. Best Archer got was one guy – casual labor – who grumbled that O'Connel had been working overtime hours that belonged to him.

Archer listened patiently, took note of the days the other man ticked off and then did a quick calculation. If the information was right, Kevin O'Connel was still fulltime, easily pulling down a hundred grand a year. Funny thing how O'Connel told the court he was handling max three days a week, unable to work because of the mental stress of his wife's vindictiveness. Archer had the union psychologist's paperwork filed with the court to prove Kevin was in a weakened state. Now he had some guy's gripe that O'Connel was hale, hearty and greedy. That could only mean one thing: the man was off the books, hiding the cash and screwing his ex-wife out of her settlement.

All in all, a decent day's work before six in the morning. Archer grabbed a second cup of coffee and sat down, wishing he had his camera. The play of changing light on the spirals of rope – thick as a man's trunk – was one of the most beautiful things Archer had ever seen. The hoists, tall enough, strong enough, to lift sixty thousand tons of goods with a throw of a gear, the turn of a knob, looked like a stand of exotic birds, their beaks dipping toward the ships to pick up their prey. The world of the docks was as complex as the goods moved in and out. Ships arrived from far away lands; government regulations were met or ignored as needed. The constant threat of terror was outweighed by demand for the things packed in those containers. Yet this world was simple, too, and stark and suddenly one that Archer wasn't too enamored with.

The punch came fast from behind. Archer didn't take it well. The Styrofoam cup flew out of his hands as he was thrown forward. Damn if his face wasn't in the way as the hot coffee jumped up to scald him just before splashing on the ground beneath him. But the stinging burn along the side of his face was the least of his worries; the six guys blocking out the early morning rays were top of mind.

The one with the big square head had him by the shirt collar. He was leaning real close so that Archer could see he had dark little hairs in his nose and a piercing through his ear but no earring. Just another hole in his head.

''You looking for Kevin?'' he growled.

Archer swallowed hard. Whoever punched his kidney had done a damn good job of finding his mark and it was taking a minute to find his breath so he nodded.

''Kevin don't know you.'' This time he yanked Archer up just high enough so that his gut crumpled and Archer found himself wishing there was a john real close. ''Kevin don't know you, right?''

''Right,'' Archer rasped. Not only did he have to pee real bad, the guy with the ham hands had twisted Archer's shirt at the throat. Not the best interrogation technique. Archer didn't think it was something he should point out .

''Okay. So, don't think we're all such dumb shits. Tell Suzy she's going to get what's coming to her. She don't need to send down nobody to see she gets it. Understand? So you better get off and out of here and don't come back.''

Square Head pulled Archer up an inch higher then threw him away like a piece of garbage. The man got high marks for drama because his audience was well pleased. Grunts and muttering and peacock threats were heaped on Archer who knew enough to stay exactly where he was. When the men sauntered away, not even bothering to run, Archer decided two things: first, Josie was going to have her work cut out for her getting the bucks out of Kevin O'Connel and, second, Archer was thankful that he was lying in a pool of coffee when it could just as easily have been blood.

Josie didn't bother with breakfast. She didn't even bother with coffee. She was just bothered. The night had been long, unsatisfying and guilt ridden. She had lain awake trying to figure out if she had done something to warrant Matthew's outburst and why she had felt shamed when she saw Grace's face. The situation wasn't what it seemed Josie explained as she took Grace aside.

''A breakdown. . . I found him. . . he is grieving. . . ''

I understand.

''A reaction. . . His anger at his loss. . .Didn't want me. . .''

Of course.

''Didn't encourage. . . He remembered the old days. . . It just happened . . .''

Naturally. He keeps things inside.

Grace nodded, agreeing with everything, that ring of hers whirlygigging again. Her close-set eyes were dark and penetrating as if she was listening. She wasn't. Instead, Grace McCreary looked at Josie as if she knew exactly what had happened. It was desire. Lust. Seduction. Matthew was free. It was an opportunity. There was no doubt.

Josie stopped talking and waited for Grace to say something, ask a question, make a judgment. But Grace just ignited the flame on her gold lighter and considered her cigarette for a minute before she lit it. She looked across the balcony and let the smoke bleed through her lips. Her head fell back, her free hand lay against her long, pale neck. When she faced Josie once more, Grace didn't look into a lawyer's eyes but those of the other woman and whatever Grace was thinking remained a mystery. Dropping her unfinished cigarette onto the tile, she ground it under the toe of her shoe.

''I'm glad you were here for him, then.'' She smiled distantly, got up and went to the bedroom where her brother had taken refuge.

Tim muttered a goodbye. Josie left soon after and stood on the street looking up. When she realized there was nothing for her to see, Josie left, too. Instinctively, she went to Archer. Josie had lost her footing he was the only one who could lead her back to the path. But if it had been that simple Josie wouldn't have remained silent as they lay side-by-side; she wouldn't have replayed ever second of that encounter as she lay shivering in her own bed. Her rest wouldn't have been fitful in those six hours that she slept, aware that Hannah had come to look down on her but unable to rouse herself and tell the girl to go away because Josie wasn't worth watching over. She had used Archer and that shamed her.

Now, she tried to forget about the night as she got out of the Jeep in the parking lot of the Long Beach courthouse. It was tough to do since someone had taken a key to the side of her car and leisurely carved figure eight into the ebony paint. She cursed herself for being too tired to garage it the night before. The defacement could have been a random act of vandalism, but the thought that it was a juvenile message sent by Kevin O'Connel gave her the creeps. Giving the car a quick pat, she walked across the parking lot, went through the metal detectors and found department 9.

Clutching her briefcase in her left hand, Josie pulled on the door with her right. As expected they were all there: Grace sitting straight-backed at the defense table, Matthew behind her, Tim beside him. P.J. Vega looked busy at the prosecutor's table. The clerk was at her desk. The bailiff hovered by the bench. What Josie didn't expect was the sharp pain deep in her chest, an overwhelming sense of failure gripping her.

Stepping back, she let the door close and pushed up against the wall taking a minute to subdue the panic that came with clarity. Her guilt lay not in what happened at the penthouse, or in seeking out Archer for comfort. Josie's shame was deeper than that. She was not the lawyer Grace deserved. In all these weeks – since the minute Grace had uttered Matthew's name - it had been Matthew Josie was concerned with; Matthew she was trying to impress. That was wrong even if the intent had been subliminal. Today that would change.

Standing tall, Josie opened the door again and this time walked down the center aisle like a lawyer ready to advocate for her client. She nodded to Matthew and Tim Douglas and noted five other witnesses on P.J. Vega's list.

Josie took her seat beside Grace who looked stunningly rich. Her taupe suit was piped in black. The high collar of her jacket skimmed her square jaw making her look like royalty. Her skirt was short, her legs good and her shoes were high heeled, square toed and expensive. Diamond studs the size of peas sparkled on her earlobes. The emerald ring was on her finger, quiet for once. Where, Josie wondered, would they find a jury of Grace McCreary's peers if worse came to worse?

The court was doing its housekeeping. Josie did hers. People moved in and out and finally settled. Babcock sat behind the prosecution. There was a sketch artist and a couple of reporters. The preliminary hearing was of interest but if this went to trial they would all have to fight their way past a crowd of reporters. It was Josie's job to make sure that didn't happen.

The clerk called the court to order. Judge Michael Belote took the bench with the look of a man who commanded everything he surveyed. He moved with precision, spoke with authority and had left a lucrative private practice to serve the people. Seven years on the bench were long enough for him to be close to omnipotent. He liked to run a tight court. P.J. Vega respected that and called Horace Babcock as her first witness.

It took twenty minutes for P.J. to establish the scene, determine that he had taken the proper precautions to preserve evidence and had appropriately tracked down a witness who had seen Grace on the balcony with Michelle McCreary. This was only a preliminary hearing so P.J. needed to do little more than that. When she sat down, Josie stood up.

''Detective,'' she said, ''two weeks after the incident involving Mrs. McCreary, you were still investigating the matter, is that correct?''

''Yes, it is.''

''On the night of the incident did you discover any evidence that would lead you to believe that Mrs. McCreary had been murdered?''

''I was suspicious for a number of reasons. There was no suicide note. Mrs. McCreary appeared to have been interrupted while she was dressing to go out. I had questions about how she could fall over the wall given her height.''

''I am referring to your initial assessment of the scene, Detective. Did it appear that there had been an altercation?''

''No.''

''Had anyone in the building heard screams for help?''

''No.''

''Did anyone report hearing a suspicious pounding on the floor?''

''No. The building is soundproof.''

''Move to strike. Assumes facts not in evidence.''

Judge Belote waved away half of Babcock's testimony with the same interest he would dismiss a Sommelier who brought a poor wine to the table.

''Did anyone observe my client coming into the building?'' Josie asked.

''Yes, we have the defendant on a surveillance tape in the garage. Once at 8:47 as she entered the building and again at 9:12 when she got in her car and left.''

''And can you tell me how she appeared at 8:47?''

''She appeared calm,'' the detective answered.

''What did you observe when she left?''

''She was hurried. There were tire marks on the floor of the parking garage. She was driving erratically.''

''Did she appear disheveled?''

''No.''

''Would you find that unusual behavior considering she had just seen her sister in law jump off a balcony?''

''I would consider it unusual behavior for her to leave the scene.''

''Is that a crime? To leave the scene of a suicide?''

''Not to my knowledge.''

''Mine either,'' Josie said and took her seat.

CHAPTER 25

Mrs. M. Stephen Wilford was a widow. She had lived alone in her eleventh floor apartment on Ocean Boulevard in the twelve years since her husband died. Her children insisted she get rid of the family home in Brentwood because it was too big to care for and too far for them to help her out.

She missed her home and garden and her children didn't see her as often as they had promised, so Mrs. Wilford was not the happy camper she should have been. Josie imagined she had always been a practical woman, spending little of the money her husband made. Now that he was gone, she spent even less. Her clothes were unimaginative, her hair cut was sensible, her make-up was out of date. There was little joy in Mrs. Wilford's life and less sorrow. She saw the world in black and white and didn't want the good or the bad to cross her threshold. Now that it had, she was reluctantly appearing in front of the court.

If Mrs. Wilford had any butterflies they were DOA. She testified that on more than one occasion she had seen the McCreary women having heated disagreements. She was thinking of not voting for Matthew McCreary should he win the primary because she was concerned that his family life was not stable enough to. . .

Judge Belote cut off the editorial with the comment that he wanted to save something interesting for the trial judge. P.J. brought her witness back in line. In the two weeks before the death of Michelle McCreary, Mrs. Wilford had not seen Grace McCreary at all and had, indeed, been more than curious when she arrived on the night in question.

Did Mrs. Wilford know Grace was Michelle McCreary's sister-in-law?

''No,'' she answered.

So Mrs. Wilford could not speculate why Grace McCreary might have a motive to kill the other woman.

''No.''

Mrs. Wilford turned those beady, bitter eyes on the defense when P.J. bowed out. Josie approached the witness knowing she was credible. Her job would be to show that the woman was simply mistaken. Josie greeted Mrs. Wilford with a smile and then rested against the defense table so the witness would be forced to look at Grace as she condemned her.

''What were you doing the night Mrs. McCreary jumped off. . .''

''Objection, your honor,'' P.J. Vega was on her feet faster than a ball bounces.

''Rephrase, Ms. Bates,'' the judge directed.

P.J. looked Josie's way, her face pursed into an expression of displeasure. Her bracelets jangled as she sat herself down.

''What were you doing the evening Mrs. McCreary died?'' Josie asked.

''I was working on a puzzle.''

''Was it almost completed or had you just started?''

''I had just started but I had the hind of a horse finished.''

Josie heard someone laugh. The judge looked up sharply. It was enough to quiet the courtroom.

''So you were looking down and concentrating,'' Josie suggested.

''Yes and no. My puzzle table is next to the sliding glass doors. My chair faces the window. I watch the buildings and I do puzzles. I concentrated on the puzzle when I did that, and I concentrated on looking out the window when I did that.''

''So you're a voyeur, Mrs. Wilford?'' Josie smiled.

''No, I'm just a widow,'' she answered dryly.

''Do you see many interesting things on the balconies across the way?''

''Not many,'' she answered.

''But Mrs. McCreary's balcony was interesting,'' Josie said.

''That night it was. I thought she was naked. That was curious.''

''So you only saw her shoulders?'' Josie pressed.

''I saw her shoulders and her upper body. From my balcony she appeared naked. I found out later what she was wearing. That's why she seemed naked.''

''Was that the only reason you found her interesting?''

''No. I thought she was in some sort of distress. Her arms were flailing. She was leaning forward then turning around like she was talking to someone then turning around again and not looking at them but still talking.''

''So she was just talking to someone?''

''She was upset,'' the witness answered firmly. ''I had children. I know what upset is.''

''And you saw all this from a distance of fifty yards, balcony to balcony as you were inside your apartment?''

''My apartment was dark. I only had a small desk lamp by which to see my puzzle. The McCreary apartment was lit enough so that it was like watching a stage. I could see inside their place.''

Josie moved, circling around her prey like a curious shark in a calm ocean.

''What could you see inside?''

''I could see another person standing just inside the French doors.''

''And could you identify that person, Mrs. Wilford?''

''It was her. The defendant.''

''How can you be so sure?'' Josie was on the move, closing in. Mrs. Wilford looked her up and down, impressed for a minute by her height but disdainful of her nonetheless.

''She has a very distinctive haircut. It was her.''

Josie nodded and let Mrs. Wilford's testimony stand. As the witness was talking, Josie had circled back to the table and slipped a gel on the light box of the overhead projector. She switched it on and directed Mrs. Wilford to the image on the screen that had been set up to the side of the empty jury box.

''Mrs. Wilford, this is a schematic drawn to scale of the McCreary's living room. I wonder what else did you see inside that room?''

''I don't understand the question,'' the woman grumbled.

''I mean, could you describe what you could see through the French doors – or were those doors closed?''

''They were. . .'' Mrs. Wilford hesitated. She looked at the judge who sat comfortably in his high backed chair, hands folded across his midsection. There would be no help from him. ''I don't remember if she closed them behind her. Everything went very quickly.''

''Not a problem, Mrs. Wilford,'' Josie said. ''Just tell us what else you saw inside the house.''

''I saw a desk. There was a computer on it.'' Josie stylus followed Mrs. Wilford's testimony. ''To the far left I could see part of the long bookcases. They were filled with books. There were some spaces left the way you would leave spaces for keepsakes.'' Josie indicated the bookcases. ''I couldn't see all the small things in detail, of course, but everyone has pictures and keepsakes on the bookshelves.''

Josie barely glanced at P.J. but she saw her blanch. The prosecutor knew exactly where Josie was going.''

''I suppose you might assume that, but in the McCreary household there were no pictures on the shelves,'' she said. ''Is there anything else?'

''Yes.'' Mrs. Wilford drew the word out cautiously. ''There was a large dark shape way in the back. I think it's a piano but I wouldn't want to say for sure. And there was a couch. I could see the couch.''

''What color is the couch?''

''Blue. There is a pattern in it.''

''What kind of couch is it?'' Josie asked.

''What kind?'' The witness repeated.

''Yes, what style? Rolled arms, does it have a skirt? Is it a camel back sofa? Straight backed? Tailored?''

''I couldn't tell you for sure,'' Mrs. Wilford interrupted. ''I mean, it looks long. I don't see it from the front but from the side. It appears very long.''

''And what is behind the sofa?'' Josie pressed. Now she had a pen that hovered, ready to draw in whatever the witness told her.

''I don't know. I can't see behind the sofa. In fact, I only really see the front of it. The bottom cushions.''

''And why is that, Mrs. Wilford?''

''Because of the drapes, of course,'' Mrs. Wilford sputtered, not liking to be made out the fool.

''Since you have looked in that room so often, is it fair to say that you may only think you know that room? That you have, perhaps, memorized the furnishings and haven't noticed any changes?''

''Judge,'' P.J. called, ''the prosecution requests that Ms. Bates stipulate to Mrs. Wilford's knowledge of the room. We have been assured that nothing has been changed in that room for the last three years. Mr. McCreary will testify to that.''

''Your honor,'' Josie countered. ''This goes directly to the clarity of the events of the night in question. If this witness is so used to looking at the McCreary home and the balcony in particular, she may have a preconceived notion of what she should see.''

''I think you're reaching, Ms. Bates, but go ahead. Quickly.''

''Yes, judge,'' Josie agreed, not wishing to strain Judge Belote's patience. ''Mrs. Wilford, would it have been possible for someone else to be in that living room or on the balcony without you seeing them?''

''It's possible,'' she agreed peevishly.

''Fine, and how many times did you see Mrs. McCreary come onto the balcony?''

''Twice. About ten minutes after she left the balcony the first time she ran back out again,'' the woman testified.

''What part of Mrs. McCreary did you see?''

''I saw her turning all around while she ran like she was looking for a way to go. Then she got to the balcony and turned with this arm,'' Mrs. Wilford indicated her left arm, ''and put it on the wall. I saw her hip. Then the other woman came out and ran right at her. Ran right at her! I stood up and went onto my own balcony because I could see what was going to happen.

''Then I saw Mrs. McCreary's back, she was pretty much sitting on the little wall and the other woman pushed her. Mrs. McCreary's arms were flapping like she was trying to find something to hold onto. One went out this way.'' Again her arms moved. And again. ''And the other arm went kind of straight ahead when that woman pushed her.''

''And when you saw the defendant on the balcony did you see her push like this?'' Josie held her hands out flat and punched at the air.

Mrs. Wilford's eyes snapped toward Grace and then back to Josie. She fidgeted a minute and resettled herself on the small chair in the witness box.

''I saw that woman's arms outstretched and her hands on Mrs. McCreary. I don't know how they were on Mrs. McCreary.''

''Perhaps the defendant's hands were on Mrs. McCreary's shoulders like this?'' Once more Josie demonstrated.

''Yes, I think maybe that was the way. She might have had a hold of them that way.''

''That is your answer?'' Josie prodded.

''Yes. Perhaps that was it. The second one.''

Josie nodded as if to acknowledge an excellent answer.

''Could you hear what the two women were saying?'' Josie asked.

''Don't be ridiculous,'' the witness laughed. ''I was all the way across the street. I couldn't possibly have heard.''

''But you could have heard a scream or someone hollering?''

''I'm not sure. I thought I heard something. Maybe it was a scream.''

''Maybe it was someone yelling ‘no' or ‘stop'.''

''It was a scream,'' Mrs. Wilford pouted.

''Could you tell which woman screamed?''

Mrs. Wilford shook her head as if she was sad that she couldn't absolutely identify Michelle McCreary as the screamer. Josie snapped the light of the overhead off and crossed her arms.

''You testified the defendant was angry. You could see her face clearly?''

''No, not very clearly but I could see she was angry.''

''Really? So if you were looking at Grace McCreary you must not have been paying much attention to Mrs. McCreary. I think if I had seen a woman scrambling over the edge of a balcony, I would have been looking at her.''

''I was looking at everything,'' Mrs. Wilford insisted testily.

''When Mrs. McCreary fell who did you look at? The woman falling or the woman on the balcony?'' Josie raised a brow, unruffled by Mrs. Wilford's peevishness.

Mrs. Wilford seemed to compress. Her eyes were mere slits in her face, her mouth nothing more than a seam across her jaw. She didn't like Josie Bates making her sound like a doddering, puzzle-doing idiot when she had done her civic duty. She had called for help and talked to that detective. She had come to court when she didn't want to. Mrs. Wilford had not bargained for this kind of treatment.

''I saw what I saw. That woman pushed the other woman.''

''When did you call nine-one-one?''

''The minute it happened, of course.'' She laughed in a way that said she was appalled that Josie would think she would wait.

''Did you look for the phone the instant you thought my client was going to push the deceased or the moment she touched her or after it was all over?''

''I saw Mrs. McCreary fall. I saw that lady push her. What difference would a few seconds make if I looked down to dial the phone?'' she snapped.

''I don't know, but I would hate to have my client stand trial for murder just because a few seconds did make a difference.'' Josie said kindly before crossing her arms and beetling her brow. ''Mrs. Wilford, is it possible someone else was in that house or on that balcony?''

''Maybe,'' Mrs. Wilford answered, annoyed by the question. ''But I doubt it.''

''Asked and answered. We're here to determine probable cause not grandstand for a jury.'' P.J. raised her hands. Those bracelets fell down her arm like Klik-Klak Blox

''Your honor, I have the right to question what Mrs. Wilford saw or didn't see. There is no way for her to tell if my client was trying to help her sister in law. No way to tell if there was someone else in that house the night Grace McCreary tried to intervene. Mrs. Wilford believes she saw my client ‘clear enough' and I argue that she better be certain beyond a doubt if you are to bind Grace McCreary over for trial.''

''The identification is unequivocal, your honor,'' P.J. argued. ''I say again, we are not here to try this case and I resent Ms. Bates taking the court's time to attempt to do that.''

''Thank you, Ms. Vega, I appreciate the concern for the court's time,'' the judge said with a small smile of minimal amusement.

''Your honor, if the time isn't spent now then the court will waste more trying an innocent woman. My client may well have looked angry. I would be angry too if I had just seen someone I love end their life. I would also have been scared and in shock and I argue that it's difficult enough to tell what someone is feeling when you're looking right at them much less from 50 yards away. Mrs. Wilford could have had no more than a few seconds to see my client's face because my client turned her back and ran out of the penthouse in shock and terror. Mrs. Wilford could not have seen . . .''

''Wait, just a minute. That's not true.'' Mrs. Wilford shot straight up, her hand was on the bench and Judge Belote was curious enough to give her a look but no more time.

''You'll wait to be asked a question,'' he warned and then turned to Josie. ''Ms. Bates, stop with the storytelling and cross examine this witness or excuse her.''

''I have no more questions, your honor. The witness is excused.'' Josie retreated. She would be crazy to ask anymore questions of a witness so anxious to offer something new and different.

''I'd like to redirect, your honor,'' P.J. called almost gleefully.

Josie took her seat. She glanced at Grace who watched the proceedings with little concern.

''Mrs. Wilford,'' P.J. said, ''The defendant indicated in her interview with the police that she ran from the McCreary home in shock after her sister in law died. Is that what you know to be true?''

''She didn't run away,'' Mrs. Wilford said triumphantly.

''Why do you say that?'' P.J. asked.

''Because that woman only ran into the living room not out through the door,'' Mrs. Wilford answered smugly. ''While I was talking to the nine-one-one operator I watched her turn on the desk light and rummage around before she left. Took at least two minutes, maybe more. Nobody came out of the shadows and helped her. She wasn't near the drapes. The desk light was on and she was looking real hard for something.''

''Did she find it?'' P.J. asked.

''I don't know. She could have. The only thing I know for sure is that I saw the defendant at that desk. I saw her opening drawers and doing something on the computer clear as day. She didn't run away until after she did all that.''

CHAPTER 26

Mrs. Wilford was dismissed just before Judge Belote, hungry and cranky, recessed for lunch. P.J. Vega was delighted. She could do with a bite herself. Scoring big gave her an appetite. Tim Douglas was sent away with the rest of them. Grace was perched primly in her chair; Josie side-saddle on hers. When the courtroom was clear, Josie looked at Matthew who sat with his head bowed behind his sister.

''Somebody want to talk to me?'' Josie crossed her arms and listened to the silence. ''Grace? Why did you lie about running out of that place as soon as Michelle jumped?'' Grace looked up, her eyes wide and pitiful and blanker than Little Orphan Annie's. More games, more tiring exercises. ''Don't tell me you didn't want to make things worse. It didn't wash the first time.''

''I only thought it was important that I left and didn't tell anyone.'' Grace lowered her lashes.

Josie couldn't sit quietly any longer. Three hours ago she had been disappointed in herself for failing Grace when it was the other way around all along. Josie had asked for honesty and she got half truths; Josie worked to save Grace from a trial and Grace was undermining Josie's reputation. She worked her jaw. She clenched her teeth. Finally, she asked:

''What were you doing at that desk? Come on, we don't have time for this.''

''Grace.'' Matthew spoke. The word was an order. Grace had heard but she obeyed but refused to acknowledge her brother.

''I was looking for a note. Something that Michelle might have left behind that would be harmful.''

''Harmful? Harmful? To who? She was dead, for God's sake. It wouldn't matter what anyone thought about her. . .'' Josie's wail of frustration stopped as suddenly as it had begun. She put her hands on her hips, thought for a minute then planted her knuckles on the table and got in Grace's face. ''Were you worried Michelle left something incriminating about you, Grace?''

Defiantly, Grace stared past Josie and remained mute.

''Me. Grace was worried that Michelle had left something that would put me in a bad light.''

With a great sigh he lifted his head and stretched his arms across the little wooden fence that separated him from his sister. He put his hands on Grace's shoulders and easing her back as he moved forward. They were a team and Josie finally got it.

''Wait a minute. Wait just a minute, Matthew.'' Josie shook a finger at both of them. ''How would you know what Grace was looking for? Unless. . . Christ, you knew that Grace was with Michelle when she died, didn't you?''

Grace tilted her head to the side. Her cheek brushed her brother's hand as she turned to listen to him. She wanted his truth before she told hers.

''You son of a bitch. You did know.'' Josie said flatly. ''When?''

''Not until after the funeral,'' Matthew finally admitted. ''Grace told me when we were in the limousine leaving the cemetery. It was eating her up. I was the one who told her to let it lie. I told her there was nothing to worry about because she had done what she could.'' He squeezed her shoulder again. ''It's my fault she's in this mess.''

Josie pulled her fingers through the fringe of her hair and paced in front of the defense table, taking long agitated strides. She was sick with outrage, furious with both of them. Betrayal. Lies. This was the worst thing that could happen to a lawyer because it was their truth she had to speak in open court. Her words would be on the record; her reputation would be on the line. Josie Baylor-Bates would be just another lying lawyer, bought and paid for. She had come full circle in the company of Matthew McCreary.

''Oh, great. That is just great. Who do you think you are, Matthew, her husband?'' Josie gestured to Grace who sat with her lashes lowered, her hands hidden, the ring nowhere in sight. ''Don't you get it? There is no privilege between you two. The prosecutor could force you to testify against Grace. How would you handle that, Matthew? How would you protect her then? Or yourself.'' Josie turned away for just a minute, only a minute. ''Christ, if we go to trial they could get you for obstruction, Matthew. Don't you think that would sort of be harmful to your precious political career? An accessory after the fact?''

''It seemed reasonable at the time.'' Matthew dropped his hands and stood up. ''Grace was devastated. Michelle was dead. It was a week after the fact. Good lord, Josie, look at it from our perspective. What would it look like if suddenly Grace popped up with that information after saying nothing for a week?''

''And this looks great?'' Josie's head snapped toward Grace. ''Didn't I tell you to be honest? Isn't that the one thing I wanted from you, Grace?''

''This wasn't lying.'' She reached for Matthew, needing courage in the face of Josie's anger but, when he didn't move, she defended herself. ''I wasn't lying. I only told Matthew because I wanted him to know I did everything I could to help Michelle. And, if the police figured out that Matthew knew I was there they might think he was a part of whatever happened.''

''You mean they might think that Matthew put you up to pushing Michelle? They might make this out to be conspiracy?'' Josie drawled facetiously, cutting Grace off. ''What a concept.''

''It seems so stupid now,'' Grace murmured, hooding those eyes again.

''Is that what you were looking for the other night when I found you in your place?'' Josie turned on Matthew. He nodded, miserable and shamed. ''So all that stuff about going through your wife's things and how emotional it was, was just bull?''

Josie's questions were met with guilty silence. She sighed deeply. They couldn't change anything, they could only regroup. ''So, are either of you going to fill me in on what Michelle might have left that would have been such a bombshell?''

Brother and sister shared a look but before Josie could interpret it Matthew went on the record.

''She was upset about money the way the prosecutor said. Michelle resented every dime that went into the campaign whether it was mine or hers.''

''What kind of money are we talking about? Was it hers or yours?'' Josie asked.

''Six million,'' Grace answered.

Josie whistled low.''That's no small change. Why would she do give it to you then renege?

''She had a hundred reasons. For a while she imagined that I was using the campaign to siphon off her money then I was going to leave her. That was one of the more idiotic ones. I think the truth was that the press was in a sort of feeding frenzy trying to dig up anything that could discredit me or my family. Remember, I'm a conservative in a liberal state. Michelle and Grace were fair game. Every fund raiser we went to they were there, pushing microphones in our faces. Michelle just flipped.''

''Did she have anything big to hide?''

''Of course she did. Our press office called her private but she was secretive. I was gone a lot. I wondered about a lot of things but I never asked. With her background, I can only imagine what there was to find out,'' Matthew admitted.

''Did you need her money to make the last sprint? Was the company all right?'' Josie pressed.

''No, of course not. I'm not saying it wasn't a big hit when Grace pulled out but we're fine. Ask Grace. Ask her. The campaign is more than solvent.'' Matthew paced the center aisle of the courtroom. He stuffed his hands in his pockets then whirled around. ''Well? Ask her. She handles all the money.''

Josie looked at Grace who was eyeing Matthew. Her black eyes sparkled and her mind was elsewhere.

''Grace?'' He prodded.

Her head jerked. Her eyes blinked and she looked at Josie. That's when Josie saw it. The ring whirlygigging around her finger.

''No,'' Grace said softly. ''No, Michelle's refusal to transfer those funds wouldn't shut down the campaign. There is nothing hide where money was concerned.''

Josie kept her eyes on Grace longer than she intended. Something in her demeanor, something in the way she answered that question gave Josie pause but Matthew was animated, he took her attention, he wanted to tell his story.

''Look, Josie, the truth of the matter is that Michelle just made up her own reality. She wanted me to stop the campaign and she figured she could just strong arm it with her money. But Michelle could have accused us of anything just because she decided it was true and that's what I was looking for. Some little time bomb my wife had left behind that I couldn't explain away. Bottom line, she was just nuts.''

''No! No, she wasn't. Don't ever say that.'' Suddenly Grace was out of her chair, storming past Josie. She pushed through the gate and it swung back hard and fast. ''Take it back, Matthew. Michelle wasn't crazy. She was sensitive. She was religious. She wasn't crazy.''

''Grace,'' Josie called.

''What are you doing?'' Matthew backed away from his sister but she advanced relentlessly.

''Tell Josie the truth. Just tell her.'' Grace whirled on her heel and came back at Josie. She touched each pew, leaning on them in turn as she spoke. ''Michelle was unhappy. Michelle was high strung. She had a terrible life with her father and it was all happening again. All of the people wanting to know the secrets about Michelle and Matthew and. . . me. . .and that's why she jumped. She was unhappy because Matthew. . .''

''Grace!''

''Oh, for God's sake,'' Josie threw up her hands. ''Because Matthew what?''

Grace stiffened.

''Because he wasn't the man she thought he was. Because he was so much like her father,'' Grace wailed. ''Why can't anyone accept that? It had gone too far. Even if Matthew gave up everything it still wouldn't have been right. Everyone Michelle loved let her down. That's what she thought, but it wasn't true. Even if it were true, people make mistakes, don't they? People can make up for mistakes, can't they?''

''I don't know what she thought or what mistakes Matthew made.'' Josie was exasperated. ''Matthew, didn't you ever offer to quit? I mean, if it upset her so much wasn't it cruel to keep going?''

''Josie, you don't understand. There was nothing he could do,'' Grace answered for him, her eyes cutting toward Matthew. ''Nothing, Josie. The damage had been done.''

''Grace is right,'' Matthew insisted. ''Look, I thought I loved Michelle when I married her. She was smart and beautiful and I wanted to take care of her. She could make you think that you were the only person in the world who understood her or could save her from her demons. Then the infatuation wore off and we saw each other for what we were. I'm not making excuses. I was selfish. I admit it. But she was a zealot, all appearance and no substance. You don't quit for that. You keep trying to have a life together because you just do.''

Matthew dominated the space, Grace vibrated as if she'd like to break out of it and Josie was of little consequence. So she observed and suddenly had a revelation: that huge emerald nestled in dewdrops of diamonds wasn't just a sign of Grace's agitation, it was a lie detector. It twirled with a half truth, cut deep with a lie or a fantasy. She looked back at Grace and Matthew. Brother and sister were tethered in a way she could not understand. Until she did there was no use tugging on the rope. Josie didn't know how or where it was knotted.

''I want to talk to Michelle's psychiatrist,'' Josie interrupted ''Matthew, make a call. Make it clear that you want him to cooperate.''

''Fine. Not a problem. I have two appearances this afternoon but I'll find time to call him. It's for the best.'' Matthew was tight lipped now. He put his hand on Grace's arm. Once again Josie was struck by their resemblance and the fine line between beauty and plainness, dominance and servitude, confidence and need. For the McCreary's the line was so thin and yet so defining. ''You should eat, Grace. It's going to be a long afternoon.''

''Be back in forty-five minutes,'' Josie warned, wondering if she shouldn't intervene. The last thing she needed was for their lunch to turn into a strategy session.

''She'll be back.'' Matthew walked with Grace to the door then whispered something. Dutifully Grace waited while he went back to Josie.

''Look, I'm really sorry about all this. I want to make it right,'' he said quietly. ''There's a dinner tomorrow night. I'll have Tim call you with the address. Come at eight-thirty. There's someone I think you should talk to. She knew Michelle long before I did.''

Josie nodded curtly. He touched her like he had touched Grace. He squeezed her arm like he had pressured Grace. It was meant as a sign of solidarity and Josie almost succumbed. This was Matthew. His touch, the way he moved deferentially close, reminded Josie that their history was richer than that of either his wife or his sister. That should buy him something. But the last few minutes were a cautionary tale that Josie could not ignore. She would keep her own counsel and then decide whose best interest Matthew McCreary had in his heart.

''Okay,'' she agreed.

''Black tie.'' Matthew kissed her cheek, stayed close and whispered. ''I'll let you know if Grace says anything that can help.''

When they were gone, Josie walked slowly out of the courtroom, uneasy in her own skin. This whole mess had everything to do with the secrets of Michelle McCreary but sadly Matthew and his sister were proving to be exceptional gatekeepers. Josie could understand Matthew, but what was the payoff for Grace? Not that it mattered. There would be no secrets if the matter came to trial. Josie would have to raise Michelle McCreary from the dead whether or not Grace and Matthew liked it.

Lunch hour had drained the Long Beach Courthouse as surely as if someone had pulled a plug. Josie was putting on her sunglasses, trying to decide if she should eat for the sake of eating when he was there. He came out of the blue. He was walking by her side, cocky as a bantam cornering a reluctant hen.

''You just can't leave well enough alone, can you?''

Kevin O'Connel shouldered her, steering Josie toward the steps that led to the shadowed walkway that surrounded the courthouse. Josie adjusted her course, falling back and maneuvering street side. She wanted to be out in the open with him around.

''I'll talk to your lawyer when I want to deal with you,'' she said.

''You're doing a hell of a lot more than that. You sent some friggin' asshole to check up on me. That was a big mistake. He knows it, now I'm going to show you just how stupid that was. . .''

''I asked someone to verify your employment. Now get out of here.''

Josie walked past him, determined not to let him see that mention of Archer rattled her but to show weakness now was to lose. But Kevin O'Connel wasn't one to like a woman to walk away from him. He grabbed Josie's arm and pulled her into him. She yanked back but Kevin knew what he was doing and Josie's surprise worked against her.

''Get your hands off me,'' she ordered.

''I told my lawyer that I can't work because of what you did to me. Eight, ten hours a week is all I got. There isn't any money for Suzy except what you got.'' His lips curled into an ugly sneer that was supposed to pass for a smile. ''I just think you ought to believe me because some of my friends don't take kindly when people come snooping around my place of business. Same way you wouldn't take kindly to someone coming around your place, looking at your kid, maybe. I just wouldn't want anyone to get hurt. Know what I mean?''

Josie went rigid, testing his grip. It was strong. He could break both of her arms without even trying. The only weapon she had was her nerve.

''I know exactly what you mean,'' Josie said evenly. ''And that's why you don't scare me. I'm not afraid of you or your stupid pranks. If you wanted to hurt me you would have done it instead of walking around behind me or keying my car. That's what little boys do. . .''

''What?'' Kevin O'Connel laughed once and stepped away as he let go of her. ''Yeah, right. Funny. You're such a. . .''

''Is everything all right, Ms. Bates?''

Josie started at the sound of Horace Babcock's voice. He was right behind her: crisp, courteous and giving Kevin O'Connel a look that drilled a hole through his skull.

''She's fuckin' fine. And this is a private conversation,'' O'Connel shot back, unimpressed until Babcock pushed back his jacket. His shield was on his belt. Babcock inclined his head and smiled his condolences for Kevin O'Connel's lack of intelligence.

''I'm glad to hear that. I was worried that you might be having a difference of opinion.''

''No. No beef. Just a friendly conversation.'' O'Connel puffed up his chest and pushed at his shirt sleeves.

''Good. Excellent. Then it appears you're finished here.'' Babcock dismissed Kevin O'Connel. ''So, Ms. Bates, could I interest you in lunch?''

''Sure,'' Josie muttered. Babcock touched the small of her back and they moved on.

She knew the instant Kevin O'Connel stopped looking after her, the second he walked away. He hadn't left with his tail between his legs and that worried her but Babcock seemed to have forgotten him.

He ordered two polish sausages and sodas from a street vendor who was happy for the business. They sat under the shade of a tree on a low wall that surrounded the courthouse. Babcock offered Josie a napkin. He opened her soda. Fast food chivalry. They finished off half their meal before either of them spoke.

''Is he a dissatisfied client?'' Babcock asked.

''Nope.'' Josie took a drink and let the cold can rest on one knee. The hand holding the hot dog rested on the other. She stared straight ahead, feeling tired and inept. She wasn't reaping the benefits of her victory for Susan and she had been stonewalled in her effort to help Grace. She sighed. ''He's the ex-husband of a client of mine. He almost killed her. We got a civil judgment and now we're trying to collect.''

''Is there anything to get?''

''He's a longshoreman. Twenty-seven years in. He had a lot of toys that suddenly disappeared. A boat, wave runners, a motorcycle. All sold off to friends for a buck. He says he's on partial disability now so garnishing his wages is an exercise in futility. I've got someone down at the docks trying to prove he's working regular hours plus overtime. If he is, I'll go after the union for paying him under the table. His wife deserves the money. She needs it bad.''

''How is she living while she waits?''

''We've got just enough coming in for O'Connel's lawyer to cry ‘good faith'. She found a part-time job to tide her over.'' Josie sighed. ''The good news is he doesn't know where she is. She's safe.''

''So instead of taking his frustration out on her, he's taking it out on you.'' Babcock crumpled the yellow paper that had wrapped his lunch, got up and threw it in the trashcan. When He sat down again he crossed one leg over the other and put on his sunglasses as if he was settling in after a picnic. ''Has there been anything physical where you're concerned?''

''Minor stuff. Pranks. That's all. I think I saw him outside my home. He knows about my – the girl who lives with me. My car was keyed last night.'' Josie finished off her sausage, too, but held onto the crumpled wrapping like a stress ball. ''Stupid fool. He pretended like he hadn't done it. I guess I didn't give him enough credit. I thought he was just juvenile enough to want to crow about it.''

''Did anyone see him do it?'' Babcock asked.

Josie shook her head.

''Then maybe he didn't do it. Where does he live?''

''San Pedro.''

''And you?''
''Hermosa,'' she answered.

''I doubt he drove all that way just to vandalize your car in the middle of the night.'' Babcock shook his head. ''Perhaps he'd do that to burn down your house or break in but that kind of man prefers to see a woman's fear. If he was going to key your car, he would want you sitting inside watching it.''

''Then I would have him arrested.''

''Not if he swears it was an accident.''

Josie shrugged, ''Maybe you're right. Maybe it wasn't him.''

''You could have made someone else angry.'' Babcock suggested. ''You can be bothersome.''
''If that was true you would have dropped the McCreary matter after I paid you that first visit,'' Josie laughed.

''Point well taken,'' Babcock agreed. ''But I saw the McCreary's leaving. You weren't with them and you're client wasn't happy when she left court.'' He plucked the paper out of her hand. Josie ambled along behind him as he went to dispose of it.

''Oh sure, my client put on her make-up and heels then drove over to key my car,'' Josie scoffed. ''Besides, if anyone should be mad it should be me.''

''How so?''

''Un-huh.'' Josie grinned at him. ''I'm not falling for it a second time, Babcock. You're just dying for me to cry on your shoulder, but you're on the other side. Thanks for lunch and the rescue.''

''Can't blame me for trying,'' Babcock said as she walked away then he called her back. ''Ms. Bates, would you like me to keep an eye on that woman?''

''Who? Grace McCreary?'' Josie asked, puzzled by his offer.

''No. The other one. That man's ex-wife. Tell me where she is, I'll try to call in some favors.''

For a second, the briefest of moments, Josie thought about it. She pushed back her long bangs and decided not to take him up on his offer.

''No thanks, Babcock. Let's leave well enough alone,'' she said, ''We'll just pretend she doesn't even exist. We won't draw attention to her.''

''If you change your mind.'' He held out his card and Josie took it. His home number was on the back.

''Thanks. That's more thought then most people have ever given her.''

''Everyone needs someone in their corner,'' Babcock said and then offered a departing thought. ''Speaking of which, do you have a restraining order?''

Josie shook her head.

He suggested: ''Might be a good idea.

''Might be,'' she conceded.

''I'd say it's a very good idea. And, if you choose not to follow my advice, call me if you have trouble again.''

''I appreciate it,'' Josie said, embarrassed by his kindness, grateful he didn't point out she was being bullheaded.

Straight as an arrow, done in court for the day, Babcock went the way of Kevin O'Connel and Josie took a minute for herself. Maybe Babcock was right. A restraining order to put Kevin O'Connel on notice wouldn't be a bad thing. But, if he didn't take a key to the Jeep, then who did? Kids afraid of being caught? No. They scratched and bolted. They didn't stop to draw a picture.

Thinking about this, Josie took the first step to the courthouse only to hesitate. Standing in the shadow of the overhang, her vacant expression belying the intensity of her gaze, stood Grace McCreary. Briefly, their eyes met before Grace disappeared into the building leaving Josie to wonder if Babcock was onto something. Maybe Grace McCreary, the passive aggressive keeper of secrets and concealor of grudges, a woman who lived alone and seemingly had no life save for the one that revolved around her brother, was a night owl. Maybe it was Grace, afraid of every damn emotion including anger, who had taken a key to the car. Maybe it was Grace who watched Josie's house with those damned eyes of hers. Perhaps Grace thought Josie was a traitor to Michelle's memory. Maybe Grace McCreary was still a rebellious little girl behind the clothes and make-up and jewels. Grace might need Josie but maybe she didn't like her.

Suddenly weary, Josie walked up the steps, down the hall and into the courtroom. It was now imperative to that Josie and Grace be a united front. Josie lowered her voice.

''There's nothing between Matthew and me. I didn't betray Michelle.''

Grace offered Josie her profile. Her distant smile gave way to a sad, knowing one. Then her head dipped and turned. Those eyes, planted too close on either side of the bridge of her high-bridged nose, glittered. She put her hand on Josie's arm, the ring was still as she leaned close, put her lips to Josie's ear and said:

''Get me out of here or I will go insane.''

Chapter 27

''Mr. Douglas. Can you identify this report for the court?''

P.J. Vega came at him like a bull elephant charging. His eyes darted toward Josie, even lit on Grace for a moment, but he was mesmerized by Vega's advances and the papers she thrust toward him. Tim craned his neck to look then pulled back like a tortoise wary of the hand trying to feed him.

''That is a report by the Independent Voters' For Fair Spending Practices.''

''And the purpose of that report is to track projected and actual spending of political campaigns, is that correct?'' P.J. asked.

''Yes.'' Tim moved uncomfortably. He pushed back the stick straight hair that refused to stay put. His nails were bitten to the quick. The tribulations of the McCreary clan were wreaking havoc on poor Mr. Douglas and P.J. Vega scratching at his door was just one thing too many.

''And can you tell the court what that report says about Mr. McCreary's campaign spending?'' P.J. pressed.

''It says that Mr. McCreary spent one point two million dollars in the early part of his campaign and another million and a half in the last three months.''

''Does the report also outline Matthew McCreary's projected spending for the upcoming final months of the primary campaign?''

''It does. The projected broadcast media budget for that time period was five million dollars. There were additional dollars earmarked for targeted print ads and direct mail as needed.''

''And what are the actual costs for media that is booked as of today,'' P.J. asked.

''One point two million dollars in print and broadcast,'' he said quietly.

''Thank you, Mr. Douglas.'' P.J. took the report, asked that it be entered into evidence and smiled at Tim. ''Isn't it true that there was more than four million dollars in broadcast media actually booked two months ago?''

''Yes,'' Tim answered.

''And was half of that media buy cancelled approximately 30 days ago?'' P.J. pressed.

''Yes, it was,'' he answered.

''Why was that, Mr. Douglas?'' P.J. seemed honestly curious, a convincing exercise if you couldn't see the gloat behind her eyes.

''Because. . .'' Tim began to speak but a lie was stuck in his throat so he cleared it and continued on. The lie was still there but he had amended it to a half truth. ''Because it appeared Mr. McCreary was pulling ahead of his opponent by a solid margin and the decision was made to restructure our budget, to save as much money as possible for the upcoming general election.''

''Really?'' P.J. raised a brow and plucked another piece of paper from her table. She handed it to the judge who handed it back after a cursory examination. ''People's exhibit 26 shows that, at the time that advertising budget was cancelled Mr. McCreary's lead had dwindled and the race was a virtual dead heat. Wasn't there another reason that your media budget was slashed?''

''We were waiting for an infusion of cash based on pledges that came from various fund raising events,'' Tim managed just before P.J. pounced.

''Didn't Michelle McCreary pledge the largest amount of cash?''

''Yes. She had pledged an additional three million dollars in structured loans to her husband's campaign for a total of six million all together.''

''And did you expect Mrs. McCreary to make good on that pledge?''

''No, we did not,'' Tim mumbled. P.J. took a step forward and Tim's head snapped up, ready to answer her question before she could ask it. ''Mrs. McCreary had decided not to fund as originally planned. It happens all the time. You never count on anything in politics.''

''And why did she decide not to fund, Mr. Douglas?'' P.J. backed off a little, happy to have shown this to be a sore subject.

Josie raised her hand and called out her objection. ''Goes to state of mind. The witness couldn't possibly know what Mrs. McCreary was thinking.''

P.J. restated with only a nudge from the judge.

''Did Mrs. McCreary communicate to you why she was pulling the funds from her husband's campaign?''

''No, she did not.''

''Who told you that Mrs. McCreary's money would not be forthcoming?''

Tim blinked. He swallowed hard and answered reluctantly.

''Mrs. McCreary told Grace. Grace told me. We cancelled the television and radio schedules but. . .''

''Thank you, Mr. Douglas.''

''But,'' Tim insisted, ''There were other sources of funding. . .''

''Your honor,'' P.J.'s bracelets jangled as she motioned in a dramatic plea for help from the bench.

''Mr. Douglas, answer only the prosecution's questions,'' Judge Belote instructed.

''When the defendant told you this news were you surprised?'' P.J. asked.

''Not really. No. Mrs. McCreary had never been enthusiastic about her husband's campaign.''

''Was the defendant surprised?'' P.J. asked.

''I don't know. I wasn't there when Mrs. McCreary told Grace.''

''Was the defendant angry?'' P.J. shot back.

Tim hesitated. He looked at Josie, waiting for an objection, waiting for her to change something so he didn't have to answer. But Josie's hands were tied. Tim had looked into Grace's face when she told him about the money. There was no objection to be made.

''Yes.'' He hung his head.

''How angry was the defendant,'' P.J. asked.

''Very,'' he admitted.

''Did she raise her voice?'' P.J. pressed.

''Yes.''

''To whom?''

''To her brother.''

''And what was his response?''

''I don't know. They were talking on the phone. I was in Grace's office but it wasn't a conference call.''

''But you spoke to him later about his wife's actions, did you not?''

''I did. He wasn't happy. He simply said he would deal with.''

''And what did you take it to mean when he said ‘deal with it?''

Josie was on her feet, ''Your honor, please. Calls for speculation.''

''Withdrawn.'' P.J. lumbered to the side of the witness box. ''What did the defendant do after she informed her brother that his wife was no longer helping to fund his campaign?''

''Grace took care of business. She cancelled a block of ads and television spots. She asked one of our volunteers to type the confirmations and then she left the office.''

''Do you know where she went?''

''To see Mrs. McCreary,'' Tim answered.

''Would it surprise you to find out that, on that particular day, Mrs. McCreary refused to see her sister-in-law?''

''It would surprise me, yes,'' he said quietly. ''I didn't think Mrs. McCreary would refuse Grace anything.''

''Mr. Douglas,'' Josie began. ''When did you notice a change in Mrs. McCreary's attitude toward her husband's campaign?''

''I didn't really notice a change,'' he admitted, more relaxed now that Josie was in charge. ''Mrs. McCreary was never a part of our everyday operations or planning.''

''But you did notice that she was less engaged than usual in the weeks prior to her death.''

''I did,'' Tim nodded. ''She stayed in Long Beach while Matthew traveled and Mrs. McCreary didn't call to check on her husband's schedule while he was gone.''

''Was this unusual?''

''A little. Mrs. McCreary liked to attend fund raisers where she was acquainted with most of the people who would be there. Public appearances were very controlled but she was usually curious about her husband's whereabouts.''

''If Mrs. McCreary were to find herself in an uncontrolled situation, how did she handle it?'' Josie asked.

''She became extremely agitated, very nervous. She especially hated any venue where there might be reporters around. If one of us didn't stay with her, she would leave without telling us.''

''How would she explain her behavior?''

''She didn't explain – at least not to me. Maybe she did to her husband or to Grace but the rest of us were just – staff.'' Tim struggled to find the proper word. It was difficult to explain how Michelle viewed the mundane world around her. ''Mrs. McCreary wasn't the kind of lady to explain anything to staff.''

''So, you might characterize her behavior as headstrong and erratic?'' Josie asked.

''Yes, I would.''

''Paranoid?'' Josie pressed.

''Maybe,'' Tim answered uncomfortably without looking at Matthew.

''Then were you surprised when she rescinded her agreement to help fund her husband's campaign?''

''Personally?'' Tim asked. Josie nodded. ''No. I wasn't particularly surprised. I had come to expect the unexpected from Mrs. McCreary.''

''Do you think she was unstable?''

''This witness is not a psychiatrist or a behavioral expert, your honor,'' P.J. called and Belote gave her the nod then raised an eyebrow at Josie. She rephrased.

''What was your assessment of Mrs. McCreary's worth to the campaign, Mr. Douglas.''

''Negligible, because of her unpredictability,'' he answered.

''Did the defendant share your views on Mrs. McCreary's worth to the campaign?''

''No, she did not. Grace continued to try to draw Mrs. McCreary into the daily activities of the campaign. She was convinced that Matthew didn't stand a chance without showing a strong family front. She tried everything to get Mrs. McCreary to participate in the campaign.''

''When it became clear that Mrs. McCreary would not be honoring her financial commitment, did the defendant contact her brother?''

''Yes.''

''Did she scream at him?''

''No.''

''Did she throw things?''

''No.''

''Did you hear her threaten Mrs. McCreary?''

''No.''

''What did you hear or see on the day in question?''

''From what I could hear of Grace's conversation, she was upset but she was also trying to give Mrs. McCreary the benefit of the doubt. I heard her say, ''She needs to be reassured.'' Grace said she would take care of it.''

''Do you know what the defendant was referring to?''

''No, I don't. I assumed she was talking about the campaign.''

''And after that?''

''Grace hung up and told me she was going to see her sister-in-law. She said she hoped that Mrs. McCreary wouldn't do anything stupid.''

''Do you know what the defendant was referring to with that comment?''

''I don't,'' Tim admitted.

''Did you believe the defendant was so angry that you might need to go with her to protect Mrs. McCreary?''

''No,'' he scoffed. ''She wasn't going to hurt anyone. When Grace first found out about the money, she was upset. That's all. Those two were as close as sisters. Money wasn't going to come between them.''

''Do you know of anything that could come between them?''

''No, nothing could. I'm sure of that.''

Josie thanked Tim Douglas. She could feel his relief as he vacated the witness chair. Doctor Norton, the psychiatrist who treated Michelle McCreary since her teenage years was called.

Mrs. McCreary, he stated, had deep seated difficulties with confidence, depression and paranoia. Her father's outrageously overbearing - some say abusive - behavior where women were concerned, his misuse of power, his total disregard for what his wife and daughter believed to be common decency, had colored Mrs. McCreary's view of herself and the world. Michelle was constantly attempting to atone for her father's sins by being modest and pious. The worst thing anyone could say to Michelle McCreary was that they admired her father or that she resembled him in any manner. Unfortunately, her piety could be rather rigid and she had some degree of sexual dysfunction.

Michelle's mother, beautiful like her daughter, was delicately unhinged. Alcohol was the grease that kept those hinges working as long as possible. It was Michelle who bore the burden of her father's misconduct because Michelle was placed in the public eye, appearing with her father during his campaigns, at his trials, having tea with his mistresses – in Michelle's home with her mother upstairs. Michelle was often left alone until her father trotted her out to show her off. It was no life for a child and left its mark on the woman she had become.

''Was Michelle McCreary suicidal, doctor?'' P.J. asked.

''Not when I last saw her,'' he answered.

''And when was that?''

''Three weeks before her death. She cancelled the next two appointments so I have no idea what happened in those last days.''

''Had she discussed anything with you the last time you did see her that would lead you to believe she might be thinking of taking her own life?''

''No.''

''What religion was Michelle McCreary, Doctor Norton?''

''Catholic.''

''So suicide would be a sin?''

''Indeed, it would.''

P.J. left it at that and Josie took over.

''Did you also act as Mrs. McCreary's confessor, Doctor?''

''No, I did not.''

''So you have no way of knowing if Mrs. McCreary would consider suicide a sin or if she believed God would forgive anything.''

''I do not,'' he admitted.

''Did you ever discuss suicide?'' Josie raised a brow.

''Not in so many words, but Mrs. McCreary mentioned that sometimes she thought it was just impossible for her to go on. Sometimes she felt that the world would be better off without her. There were times she mentioned that she felt that no one would notice if she was gone. All typical statements of someone who suffers from depression.''

''How many times did she make statements of that kind?''

''I would have to refer to may records.''

''For the purposes of this hearing, could you say she made them often? Almost never? Sometimes?''

''Often. I could say that. Small things could make her feel useless and unwanted.''

''Can you give us a for instance?''

''A newspaper reporter wanting an interview. Her husband requesting she stand with him on the dais during a speech,'' the doctor answered. ''For you and me these things might seem minor inconveniences. For Michelle, these were hurdles to be surmounted. Each instance could turn into a devastating replay of her father's larger than life missteps. People might find out too much about her.''

''What was there to find out?'' Josie pressed.

''I don't know. We never got that far.''

''Doctor, did you ever discuss Grace McCreary in your sessions.''

''Yes. Michelle McCreary was grateful for the defendant's friendship. She felt she was a confidant.''

''What medication was Mrs. McCreary taking, doctor?''

''She alternated between Celexa and Prozac for her depression and paranoia. She took sleeping pills.''

''Have antidepressants been proven to cause people to commit suicide?'' Josie asked.

''Studies have been done indicating children are susceptible,'' the doctor answered.

''That wasn't my question. Have antidepressants been shown to be the cause of suicide?''

''Yes, there have been studies that suggest that.''

They ended the day with a last witness. Michelle's lawyer testified that Michelle McCreary left an estate valued at more than twenty million dollars. The bulk of that was left to her husband; two million was bequeathed to Grace McCreary. However, the lawyer said, he had been in the process of revising that will when Mrs. McCreary died - a will that left nothing to either Matthew or Grace McCreary.

CHAPTER 28

There is only one promise a commander cannot keep and that is the promise of victory.

Josie heard that at a dinner party once upon a time; a party where everyone around the table excelled at something, including, but not limited to, either self love or self loathing. This pearl of wisdom had come from an otherwise rather dull man who was an undersecretary of something at the U.N. He was a strategist not given to humor or speculation. Black and white was to him what a rainbow was to a romantic heart. When questioned further he explained that the only surety of any battle – be it in war, business or personal strife – was that you could be sure of nothing and should be ready for anything.

Why? Because, he continued on, all sources of information were subject to inaccuracy, errors, blunders, ineptitude and, sadly, agendas. Personal agendas. Political agendas. Practical agendas.

Why? He continued on, because no cause is completely just or unjust. Memories fade, judgments cloud, the human condition is never perfect. Therefore, anyone engaged in a battle, and especially the person leading the cause, must adjust their thinking and refine their strategy. They do this based on what they perceive to be accurate, righteous or truthful.

Josie hadn't thought about that dinner chatter in a long time and certainly not after her day in court. She had won the battle, showing Matthew and Grace to be multi-millionaires in their own right. A change in Michelle McCreary's will meant little or nothing to them and their political campaign. Josie believed victory was hers because for every blow P.J. landed Josie was there with a counterpunch. It wasn't until she got home that she realized the gentleman and his philosophy of war and victory was dead on. Archer was telling her it would be next to impossible to win Grace's freedom if P.J. Vega had the same information he did. Josie found herself angry, not just at her naivety but also her self-importance. How could she have been so stupid not to ask the obvious?

''The records are sealed, Jo,'' Archer said. ''I only came across them because I was looking for specifics of the O'Connels' case. I started too far back in the filings and came across McCreary's thing.''

''That's all you've got, the filing?'' Josie's face was impassive, her words clipped, her body rigid with anger.

She walked off the length of her living room as she cross-examined Archer, oblivious to his scrutiny. It wasn't her anger that held him enthrall; it was the way she looked. A cascade of white silk fell from one shoulder to the ground. High heeled sandals were on her feet; a diamond ring on her finger. Not the left ring finger or Archer would be thinking McCreary wasn't just planning strategy with Josie all these nights but the right finger, announcing that she belonged only to herself. Unfortunately, Archer was beginning to wonder about that. When she opened the door that night Josie was poised to walk into the McCreary's world and never walk back out.

''Yep, that's all I got. A filing,'' Archer admitted, keeping his observations to himself. ''McCreary didn't tell you?''

Josie shook her head. She flipped the fingers of one hand on her next pass as if to say, what else is new? She had never known Matthew to be a liar but the evidence against him was piling up. Or this could be a reflection of Grace's influence. Matthew had become like his sister: secretive, hiding behind half truths and cryptic words.

''No. Neither of them said a word. Okay, let's think about this a minute,'' Josie made a turn and the silk waved against her. Archer could see the outline of her small, high breasts, the nipples erect, the linear line of her hips and legs. She wore nothing under the silk and nothing she wore changed the way she thought - only the way he did. Josie sat down in the leather chair, propped her elbows on her knees and put her clasped hands to her lips.

''You look good tonight, Jo.'' Archer's gaze was steady. Josie looked at him knowing there was a wall between them made of silk.

''So do you, babe,'' she answered quietly, meaning it. Finally, she put both hands on her knees and took a deep breath. ''So, you want to go to a party?''

''I'm not exactly dressed for it.'' He got out of his chair. The grin wasn't on his face but she could see it in his dark eyes.

''No worries, Archer,'' she answered and led the way out the door only to stop halfway down the walk. Hannah was calling after her.

''Josie! Josie!''

''What?'' Peeved Josie turned and looked back at the porch. She squinted and tried to make out Hannah in the backlight of the porch fixture.

''Mrs. O'Connel is on the phone. She says she wants to talk to you,'' Hannah took the first step then held the phone toward Josie.

Josie looked over her shoulder. Archer was ready to go, seated and belted in. She looked back at Hannah.

''Tell her I'll call her in the morning. Tell her I haven't forgotten tomorrow.''

''But. . .''

Josie didn't hear. She was in the front seat, pulling her dress up and over her knees, depressing the clutch, throwing the Jeep into gear and speeding off into the darkness.

Behind her, Hannah held the cordless toward her with both hands as if pleading for her to change her mind and come back. When Josie didn't, Hannah reluctantly relayed the message. She almost hung up but then put the phone back to her ear.

''Mrs. O'Connel? Don't worry. Josie will see you tomorrow. She promises and she always keeps her promises.''

Hannah went back inside, closed the door behind her and cradled the phone. Max-the-Dog who came to her for a cuddle and Hannah gathered him up. For a long while Hannah Sheraton kept her cheek against his and felt his wet-hot breath on her neck and his sandpaper tongue trying to lick away the sound of Susan O'Connel's voice in her ear. But it wasn't enough. Hannah had heard that voice before and It had been her own: defiantly courageous despite the terror. It didn't matter if the terror was warranted or not, it was there in Susan's voice so that made it real. Hannah buried her face in Max's fur because her bad memories were coming back, her old fears and that horrible need to find a way to release it all. A nick of the skin. A slice of the forearm. A cut of the wrists. Anything to take the pain and fear away.

When Max whimpered and pulled away, Hannah realized that she had been holding him too tight; that he was sensing the worst was yet to come. So Hannah petted him and soothed him and said she would never to that. But she might call Susan O'Connel back. They could talk until Josie came home. They would protect each other until Josie could protect them both. But that was silly. Hannah couldn't call Susan O'Connel. There was already somebody there with her and she wouldn't inflict him on Susan for anything.

''You ready, Hannah?''

Billy Zuni stood in the doorway between the dining room and the living room. In his hands were a stack of DVDs. On the table was popcorn and soda. In his eyes was the hope that, just this one night, Hannah wouldn't mind that he as around to keep her company ‘till Josie came home. Maybe just this once he could make Hannah like him.

Shaking back her long black hair, Hannah scowled as she took the stack of DVDs and ran through them. Billy watched her, saw that the skin of her right hand was still discolored and puckered from the burn she had suffered during the Rayburn fire, saw that she would still rather be anywhere else other than with the long haired, blond haired, Billy Zuni. But that was okay. Billy was pleased to do a favor for Josie and even more pleased that he was making headway with Hannah. A few months back she wouldn't have even let him in the house with her much less the same room.

Susan O'Connel took a deep breath. Then another. Only the third one made it all the way to her lungs.

Josie was busy.

Josie couldn't talk to her now.

Josie could talk to tomorrow.

Fine. Fine.

Susan took short little puffy breaths that didn't settle her completely so she walked from the living room of her pitiful apartment to the bedroom and back again. She did this more times than she could count and, at some point, she stopped shaking and reason returned.

Of course Josie couldn't speak to her. Josie was an attorney. She worked for pay. It was after office hours. That was the way the world worked. People did their jobs then had a life. Now Susan had a job – part time at the deli – so she would work on getting the life. What had just happened was nothing. A little bit of panic, pure and simple. A piece of gristle in a good steak didn't ruin the steak.

Palms sweating, but courage returning, she went to the window and looked out again. It was the sight of that car that brought this all on. Susan thought she saw that big black thing that Kevin's friend drove. The kind of car that felt intimidating. She had watched from behind the curtain and when it stayed parked she imagined that Kevin's friend was out there watching her. She imagined he was coming for her. So she called Josie but that girl answered. It was all Susan could do not to cry out to that sweet little girl and tell her that she needed Josie to come because Susan was sure Kevin had found her.

Now the car was gone and so were the jitters and reason had returned. There must be a million SUVs in the South Bay and she was miles away from San Pedro. There was no way Kevin could have found her. In fact, he had probably stopped looking. After all, he had figured out a way not to pay her settlement so what did he care where she was or what she did?

Susan was just thinking about this when something touched her leg. Startled, she jumped back and looked down. It was the kitten she had found in the hall. A little bitty thing that needed rescuing just like Susan had needed rescuing. Bending down, Susan swept the white ball of fur into her hands and held the mewling baby thing to her cheek.

''You're right. You're right. Josie took care of me when I needed her and now I'll return the favor.''

Putting the kitten down, Susan picked up her purse. There was milk at the corner store. She had enough money and two strong legs. It was only nine o'clock and people were out. She didn't need Josie to hold her hand and walk a block and a half nor should she expect her to do such a thing.

Susan O'Connel was free. Almost divorced. Almost self-sufficient. Ready to tackle life again and damn if she was going to let even the thought of Kevin put her back to square one. When the kitten made to bolt as Susan opened the door, she laughed aloud for the first time in years, moved the ball of fluff with her foot, and then slipped through the crack in the door. On the street Susan looked both ways. Just the regular cars parked along the curb. Regular working people cars. No big, threatening cars.

She was almost smiling as she began to walk. It occurred to her that she hadn't locked the door, but, in a show of independence, Susan O'Connel walked on. It would only take a few minutes to get the milk and head back. Enjoying her walk, she looked around and noticed everything. There were lights shining in all the apartments. She could see people going about their after dinner routines. A man walked a dog across the street, lost in his own thoughts. A boy rode a bike without reflectors. The heat had broken and it sort of felt like fall.

At the corner store the Asian woman behind the counter looked up. She didn't smile but Susan could see that the woman felt kindly toward her so Susan smiled instead. She walked past the wall of liquor bottles and wine bins, ignored the displays of lottery tickets. She had already won the lottery once when she survived Kevin's last attack; she wasn't going to push her luck. Susan stopped to look at the cereal then turned to the other shelf and thought about getting some hand cream. Then it struck her. It was exhilarating to stand in a store enjoying herself, needing only milk. It felt wonderful not to have to hurry home for fear she would incur Kevin's anger by staying out too long.

Lost in her thoughts, Susan O'Connel failed to notice the man at the counter do a double take when he saw her. She didn't notice that after he bought his cigarettes he walked outside to light one and linger. Nor, after she got the milk and said good-bye to the Asian woman, did Susan notice that man walking the same street as she did. She wasn't aware that he had stopped to watch her go into her apartment building and watched until he saw her in the window on the third floor. Then he left.

He had seen all he needed to see.

CHAPTER 29

''Don't bother announcing us.''

Josie walked past the black-uniformed maid who opened the door to a home in Bel Air that could have been mistaken for a hotel. The woman stepped aside for Josie. She wasn't paid enough to guard the gate and she was used to being ignored by beautiful women. Besides, it was the guy in the Hawaiian shirt and khakis that deserved a second look. She got a chance when Archer stopped and offered a fleeting smile as if to say he was sorry for the trouble they were brining.

''I'm with her,'' he said before following in Josie's wake.

Where she was headed was a no-brainer. Bubbles of brainless conversation and splashes of polite laughter flowed out of the room at twelve o'clock. The sounds bounced off the marble floor and popped into nothingness before either Josie or Archer could make sense of what they heard. Those little suds of banter that managed to escape were done in by the click of Josie's stiletto heels hitting the floor hard and fast. She hadn't brought her purse. She wouldn't be staying long enough to need anything in it. She didn't look over her shoulder for Archer because she already knew he was watching her back even though she had made it clear in the car that she didn't need an assist.

Driving top down toward Bel Air, Josie kept up her speculative tirade as the Jeep slalomed through traffic and Archer, clutching the roll bar, listened as best he could. But the wind whipped past them and the sounds of traffic were thrown in for good measure. The best Archer could do was to give Josie her head. He knew the basics, anyway.

Bastard lied to. . . .and his sister. . . .and damn it, Archer. . . I don't care if he. . .she. . .they took me for. . .fool. . .

Instead of listening Archer admired the set of her jaw when she ran out of words and fumed. He liked the way her bare shoulders and white gown shimmered in the glare of the oncoming headlights, the way she had put her baseball cap on out of habit not caring a twit that the rest of her was decked out to the nines.

He had been a step or two behind from the minute Josie pulled on the parking break and bolted for the house. Now he pulled up short when she stopped. Like an avenging angel Josie stood ramrod straight under the arch that was the entrance to a room so opulent even Archer was impressed before he was amused. Conversations fell apart in bits and pieces as one perfectly coiffed head after another turned to look at him and Josie. Archer zeroed in on Matthew McCreary before Josie did.

The man was born to wear a tuxedo, to hold a crystal glass, to stand on rugs that should have been in museums instead of some rich broad's living room. Archer noticed two things. First, the woman McCreary was speaking to was handsome and rich, wearing her wealth even better than he did. Second, Archer saw the exact moment when Matthew McCreary realized something was amiss, when he spied them in the entrance, when he understood something bad was coming down and that Josie Bates was bringing it.

Archer was on the verge of letting a triumphant little smile cross his lips when he thought he saw something else. Archer thought he saw hatred in Matthew McCreary's eyes and that wasn't good. Josie should know but she was too quick, too angry, to pay attention to subtleties. By the time Archer was moving in on her, turning slightly to whisper caution, she was striding into the room and right up to Matthew McCreary who covered well and offered her a politician's welcome. His beautifully turned out companion started to smile in that wary, defensive way a startled hostess will. Josie didn't notice the woman nor did she give Matthew any room to maneuver. She raised her hands and pushed him. He held his own for a minute and then the muscles in her arm corded and she pushed him back and back until his was up against the ornate fireplace.

''Why didn't you tell me Michelle had filed for divorce?''

CHAPTER 30

Helen Crane was encased in an intricate get up that Archer knew to be couture for sure. There was some kind of huge bow at her shoulder and that bodice of hers was sewn with whalebone that a bullet would bounce off. The jewels on her ears and neck, wrist and bosom were stunning – some so large it was hard to believe they were real. Her hair was backswept and her face had been upswept but she still didn't look as good as Josie.

Matthew McCreary looked fine, too. There was something about a tux. Archer had never worn one but he understood the allure. A tux made any guy look successful, controlled and powerful. It was a piece of armor worn against the prejudices of a democratic caste system based on bank accounts. You could be prince or pauper but that suit made a guy look like a king. It wasn't until you peeled the damn thing off after a long night that you got down to it and found out if the prize inside was worth the wrapping.

The other thing Matthew McCreary looked was cautious. His friend, the lady of the house, was feeling the same way even though she was handling the situation better. She had buried her concern under her exquisite manners. Helen Crane had introduced herself to Josie and pried the tall woman's hands off Matthew McCreary with a word rather than a gesture. Seamlessly, she invited her guests to continue to party.

Rich or poor, free food and booze served up with a little scandal to gossip about had the same effect on everyone. It was all good. Archer was asked along as Helen led Josie and Matthew away. She didn't bother to introduce herself to Archer but he let it slide since she was so smooth. Together the four of them repaired to a well-appointed library where Helen Crane proved her behavior was no act. She was quite the lady. She offered drinks, poured when Archer requested a scotch, neat, and delivered it herself.

''I've been hearing about what a fine lawyer you are, Ms. Bates.'' Helen took her own drink and found a place to settle herself. ''Now I can see why you are so effective in the courtroom. You don't stand on ceremony and you go after what you want.''

''You're going to have to start using the past tense because I'm just about to lose a big one,'' Josie told her, never taking her eyes off Matthew. ''No one bothered to tell me that Michelle McCreary filed for divorce. That's all the prosecutor is going to need to prove motive.''

''That's just absurd. . .'' Matthew objected, his dark eyes on Josie, his voice cold as ice. ''Michelle always talked about divorce. She always told me that she couldn't take the scrutiny or the schedules or the banquet food and that it would be better for me if she just gone. I heard that every time I turned around. I heard it so often I didn't even listen anymore.''

''Then you must have been blind as well as deaf,'' Josie snapped. ''Those papers were filed in superior court and if they were filed, they were served.''

''Then I never got them.'' Matthew threw up his hands. ''I can't believe I'm hearing this.'' He turned back to Josie. ''What is it with women I have relationships with? They all want to screw me one way or the other and I'm not even having any fun. I never thought you'd do it, Josie. Do you want to see me knocked out of this race, too?''

Josie matched him step for step, following him on a parallel course.

''God, I'm sick of you lying, Matthew. When did you turn into such a liar? When was it worth putting Grace in jeopardy to save your stupid campaign? I swear the press and the prosecution are will draw and quarter your sister because you're afraid it will cost you a few votes if people knew your wife was going to leave you!''

''Why, you. . .'' Matthew advanced but Josie shrank away.

''Come on, Matthew.'' If it was a fight he wanted then that's what she would give him.

''Ms. Bates! Matthew!''

Helen Crane called a halt and Josie turned on her first then to Archer as Matthew showed his back to her. He went to his own corner, sinking into a chair next to Helen who had clearly taken the floor.

''Miss Bates,'' she began, ''I knew Michelle McCreary very well and I must agree with Matthew. Michelle often talked about how difficult it was for her to live under the microscope. I heard her talk about divorce on more than one occasion. It had nothing to do with Matthew and everything to do with her own lack of confidence, shall we say.''

''Then why file?'' Josie grumbled.

''Because it was a way to get attention. What woman hasn't done something ridiculous to get the attention of the man she loved?''

''I haven't,'' Josie snapped.

''My, my. Aren't you just exceptional, Miss Bates?'' Helen drawled.

''Would you testify in court to hearing Michelle McCreary threaten divorce?'' Josie asked, ignoring Helen's condescending attitude.

''Yes, I would.'' Helen answered, coolly defiant, eyeing Josie Bates as if she were sizing up her character and found it formidable. Tipping her head, Helen spoke in that well modulated voice of hers. ''Michelle was a great deal younger than I, but she was one of my oldest acquaintances. I knew her as a child. We certainly spent a great deal of time together during the planning stages of Matthew's campaign. I tried to encourage her to participate in ways that would be comfortable for her. It never went very well. I heard her hint at darker ways of extricating herself from the world of politics. I admit it surprised me when she actually killed herself because she was so religious but, there you have it. People can surprise you. If I had any doubts that Michelle took her own life, do you think I would still be publicly supporting Matthew?''

Josie laughed a little at such absurdity, ''Of course you would.''

''I do like you, Ms. Bates,'' Helen said sincerely. ''You're like a man. Honest when it suits you, no matter who it might wound.''

''And I resent the implication,'' Matthew said. ''I'm telling the truth. I was not served with those papers. I barely spoke to Michelle in the weeks before she died. She was in one of her self-serving snits. My wife could be a royal pain in the butt. . .''

''Matthew,'' Helen warned but he would have none of her caution.

''Oh, the hell with it. Why not tell Josie? It doesn't matter. Michelle is dead and I'm sick of kow-towing to her memory or to Grace's needs or to your orders.'' Matthew put a hand to his face and the gold nests of his ebony studs sparkled in the artistically arranged lighting. There was sweat on his upper lip. He moved and twitched as if desperate to alleviate himself of a powerful itch. He couldn't sit still and almost threw himself out of his chair, pacing off the room and gesturing to Helen and Josie in turn. Archer didn't exist.

''My wife was selfish and introverted and pampered and I was starting to hate her. She was afraid of everything: of people looking into our lives and other people ignoring us, of God punishing us because we were living wrong or living too well. Michelle thought it was a curse because we didn't have children. I thank God we didn't.'' He turned on Helen. ''Can you imagine a child with that basket case?''

''Matthew.'' Helen warned again. ''Michelle was delicate. She had her problems but she was working through them.''

''She was a taker. I thought she worried about me, about how I would feel if I lost this campaign and the pressure that would be on me if I won. But, no,'' Matthew shook his head hard. ''She was the one who was afraid of defeat. She didn't want to be a nobody but she wouldn't lift a finger to make herself a somebody. She was a god damn leech and then she blamed everyone else because the blood she was sucking wasn't good enough.''

''Then why marry her,'' Archer asked and got a look of utter disdain for his curiosity.

''Because things can seem right even when they aren't. Being needed desperately is a turn on. But then I found out she didn't need me and I found out that I didn't have enough of whatever she wanted and that pissed me off. All women can make things just seem so very right if you give them half a chance. . .'' He looked straight at Josie. ''All women want something, don't they, Josie?''

A knock on the door kept her from lashing out in answer. Everyone turned and watched the door open wide enough to let Tim Douglas join the party. He came in thirds. First his head poked in. He looked around to judge the terrain before moving half his body through the door. He was still in escape mode but finally took the plunge and the other half of him became visible. With great care he closed the door. His fancy dress did little to hide the fact that he was a reluctant man, a mournful man, a man who was volunteering at his own execution.

''I think I need to be here,'' he said quietly.

''Good. Good, Tim. Come on in.'' Matthew strode up to his chief of staff and took him by the shoulders. He held onto him, pulling and pushing him into the center of the room like a prized child who would perform on command. ''I want you to tell Josie and her friend here all about Michelle. Go ahead, tell her everything.''

Tim opened his mouth to speak but he closed it almost immediately. His eyes darted from one person to the next until they came to rest on a delicate walnut table inlaid with mother of pearl. He hung his head and they all waited: Helen with anticipation, Matthew with frustration, Josie with indignation and Archer with enough curiosity for all of them. Eventually Tim spoke and his voice quavered with sincere apology.

''I have the papers.''

''What have you got?'' Matthew demanded and Tim flinched.

''I have your divorce papers, Matthew. You were served a week before Michelle died and. . .'' Tim's voice caught but he had gone too far to back away now. ''And Grace knew about it.''

CHAPTER 31

Grace was summoned to Helen Crane's mansion.

While they waited, Matthew went off by himself. Whether disgusted by the information or devastated by it, Josie couldn't tell. Helen Crane went along to look after him. Tim sat with his head in his hands until Archer took pity and poured him a drink. Josie had settled in an exquisite chair covered in gold silk, elephants embroidered in the color of olive oil. Her long legs were crossed, one arm was cocked and her chin rested on her upturned fist. Archer stationed himself at floor to ceiling leaded windows and watched Helen Crane's guests filter out of the house taking the gaiety – and their checkbooks - with them. The fundraiser was a bust. The last expensive car was pulling out of the drive when Grace's Jaguar pulled in. Archer gave a high sign to Josie. Tim Douglas sat reveling in his misery, an unfinished drink in his hand. The doorbell rang and everyone regrouped.

Without exception, they all looked older and exhausted. Grace, on the other hand, looked calm, refreshed and impeccable in navy slacks, low heeled shoes and an exquisitely expensive white shirt, its collar turned up to frame her face, one button too many opened to give her a sexy, sophisticated look. A camel silk sweater was slung over her shoulders despite the warmth of the evening. At her neck was a heavy chain of gold, matching hoops hung from her ears and the emerald was on her finger. Her make-up was as exotic as ever yet she looked innocent and young in this group of angry people. The ring wasn't twirling and her hands lay unmoving in her lap as she explained herself.

''Tim and I were working together when the man came to deliver the papers, Matthew.'' She spoke to him, her voice soft and soothing, the way a mother might address a child whose feelings had been hurt by her cross words. ''Tim and I were both authorized to accept and open any correspondence on your behalf. If we didn't, nothing would ever get done.''

Grace looked at Tim who encouraged her with a sad little smile. She smiled back and then addressed the room.

''When the papers arrived from a law firm we weren't familiar with, we opened the envelope, saw what it was, shut the door to my office and talked about what to do.''

''Picking up the phone and calling me would have been good,'' Matthew drawled and Grace winced. Josie glanced his way, waiting to be convinced that this wasn't all a game. From the look on his face this was either the real deal or Matthew was one heck of a player.

''We just couldn't, Matthew. We knew how important that Northern California trip was,'' Tim explained. ''You were trying to solidify a more liberal base that had been way out of reach and you were making inroads. We didn't want any distractions. And. . . and. . .''

Tim paused, casting a glance at Grace. Her eyes closed briefly, encouraging him to continue. Tim shifted in his seat.

''Look, Matthew, we all knew what Michelle was like. I mean, I'm sorry. I know she was your wife but she was a problem. You had been gone a long time. We thought this move might be a grandstand to get some attention. You were due back soon, she hadn't called in through us and asked us to get a hold of you, you hadn't mentioned talking to her, so we figured it was just one of those screwy things she did. You know, like the time she called and said she was having a heart attack and you had to leave that speech out in Valencia? Grace and I decided it would be better to talk it over with you when you got home. And, well, that's what we thought . . .''

''And, I was going to talk to her,'' Grace interjected suddenly. She looked so eager to please, so eager to take the blame on herself. ''Matthew, it's all my fault. I told Tim I would take care of everything and I did try. I called Michelle everyday. I wrote her notes but she wouldn't answer me. I even tracked her down at church but she stayed inside the confessional. I didn't want to look like I was stalking her so I left. Then we found out about her not honoring the loans – I did tell you about that - so I went to the penthouse as a last resort. I thought if I could just talk to her then I could find out what was really wrong. Once I knew that, I could set things right. So we put the papers in my desk and I did what I could.''

''What did she say when you finally talked to her?''

''Michelle wouldn't let me in. She never did that before. I mean, we were so close and it really frightened me when she refused to see me. So, when Matthew came home and went right to the Biltmore for the speech to the trial lawyers, I thought I would try one more time to see Michelle,'' Grace explained. ''That way I could fill him in before he went home and he would know what to do.''

''So you were at the penthouse,'' Josie prodded.

''Yes. I told her I loved her and that nothing could be so bad that she needed to break up our family. That's when she opened the door. I went in and she was getting dressed. She said she was dressing for Matthew. She wanted him to see what he would be losing. She had a gown laid out and her jewelry on. I asked her where she was going and she just screamed at me about Matthew. About how he betrayed her. I was trying to find out what made her think that and then she jumped off the balcony.'' Grace opened her palms in amazement.

''She must have been more specific than that,'' Josie demanded.

''She talked about living in a fishbowl. She imagined all sorts of things. She imagined that he .had been unfaithful. That's what she imagined. Michelle thought Matthew loved someone else.''

Grace's voice melted. Those sad black eyes of hers swept toward Tim and they shared - something.

''Oh, please,'' Matthew threw back his head. ''That is so ridiculous.''

Josie checked on Archer for his take. Infidelity was a good reason to call out a public figure but not the best reason to commit suicide. Unless the betrayal was unusual. Close to home. Threatening. Josie took a good look at Helen Crane. A woman much more Matthew's style. A woman richer than Michelle had been. But Helen Crane's expression was impassive – neither surprised nor impressed – when she looked at Matthew there was no twitch of lust or overt admiration. Still, for someone like Michelle McCreary imagination may have been all it took.

''It's not true?'' Josie asked, wanting Matthew on the record even though Archer was going to be checking this out no matter what was said.

''It is not true,'' Matthew answered flatly, speaking directly to Josie. ''I don't cheat on the women in my life.''

''We're really sorry about all this.'' Tim apologized to Matthew. ''We never imagined that keeping those papers would create a problem. After Michelle died it seemed like pouring salt into a wound if we showed them to Matthew. You already felt bad enough that you hadn't gone straight home from the airport or even called.''

''We really didn't think Michelle wanted to hurt you because the filing was sealed. We thought that meant Michelle was having second thoughts.'' Grace spun a story that left the heroine dead but the living exonerated. It was crap.

''Really?'' Josie drawled.

''Oh, yes, I'm sure she was. But then she got upset again. She just spiraled back down,'' Grace rushed on, happy to have an audience, unaware that Josie found her act nauseating. ''She was depressed and she didn't know which way to turn. I put my arms around her. I told her Matthew didn't love anyone but her. I told her that she should just trust Matthew because he cared so much about all of us and that when the election was over he would prove how much he loved her. Nobody else. Just her.''

''I see,'' Josie said quietly, taking note of the twirling ring. With each little bit of new information, Grace McCreary looked at Matthew for affirmation and Josie saw her client for what she was – a nut case, as disturbed as her sister-in-law – and Matthew the only steady point in either woman's life.

''Yes. Yes,'' Grace soothed. ''And I could see that she was agreeing with me but then Michelle just lost it. She started talking about all the people Matthew saw everyday and the women who wanted him because he would be powerful. She knew . . .'' the ring twirled and whirlygigged. Grace's breath came short ''In her mind, you see, Michelle just knew so many things. The stories she made up were ridiculous. Matthew wouldn't look at another woman. And I couldn't stop how crazy she was getting and she ran away and she jumped like I said. She just jumped because she knew, Matthew, she knew. . .''

''Are you going to make her relive this again? Hasn't she seen enough, been through enough?'' Matthew snapped, cutting off Grace's absurd soliloquy.

''It's nothing compared to what she's going to go through,'' Josie said flatly as she looked around the room. Helen Crane was examining the rings on her hand, stroking a particularly large pearl as if it was a crystal ball and she could see the future. Tim Douglas was looking askance at Grace. Archer was thinking the same thing Josie was so Josie articulated.

''That's the biggest load of bull I've ever heard.'' She sat upright. ''But, be that as it may, I can't force you to tell me the complete truth about any of this. So let's just think about what the prosecution will do with all this. Michelle withdraws her monetary support from the campaign and then files for divorce even though the primary is a few months off. Grace doesn't want to see her brother hurt personally or destroyed professionally. Grace handled the campaign finances. Grace had possession of the divorce papers. Grace was the last one to see Michelle alive. People have killed for a lot less, opportunity is unquestioned, means is self evident.''

''But that doesn't make sense,'' Tim insisted. ''Michelle was despondent over her relationship with Matthew. The divorce papers prove it. She thought her marriage was over and that makes it a motive for her to kill herself. You can argue that.''

''Only in the movies,'' Josie answered. ''A woman might chuck her psychiatrist if she's going to check out, she might not see her priest, but she doesn't file for divorce. The prosecution will argue that action implies that Michelle was ready to move on. She engaged an attorney, she made plans, she was concerned enough with publicity that she had the file sealed. A woman that smart and resourceful doesn't suddenly throw herself off a balcony.''

''You didn't know Michelle. She changed her mind half a dozen times a day,'' Matthew interjected. ''She could get worked up over wearing the wrong colored shoes with the wrong outfit.''

''A temper tantrum is different than being self destructive. She had to have a damn good reason for the divorce and the suicide. So, Matthew, if you've got a woman stashed somewhere tell me now.'' Josie waited. ''Grace, Tim, if you know who the other woman was let's hear it.''

Grace shook her head. The ring was still turning. Tim hung his head. Matthew looked away and Josie was sick of this whole thing.

''Archer, you checked into the attorney?''

Archer nodded. ''I did. He's a sole practitioner in Malibu. He had never seen Michelle before. She walked in without an appointment. She paid him a good fee and asked him to expedite the matter. He likes to tie up loose ends so he withdrew the petition three weeks later because the divorce was a moot point.''

''Did he discuss cause of action?''

Archer looked over at Matthew. Tim Douglas lowered his eyes.

''He filed it as irreconcilable differences,'' Archer said, waited a beat and then added. ''But he also said that Michelle McCreary indicated it was about another woman.''

''Oh, please,'' Helen lost interest in her orb of a pearl. ''Michelle of all people wouldn't make infidelity grounds for divorce. Look at her mother. She hung around that bastard of a husband of hers forever. Michelle may not have liked the game but she knew the score.''

''Even if Matthew had ten women on the side it wouldn't hurt him at the polling booth. Every woman would fantasize about him and men would admire him if they perceive him to be a player. Look at Clinton, the Kennedys. It's no different.''

''It is different, Helen,'' Matthew insisted. ''I wasn't unfaithful to Michelle. Period.''

‘It doesn't matter if you were or if you weren't, Matthew,'' Josie argued. ''What matters is that Grace believed Michelle's accusations would cause you to loose the one thing you wanted – the election. It's what was in Grace's head that we have to worry about.'' Josie put her hands on her knees. Her fingers sparkled. She had painted her nails and to Archer's eye it looked odd but that was the only thing out of place about Josie. ''Come on, Grace, what do you know about the woman Michelle was worried about?''

Every eye in the room turned on Grace. Her lips parted, her eyes darted to Matthew and the color drained from her face.

''Don't look at him, Grace. Don't even think about Matthew. If you know something, tell us because it's your life. Do you think he would stand up for you if things were reversed?''

''I can't. I can't say it. . .'' Grace shook her head hard.

''Drop it, Josie,'' Matthew warned. ''Drop it. There was no other woman in my life. Grace, just shut up. Don't say another word.''

Matthew started to rise but Archer was fast. He had his hand on Matthew McCreary's shoulder and pushed him back into his chair.

''Let the lady talk,'' he suggested.

''Mind your own damn business,'' Matthew growled and wrenched away from him. He was out of his chair, descending upon Josie, caging her with his body putting his hands on either side of her chair. ''I need to talk to you alone.''

Josie pushed him aside, shouldered him out of the way until she stood in the middle of the room, angry at being played by these ridiculous people who gambled with their lives and her integrity, who bluffed with the truth.

''No, you don't talk to me alone. This is the end of the line. I'm tired of hearing one obscure, speculative thing from you and another from her.'' Josie tossed her head Grace's way. ''And then there's good old Tim who tries to smooth over everything with a little groveling. You're all telling me Michelle was crazy, Grace pretends to be her spiritual advisor, you're supposed to be a grieving husband but I doubt you spent more than ten minutes with your wife in the last year. So listen up. Nobody files for divorce without a reason. Nobody jumps off a balcony without a reason and nobody pushes someone off without a reason so somebody give me a reason. Who was the other woman in all this stupidity?''

''Josie, please,'' Matthew hissed. ''Let me talk to you. It will clear everything up. I promise.''

''You're all one big happy family, Matthew. You want to clear this up then clear it up for all of us,'' she challenged

''What about him?'' Matthew jerked his head toward Archer.

''Archer works for me. Privilege adheres,'' Josie spat back.

''Not for Helen, not for Tim,'' Matthew insisted.

''They can leave.'' Josie waved a hand at each of them in turn. ''Or I'll argue hearsay if P.J. calls them to testify. Choose fast, or I swear I'll go to P.J. myself and tell her about the other woman because your dead wife deserves some kind of justice.''

Matthew's face turned to stone. Two high points of color tinted his cheeks on his otherwise pale visage. He seemed to struggle and finally something inside him broke.

''Okay. You want to know about the other person in my marriage?'' He moved closer to Josie. He turned his shoulder into her. His voice was low.

''Matthew, please,'' Grace begged but there was no room in this moment for her.

''Speak up, Matthew. Be a man for once,'' Josie demanded. His head jerked up. He paled with anger.

''You used to think I was man enough.''

''Times change. I grew up,'' Josie answered.

''Yeah, okay. You're right. Some people have things to lose. Obviously you don't. You like this honesty crap? You want me to be honest?'' He looked around the room. ''Well, here it is. Maybe I didn't have another woman. Did anyone ever think about that? You know, just because Michelle is dead doesn't make her a saint. Did anyone – anyone – ever even imagine that maybe I was the wronged party in this marriage and Grace won't admit it?''

Matthew's headed bobbled up and down as he turned a slow circle in the middle of the room. His smile was mechanical, the fingers of one hand curled toward them, egging them to take him on.

''Matthew,'' Grace breathed. ''Matthew, don't say that. Don't. . .''

''Oh, Christ. . .'' Tim whistled.

''I'm sick of hearing your voice, Grace,'' Matthew said disdainfully.

''God,'' Helen Crane muttered and turned her head.

''You want to hear the truth? Okay. She called me. She called me while I was up North and confessed. She said. . .'' his eyes darted here and there and rested on Helen. ''She said. . .'' his hands came together like he was praying and he looked at Josie. ''She said she couldn't live with herself. She said she felt so dirty. God couldn't forgive the sin.''

''Why didn't you tell that to the police, Matthew?'' Josie asked quietly. ''They could have investigated.''

''Oh right. Like I'm going to do that,'' he cackled with a desperate laugh. ''Because I didn't have a clue what she was talking about then. But now it all makes sense, and I think you know what I mean.''

''Tell me anyway, Matthew,'' Josie urged, unable to look away from this train wreck.

''Okay, Josie. Maybe my wife had a lover.'' Slowly Matthew McCreary turned toward his sister. The bottle had finished spinning and it was pointing right at Grace. ''Maybe she loved Grace. Maybe Grace loved her back. What do you think? Did I get it right, sister dear?''

CHAPTER 32

Grace let out a howl so piercing that Helen Crane joined in with one of her own. Josie gasped just as she reacted, intercepting Grace who rushed her brother, hands out, nails ready to tear at him.

''Don't say that! That's a lie!'' Grace screamed.

Matthew backed away; backed up to Helen who had stood the minute he made his proclamation. She looked as surprised as any of them, but Josie doubted she was shocked. Women like her had seen it all; most had done it all. Tim Douglas, on the other hand, was whiter than his pin-tucked formal shirt. Archer kept his distance. Too many cooks in a hot kitchen scalded them all. Besides, Josie was handling it.

Of course, that was Archer's opinion. Josie wasn't handling anything. Grabbing Grace had everything to do with instinct and nothing to do with a plan. Josie had managed to get a good hold on Grace but the other woman leaned backward, using Josie's own strength against her. Hampered by her gown and the unaccustomed high heels, Josie lost her balance and stumbled. As Grace whipped herself out of Josie's grasp Archer stepped in. His arm went ‘round her shoulders. She pulled against him, grunting, angered by his restraint.

''Hey, take it down. Damn,'' he snapped when Grace buried her teeth in his hand.

Expertly, Archer readjusted and Grace was locked down even though she still pulled against him and cursed as Matthew let loose a volley of accusations.

''Don't deny it, Grace. Something was going on between you two. I saw it every time you were together. Knowing you, you'd sleep with anyone. You're a slut Grace. You're lucky I let you come back.''

''Shut up.'' Josie swung toward him and screamed. ''Matthew, stop it.''

''I won't. I'm sick to death of this whole thing. Grace and Michelle always had their heads together. Whispering and keeping secrets and sharing. . .'' The last was drawn out with such bitterness that it stunned even Josie and, in that, instant she understood it. Matthew's patience had run out, his anger and grief was boiling over and he needed someone to blame for what his life had become. ''You want to know what happened on that balcony, Josie? It was probably a lover's spat. Admit it Grace. Come on. Admit you haven't told anyone the truth. You and Michelle were lovers, weren't you? Weren't you?''

''No, no. No,'' Grace cried, tears falling from her eyes. ''No, I wouldn't. Not like that. . . Never like that. . .'' Grace wailed.

She sagged in Archer's arms and cried in earnest. He held her up, turned her into him, held her close against his body as she denied, denied, denied. Matthew sunk onto a chair. He put his head in his hands. His legs were wide apart and his elbows were propped on his knees. Helen Crane, shaken and silent, was at the bar filling her glass to the brim with bourbon and nothing else. The rustle of her gown underscored Grace's whimpers. Tim Douglas hung back by the door as if he'd like to make his escape but was afraid to draw attention to himself. The minutes ticked by and Grace's lament faded to an intermittent hiccough of misery.

''Well.'' Helen was the first to speak. She crossed the room. ''This certainly poses some interesting problems.''

Matthew raised his eyes. He looked exhausted as if the collective years, not just these last minutes, had taken their toll. Grace turned her head, making no move to leave the protection of Archer's arms.

''Why are you doing this to me, Matthew?'' Her voice small and pathetic.

''I'm not doing anything to you,'' he lamented wearily. He lifted his lifeless eyes to his sister. ''I did everything for you from the minute mom and dad died. But now it's different. There's so much at stake.''

''So much at stake?'' she asked in disbelief. ''My life is at stake.''

Grace moved. Archer's let her go. Matthew steeled himself for her attack. Instead, Grace threw herself at her brother's feet. Her cheek was on his knees her arms wrapped around his leg.

''Don't do this. Don't do this. I loved Michelle but not that way. I would never hurt you like that. Never, ever. I love you so much.''

Matthew closed his eyes. His hands hovered in the air until, finally, he touched his sister's head, lowered his own, kissed her hair as if she were still a child.

''Grace, Grace,'' he whispered and tightened his grasp. ''I don't know what to think anymore. You should have just stayed away.''

''But you came to get me,'' she sobbed.

Josie couldn't bear to watch and neither could anyone else. Helen was drinking. Archer was wandering toward Tim Douglas who stood with his back against the door, his mouth hanging slack in amazement. When she finally looked back nothing had changed. Matthew's lips were still buried in his sister's hair. His eyes were closed as were hers. Grace's body shuddered with her quiet sobs.

From the first Josie had been aware of Grace's plainness underneath her exquisite make-up. But now, in her distress, Josie saw that a vulnerable Grace was beautiful. Her hair was tousled; the top buttons of her shirt had come loose. Grace's neck was long and white. In profile her face looked like an alabaster relief, an antiquity drawn from the depths of the sea. Her cries had stopped. Grace was quiet. Matthew whispered in her ear. Everyone strained to listen but only the only sound was his murmur, the only sign that Grace understood him was that her body relaxed.

Tim Douglas collapsed onto a chair near the doorway. Archer folded his arms and looked past brother and sister to a point on the far wall. Helen Crane's nose was still buried in her bourbon. Josie watched, drawn to the two, mesmerized by Matthew's gentleness as he smoothed Grace's hair back and watched his sister's face.

''You promised,'' Grace whispered, '' To take care of me. . . .if I was good . . .''

Josie couldn't hear it all. She leaned even closer but Matthew was suddenly aware of her proximity. Embarrassed, perhaps cautious, Matthew wanted the moment to remain private so he leaned over Grace and soothed her with his whispers like he would a skittish pet. Then Matthew said the wrong thing. Without warning Grace threw him off. Her face was alive with resentment and rage. Matthew sprang from the chair as she beat at him. Finally, he had her wrists and he struggled to control her.

''You see?'' he called to them all ''See how she is? And you wonder what she could have done to Michelle?''

With a final utterance, an ‘oh no' of despair Grace fell against him as if her heart was dead and her soul was empty. Josie was sick at the sight of it. Matthew took his sister's face in his hands, touched his forehead against hers. It was impossible to look away.

''You'll be all right, Grace. Everything will be all right.''

''I wasn't her lover,'' Grace murmured. ''I'm not your enemy. I just loved you. Why do you think I'm the enemy?''

''I know. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I know you loved her. ''

''That's all. I loved her. I just loved her,'' Grace repeated over and over. ''I didn't want to hurt her. I never meant to hurt her.''

''I know. Shhh.''

Matthew looked at Josie as if to say ‘see what I have to deal with'. He passed over Archer in favor of Tim Douglas. The younger came to attention.

''Get her home.'' Matthew said.

Grace's head snapped up. She backed out of his arms.

''I don't want to go home.'' She pushed her hair out of her eyes and looked at Josie. ''Say something. You're my lawyer. You said you would only listen to me and now you two are going to make plans about me. I should hear that.''

''We're not going to be making any plans, Grace,'' Josie assured her. ''It's not a night to make decisions. Nobody's thinking straight.''

''Don't you mean I'm out of my mind? Isn't that what you mean?''
''No, that's not what I mean,'' Josie said firmly.

''Grace, please. Just go home. Don't make this more complicated.'' Matthew begged wearily.

Grace shook her head. Tim started to cross the room but Grace stopped him with a look.

''What are you going to do, Matthew?'' she asked. ''What are you going to do if I make this more complicated?'' Slowly her eyes panned the room challenging each one of them to be a little bit responsible for her. ''You and Josie would just be happy that I was gone like Michelle. Then you and Matthew could do what you've wanted to do from the minute you laid eyes on each other. You could finish up what I walked in on the other night. You know what I'm talking about. It was rough. I didn't know Matthew liked it that way. My sweet brother looked like he was going at it . . .''

''Grace! Please!'' Matthew wailed but she paid him no heed. With a sly smile she turned to the two men who hadn't been forgotten. Grace purred like a kitten.

''Tim saw it, didn't you? You saw them rutting around like animals. In my sister-in-law's house. My dead sister-in-law.''

''Grace, stop talking now. You're only going to hurt yourself.'' Matthew made a move toward his sister. Josie put out a hand to stop him but it was unnecessary. Grace, tired of it all looked at Archer. Whatever passed between them didn't seem to satisfy her but there was no fight left.

''You're probably right.'' Her voice trailed off and no one quite knew what to say. Josie, though, understood the evening had to be brought to an end.

''Tomorrow the preliminary will be done. Grace, if you go to trial I would suggest you retain new counsel. If you're not bound over, then you're home free and we will go our separate ways. Is that acceptable? Grace?''

''Is that what you want, Grace?'' Matthew insisted impatiently.

Grace's silence, the onlooker's uncomfortable scrutiny was upsetting and Matthew's expression was on of barely contained aggravation. Grace was oblivious or careless or clueless. Perhaps, she was cruel because she left the room without acknowledging him. There would be no closure, only the disturbance of the air as Grace moved, the barest hint of her footfall on the carpet and the sense that her clothing was brushing against her skin. Ghost-like, she slipped out the barely open door.

''Tim.'' Matthew jerked his head in the direction Grace had gone.

Tim hesitated unsure of what was expected of him. Babysit? Spy? Stalk Grace McCreary? Finally, Tim pulled his lips tight and mumbled ‘sure'.

''Stay until she's asleep,'' Matthew ordered. ''I don't want her to hurt herself. I don't want her to hurt anyone else.''

Tim nodded and then he was gone, too. Matthew strode to the bar, whipped his bowtie off and let it dangle around his neck as he rummaged through the liquor. Nothing pleased him and Josie didn't care.

''Why would you think she might hurt someone else?'' She stood behind Matthew knowing he heard and ticked that her only answer was the slamming of bottles. ''Matthew, do you believe that Grace is dangerous?''

''You saw her.'' Matthew settled on brandy, poured too much then drank too much. ''The way she came at me.''

''I'd have done the same if you accused me of sleeping with your wife. Even if it was true, I wouldn't want an audience to hear it,'' Josie said evenly. ''So, were you lying or what?''

Matthew's eyes traveled over Josie before he sighed and pulled a hand over his eyes.

''Who knows what went on with the two of them? They were both loony birds. At least Grace is. I think what we just saw here tonight proves that.''

''Tonight proves nothing.'' Helen Crane put herself between Matthew and Josie, shielding her golden boy. ''So, may I suggest that we all just call it an evening and see what happens in court tomorrow? Once we know where this thing stands we can decide what to do about Grace and your campaign Matthew.''

''Maybe if Grace didn't have to worry about how every move would affect Matthew she might actually tell the truth.'' Josie stepped around Helen. ''How about giving her permission, Matthew?''

''If it were that easy I would.'' Matthew took another drink.

''You cut her loose before and she managed to take care of herself.'' Josie suggested dryly.

''She ran away. I didn't throw her out.''

''But you brought her back.'' Josie was persistent. ''You gave her to Michelle like a puppy. Michelle had a companion and you were free to do whatever you wanted. Now the scale is tipped and you're responsible for her again. Maybe Grace's gratitude and loyalty aren't limitless. Maybe she'll start saying things you don't want anyone to hear if you don't control her.''

''I don't know what you're talking about.''

''I think the puppy grew into a dog with sharp teeth and an instinct to bite, Matthew.'' Josie ambled toward him. It felt like they were alone in the room. ''Something happened in that wonderful little family of yours, Matthew, and you and Grace think you can beat the system if you just hang tight. It can't be done, Matthew.''

''We'll probably never know.'' Matthew finished his drink and walked past Josie to get his jacket. Archer wrapped things up.

''Party's over, Jo.'' He took her arm. She resisted then realized he was right. The one thing she wanted, truth from Matthew McCreary, she wasn't going to get.

Helen Crane walked them toward the hall only to pass them along to the maid who saw them out. When she returned Matthew McCreary was standing by the floor to ceiling windows, one finger holding back the sheers as he watched them get into the Jeep and go.

''What are they thinking?''Her gown rustled as she walked toward him and stopped close.

''I don't know,'' Matthew muttered.

''Then what were you thinking?'' She moved around him, her hand trailing across his back until she stood with it resting casually on his shoulder. Matthew let the drape swing back into place.

''I was thinking that Grace is trouble. She kept those divorce papers from me. Maybe she's keeping something else from me, too.''

''And what might that something be, Matthew?''

''I don't know that either,'' he admitted wearily. ''In Grace's mind everything she does is a good work on my behalf. Always has been, always will be.''

''Do you think her good work included killing your wife?''

''To what purpose?'' Matthew groused.

''To keep Michelle from humiliating you before the election. Michelle was a paranoid, piece of fluff who was afraid of being alone, Matthew, and that means it would take something huge to file for divorce.'' Helen melted away and settled herself on the sofa. ''What did you do, Matthew?''

''Nothing.'' Matthew swung his head her way. His eyes glittered as he looked her up and down. The huge skirt of her gown billowed out around her; the jewels at her neck twinkled and sparkled. ''Or, whatever it was, it was in Michelle's mind.''

''Alright. If you say so,'' she sighed. ''Then we need to decide which is more forgivable: a sin you committed or an affair between your sister and your wife that took place right under your nose. If Grace is indicted we'll have to stick to one and hope to God the voters are sympathetic.''

''Why don't I just slit my wrists on national television? That might get me some sympathy,'' Matthew drawled.

''This isn't just about you, Matthew. You're an investment, I've sold a piece of you to everyone I know. Your personal life is our business,'' she said. ''It's also about friendship, but I can't afford to put friendship first. I know you understand that.''

Matthew circled around behind her and put both his hands on her terribly slender neck. His fingers moved to her shoulders and dug into her muscles. Helen's head fell to the side and he knew that she found his closeness reassuring. That was good. He hadn't lost his touch. Helen Crane was just another woman after all and he didn't want to hear her carping. Not after a night like this.

.''Let's take a good look at those divorce papers, Matthew,'' Helen suggested, relaxed and reassured by Matthew's silence and his touch.
''Let's wait,'' Matthew countered. ''If we win the preliminary hearing it won't matter what's in those papers. I'll send Grace packing. People will forget about the both of them. The press will forget.''

''I think you're wrong, Matthew,'' she warned as she patted his hand. ''If Grace is exonerated, people will still wonder why Michelle killed herself and they'll want an answer from you. The press will pick at the scab until they expose the wound and that won't do you one bit of good. Or, worse, Grace will start blabbing.''

''Don't worry about Grace,'' he said.

''Matthew, sometimes you can be so naive,'' Helen chuckled. ''You think because you're a man women will forgive you everything. Well, my dear, you stepped over the line tonight and Grace called you on it. When a woman isn't happy, everyone better watch out.''

Matthew laid both hands heavily on his benefactor's shoulders, leaning on her, closing his eyes as he thought of all the women he had known in his life: his dead wife, his sister. Josie Baylor-Bates. Maybe Josie wasn't as beautiful as Michelle or as dutiful as Grace, but she was the only real woman he'd ever known. An equal who didn't want anything from him because, whatever she wanted, she could get for herself.

Looking down he saw the intricate details of Helen Crane's beautifully coiffed hair and suddenly he realized he didn't miss Josie at all. In fact, Matthew McCreary was just damned tired of women in general. But he knew how necessary they were so he kissed Helen Crane chastely on the cheek.

''Don't worry,'' he whispered. ''Tomorrow we'll know which way the wind blows. Once we do, I'll take care of Grace.''

Helen tipped her head. She smiled up at Matthew McCreary who smiled down at her.

''Your confidence knows no bounds where women are concerned, does it, Matthew?''

''Not women, Helen. Only Grace. Grace, I can handle.''

''Let's hope so, darling.''

CHAPTER 33

''Where is your client, Ms. Bates?''

Judge Belote drummed the fingers of one hand on the arm of his chair, asking his question one more time, turning the room icy with a look. Impatience had evaporated to be replaced with a hard core fury. Three times he directed Josie to track down her client, three times insisted she leave her cell on the defense table. Three times he suggested they would wait with her for the defendant to call back. Spectators squirmed, the press doodled, Josie sat stoically alone at her table while P.J. wrote letters on pink stationery. They were waiting for all hell to break loose. The silence was punctuated by the sound of the judge using his pen like a sword as he jabbed at dots and slashed at cross strokes while he wrote orders.

''If it please the court.'' Josie pushed back her chair. ''My client wasn't well last night and I can only assume that her illness has taken a turn for the worse. I ask the court's indulgence and would like to request a continuance so that I can find out what kind of assistance she needs.''

Josie spoke easily because she spoke the truth – sort of. Grace was sick with anger and nothing else. Now her little grandstanding was going to get them both sanctioned. That made Josie no happier than Judge Belote.

''You're honor,'' P.J. called, barely able to hide her glee at Josie's predicament. ''It is a condition of Ms. McCreary's bail that she be available and visible each day during any court proceedings. I would ask that you direct the defense to either produce the defendant, or a witness to verify Ms. McCreary's illness. In lieu of that, I request the court issue a warrant and bring the defendant here in custody.''

Before the judge could direct anything, the door of the courtroom opened. All heads turned and Josie thought she heard a distinct groan of disappointment when a clerk appeared, handed something to the bailiff who, in turn, passed it up to the bench so that the judge could ignore it. Josie looked back again; hoping against hope the next person through that door would be Grace.

''Ms. Bates? Ms. Bates!'' Judge Belote snapped and there was nothing to do but give him her attention. ''Ms. Bates, do you have an affidavit from the defendant's physician?''

''No, your honor. Again, respectfully, I would like to request we continuance so that I can sort this out. I'm concerned that Ms. McCreary might be sicker than I originally . . .''

''Save it.'' The judge cut her off. ''I've already given you far more leeway than you deserve.''

''Chambers then, your honor,'' Josie asked, trying to stave off the inevitable. ''Last night I became aware of a situation that could result in a change of plea . . .''

''Unless you're going to raise the late Mrs. McCreary from the dead, you're wasting my time. Is the investigating officer here?'' Belote dismissed Josie with a sniff as his eyes swept the courtroom and Babcock identified himself.

''Detective, the court believes that the defendant has voluntarily absented herself from these proceedings. I'm issuing a bench a warrant for her arrest. Defendant will be remanded to custody and I will not entertain any motions to the contrary. Court is recessed and let's pick up the pace when we reconvene. I want that to be soon, detective.''

Judge Belote was already halfway to his chambers when Babcock took off. The spectator's were leaving. Only P.J. lingered, looking for a chat.

''Want to tell me about the change of plea?'' P.J. asked.

''Nope. Gotta run,'' Josie muttered.

''If you change your mind, give me a call,'' P.J. chuckled as Josie pushed past her and hurried after Babcock.

She spied him at the end of the hall and was almost in full sprint when she stopped suddenly. Matthew McCreary was coming through a side door looking like he had slept in his clothes. Josie hurried to meet him, pulling him aside out of Babcock's line of sight.

''Did you find her?'' she demanded.

''No. No. I don't know where she is. I swear,'' Matthew insisted. ''I went to her place last night and again this morning. Tim said he saw her go through the gate. He saw her go into her house and now she's not there.''

''When did Tim leave?''

''I don't know. As soon as he dropped her off. Jesus Josie, where could she have gone in the state she was in? You don't think she really did something to herself, do you? I mean, I wasn't really serious about that or I would have gone with her myself.''

''If she did I'm going to be looking long and hard at you, Matthew. Two women committing suicide in the span of a few months would be a stretch no matter how well I think I know you.''

''Oh, for God's sake! It wouldn't be my fault. . .'' Matthew stuck his hands in his pockets and threw his head back.

''I'm sorry, that was uncalled for.'' Josie shifted her weight, more angry at herself than anyone for not taking responsibility for Grace. ''Just keep out of sight for a few minutes. Go home, clean yourself up. We wouldn't want any of your constituents to see you like that,'' Josie said, trying to lighten the moment.

''The hell with them.''

''Kidding, Matthew. Bad joke.'' Josie squeezed his arm as she poked her head out into the hall. Babcock was on the move again. He was the man of she wanted to see. ''I'll call you when I have something.''

Josie hurried away and burst through the doors of the courthouse. She didn't far to go to catch Babcock. He was sitting in his car with the door was open as he talked into the radio. Josie put one hand on the top of the car, the other on the door.

''How nice do I have to be to get you to wait before you act on that warrant for Grace?''

''No need to put yourself out,'' he said. ''I've got people over at her place now. The house is locked up tight.''

''Her car?'' Josie asked.

''Garage is locked. It might be in there, but we'll assume it isn't.''

''Okay, then, what do I have to do for you to give me a head's up before you take her into custody?'' Josie was ready to bargain with anything she had, which wasn't much.

''It's not going to happen, Ms. Bates. I'm sorry,'' Babcock said and she knew he was.

Josie put her hand on her hip and suddenly realized she shouldn't even be there, talking to Babcock, worried about Grace McCreary, putting Hannah and Archer on the back burner. She should have been on the beach, scoping out the competition on the other side of the volleyball net, wondering if she should go for the winner or play it safe. Straight out was what Babcock would understand. He was getting out of his car and now was the time.

''Look, Babcock, this woman is downright brittle. The night you arrested her was nothing compared with what's going to happen if you send out the troops. Just find her and call me so that I can keep her from doing anything stupid, okay?''

''Tell me what I need to know and I'll think about it.''

''Like what?''

''Is she suicidal? Armed?''

''No to the second. I have concerns about the first. Give me time and I'll get her back together; I'll walk in with her.''

''I am sorry, Ms. Bates,'' Babcock answered simply and stood his ground.

Josie took another step away. She swung her head, turned her face toward the sky and the sun that shined brightly but gave off no heat today. Babcock was waiting and she knew what Babcock was waiting for.

''I don't know where she is. I want you to know that.''

''I believe you. ''

''And she doesn't know how bad this is going to be for her,'' Josie said.

''They never do,'' Babcock agreed.

''And I don't think my heart was really in this from the beginning,'' Josie admitted. ''I don't like politics and rich people. I don't really like my client but I'm going make sure she's okay.''

''As it should be. I admire integrity.''

Josie laughed, ''Is that what you call it?''

''Yes. Otherwise you wouldn't have chased me down. You wouldn't be worried about what happens when we find her. You would have been on to the next thing like any other attorney.''

Josie shrugged self-consciously. Babcock was giving credit where it wasn't due. She was thinking of herself, she was worried about failing, of what Archer and Matthew and Hannah would think of her for abandoning Grace now. It was complicated and would take too long to explain that to Babcock.

''I just want to walk her in. That would make a difference with the judge,'' Josie mumbled.

''Maybe she'll get to you before we get to her.''

''Maybe,'' Josie echoed but she doubted it.

''Just make sure you let me know you've got her,'' Babcock warned.

''Thanks for whatever you can give me.'' Josie nodded and checked her watch. It was late. She had a meeting with Susan O'Connel in three hours. She could get a lot done in three hours so Josie took her leave. It wasn't until she was in her car that Josie dialed Archer. He answered on the first ring.

''I need you,'' she said.

.

CHAPTER 34

''Jo. Hey.''

Josie caught herself mid-stride when Archer hailed her. She stepped onto the curb as he came at her diagonally from across the tree lined street.

''Where's the tank?'' Josie raised her chin in greeting and pushed up her sunglasses as she looked for the Hummer.

''A street over.'' He took the last steps quickly, touched her arm. ''The cops were trolling again. I didn't want to draw attention to myself.''

Josie ruffled her hair. Archer leaned in to kiss her quickly. She touched his face absentmindedly as they fell into step.

''When are you going to get rid of that thing?''

''They're going to have to bury me in that vehicle, babe.'' Archer's laugh was like a rumble. Behind her dark glasses, Josie rolled her eyes. Archer's taxi-yellow car might be great if he was lost in the Sonoran desert but it was a downright pain in the butt in a beach city and a handicap for a PI . Archer walked beside her, checking out the windows in the townhouses, looking back when he heard a door close. ''Want to know what I did while I was waiting for you?''

Josie looked his way as he held the gate for her and they walked into the common area of Grace McCreary's condo complex.

''Tell me you found Grace and I'm all ears.''

''Wish I could, Jo, but you'll like what I've got anyway.'' Archer closed the gate, making sure it latched, careful as if this was his own home. ''I talked to a guy in the building across the street. He says he saw Grace take off in a dark blue car about nine-thirty last night. SUV. Thinks it was a Nissan but he isn't positive. He does know a man was driving.''

''And what was your witness doing out last night?''

''Walking the dog. He didn't get a license plate number and didn't pay enough attention to get a good look at the guy. Just said he had dark hair.''

''Matthew?'' Josie asked, hoping for a negative.

Archer shook his head. ''He was at his campaign headquarters until after ten. He drives a black Escalade. I guess you could mistake it for a Nissan but it would be hard. If he came over here then he missed her by an hour unless she came back and they went out again.''

''Did the dog walker keep an eye out to see if she did come back?''

''No. Just saw her about nine-thirty. He went back in and watched the ten o'clock news. He was in bed by ten-thirty.''

''Okay,'' Josie mused. ''Then I'm thinking there is a boyfriend in the wings and that's just a bitch. Grace never said a word. He didn't come forward to help her. What's up with that? What's he afraid of? Why was she hiding him?''

''There's no boyfriend,'' Archer answered. ''Babcock turned Grace inside out, Jo. We both saw the report. If Babcock didn't dig anyone up then there isn't anyone. This is an acquaintance, someone she called specifically last night. Or she could have called for a car and driver.''

''I don't think so. Grace was too upset last night to call just anyone and Babcock isn't God. He could have missed this guy. Besides, If Grace wanted to go somewhere, she has a car. It has to be personal.'' The pronouncement made, Josie walked ahead of Archer.

They went down the winding stone path. It was fall dark. The garden lights tucked into the ferns and embedded with the impatiens were glowing as evening erased the day in broad strokes. The place was still. Lights shined in two units behind tightly drawn curtains. As she walked, Josie wondered what she should make of the man in the dark car. A cad? A fortune hunter? Married? A man Michelle found so objectionable that the two women fought over him or a man Michelle wanted and Grace would kill to keep? Did he threaten Matthew in some way and Grace couldn't extricate herself? The only thing that seemed a sure bet was that Matthew didn't know about him.

''Did you get the key from Matthew?'' Archer asked, as Josie reached Grace McCreary's doorstep.

''No. I want to keep him out of the loop on this,'' Josie answered.

''Smart.'' Archer put his shoulder to the wall and checked out the door. ''These places are wired. I don't want to jimmy the locks and have the cops back here any time soon.''

''No problem.'' Josie dug in her pocket and held up her prize. ''I still have the key Grace gave me when I picked up her clothes for court. I forgot to give it back.''

''Convenient.''

Archer knocked once. Twice. The third time he looked at Josie. She put the key in the lock. It turned. She pushed. The deadbolt wasn't on and the door swung open. They didn't move; they didn't speak. They waited, hoping to catch a glimpse of Grace moving fast as she hid, to pick up the sound of Grace breathing hard, cowering in a shadowy corner. There was nothing. The house was a tomb shrouded in early evening darkness. Archer went in and found a light. Josie walked past him.

''You didn't really think she'd be here, did you?'' Archer asked as he closed the door.

''I did,'' Josie muttered as she checked the place out. ''I thought she might be sitting here in the dark twirling that damned ring of hers. Hiding in plain sight. Slowly cracking up while the rest of us get sanctioned by the court and Babcock spends a thousand man hours chasing ghosts.'' Josie shuddered. ''It feels so sad in here. Lonely.''

''Let's see what we can find,'' Archer suggested.

Josie nodded. The table, the couch, the pictures on the wall were as they had been. She took off for the kitchen.

''I just don't see Grace being that kind of nuts, Jo.'' Archer followed as far as the dining room, stopping to check out the artwork, the upholstery on the high backed chairs, the gleam of the dining room table.

''She's not exactly normal,'' Josie answered. ''She's carrying something big inside and she's pathological about keeping it right where it is.''

''That gives her issues. Crazies curl up in a fetal position when they get stressed or they lose control. You see it in how they live.'' Archer gestured toward the neat-as-a-pin living room.

''Struck out on both counts. That means issues, not a nut case.'' Archer dragged a finger along the countertop of the kitchen. ''God this place is clean.''

''She's on trial for murder, Archer. That's sort of an out of control thing. She attacked Matthew. She's got so many faces I feel like I'm watching a carousel,'' Josie said as she poked around the kitchen.

Grace's place wasn't just clean, it was picture perfect. The kitchen was set up for a make-believe life. Four knives, four forks, four spoons. Four plates, four cups, four bowls. Josie found two pots and two pans. Everything was brand new. There were no coupons or notices or magnets on the refrigerator. She shut the cabinets, stepped back and shook her head.

''This is pitiful. A whole family destroyed, and for what? For what?'' Josie mumbled as she put her rear against the counter. She crossed her arms, turning the question over in her mind. When the silence stretched and Archer didn't respond, Josie looked his way. He had a painting off the dining room wall and was running a hand over the back looking for something amiss, preferring to feign interest in his futile exercise rather than looking at Josie and seeing he was wrong.

''What's on your mind?'' she asked.

''Just wondering how bad you're feeling for McCreary?''

He hung the painting back on the wall and gave her his full attention. He looked at her with those dark brown eyes, that rugged Irish boxer face of his.

''You shouldn't wonder,'' Josie assured him.

''So there's nothing to you and him?'' Archer asked.

''No. Nothing.'' Josie answered.

''Didn't think so,'' he replied.

''I can tell you what happened. That night Grace is talking about, I mean,'' Josie offered.

''No need, Jo. No need at all.''

That was it. Josie walked past Archer letting her hand trail down his arm until she could take his hand and hold it tight for a second before they separated again. Archer pivoted and followed her to the living room. He was drawn to the phone and the answering machine. He punched a few buttons; opened a drawer in the small table. ''No messages. No notes on the pad next to the phone, none in the drawer.'' He hit star sixty-nine on the telephone and held the receiver to his ear. ''Last number called is a machine. Man's voice. No personal message''

''Run it down with the phone company,'' Josie directed.

Archer replaced the receiver then methodically picked up the framed pictures. He fiddled with the backings searching for Grace's hiding places and her secrets. Josie looked down the hall and saw Grace's big bed through the partially opened door. It was still made. Absentmindedly she picked up the book on sisters and opened it to the fly leaf.

''Did you see this?'' she asked and Archer joined her, looking over her shoulder but giving the book little notice.

''Yeah, I saw it.''

''Well, at least we know what Michelle thought of Grace.'' Josie traced the inscription. I couldn't love you more – M. ''Maybe Matthew was right, Archer. Maybe those two women were lovers.''

''It was a figment of his imagination, Jo,'' Archer scoffed. ''He was ticked off because he wasn't the center of the ladies' attention, that's all.''

''I've known him a long time. Matthew wouldn't have been jealous of their friendship,'' Josie objected. ‘He's not that way. He doesn't like clingy women.''

''But he likes to string ‘em along. This book?'' He reached around Josie and pointed to the inscription. ''That isn't Michelle's handwriting. Matthew wrote that and Grace sucked up the party line. That's why it hurt her so bad when he let loose on her last night.''

''Jesus,'' Josie breathed.

''And, it's not new. It's just well cared for. Look at it the copyright date. Look here,''

Archer pointed to the little numbers in the front of the book. ''First printing. Grace was a teenager when it came out. I'd bet it's been out of print for a lot of years so that book's got nothing to do with Michelle McCreary. Maybe there was a lover in this whole mess – might have been Michelle's and it might have been Matthew's – and Grace might be protecting one of them, but all this book proves is that Matthew knew how to pull Grace's chain.''

''Then why would Matthew suggest they were lovers?''

''Maybe he hates women. Maybe he's the nut case.'' Archer regretted that in the next second. Gently, he took her shoulders and pulled her close, not minding that the book was between them. He put his lips to her hair. ''Sorry. Didn't mean it, babe. I know he still means something to you.''

Beneath his lips, Archer felt the shake of her head. But the gesture wasn't that of denial, it was one of disbelief. She pulled back, taller than Archer by an inch she lowered her forehead to his.

''Maybe he told me things I just wanted to hear, huh? Maybe he was always a politician,'' she murmured.

''No, I think he just has more to protect. Folks get strange when the thing they want is threatened. McCreary knows that whatever went down with Grace could cost him this election.''

''I'm sick of them trying to spin things,'' Josie said miserably, raising her head, putting her hands on his waist, staying close to the man she trusted. Archer chuckled softly.

''I hate to defend him for sure, but he's not a cop or a lawyer and neither is Grace. They're just people trying to make themselves look good. They probably have a whole hell of a lot of skeletons, Jo. They want the closet door closed. Happens everyday.''

''But I told them. I was clear that they needed to tell me the truth.''

''They heard,'' Archer insisted. ''They just didn't believe it. Denial's a powerful thing.''

''Matthew should trust me. Maybe that's what's making me crazy,'' Josie said and Archer understood. He had been there. It wasn't fun.

''People get ashamed, Jo. They hide some little thing because they would be embarrassed if anyone knew about it. Then the white lie snowballs and it's huge and dirty and picking up all sorts of crap. They don't know how to stop. . .''

Archer never finished his thought. His cocked his head, the scar over his eyebrow shined smooth and pale against his suntanned skin as it caught the low light. Beneath Josie's fingertips his muscles tightened. They had been wrong.

They weren't alone.

Josie gave Archer room. His hand went under his shirt to the holster at the small of his back. Holding the gun high Archer paused long enough to look at Josie then headed for the half opened bedroom door.

CHAPTER 35

Archer was within a foot of the bedroom door with his back, his butt and the back of his head against the wall. His legs were spread, feet planted firmly on the white carpet. He cursed himself for not having checked out the entire place the minute they walked in. Now, from this vantage point, through the partially opened door, he could see clothes on the floor, a bag on the bench at the foot of the bed.

Archer adjusted his grip on his gun. The bedroom was too silent; it felt like someone was there. Suddenly Archer was disturbed. Josie was inching down the hall. One look stopped her. She put her purse down slowly and held out her hands to show her good faith. She would do as she was told but if Archer's first line of defense failed, Josie would be ready. They held their gaze a second longer before he kicked the door open wide and went in low, cutting the room into quadrants, rotating as he got a quick read. Archer disappeared from Josie's sight and a split second later she heard:

''What are you doing here?''

That was her cue. She was in the bedroom a minute later. There was a bag on the upholstered bench at the end of the bed. Clothes were flung toward it as if it would pack itself. Michelle's formal portrait and her wedding picture still hung in the niches on the far wall but Matthew's portrait was on the ground, the glass shattered, the picture crumpled under the heel of a shoe.

Josie stepped over the clothes. Together she and Archer filled the doorway of Grace's amazing closet. He had holstered his gun. There was no danger here and there was no Grace McCreary. Tim Douglas cowered in the corner, half hidden by Grace's gowns.

''Get up,'' Josie ordered.

Diffidently Tim pushed at the dresses, tossed aside the jacket he had pulled over his feet. Shamefaced he crawled on all fours, standing only when he was well clear of Grace's clothes. Tim slunk past them and sank onto the little bench beside the overnight bag. His shoulders slumped; he put his head in his hands.

''Oh, shit,'' he moaned then slid the bag onto his lap and cradled it like a baby. His head shook in little bursts of disgust directed more at himself than at them. Josie's eyes went to Archer. Tim Douglas wasn't exactly what he expected either.

''Do you drive a dark blue SUV?'' Archer asked.

Tim nodded and moaned again as Archer sat down next to him, taking up way too much space. Tim scooted away so Josie settled herself on the other side to make sure they had his full attention.

''Is Grace all right?'' she asked.

''Yes,'' he answered.

''Okay, then, listen up here, Tim,'' Archer said. ''Josie was dancing damn fast this morning but the judge wasn't entertained. Now there's a warrant out for Grace's arrest. When they find her she's going to jail unless Josie can prove she isn't a fugitive. To do that, we're going to give you to Babcock and tell him you kidnapped her. Then you'll go to jail.''

''Oh, God. I didn't do that. I swear.'' Horrified, Tim looked from Archer to Josie and back again. ''I was just trying to help.''

''Then I suggest you tell Josie everything she wants to know starting with, where in the hell Grace is?''

Tim's shoulders jerked, his jaw twitched. He touched his glasses before shoving that shock of light hair off his forehead. It fell right back down over his brow as if to underscore that he had no control over anything anymore.

''I knew this wouldn't work,'' he began miserably. ''I followed her home like Matthew told me. I saw her drive into her garage but then she didn't put the door down or get out. I went to see if she was okay. She was crying really hard. That was weird because Grace was always so in control. I got in her car. She kept saying crying and saying Matthew hated her. She couldn't believe he would throw her away like garbage. And why did he find her and bring her here if he really didn't want her around?'' Tim shrugged. ''Man, I felt so sorry for her.''

''Are you two lovers?'' Josie asked.

''No. We're friends and we were about the only two people in that whole damn zoo of Matthew's campaign who are decent. Our only problem was we tried to protect everyone all the time and Matthew is at the top of the list. She goes out on a limb for him because she thinks Matthew really cares.''

''Then he knows what happened to Michelle?'' Josie asked.

''I didn't say that. I'm just saying he isn't the man everybody thinks he is. He's not the man I thought he was,'' Tim admitted. ''I'm just saying, in general, Matthew's out for himself and everybody gets screwed because of it.''

''You?'' Archer suggested.

''Sure, but I can't complain. I made my money off being around him and if he does well then I'm solid in this business. But Grace and Michelle were personal and Grace got the raw end of every deal.''

''How so?'' Josie stood up. She pulled up an upholstered chair so she could see Tim full on while he talked. Archer, got up too and leaned against the bureau.

''Grace came here and she looked like such a rich bitch. I thought it was a huge mistake bringing her back. Turns out she was quiet and nervous about everything. Grace was just. . .'' Tim put up his hands as if he could pluck the right word out of the air. ''Grace was just so grateful to be with Matthew and I thought he was the greatest guy in the world right then.

''The first time he brought her into the office he introduced her to everyone and told stories about how great she was as a kid. He would put his arm around her and hug her and Grace just beamed.''

''They're as tight as I've ever seen two people,'' Josie murmured.

''That's what everyone thinks,'' Tim corrected. ''And maybe it was true at first, but Matthew must have changed his mind. I thought I was imagining it.'' Tim looked from Josie to Archer. ''Matthew would tell Grace she was indispensable and how Michelle loved having her around then he'd add a little dig. Like she was a great financial officer but she better not screw up or he'd have to let her go. Or he'd say that Grace might as well move in because he wasn't getting any anyway since Grace was around all the time. Then he'd laugh so you were never sure if he meant it in a mean way or not. But I could see it hurt Grace. I never asked her about the past but if it was anything like the way Matthew treated her after she came back, I don't think he was a very nice brother.''

''What about the Michelle connection?'' Archer pressed.

''I don't know.'' Tim put one hand to his eyes and rubbed them. ''Matthew knew Michelle was a political asset but he was disappointed in the marriage. He said if he didn't get elected it would be because she was selfish and spoiled. That was Grace's cue to go beg Michelle for whatever Matthew wanted. I don't know, I can't explain it. It was all so insidious the way he manipulated Grace.''

''So, the night she got arrested, he lied about being concerned about her?''

Tim shifted on the bench. He set aside the bag.

''Matthew told you that he was worried he would cause problems for Grace if the press followed him to the police station that night, right?''

Josie nodded.

''Well, that was partially true. He was concerned about the press but it was for him, not her. He sent me down there to check out the lay of the land. He told me about you and him. He wanted to know two things: how serious was the problem and, if it was serious, what kind of reception would he get when he saw you?''

''And you told him what?'' Josie asked.

''I told him you'd cut his balls off,'' Tim said.

''And his response?'' Archer asked.

''He laughed. Matthew seemed energized, like this was some kind of game.'' Tim's shoulders fell. ''You really didn't stand a chance. Grace would worry about Matthew; Matthew would pretend to worry about her. He thought you would fall in line and make this mess go away. Then you'd go away and Matthew would get on with his life. It didn't sound so cold at the time. It just sounded smart.''

Absentmindedly Tim plucked up the clothes on the bed and stuffed them in the overnight bag.

''I guess everybody's got their problems. I've got a brother who borrows money every month, promises he'll pay it back and then gambles it away. I keep giving it to him. So does that make me a masochist or him a con artist or both of us just idiots?'' Tim stopped mid-fold on silk blouse as he mused. ''Think about it. Is Grace a glutton for punishment or a sister willing to do anything to make things right? Was Michelle self-centered or Matthew's doormat or was she really crazy? Is Matthew a user or a driven man? Is everybody just selfish? Are we all just expendable?'' The question was sincere. He wanted an answer to these questions about human frailty but his audience was mute. Finally, Archer gave as good as he could.

''Got me,'' he said and Tim turned away.

''Yeah, well, nobody deserves to be treated the way Grace was. Matthew made her his slave and his whipping boy. Once someone asked Grace out and Matthew told her that he needed to talk to her about something important after he got back from a trip. Grace didn't want to be in the office alone so I waited with her. When it got really late I went to another room and called Matthew. He was asleep. That bastard had come back and gone to bed. That was when I realized Matthew wasn't the man I thought he was. He wasn't bad, he just didn't think about other people, I guess.''

''What did you do?''

''I told Grace Matthew called when she was in the bathroom and he was stuck at the airport. I wasn't going to tell her the truth.''

''Then that explains why he's been in court. Why he wanted to be at the meeting with P.J.''

''He wants to see which way his cookie is going to crumble,'' Tim Douglas laughed like Josie was an idiot child. ''I know he went to court to find you today. Probably told you he was up all night worrying.''

''He did,'' Josie said.

''Did he tell you he wasn't worried about Grace? When I got home there were ten messages on my answering machine. He wanted me to help find her so he could walk Grace in like somehow he was protecting her. He would ask the D.A. for a plea bargain. He'd be a hero and everyone would say how well he was handling all this tragedy.'' Tim looked at Archer. ''You really screwed everything up when you found those divorce papers, you know. Helen Crane is starting to think twice about backing Matthew.'' Tim eyed Josie. ''You want an all out acquittal and that keeps this whole thing alive.'' Tim smirked. ''So you see? The women in Matthew's life just weren't playing by his rules anymore and he doesn't know what to do with all that.''

''I don't believe it,'' Josie whispered, sickened by what she was hearing.

''When he finds out you helped Grace, you're toast,'' Archer pointed out.

Tim shrugged.

''If he can cut the coattail his sister is riding on why would he think twice about doing it to me? I just thought somebody should help her.''
''I was there to help her,'' Josie reminded him.

''You were there for Matthew and Grace knew it even if you didn't. If you'd just sat down with her woman to woman, if you realized she was hurting over Michelle's death instead of always being like a lawyer, maybe then Grace would have told you all the stuff she knows. I think that's all she wants – someone to really take the time and listen to her.''

Tim stood up. Josie made a move but Archer stopped her with a gesture. They couldn't force him to tell where Grace was and neither of them wanted Babcock on her tail. Tim made a half turn grabbed whatever was close and stuffed it all in the overnight bag.

''Did you ever meet someone and know that they were doomed?'' he asked, pausing as he looked over his shoulder. ''No? Well, I think Grace is doomed?''

He was done packing. The sound of the zipper was like nails on a chalk board. He righted himself. The bag was in his hand and he waited for someone to say something.

''I won't let it happen,'' Josie answered.

''Yeah. Right.'' Tim's head bobbed in disappointment. With a sigh he tightened his grip on the overnight bag and started to walk. Josie touched him as he passed.

''Did you smash that picture?'' Josie cut her eyes to the broken frame around Matthew's portrait.

Tim shook his head. ''Nope. Grace did it. Funny, huh? People will take a lot from someone they love and when they can't take it anymore they do something like that instead of facing them straight on. Doesn't exactly solve anything, does it?''

''No,'' Josie muttered, looking over her shoulder at the ruined photo then at the wall where Michelle's portrait still hung. No doubt Grace McCreary had a lot of rage in her. Michelle was already dead; Matthew and Josie might be the next targets. You just never knew. . .

''Well?''

Startled, Josie looked at an impatient Tim Douglas. She dropped her hand but still he didn't move.

''What?'' she asked.

''Are you coming or not?''

Slowly a smile spread across Josie's face until she was grinning at Archer. They followed Tim Douglas into the cool evening. They took his car, one that Grace would recognize. No one suggested they call Detective Babcock or Matthew McCreary.

CHAPTER 36

They took the 405 to the 110. San Diego Freeway North to the Harbor North. Josie preferred freeway numbers; Tim liked their names. The chit-chat was minimal in the forty-five minutes it took them to reach the right off-ramp. Josie draped an arm over the back of the seat. The lights from the oncoming traffic cast a glow that haloed Tim Douglas's head. It was the height of rush hour and the traffic didn't break until they hit the 110 then it was clear sailing. Nobody wanted to head downtown this time of night.

''Vernon?'' Josie asked when they exited. Her voice sounded sultry in the quiet of the car.

''I own a piece of property here,'' Tim explained.

''I sure wouldn't have thought to look in Vernon,'' Josie muttered looking into the back seat at Archer. He was staring out the window, hanging on to his own thoughts.

Tim hung another right off the freeway, a left and another right. They drove for five more minutes through a ghost town of big, grimy buildings. By day more than a hundred thousand people came to work in the factories and warehouses; fewer than two hundred stayed the night. It was a bizarre statistic that Josie couldn't footnote so she stopped trying.

Here and there she spied signs of life. The small security shacks were illuminated by the flickering glow of portable TVs as the men inside watched infomercials and televangelists and old movies until dawn. Sometimes the rent a cops dozed, sleeping away the night because there wasn't much to steal in places that tooled machine parts, packed meat, laminated paper. Josie ignored the scenery, such as it was, and called home again.

''Where could she be?'' Josie muttered.

''You have a kid?'' Tim asked and Josie didn't miss the tone of disbelief.

''I'm her guardian.'' Josie left it at that and so did Tim.

''Try Faye,'' Archer suggested.

''I talked to her earlier. She's in San Diego by now.'' Josie hit the buttons again.

''Hannah probably went to Burt's for dinner and forgot to bring her cell. It happens.''

''It shouldn't.'' Josie put her phone away, testy and peeved. ''How much longer, Tim?''

''Almost there.'' He took a left then another one not even a block down. They were in an alley. Pitch black. Unpaved. Deserted. Archer had a word for Tim.

''Grace better be here, my man. I don't want any surprises.''

''She's here, damn it.''

Tim twirled the wheel, hit the brakes hard and pulled the emergency. Josie straight armed the dash. Archer grunted as the younger man slammed out of the car leaving the door open and the car running. He was swallowed by the dark only to reappear a second later, cutting through the parallel beams of the headlamps, walking in the gray area between them. The incandescent light sculpted him into a troll-like creature that scuttled toward a chain link fence laced with a curlicue of razor wire. Archer and Josie watched Tim unlocked the gate then push until it opened far enough to let the car through.

Stepping on the running board, Tim Douglas pulled himself up and in, closed the door and the three of them sat in his car looking at the yaw of dark in front of them.

''I don't care what anyone wants anymore, so be grateful for what I'm doing.'' They heard the ratchet of the brake release, the gear being thrown. ''Turn off your phones just in case. I don't want to scare her.''

''I don't know, Hannah, this doesn't seem right.''

Billy Zuni peered at the run down apartment buildings as Hannah's VW bug crept along the unfamiliar street.

''It's fine.'' She tightened her hold on the wheel, annoyed by Billy and the fake daisy in the little vase attached to the dash. The Bug, the vase, the flower all seemed like such a slap in the face to this neighborhood where people had so little. ''We're just going to sit with her for a little while, that's all.''

Hannah pushed her long hair back in an impatient gesture then grabbed the wheel with both hands again. She didn't dare look at Billy for fear he would see that she knew he was right and that was the last thing Hannah wanted Billy to know.

An hour ago when that lady, Susan O'Connel, called wondering where Josie was Hannah wrote down the message and thought nothing more of it. Josie was just a little late. She would be there. Josie always kept her word. Hannah went to Burt's and hung her paintings. Billy ambled in, admired Hannah's work, chattered about this and that and nearly drove her crazy until Burt offered them burgers. Billy still admired her paintings while he ate but it was easier to take when Burt joined the conversation. Faye passed through to pick up a bite before heading down San Diego way to see her grandson. Hannah lingered, not giving Josie or her client a second thought.

It was dark when Billy Zuni walked Hannah as far as the front door. It was lonely when Hannah closed that door and her heart started to pound and her fingers drummed against the wood – five. . .seven. . .nine. . . Nine! Max was there with his snout against her leg and those eyebrows undulating as if to ask where his dinner was. Ten. . . twelve. . . Hannah laughed and forced her fingers to touch the top of the dog's head. Thirteen. . .eighteen. . . Max thought she was petting him. Twenty. . Hannah turned on the lights – all of them. She opened all the doors – every single one. She could be alone without being afraid. There was homework to do and a new canvas to prime. Hannah was fine. Then that woman called again.

And again.

Susan O'Connel, kept calling. Her voice trampolined an octave higher each time she was told Josie couldn't be found. Hannah did her best to soothe the woman.

Josie had been delayed. Josie had not forgotten. Something important was keeping her. Josie would never leave you afraid.

Hannah fingers tapped as fast as she talked. She herself paced with the phone to her ear, rationalizing, trying to find words that would calm Susan O'Connel. Then she did the only thing she could think to do: Hannah promised to help. How lame was that? She was an idiot dragging Billy into a strange neighborhood to meet a woman she didn't know after Josie told her to stay close to home. Much as she hated to, Hannah was about ready to turn around, tell Billy she had made a mistake when he cried out.

''There. Hey, Hannah, that's it. See?'' He checked the building number against the one he had inked on the palm of his hand. Hannah hugged the little steering wheel and checked it out. A car honked behind her. She pulled against the red curb and let the person behind her go. Billy knit his brow. ''I don't think you can park here, Hannah. It's red.''

''Duh.'' She rolled her eyes then yanked on the wheel, pulled out around an old truck and parked in front of it. She turned off the ignition and sat in the silence, sure that Billy could hear her heart pounding.

''You want to go up now?'' Billy whispered, sensing something was amiss but not wanting to incur Hannah's wrath by voicing his dread.

''I guess. I mean, since we're here,'' she answered, wishing he would be the one to stop her.

''Yeah, since we came all this way,'' Billy nodded and both of them looked at the building.

''Billy, do you think this is a stupid idea?'' Hannah asked.

''Naw. I think it's nice. Kind of like you being part of Josie's team. You know, like her assistant.''

Hannah's smile was shaky. Her hands were clasped in her lap. Little suction sounds could be heard as she pumped her palms together. That was nice for him to say when they both knew it wasn't right to go off half cocked and angry at Josie. Knowing she couldn't back down now, Hannah took her keys and said:

''Okay, so let's go then.''

They got out of the car and stood together in front of the old brick building. Billy opened the glass door. Hannah went in first. Instantly she put her hand to her nose. The place smelled of bad cooking and smoke. The carpet was dirty with the kind of grime that never came out no matter how hard you tried to clean it. There were three landings with apartments on either side. Hannah stopped short to get her bearings and Billy bumped into her.

''Christ, Billy,'' Hannah hissed. He mumbled his apologies in the dead quiet of that narrow hallway with the weak light hanging above them. Hannah looked up. ''Come on. It's the top floor.''

Billy stuck close as they climbed. First landing. Second. Hannah could hear her heart. Billy grunted and wheezed. They sounded like two scared little kids. What good would they do that lady if they sounded like that? Hannah took one deep breath and bounded up the next ten steps, pounding away her anxiety. Billy did the same.

''Made it.'' Hannah actually smiled when he joined her.

''Yeah. So, that's okay, then.'' Billy smiled back. ''Want me to knock?''

''No, we're just going to barge right in like Spy Kids,'' Hannah drawled, her swell of friendship curling into the disdain of normalcy. Billy could be so clueless. ''I'll knock.''

She raised her fist but the door wasn't latched so her knuckles scraped the wood and pushed it open. Hannah and Billy looked at each other but before they could bolt, the door jolted again and something came at them so fast they jumped into one another's arms, laid themselves back against the wall and knew that if they weren't about to die, Josie was going to kill them when they got home.

Matthew McCreary watched the television alone. He did not pick up the phone when it rang because his hands were busy. One held a bottle of scotch the other the television remote. He had monitored every news program he could find and all of them were dissecting the rise and fall of Matthew McCreary, talking about the dark cloud that shadowed his campaign during this primary. The personal tragedy that brought him sympathy votes was now turning into three ring circus of speculation, sensationalism and sadism. Everyone wanted a piece of Matthew McCreary and his family: talk shows and news programs, pop psychologists and pundits. He'd like to kill the fool that coined the phrase ‘family values' because – according to everyone – he probably didn't have any. He, the public now hypothesized, was the smoldering core of a volcano that would blow, spewing ever more toxic scandal. The dead wife had tried to leave him, making out a will assuring he would never get her money. Why? The prodigal sister was on the lam with the law on her heels. Why? Matthew McCreary was silent. Why? Why? Why?

He lifted his drink and downed it. Why was he silent? Because he had no answers; none that anyone would understand anyway. Exhausted, Matthew snapped off the television and let his head fall back. He tossed the remote to the end of the couch and rubbed his eyes with his free hand. His head lolled sideways and he surveyed all that he owned. It was a lot but it wasn't enough. He didn't want to run a company that belonged to his father. He wanted to be loved and honored and looked up to by lots of people. His eyes settled on the phone. He wanted Grace to call. He could save his career, if she would just . . .

Matthew put the bottle to his lips and kept it there for a minute before he realized it was empty. Just as he thought about that, the phone rang. The bottle went into his lap and Matthew watched the phone as if he could see the rings and count them.

One. Two. Three. .

They were nuts if he thought he was going to answer his own phone and talk to a reporter.

One more. There it was. Four.

The machine picked up. For the tenth time Matthew listened to his own voice invite whoever it was to leave a message. His head fell back. The beep sounded. He waited. It was . . .

Grace.

It took Matthew a minute to realize that he wasn't hearing things. When it dawned on him that Grace was on the phone, Grace was leaving a message, Grace was telling him something important, Matthew lunged for the phone and grabbed it up, fumbling the receiver and finally getting it right. But by the time it was at his ear and he was yelling her name, promising everything, but the connection was broken. Matthew collapsed on the sofa with the phone on his chest, a pillow pulled tight and his knees pulled up. Everything was just falling apart. Just falling apart and it wasn't fair to him when he had always tried to do what was right.

Matthew McCreary, drunk and alone, sobbed his self pitying tears. It was never, ever supposed to be like this.

CHAPTER 37

Archer, Josie and Tim stood between the car and an old stucco building that seemed to be held together with the glue of graffiti. A necklace of blown out windows wrapped around the place. The ground beneath their feet was a crazy quilt of asphalt and pebbles, stones and hard packed dirt. It crushed as they walked single file with Tim in front. Familiar with the lay of this land, he led them to a small metal door above which a naked bulb hung from wire strung from post to building. The face he turned toward them was etched with worry and sadness and resignation.

''She's in the caretaker's apartment. She's expecting me to come with food and fresh clothes but she's afraid so . . .''

Tim didn't have to lay out the ground rules. He did not have to tell them that Grace was afraid to be in this deserted building, in this mean town so far from her accustomed comforts. Archer reached for the door handle. Tim beat him to it.

''She trusted me, you know.''

''Okay,'' Josie said and Archer acquiesced.

Silently Tim opened the door and they were inside a factory filled with rusting machinery, degrading boxes and long tables where people used to work. Now abandoned, the place was oddly sterile. Despite the clement weather outside, cold from the concrete floor traveled up Josie's legs and settled in her belly. She touched nothing but saw everything: on the floor was a fast food bag, candy wrappers, shards of brown glass that had once been a beer bottle that glinted in a shaft of light that javelined through a hole in a high window. A comb had been left on one of the work tables. There was a lathe. A bench saw. Half a chair. Lumber was stacked on the west wall. More boxes were stacked neatly on the east wall, bigger boxes than the ones she had initially seen. Glass crunched underfoot.

''What did they make here?'' She drew close to the men to keep from calling out to Grace.

''Furniture,'' Tim whispered back. ''When my father died I got the property. I've been trying to sell it but haven't had much luck.''

Tim ducked behind some boxes. Josie and Archer were on his heels, following through another door that led to a hallway. To the right was Josie could see an office with filing cabinets, a pen on the metal desk, an adding machine. Tim paused a moment and looked at it. Josie imagined he was seeing his father behind that desk, looking up, wondering what his son was doing with these rich folks. Tim pointed to another door.

''In there,'' he whispered. ''I'll go in first.''

''Maybe not.''

Archer shouldered him away and this time Tim let him. It was what it was. Archer turned the knob slowly. All of them held their breath, listening for the sound that would give them away, but Archer was smooth. He entered first, then Tim. Josie pulled up the rear. They found themselves in a small room that looked like a utility apartment: table, a metal sink, two chairs. Grace wasn't there. Tim shrugged, confused. He pointed to one of two small doors. Josie opened the one on the left.

''Bathroom,'' she whispered. The men faded away to explore while Josie lingered.

There was moisture in the air. Grace's earrings were on the sink. Three cigarette butts floated in the toilette. A towel with make-up smudges hung on a nail in the wall. There were drops of water on the floor. Josie touched the towel. It was damp; the soap was wet. Grace had washed her face; Graced had washed her face off. Josie was thinking she wouldn't know Grace without make-up when something caught her eye. Hunkering down, she reached into the box near the sink and plucked Grace's emerald ring from the trash. Josie put it in the palm of her hand.

Pocketing the ring, she retraced her steps and looked for Archer and Tim. The next room had a cot, a hot plate, another table. A small rectangular window cut high above the bed was open and that told Josie all she needed to know. Grace had seen them coming. She had washed up, was ready to settle in for the night, when she had heard the car drive up. But bringing Tim's car hadn't fooled her one bit, smart girl. Grace had listened to the sound of more than one door closing, heard their careful footsteps on the gravel, perhaps tiptoed on the cot, straining to see just enough to tell her that she had been betrayed. Perhaps the ring had fallen into the trash in her rush to get away and now Grace was out there in the dark wishing she had it for comfort.

Josie looked at the back door. If Grace had run that way the men would find her. But what if Grace was playing them all? Instead of panicked, maybe Grace was buying time, forming a strategy. Quickly Josie retraced her steps back to the main factory. Standing alone in the dark Josie held her head high and listened. She heard nothing but sensed something.

''Grace?'' she called quietly.

Josie took one step, then another. Her eyes darted to the stacked boxes, the lumber, the high tables under which someone could hide. She did double takes on shadows that seemed to move and dark spots that threatened to suck her through the floor. Grace was there. She was waiting. She was watching with those eyes, those eyes that would now seem smaller, meaner, odd and ugly without the definition of shadow and line.

Josie turned in a slow circle trying to focus, knowing her task was made more difficult because Tim Douglas's father had been cautious man, worried about those who worked around wood and stain and there were more fire exits than she first imagined. The green lights that would lead people to safety were long dark. Squinting, Josie concentrated on each one in turn until she found what she was looking for: the one door that was ajar. Trotting toward it, her head moving side-to-side in case she was wrong, Josie pushed the door open. She was outside. Alone. There were other buildings. She would let the men search the nooks crannies while she kept her eye on the big picture.

To her right were the half open gate and Tim's car; on her left was a wooden lean-to. The dirt and gravel were disturbed as if someone had pushed off in a hurry but Josie couldn't say if it had been a woman or the two men or vandals. It could have been a minute ago or another day long ago. Then it didn't matter what Josie was thinking because she heard Archer bellow and Tim holler and the roar of a car engine coming to life.

Instinctively Josie started toward the ruckus only to stop, unable to pinpoint where it was coming from. The wide yard was like a canyon and the sounds echoed off the concrete building only to be swallowed up by the wooden structures and empty spaces. Unable to get her bearings, Josie opened her mouth to call Archer but instead let out a howl of surprise and threw one arm up over her eyes to shield against the bright headlights of a big car as it careened around the corner of the lean-to. Its bald tires spun. The car fishtailed, righted itself and kicked up gravel as it fought for traction. Without thinking Josie sprinted toward it, holding out her arms, screaming for it to stop but suddenly the tires caught and the car barreled toward her.

In that split second, in those flickering silent film moments between the car lurching out of control and righting itself again, Josie saw that it was Grace McCreary clutching the wheel of the monstrous car.

''Stop! Grace! Stop!'' Josie screamed, but it did no good. Grace didn't seem to care who stood in her way in the dirt, in the middle of the night, in a place where there was no one hear cries for help.

Brave but not stupid, Josie would have run if she could but Grace was determined and Josie disoriented. She couldn't tell where Grace was going. Her only chance, her only choice, was to stand firm until she was forced to choose. She hated that Grace McCreary could take everything Josie held dear if she made the wrong choice. Hannah would be alone again. Archer alone again. Josie would die never knowing what had become of her mother because this crazy woman wanted to run from her life instead of facing it.

The hell with that.

Josie bent her knees. The time was upon her. Three more seconds. Two. One. . . But before she could take her best shot, Grace McCreary did what Josie least expected. She slammed on the brakes. But it was a minute past the last minute and the car skidded, spun and caught Josie straight on and hard on her hip. She doubled over the hood before spiraling over the right headlight. Her arms stretched out on the hood, her cheek met metal. There was one blazing instant when Josie stared at Grace's face. Ghostly white, it was awash with terror, shock, sympathy and determination. Just as Josie thought Grace was going to help, she let out a hellish wail. Grace bared her teeth and hit the gas.

''Stay out of my way. Stay away from Matthew. If you don't want me to hurt you, just stay away.''

Grace screamed and screamed as Josie melted down the side of the car to her knees. The car sped past her, out the gate, into the night, with a crazy woman at the wheel. A killer at the wheel.

CHAPTER 38

Gingerly Tim raised Josie's feet while Archer took her shoulders. Together they laid her down on the watchman's cot. Archer touched her head and brushed the gravel out of her hair. He lifted her shirt. The bruise at her waist and hip would be big and painful. He moved her arms and touched her legs. Nothing was broken.

''We should have you checked out anyway?'' Tim fretted as Josie struggled to sit up.

''Don't worry, I'm not going to sue you,'' she assured him, wincing as she tried to stand. ''Damn that hurts.''

''I didn't mean it that way,'' Tim objected. Josie held up her hand before he could explain further.

''He's right, Jo,'' Archer agreed. ''We should get you to a doctor.''

''Maybe later. First, give me a minute.'' She touched her face. It was scraped, the knees of her pants were ripped and bloody. Her arm hurt like hell and there was no adjective to describe the pain in her side. ''Is there a cup around here for some water? There's a towel in the bathroom. Could someone wet it?''

Tim got the water. Archer went to the bathroom for the towel then sat beside Josie and started to wipe the dirt off her face. Josie took the towel away. She would do it herself. Archer sat tight lipped and grim beside her, blaming himself for leaving her alone. Josie knew it had been her own stupidity that brought them here.

''I'm calling Babcock,'' Archer said.

''Not yet. Just let me think.''

She wanted to give Babcock more than just an apology so Josie looked around the room for something that would help. The clothes Grace had worn to Helen Crane's home were folded neatly on the cot; the shoes were side-by-side under the cot. Her purse was still there. Tim came back and gave Josie the water.

''Tim, what was Grace wearing the last time you saw her?'' Josie asked.

''I'm not going to tell you. What she did was wrong but she should have a chance,'' Tim insisted.

''A chance to do what?'' Josie asked wearily. ''The cops will eventually find her and then I won't be able to help at all. At least after this I can argue mental impairment. You said you wanted to help her so tell me what she was wearing. Let's give Babcock something to work with. I'll tell him the state she's in. This time we have to do it right.''

''It looked like jeans and a sweater.'' Archer put in his two cents forcing Tim's hand.

''It was a sweatshirt. UCLA. I had it in the back of my car. I got her some tennis shoes at Payless near the freeway. I was bringing her own clothes tonight. I promised to bring food.''

''And the car?''

''One my dad kept here. We tried it earlier to see if it worked so she could go out if she needed something before I could get back to help her.''

Josie nodded. She started to stand. Archer was there, arm around her waist as she tested her legs, her ankle, twisted her neck to work out the pain. None of it helped. She was going to be sore.

''We'll need the make and model,'' Archer said as he helped Josie toward the bathroom.

''Chevy,'' Tim called after them. ''I'll see if I can find the records in the office.''

''Give me a minute,'' Josie asked.

Archer backed off and she closed the bathroom door, leaning on it for a minute before she washed her hands and face and berated herself for this mess. Judge Belote would have her brought up before the BAR, Matthew would never forgive her and Babcock would have every right to be royally ticked off. Josie had asked him for a courtesy and she wasn't willing to reciprocate. How could she have imagined herself above the law?

Josie opened the door. Archer was waiting.

''Let's get out of here,'' she said tersely. ''But first I want her stuff.''

Josie gathered up Grace's clothes, snatching at the navy blue pants and knocking the white shirt to the ground. Angrily she swept it up but as she did something fluttered to the ground.

''I'll get it,'' Archer said.

''No, I will. Why don't you go get my phone and check for messages?''

Knowing it was useless to argue, Archer disappeared without a word. When he was gone Josie sucked up the pain as she groped under the cot. Her reward was the pictures she had first seen in Grace McCreary's dresser. Slowly lowering herself to the floor, Josie sat with her back against the bed. She smiled ruefully. There was one thing that bound Josie to Grace McCreary and that was the way they clung to the idea of a loving family. It was thin thread but it was one of undeniable strength. Thoughtfully, Josie looked at the old photos and turned them over only to pause and find herself stunned by what she saw on the back of one. A name. A phone number. A connection to Grace that had nothing to do with Matthew. Yet, before Josie could get herself off the floor or call out that she had found something important, Archer was back, offering one hand to help her up while he held her cell phone in the other.

''We gotta go, babe,'' he said. ''It's the cops. It's Hannah.''

CHAPTER 39

Susan O'Connel was dead.

Kevin O'Connel, it was alleged, had killed her.

Hannah and Billy Zuni had found her.

Josie Bates blamed herself for everything: for Susan's death, for Kevin O'Connel's freedom to do the deed, for Hannah and Billy being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Josie knew she deserved every pound of that guilt and shame. She had assumed Susan was safe, been impatient with Susan's fears and all because Grace was Josie's new priority.

Now, standing in the middle of Susan's dingy apartment, a place so far away from Wisconsin that it might as well have been the center of the earth, Josie Bates wished she could turn back the clock. She wished she could have remembered her appointment with Susan and leave Grace to the police. She was responsible for Susan O'Connel's death and Josie would never forget that Susan had died terrified.

The furniture was tossed. Kevin O'Connel's fist or foot had made holes in the wall. The window overlooking the street was streaked with Susan's blood where she had tried to open it to call for help before being pulled away. The wall next to that window was marked with an arc of blood where Susan had probably hit it and slid down to the ground. The spatter followed her as she ran – or crawled – making it only as far as the kitchen. There drawers had been pulled out, the few things Susan owned were smashed before Kevin found what he wanted: a knife. He had pulled the blade across Susan's throat once again and this time he did the job right. He left Susan in the corner on the old linoleum, one arm thrown above her head, the other resting across her waist and, on her face, a look of utter disbelief. She was porcelain pale and cold, lying dead for hours before Hannah and Billy arrived. In fact, according to the cops, Susan had died soon after her last phone call to Josie. Now it was Hannah, taking the same blame when all of it belonged to Josie.

''I'm sorry.'' She sobbed into Josie's shoulder. ''I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left without telling you . I tried to call. . .''

Josie held Hannah tighter. She felt her shirt crumpling in the girl's fist and that fist knocking rhythmically at her shoulder.

''It's okay. It's okay. You did a good thing. It was my fault, Hannah. My fault completely. I'm so sorry for everything.''

Josie spoke quietly and quickly, as naturally as if she had spoken to this child her whole life. Her arm wrapped around Hannah's shoulders and that hand stroked the girl's long, long hair. It wasn't until she laid her cheek against Hannah's hair and found herself looking into Archer's eyes that she became aware of what she was doing. The closeness felt awkward because he was watching, but Josie didn't let go. They both had children to attend to.

Archer sat beside Billy Zuni. The boy was pale and drawn, terrified, sick at heart that Hannah had seen what he had seen. Archer did not touch Billy but there had been words and Billy was better for Archer being there.

Gently, she pushed Hannah away and sat her up. She put her hands on Hannah's shoulders.

''Think you can get home now?'' she asked and Hannah nodded with a stuttered little gesture.

''My man,'' Josie heard Archer mutter and Billy stood up with him. . Archer touched Josie, his big hand lingering on her cheek.

''Will you drive Hannah's car?'' she asked quietly.

''I want to go with you,'' Hannah gasped and clutched at Josie once again. Grasping and releasing, releasing and clutching, twenty times without counting.

''I'm going, too,'' Josie soothed. ''It's alright. Tim drove us here but he's gone. We'll get our cars from Grace's place tomorrow. I just don't want you driving, Hannah. I'm not leaving. I'm not.''

That was all the reassurance Hannah needed. Josie wanted a word with the detective before she left so left Hannah to Billy and Archer.

''You should be proud of those kids,'' he said.

''I am,'' Josie answered, ''and I'm concerned. Do you have any idea if O'Connel was still around when Hannah and Billy showed up?''

''He was long gone. A store keep down the way saw a guy running like a bat out of hell. The people below heard someone running down the stairs.''

''But it's a guess, right?'' Josie persisted.

''Yeah. It is. I don't know if he saw your kids.''

''Okay.'' Josie's jaw tightened as she looked around at the wrap up. Susan's body was gone, taken to the morgue. The neighbors had gone back to their apartments and locked their doors. The landlord would be unhappy with the mess but it too would be cleaned up and forgotten.

''Look,'' she said. ''I think he's been staking out my place. I'll let the Hermosa PD know what's going on but I'd appreciate it if you'd touch base with Detective Babcock in Long Beach, too. He's seen O'Connel. He knows about this so maybe you could work with Hermosa and coordinate. I'm not worried about myself; I just don't want him messing with Hannah.''

''Now that his wife is dead he's probably run out of steam. I wouldn't worry if I were you.''

''You want to take a chance that you're wrong?'' Josie challenged.

''I wouldn't if Hermosa was my jurisdiction but it isn't. You ought to think about some private security.'' The detective gave her a pat on the arm and walked away. It was late, he was on the clock and he was right. Hannah was her responsibility.

With one last look, Josie walked heavily down the narrow staircase and onto the street where Archer, Billy and Hannah waited. Josie got in the back of VW Bug where Hannah was crumpled against the far door. Without a word, they came together. Hannah's head came to rest on Josie's shoulder as Archer pulled out and headed for home. No one said a word. The radio was silent, the windows rolled up and their thoughts were dark as the night.

In Hermosa, Archer dropped Billy first. Josie strained to catch sight of his mother but the door opened just wide enough for Billy to go through. Solemnly they went on. Archer left Hannah and Josie at the door, took Max out for his evening walk, offered to stay the night, to keep watch, to protect the two women but Josie sent him on his way. Kevin O'Connel, if he came, would not come that night. He would need time to feed his anger and find his courage again.

Josie sat by Hannah's bed until she settled into a deep but restless sleep. When she was sure the girl wouldn't wake, Josie showered with the bathroom door open and Max just outside it. She thought about poor Susan O'Connel. Dead, Grace McCreary. Dangerous. Matthew. What would she tell Matthew? Josie touched her bruised ribs, she put fingers to the scrape on her face. She wouldn't tell anyone anything until she had some sleep.

Wrapped in her robe, edgy, unable to separate the physical pain from the psychic, Josie went to the kitchen and heated milk. She prowled the house, scarcely aware that Max-the-Dog watched her, his head on his paws. Sitting, she cradled the cup in her hands and surveyed her home. Finding no pleasure in her handiwork, no peace in the silence, Josie was up again. She left the mug on the table, went to her bathroom and rummaged through her hamper, rifling through her dirty clothes until she found the things she had forgotten: Grace's emerald ring and the pictures. In her bedroom Josie sat on the side of her bed and considered the ring. She turned it so the stone caught the light. She contemplated it as if it would give up Grace's secrets, but it was nothing more than a gaudy symbol of all that was wrong with the McCrearys.

Opening her beside drawer, Josie put the ring next to her father's gun. The pictures were another matter. She reached for the phone and dialed the number she found on the back. She could only hope the person on the other end cared enough about Grace to want to help. An answering machine picked up. Josie left a message. This was an emergency.

Climbing under the comforter, her head sank into one pillow and she pulled another close, holding it as if it was Archer. When she started to cry, mourning for Susan O'Connel and her own mistakes and Hannah's trauma and Billy Zuni's sad life and Archer who she knew sat on his balcony sleepless with worry, Josie Bates knew that no matter what happened now she could not let Grace McCreary down. Six hours later, just before dawn, her phone rang. Stiff, sore and barely able to move, Josie groaned as she reached for the receiver and put it to her ear.

''Is she all right? Grace McCreary? Is she all right?'' came a frantic male voice.

''I was hoping you'd tell me,'' Josie said, gritting her teeth against the pain as she tried to get up.

Three hours later Faye Baxter had answered Josie's call for help. Hannah would stay with Faye until everything was sorted out. The second call was to Archer. He drove Josie to the airport where she caught a plane to Vermont. Doctor Emile Wharton, Grace McCreary's psychiatrist, waited for her arrival.

CHAPTER 40

''Grace McCreary.''

Doctor Emile Wharton said the name slowly, stretching it out to see what was hidden in the folds of the syllables. Josie took the time to analyze how the man fared against the picture she had carried to this little state wrapped in an unfamiliar blanket of cold.

He was beyond middle age with a fringe of grey hair that, in the picture of long ago, was dark and covered his well shaped head. His glasses were round and rimless; his lips were not full but gave the impression of being his outstanding feature. Perhaps it was the border of fine lines that called attention to them, as if those lips were stitched onto his face, as if he had spent his entire life with them pursed, puzzling over problems of the mind. His face had fallen gently with the years so that his eyes looked sad behind his glasses. He was once a handsome man who had probably been unaware of his attractiveness. If it ever occurred to him to mourn the passing of his youth, Josie was sure he gave it no more than a fleeting thought.

His office sported the expected framed diplomas, citations and honors. There was a coffee cup on a saucer and a picture of an older woman taken by a professional who obviously believed every hint of uniqueness should be airbrushed away. There were no pictures of children or grandchildren. The furniture was comfortable and slightly worn. The chair matched the sofa. The phone had six lines. His desk calendar was open and the pages Josie could see were covered with notes. On the bookshelf she had counted three tomes that carried his name. He was a busy man, but not too busy to see her. Grace's name had been magic, his calendar had cleared.

''I wish you'd come to me about anyone else,'' he said finally. ''I had so hoped she was well - truly well - instead of hiding her illness behind her amazing discipline.''

''Maybe you shouldn't have cut her loose,'' Josie suggested and then told Doctor Wharton everything from the way she met Grace to the car Grace used as a weapon.

''Oh, my poor Grace,'' he muttered as his hands unclasped for a moment. ''I would never have let her go if I thought she was still so sick. I'm so sorry that happened to you. But I assure you, she meant no harm. Grace simply wanted to escape. She can do such harm sometimes and not mean it.''

''She's been violent before?''

''I'm not so sure I should answer that. I was her doctor. She is not dead and so I would imagine that the doctor/patient privilege would still attach,'' Doctor Wharton speculated.

''I'll take care of it. I had permission to speak to a doctor in Los Angeles and I can argue that extends to all of Grace's physicians.''

''I have a lot to lose, Ms. Bates,'' he warned.

''So does Grace McCreary,'' Josie replied.

''Well, put,'' Doctor Wharton said before he told Josie the story of Grace McCreary. ''She was a teenager when we met. I was head of the psychiatric unit at the University of California San Francisco Medical Center. It didn't take long for me to understand that I had an opportunity to learn a great deal about the human spirit. Grace was my post doctoral work in a manner of speaking. You'll find her in the pages of that book.'' He pointed toward the shelf. ''But it wasn't just professional curiosity that kept me with her. I liked Grace. She was a lovely girl. Exotic. Quite beautiful.''

''Grace doesn't think so,'' Josie said.

Doctor Wharton laughed, ''Heavens no. Grace thought she was quite ugly. There was a time that Grace believed her mother died willingly because she couldn't bear being mother to such an ugly child.''

''That's frightening,'' Josie murmured.

''That was the least of her problems. A mere blip on the screen. . .'' He stopped. ''But, I'm getting ahead of myself here. So sorry. I spent a year with Grace and then she left my care. She actually went away without saying goodbye.''

''Did you try to find her?'' Josie asked.

''It wasn't my place,'' Doctor Wharton said, ''but I gave Matthew the benefit of my insights. I thought it might help in his search.''

''Was he concerned?''

''Oh, very. Grace had acted out horribly after they were orphaned. She destroyed things that belonged to their parents. She was awful to Matthew's friends. Finally, he sent her to a girl's school but she would run away and he'd find her lurking around the business or their home.''

''Why would she have to do that? I mean, why did Grace have to sneak around her own house?''

''Because Matthew was trying tough love. He knew that she needed structure in her life that he couldn't provide. It was difficult for him to send her away, but he did,'' Doctor Wharton explained. ''Remember, Matthew was barely eighteen when the mother and father died. He had a business to run, his own grieving to do and Grace to take care of. That would be a load for an adult, but Matthew was barely a man and he was a perfectionist. He was determined to take care of everything, including his sister. In the end it was a brave, loving thing he did when he sent Grace away.''

''Didn't the family have friends?' Josie asked. ''Didn't the parents designate guardians in their will?''

''The McCreary's were probably no older than you when they died. I'm sure they felt immortal like all of us do at that age. They had a will but it dealt with the business and their financial affairs. It probably never occurred to them to appoint guardians. So, when the parents passed, the law said Matthew was old enough to be Grace's guardian. I've never been so impressed by a young person. He did all he could.''

''But it wasn't enough,'' Josie suggested.

''No. Had the McCrearys died a year or two earlier I don't think Grace would have experienced such devastating problems.''

''What would have been different?''

''There would have been adults to take the two of them in hand. Matthew could have grieved to the fullest extent and grown more gradually into his responsibilities. An executor would have seen to the business. They both would have been children and Matthew, especially, would have been given permission to act as a child. He could have clung to Grace instead of suddenly being set above her by virtue of his age and legal standing. Sometimes, Ms. Bates, the law does not do us any favors.''

''That is the truth, doctor,'' Josie acknowledged. ''But are you saying that Matthew somehow caused Grace's mental decline?''

''No, no. Physically Grace was predetermined to experience some difficulties. Her depression is a chemical imbalance and handled by medication. She was fanatical about taking it when she was very young. Unfortunately, in the years between the first time I saw Grace and the last time, she abandoned her medication. I'm afraid the experience of those intervening years left her quite shaken. She made bad personal decisions that influenced her propensity toward paranoia and self-loathing. It took us a long while to bring her to a balanced position. ''

''Let's go back. Why would she destroy things that belonged to her parents?''

''She took an irrational responsibility for her parent's deaths and didn't want to be reminded of them. It wasn't so much her father though. Grace never was quite sure how she felt about women – including her own mother. She pretended her mother meant nothing to her yet she kept that one picture. She wore her mother's ring - an emerald that was far too large for a young girl. She never took it off''

''She has now. Grace threw it away in the trash,'' Josie told him.

''Are you sure?'' Doctor Wharton's brow beetled. ''That ring meant the world to her. Matthew put it on his sister's finger himself. If what you're telling me is true, then Grace is trying to completely break from her family and that puts her in a very dangerous place.''

''How so?'' Josie asked.

''When Matthew washed his hands of her the first time Grace became self destructive. She lived with awful men. She abused drugs. She returned to the house one day and found Matthew there with a young woman. Grace attacked her. Matthew paid off the woman and told Grace to get out of his life for good. I couldn't blame him. The instinct for self-preservation is a powerful thing and Grace wanted all of him. She wanted to be the center of his universe the way he was the center of hers.''

''I don't get it. Why didn't Grace attack Matthew if she felt betrayed?''

''Because in Grace's mind women are always at fault. Yet Grace is intelligent and her intelligence saves her. She sought me out years later, motivated to get well, to leave behind the self-destructive life she had created.'' Doctor Wharton stood up and shrugged into a well worn coat. ''Do you mind if we walk, Ms. Bates?''

They went down the hall of the administrative wing of Emile Wharton's hospital and Josie saw that peace of mind didn't come cheap. In Grace's case it never came at all. Doctor Wharton held the door for her. They stepped out into a beautiful afternoon. Josie buttoned her blazer and stuck her hands deep in her pockets against the unaccustomed cold. They turned off the brick path onto a dirt one that ran through an expanse of grass gone brown. Doctor Wharton kept his eyes down and didn't share her appreciation of their surroundings.

''When she came back to me Grace was still dealing with her survivor's guilt, the abandonment issues, her search for security and identity, her pain of what she perceived as rejection by Matthew. She did understand her destructive bent.''

''Understanding isn't acceptance though,'' Josie pointed out.

''Especially not in Grace's case. The first time I treated her, I didn't look beyond the surface. When Grace came back to my care as an adult she was more articulate and I finally understood the subtly of her disturbance.

''You see, when she was orphaned Grace's personality was unformed, she hadn't explored her sexuality. She was stuck in a pre-pubescent mire of self-doubt and loathing. Matthew moved on while Grace was paralyzed with fear; he coped while she continued to cling. This was not mental illness, this world view was inherent in her personality. No matter what action Grace takes – especially if it is decisive – she will always second guess herself.''

''By that reasoning she should be turning herself in to the police right about now,'' Josie noted ruefully.

''Not necessarily,'' he warned. ''Did she make the decision to run on her own or did she have help?''

''She had help,'' Josie said.

''The person who helped her, was it a man?''

Josie nodded. They had reached the trees. A sharp wind turned her ears icy. Doctor Wharton picked up a seed pod, examined it then set it back where he had found it. He took a deep breath of the fresh air.

''The only move Grace feels comfortable with is the one made with the approval of a man, Ms. Bates.''

''If that qualifies as a mental disorder, then I know a lot of women who are sick,'' Josie laughed.

''Not in this way, Ms. Bates.'' The doctor walked on and Josie stuck close. ''Grace's specific illness takes this sense of dependency to the extreme. Her problem crosses the line between social difficulty and psychological impairment.''

''Meaning what?''

''When Grace came back to me she had been in dozens of abusive relationships: mental, physical, fiduciary. Men took advantage of her because she was so willing to believe that they had her best interests at heart. She was always looking for another Matthew. In her heart of hearts, Grace McCreary is one of the sweetest women I have ever met. She would do anything for the person she perceived honestly cared for her. Anything.''

''And that included men who abused her,'' Josie mused.

''For Grace the line between admiration and love, between trust and blind acceptance blurs until it is nonexistent. Grace suffers from a delusional type of paranoid disorder called erotomania.''

Josie stopped. Doctor Wharton touched another pod with the toe of his shoe. He pushed at his glasses as he studied a leaf. He talked.

''Those inflicted with this disorder idealize romantic love and spiritual union. It is a sense that there is a higher commitment than the normal love. These feelings are traditionally directed toward a famous person, a superior, someone who has an established reason to be highly admired. The self can be completely lost to this adoration.''

''And Grace chose the men in her life based on these ideas?''

''Worse, Ms. Bates. Grace chose the men in her life in opposition to her erotomania. She understood it before I did. She was running from it, choosing men who gave her no reason to admire them. Indeed, she chose men who gave her every reason to hate them.''

Doctor Wharton put his hands in his jacket and hunched against the brisk breeze that kicked up. He noted Josie's blazer. They were on the move again heading back to the hospital.

''It was Matthew she idealized and no one could live up to her perception of him. When he rejected her through frustration or anger or a desire to live his own life, Grace couldn't bear it and fled. But she was pathologically drawn to Matthew again and again. There was no Grace without Matthew.''

''I can't even imagine,'' Josie mused. ''It must have been hell for both of them.''

''It is the psychological equivalent of stalking.'' Doctor Wharton said. ''Matthew's fear of Grace warred with his sense of responsibility to her. Grace was frightened because she couldn't control the overwhelming sense of admiration she felt for Matthew. She had to be near him every minute or everyday.''

''Then what was she looking for with all those men?'' Josie asked.

''A way to control herself. If Grace could care about someone who wasn't anything like Matthew, then she would be able to control her disorder.'' Doctor Wharton kicked at a stone. It landed in Josie's path. She kicked it back as she listened. ''Grace called me for approval to see Matthew when he contacted her. I gave it. Matthew was married and Grace was excited about having a sister-in-law. I didn't mean for her to insinuate herself into their lives. I meant for her to see him, come to terms with their relationship and continue with the life she was establishing for herself.''

''But when she saw Matthew she fell back into the same old trap of this erotomania?'' Josie asked.

''Actually, no,'' Doctor Wharton said thoughtfully. ''I only spoke to her once after they reunited. She seemed to view him in a much more reasonable manner. Grace knew he wasn't perfect. She understood his failings and forgave them. She recognized him for the man he was – frailties and all.''

''But. . .'' Josie urged him on though he was reluctant to finish the story.

''But there was someone else Grace spoke of. Someone in a position of authority who was close to Matthew. Poor Grace had simply transferred her feelings from one person to another.''

''Tim Douglas,'' Josie said.

''Oh, no. Michelle McCreary,'' he corrected. ''Imagine that. A woman.''

CHAPTER 41

Josie didn't cry at Susan O'Connel's funeral. Neither did the women from the halfway house. Faye was dry eyed and Hannah was cried out. The only woman who wept stood apart, dressed in an ill-fitting suit; her hair was striped in chunky highlights done on the cheap. That woman was Susan's best friend from her old life and Josie had no sympathy. She hadn't bothered to help Susan while she was alive and all the tears in the world weren't going to help now. Josie hoped the woman remembered this day if she ever had another friend like Susan O'Connel.

Two men stood at the gravesite: the priest who talked about the suffering now ended and Detective Babcock who looked for any sign of Susan's boogie man. Archer arrived just as the priest was wrapping up and the droning of a lawn mower sounded. He had donned a dress shirt and a tweed jacket for the occasion but no tie. The mourners scattered. Hannah went on with Faye as Josie met up with Archer.

''Thanks for coming.'' She accepted a kiss on the cheek.

''Late, but it couldn't be helped.'' Archer looked over Josie's shoulder as Babcock joined them. The two men shook hands.

''Find out anything at the harbor.''

''Nope,'' Archer said resignedly. ''They'd talk if they knew anything. Nobody likes this. They don't know where Kevin O'Connel is.''

''Great,'' Josie sighed. ''So there are two people who hate my guts wandering around. That's just great.''

Josie trudged off over the deep green grass of the cemetery not knowing what to think. Kevin O'Connel was just pure evil, but Grace? What was Grace's story? Grace adored Michelle because Michelle adored Matthew. Michelle flakes, no longer the loving wife and Grace gives her the boot over the side of an eleven-storey building.

Throwing her head up, Josie looked at the sky then around at the cemetery and suddenly she was surrounded. Babcock was on one side of her, Archer on the other. It had been this way since Grace took off and Susan was killed.

''The South Bay is covered looking for O'Connel. Hermosa promised a drive-by at least twice a night, but I wouldn't count on that. You're going to have to watch her back during the day. Grace McCreary's on the radar, too, but protecting you isn't priority until one of Grace or O'Connel makes a move.''

''I know the law and I know the cops do what they can. I'll watch it,'' Josie said as she put out her hands and stopped them. ''Wait here. I want to talk to Hannah alone.''

Josie left the men behind and dug up a smile as she reached Faye and Hannah.

''You guys okay?''

Hannah nodded. Faye said something reassuring and appropriate that no one believed.

''Are you all packed? Do you need money?'' Josie moved closer to Hannah who nodded to the first question, shook her head to the second and was clearly unhappy.

''I should be staying with you,'' she complained. ''Just in case something happens.''

''No, Hannah. I'd be worrying about you. I want you safe,'' Josie said and looked at Faye. ''Nobody's going to bet past Faye, right?''

''Nobody,'' Faye agreed, but Josie saw the concern in her eyes. It was unfair to put the older woman in this position but it was the best Josie could do.

''But why can't I at least come to see you?'' Hannah moved closer, picking at Josie's sleeve, her lips moving, counting. Josie took the girl's hands. She couldn't bear the counting and tapping today.

''If either O'Connel or Grace are watching me, I don't want them to know where you are. Billy is going to be with you at school. He'll keep an eye out.''

''He's an idiot,'' Hannah mumbled, but there was a catch in her voice.

''No,'' Josie corrected gently. ''Billy knows everyone at the beach. He'd know if something was wrong before I would.'' Josie moved closer. She put a hand to Hannah's beautiful hair and looked into those spring green eyes made sharper by the perception that she was being left, that someone she loved would never come back to her. ''If I know you're safe, Hannah, then I can do what I've got to do. Okay?''

Hannah nodded and lowered her head. Josie's hand slipped to the girl's chin. Her dark skin was warm and soft. She tipped Hannah's head up, leaned close and whispered.

''No cutting. Not on my account,'' Josie warned and Hannah stiffened. There was a flutter in the muscle of her jaw that Josie could feel. ''Promise, Hannah.''

Hannah did with an almost imperceptible nod. Josie let her go. She looked at Faye, a surrogate grandmother who would be ever watchful. It wouldn't be for long. It couldn't be for long or Josie would be the one losing her mind.

Hands in the pockets of her blazer, Josie walked toward the cars parked along the curb of the winding lanes of the cemetery. She reached for the handle on the Hummer but Babcock got to it before she did. He bowed slightly when he opened it and that made Josie smile sadly knowing she wouldn't be seeing Babcock much anymore. Grace could disappear forever or jump off a building or find a man who would do what Kevin O'Connel did to his wife and Josie would never know what happened. If the cops did find her, Grace would never be tried for Michelle's murder because Josie was already talking to P.J. about a plea. Babcock would go on with his business and so would she.

''I trust you still have my card. I hope you'll use the numbers,'' he said as he held the door.

''Personalized service from the cops,'' Josie said. ''What's the world coming to?''

''Concern from a friend,'' Babcock answered as closed the door and stepped back three paces, pivoted and walked to his car. Josie cocked her elbow on the open window and put a hand to her lips. Archer slid in beside her.

''Where to?''

''Home,'' Josie said.

''Sounds good. I'll get us something to eat and bring it back.''

''Alone, babe. I just want to be left alone.''

CHAPTER 42

Josie watched television curled up in the big living room chair. Max snoozed by her side. The lights were low; the night wearing on as every night had worn on during the past week. Archer had been banished because Josie couldn't function while he kept an eye on her and waited for her to break. It was no secret that Susan's death and Grace's fugitive status had brought Josie's judgment into question. Hannah's exile underscored the emptiness of Josie's life. Matthew by turns laid blame at her doorstep for Grace's predicament and accused Josie of being in collusion with his sister to ruin hid career. She listened to his long and rambling, angry and cajoling messages but all she really heard was his self pitying wails. Josie couldn't find the strength to answer his concerns or his charges.

Then she was staring him in the eye right in her living room and Matthew was smiling and confident. It was thirty seconds of broadcast political fluff. Though he hadn't been seen publicly since Grace's disappearance, Matthew's machine was still in fully oiled and his TV spots ran almost constantly. Tim Douglas and Grace McCreary were the only true casualties of this whole thing.

Josie pushed the remote, disappeared Matthew McCreary and stretched. Max raised his head. Josie ruffled his ears.

''What do you say? One last walk?''

Max seemed dismayed but struggled to his feet as if he knew this was more for her benefit than his. If she got some exercise she wouldn't dream when she slept. Josie hated the dream. It was annoying and it never changed. Every night Josie dreamed she was having dinner with Grace. Grace was dressed in a beautiful white suit; Josie in torn jogging clothes. They sat across from one another while Grace smoked and the emerald ring twirled. Then Grace's finger fell off and Josie choked to death on the smoke. Sometimes Kevin O'Connel was the waiter. He brought no food. He stood by the table until Grace's finger fell off and Josie choked to death on the cigarette smoke. Josie was frightened until she realized the dream meant nothing.

''Okay, my man.'' She sighed and forced herself to fetch Max's frayed and dirty neon pink leash, more an accessory than a necessity. Old and infirmed with arthritis, Max couldn't have run away if he wanted to. The best he could do would be to amble out of Josie's life and she knew that would never happen.

''I know it's late. Yeah, come one. . .a little walk. . .''

Josie talked to the dog, finding some comfort in the sound of her own voice and the plans she was making for the next day. Tomorrow she would bring Hannah home. It was time to get on with life and chalk Grace McCreary up to experience, Kevin O'Connel to cowardice and Susan O'Connel to fate. That's what Josie decided as she opened the door and guided Max onto the porch, down the three steps and onto the walkway where, without warning, Max dropped back on his haunches, tail under, the fur on the back of his neck bristling as he targeted the stand of bushes and growled. Paralyzed, Josie could only wind his leash twice around her hand and pull him close.

He strained toward the privy hedge that separated her from her neighbors. Suddenly, Max lurched, pulling Josie forward as he snarled and snapped. She called out, giving into reaction rather than reason.

''Come out! Now!''

Had her voice shaken? Was it Kevin O'Connel, there to kill her? If it was she was afraid but Max was not. He danced toward the bushes. Forward and back. Agitated, courageous, unafraid, Josie took note and followed his example. She was going to take her life back.

''Face me you bastard,'' she called.

Heart pounding, hands shaking Josie touched the greenery only to pull away in panic. But nothing happened. No Kevin O'Connel screamed out at her, slashed at her with a knife, and pummeled her with his fists. Josie pulled at a branch. Max bumped her leg and paced behind her, beside her. The silence terrified Josie more than an attack. The unknown, the hidden thing made her heart drill through her chest. Her lips were dry and her voice had been lost.

''Shh.'' Josie touched Max. She needed to listen. When he calmed, when she didn't move, Josie heard the sound of someone else's fear. Whimpers and coos and the desperate attempt to stop breathing, to become small and insignificant didn't escape Josie's notice.

Emboldened, Josie stepped forward letting loose of Max so she could dig through the foliage and find what she had least expected.

Grace McCreary hunkered in the dirt still dressed in the sweatshirt and jeans, the cheap shoes that Tim Douglas had bought her. Her knees were pulled up to her chest, her hands clasped and crossed over her lips as if that would keep her from crying out. Those eyes, those dark eyes that had stared through Josie a hundred times were now plain and sad to see.

''Grace,'' Josie lamented as she reached out for the woman. ''Come out of there. Come on.''

Grace shrank away. Her head shook and shook as she sniveled out words that Josie didn't understand. Josie tried again.

''Please Grace. Please. No one will hurt you. I won't hurt you.''

The branches scratched her arms. She touched Grace and the other woman moved away again but not enough. She wanted to be rescued. Max wedged himself between Josie's legs and the high hedge, Josie pushed him back with one hand as she grasped Grace McCreary's wrist with the other. She pulled her slowly forward, out of the dirt, into the night, into her arms just as Grace McCreary's knees buckled.

''I didn't mean to see you. I promised I would go but you should know the truth. I put it in your mailbox. . .'' Grace gasped, hardly able to speak through the dry heaves of fear and shame. ''I wanted you to have it. . .you understood. . .I loved her. . .him. . .''

''It's okay. It's okay,'' Josie muttered, righting Grace. ''We'll talk inside. You can tell me what I need to know.''

''No. . .I wrote it down. . .'' Grace insisted. ''. . .I'll go away. . . It's the truth. . .''

''Grace, stop. Come inside. Let's get you cleaned up and we'll talk . . .''

Josie steered her toward the house by inches but Grace panicked. She threw herself back and twisted. Josie grappled with her, clenched her teeth, and planted her feet. Damn if Grace was going to run again.

''No, you don't.''

''I have to go. I told him how I hurt Michelle and . . ..I told. . . I told. . .''

''Matthew? You told Matthew?''

Josie insisted and Grace's head bobbled as she nodded and cried, weeping uncontrollably only to freeze in the glare of headlights of a car that careened toward them, jumped the curb of the little walking street and skidded out to a stop before it hit the wall that surrounded Josie's house. The two women stared into the light unable to move. Barely breathing, they waited. The driver's door open, the engine was cut, the lights stayed on, blinding them. Suddenly, Josie heard a scream and it was her own voice.

''Run, Grace. Run now.''

With all her might she shoved Grace McCreary away as Max came between the two women and the man. In the next seconds – split seconds - Josie gauged the distance between her front door and the man who was coming at her as though he would like to kill her.

Billy Zuni was cold which was strange since the wind that had kicked up seemed warm. Maybe he was coming down with something. He checked the time. His watch was fifteen minutes fast so he knew whatever time his watch said it was close enough to the real thing and late enough to go home.

He kicked at something that was more imagination than anything else. He head banged to a tune he'd had on his mind since school got out and he embellished with a little air guitar as he wandered toward home.

Random thoughts flitted through the music in his head. Hannah was really getting bitchy. It wasn't like Josie made her go away forever. Faye gave him a sandwich and ten bucks. His mother. His mother. . .the pretend music swelled and thoughts of his mother were buried under an immensely brilliant run on the steel strings of his air guitar.

He stopped to get into the moment. Fingers flying, head bobbing, soul expanding, Billy Zuni looked up to take a bow and that's when he saw her running.

''Where is she? Where is she?''

The sound of an angry male voice sent a chill of fear through Josie until she figured out that this wasn't Kevin O'Connel at all.

''Oh, God, Matthew,'' Josie cried. Max backed off and moved forward, dragging his leash, unsure of everything. When Matthew grabbed Josie, the dog barked but not loud enough to drown out Matthew's voice.

''Where is she, Josie. Where's Grace. What did Grace tell you?''

''You're hurting me.'' She jerked away but Matthew held tight. His fingers dug into her arm and Josie took hold to pry him away. ''Let go. Matthew, what's wrong with you?''''What did she tell you?''

Josie pulled hard on the thumbs of his hand and broke Matthew's grip but not his hold.

''She didn't have a chance to tell me anything. You came barreling up here like a madman,'' Josie said through clenched teeth. ''I thought you were Kevin O'Connel. I didn't want her to get hurt so I told her to run.''

''You're a fool,'' he muttered, pushing Josie aside and started off in the direction she had indicated.

Max's bark was long and sustained as he got in front of Matthew. His tail went down, distracting Matthew long enough that she could pick up the leash and they could stand two against one. Matthew didn't know the dog well enough to take a chance that he wouldn't attack.

''I was protecting her,'' Josie said.

''And I was protecting you. I didn't know if she'd come here to kill you.'' Matthew cut his eyes toward Max. ''Shut that dog up. Christ Josie. Grace has gone crazy. Off the deep end. Listen. Listen to this.'' Matthew reached into his pocket. Max lunged but Josie held tight. Keeping an eye on the dog, Matthew took out his cell phone and punched some buttons. When he was done he held it out to Josie and commanded. ''Listen.''

He put it to Josie's her ear and she listened to Grace McCreary talk nonsense about killing Michelle and hurting Matthew and not wanting to hurt Josie but knowing she had to do it to save herself. She had to do it because. . .

Matthew pulled the phone away before Josie could hear the rest.

''Why would she want to hurt me? She came here to find me,'' Josie insisted.

''It was a game, Josie. Don't you get it? Grace doesn't want any other woman to mean anything to me. She was going to lure you into something the same way she lured Michelle. I called from the car to warn you when I picked this message up a few minutes ago. When you didn't answer I drove like a bat out of hell to get here. You have no idea how grateful I am. . .'' He made a move toward her but Max didn't like it and Matthew retreated. ''Shut that dog up, Josie and tell me which way she went. I've got to find her before she does anymore harm. Please.''

''Go toward the beach. Hit the Strand. I'll follow you.''

Josie pulled on Max's leash and half dragged him into the house. Thinking of nothing except finding Grace Josie took off, too. She ran through the pain of her still healing muscles and hoped she would be fast enough to catch up. Behind her Josie left Matthew's car sitting cocked on the walking street, lights streaming into her front yard. She didn't care about anything except finding Grace McCreary and she didn't notice that someone was watching her run off into the night.

CHAPTER 43

Winded, Josie bent over, hands on her knees to catch her breath. She ignored the searing pain in her shoulder, the excruciating pain that threaded down her legs. The thought that Grace had only pretended to love Michelle, pretended to need Josie, in order to get close enough to kill the women in Matthew's life was terrifying. Rising up, hands on her hips. She was on the sand and had lost sight of Matthew, hadn't even caught a glimpse of Grace. She called their names but the wind and the sound of the waves swallowed them like a surfer lost in the curl.

Cautiously Josie pushed off again. To her left was the lifeguard headquarters. She ran as best she could, threw herself against the door, pounded and stepped back. A low light burned low on the third floor but she saw no sign of life and had no time to make enough noise to bring the night guard down.

Josie whacked the door in frustration then bolted past the pier and toward the sea. It would be easier to run on the packed sand, easier to spot Grace and Matthew if she looked up from the shoreline rather than down from the Strand where the rise in the beach cut off the view of the shore.

She sprinted ahead, peering through the darkness that became denser as she left the light of the pier behind. Then she had them. Fifty yards up. They were shadow puppets, jerking silhouettes dancing close to the water. Matthew, taller than his sister, struggled to control her but Grace shook him off. Michelle McCreary would have been no match for her. Josie ran faster only stumble just as Grace lunged at Matthew and a shot rang out. Matthew's knees buckled. Grace fell in on him with all her weight.

''Matthew!'' Josie shrieked.

Still undetected Josie watched with relief. Matthew was alive. He struggled to stand under Grace's weight, still fighting her . . .

No. No. That was wrong and Josie tried to figure it out as she stood slowly, feeling helpless in her confusion. Matthew McCreary was dragging his sister into the water, throwing her into the waves, pushing her out to sea. It was Grace who didn't resist. Grace who was hurt. Grace who, if she was alive, was now drowning in the black sea and Matthew stood in the water watching.

Josie dashed into the ocean. She threw her arms out for balance and tensed the muscles in her thighs as she met the waves head on. Bad choice. She was brought down by the first wave. Struggling to her feet, Josie turned her back and let the water lift her at the hips, up and over the wave. She turned on her side and started to stroke toward Grace but she didn't get far. Matthew was pulling her back, pulling her away as Grace floated out of Josie's sight.

''Josie, don't. Don't,'' Matthew screamed. He put his arms around her she tried to jerk away. Her clothes were heavy and she was weak. When she fell into the water, paddling to get her footing again, Matthew put his arm around her waist and dragged her to shore. Together they stumbled up onto the sand, Josie spitting out the salt water she had swallowed while she cried in anguish.

''She's going to drown, Matthew. She's going to drown.''

''She tried to kill me. There's nothing you can do now. Look,'' he hollered and wrenched her arm so hard she thought it had come out of the socket. ''Look. There. Her gun. She brought a gun. She was going to kill you, too.''

''No. No.'' Josie stumbled backward, breathless and stunned but sure of what she'd seen. ''Grace couldn't have had a gun. She didn't have any pockets, Matthew. She didn't have a purse.''

Matthew's head swung heavy. He was still bent over but he was recovering faster than Josie. ''I saw you push her into the ocean. I saw you, Matthew.''

He was upright now. Standing tall. Josie did the same but she faltered. Her head was spinning, her eyes hurt from the salt water and Matthew was a blur and he was talking sound bites, he was spinning an explanation for the public. He was telling her a lie.

''She threatened me. There was nothing I could do. It was a reflex. I was afraid after what she'd done to Michelle. The gun went off. I pushed her away . . .the water took her. . .''

''You pushed her into the water, Matthew.''

Josie screamed and screamed once again before Matthew closed in on her, took her in his arms and was crushed her against him. One hand held her head tight to his shoulder, the other was lashed across her shoulders pinning her arms to her sides.

''No. No. No. The water took her. Josie, the water took her. I couldn't save her. She was my sister, I wouldn't hurt Grace. I loved Grace. It was dark. She was deranged.'' Josie struggled but he held her tighter still. ''They'll believe that.''

Josie jerked her head free and pulled back far enough so that she could look into his eyes. The tide was up. The water curled around their feet and pulled at them until they couldn't find their balance on the shifting sand. But his gaze was steady and determined and Josie Bates was scared to death.

''Nobody will believe that because I'll tell the truth,'' she cried. ''I saw you. I saw you. Why did you do that to her? Why, Matthew?''

Now her cries turned to weeping as Matthew McCreary's hands roamed over her as if he wanted to remember the feel of her, commit it to memory, comfort her, convince her that she had imagined all this. It didn't work. This man was a stranger and she struggled against him because she knew part of the truth: if he could do that to Grace, what had he done to Michelle? If he had somehow killed Michelle, what could he do to her?

Suddenly, Matthew's face came toward her. Josie jerked her head out of the way and his lips hit the side of her jaw. She jerked again and his lips slid off hers. Angered, Matthew grabbed her hair and yanked her head back. His lips came down hard and insistent as they stumbled backward into the water. Josie lost her footing. She fell taking Matthew with her. Stronger and faster than she ever imagined he could be, Matthew scrambled up and pulled Josie with him. He shook her like a rag doll as he screamed.

''Why do women always want to know the fucking truth?''

Before Josie could give him answer he kissed her once more, threw her face down into the ocean and with his hand on the back of her neck and balanced against the force of the waves, Matthew McCreary waited for Josie Baylor-Bates to die.

CHAPTER 44

There in the cold dark sea, Josie Baylor-Bates was dying, indeed. She could feel Matthew's hands. One on her neck, the other at the small of her back. She jerked. She flailed and then the life started draining out of her and she floated.

Josie thought of the women she knew; Kristin Davis, her own mother, Emily. Killers of children. Kristin with a knife; Emily more devious because she ripped out her daughter's heart. Hannah. Behind Josie's eyes, in the recess of her mind where hope lived, was Hannah. There were men there in her head, too. Archer. She loved Archer. Josie saw her father standing in a great light that seemed to blind her and beckon her way at the same time.

Josie's heart was heavy; it took so long to beat. Her body was light: arms and legs floating outward as she the current rocked her. Then everyone faded away: Emily, Archer, Josie's father, Hannah. She was sad to the core because life was ending. She wasn't ready.

In another instant the light was snuffed out and pain returned. Josie was torn from the black, cold water. Rebirthed. Made to breath. How painful it all was. She gasped for air. Coughed up water, vomited the sea. Strong hands held her weak body up and Josie could think only one thing. It had been a mistake. Matthew loved her still. He was saving her.

With her last ounce of strength Josie reached for him. Forgiving him. But Matthew's hands weren't so wide and solid. They had never touched her with such urgency and care. This man carried Josie when the water wouldn't buoy her any longer. He passed her off to smaller hands that gripped her and delicate arms that held her as she rolled in the sand. Josie's body convulsed. Her chest was on fire. She thrashed about desperate for salvation and finding it in a determined embrace. Josie's eye lids fluttered open. Above her was something darker than the night. It moved with the wind. Black hair. There was something shining brighter than the stars. Spring green eyes. Cradled in the crook of Hannah's arm, Josie's head lolled to the side. She was so tired. Her eyes closed. They opened and she saw through a fog. Feeling nothing. Wondering only if she was dreaming.

Archer straddled Matthew McCreary. She heard the crack of a fist and the smell of blood mingled with that of the sea. The thought that Matthew wouldn't look so nice on television moved through Josie's mind like a lazy wave. Matthew would show his real face to the public when Archer was finished and then Matthew would lose everything.

Josie lay in the sand and listened unable to tell what was real. She saw Babcock, didn't she? Uniforms. Paramedics? Police? Lights and sirens and Billy Zuni wet from head to toe, sitting beside Josie crying because he hadn't been able to find Grace. He couldn't save Grace.

Josie put out her hand and lay it atop his. She wanted to tell him that no one could have saved Grace but instead everything went black.

CHAPTER 45

''Do you need help?''

Josie smiled to herself as she hung up her bath towel and opened the door. Hannah didn't even try to look embarrassed. She just stood outside the bathroom door as she had stood by every door that led to the room where Josie lay recovering since that night on the beach.

''No, thanks, but I appreciate the offer.'' Josie patted Hannah's arm but Hannah didn't smile back. It took all Hannah's energy to figure out if Josie was telling the truth or just trying to spare her the worry. Josie put her hand on Hannah's shoulder partly to reassure her, partly to move her out of the way. It was getting late.

''I just wanted to make sure,'' Hannah told her. ''The doctor said you'd be weak for awhile.''

''It's been four days. If I don't get moving now, I never will.'' Josie said picked up her jacket. Hannah was there to help her put it on. ''Is everyone here?''

''Detective Babcock just came. He told Archer that Kevin O'Connel was beat up last night in jail. I don't think he wanted you to know but I think you should.''

''Thanks. I do want to know. His arrest is the only good news I have in a while,'' Josie assured her. ''Prison justice is just icing on the cake. Where did they find him again? The couple of days in the hospital are a little fuzzy.''

''He was at the border. He was running away.''

''Everybody was running away,'' Josie muttered as she picked up her purse and checked inside it was still there, the envelope, the letter, the end of the line for Grace McCreary.

''Grace wasn't,'' Hannah reminded her. ''Grace was running to you. She wanted you to know what happened. I know you told Archer what was in the letter so I think you should tell me, too.''

Josie sat on the bed. Her eyes flickered toward Hannah. All Josie wanted when she took her in was to give her a normal life. But life wasn't normal, people let you down, secrets were deep and dark and Hannah knew all that. Josie patted the bed and, when Hannah sat beside her, Josie gave her the envelope. Hannah read Grace's letter twice and did the same with Michelle's suicide note. It had never been murder and Grace had been able to prove it all along.

''That's bad,'' Hannah said when she finally finished. ''Worse than anything that ever happened to me.''

''I guess it depends on your perspective, Hannah.''

Josie took the letters. Grace McCreary had laid out the whole sordid mess. It had been her intent to disappear. She had called Matthew to tell him the truth. He knew that Grace was leaving the evidence with Josie for protection. Grace had trusted Josie to know what do with her confession but that trust had been misplaced. Josie really didn't a clue what she would have done if Grace had lived and Matthew had continued his bid for a Senate seat.

''I don't understand how they can be more than one perspective,'' Hannah said, interrupting Josie's thoughts. ''Matthew made Grace have sex with him after their parents died. It was incest.''

''Technically that's true but I don't think that's the way he saw it,'' Josie answered. ''He saw it as something that just happened.''

''And you believe him?'' Hannah was incredulous.

Josie let the letters fall to her lap, she hesitated and then answered.

''I believe him, yes. When you're very young you look for comfort wherever you can find it. Matthew was afraid when the world handed him all that responsibility and told him to deal with it. Grace was very needy. The way he tells it, she used to crawl in bed with him because she was so afraid. It started out as two kids looking for comfort and just went too far. Matthew sent Grace away when he realized what he had done. Then he tried to get her psychiatric help. He had never intended to see her again.''

''But Grace loved him so much she couldn't really stay away. I understand all that,'' Hannah said. ''I thought my mom was the only one who really loved me.''

''And Grace thought Matthew was the only one who honestly loved her. Everything she did was for him. The way she dressed, the way she decorated her house, the devotion to his career. She always held out hope that it would just be them against the world the way it was when they were children. When Matthew was forced into bringing her back he played on Grace's weakness for him. He threatened to send her away if she didn't do exactly as he said. Michelle mixed everything up thought. Grace believed Michelle felt as strongly about Matthew as she did. Michelle shared all her deep dark secrets with Grace so Grace returned the favor.''

Josie held up the suicide note.

''That was the wrong move. First, Michelle didn't love Matthew to the exclusion of everything else and second, Michelle realized she had married a man that not only was as bad as her father, he was worse. Michelle filed for divorce, changed her will and then. . .''

''Killed herself,'' Hannah said. ''I can't believe Grace had that note all along and didn't use it to make people understand what happened.''

''Grace couldn't be responsible for disgracing Matthew no matter how much she loved Michelle. If Grace made the note public it would ruin her brother, he would banish her, and she'd be along again.''

''What I still don't get is why Mrs. McCreary committed suicide? Why not just get divorced and get rid of Matthew and Grace?''

''Remember, Michelle wasn't exactly stable. She thought she could walk away but Grace's revelation ate at her. She was sure that somehow their secret would be discovered and she couldn't bear the thought of the public humiliation. You saw what she said in the note. She believed God would forgive her for wanting to go to heaven. It was earth that was full of damnation.''

''She was a total drama queen. What an idiot.''

''That's one way of putting it,'' Josie laughed sadly knowing that was exactly what Michelle McCreary was – she was as unhappy as Grace said she was, obsessed with the trappings of life and unable to live it.

The woman had planned to dress herself in her jewels and a beautiful gown, take an overdose of sleeping pills. The cleaning woman would find her and the letter. Matthew would be punished twice: once when he realized what a beautiful woman he had lost and again when the world found out what kind of monster he was. When Grace arrived Michelle lost it, damning brother and sister to burn in hell. Unfortunately, Michelle fell from the balcony as Grace tried to top her. Once Michelle was dead Grace protected the only person she had left. Matthew. Michelle had told Grace about the letter. Grace took it, hid it and kept her mouth shut.''

''So why didn't Grace burn it.'' Hannah asked.

''Subconsciously, I think Grace understood how ruthless Matthew was. When he proved it that night at Helen Crane's house, Grace knew she had no future with him. She would have gone to the grave for her brother and it meant nothing. So she ran.''

''Then why did she risk coming back to tell you what happened?'

Josie got up, folded the letters and put them back in their respective envelopes.

''Because she was a good person. She wasn't sure if Matthew and I were allies but she wanted someone to know what had happened. Grace was going to disappear because she couldn't do the job herself. I just wish I had been the one to do it.''

''You tried,'' Hannah reminded her just as there was a knock on the door.

''I should have tried harder,'' Josie muttered as Archer poked his head into the bedroom.

''You ready, Jo?''

''Are you flowers here?'' she asked.

''Got ‘em,'' he answered.

''Then let's go.'' Josie put out her hand for Hannah. When the girl took it, Josie held on tight. ''I haven't thanked you for getting Archer that night. I wouldn't be here if you hadn't been watching the house.''

Hannah raised a shoulder, ''I couldn't sleep unless I checked on you every night. I know I shouldn't have disobeyed but I couldn't help it.''

''It could have been so dangerous, Hannah,'' Josie said.

''Maybe if you'd let me stay with you it would have made Matthew think twice because he would have known I saw him with you.''

''I wonder if he'd admit to that?'' Josie laughed.

''No,'' Hannah said. ''Men like him don't admit they're afraid of anything.''

Josie smiled. Hannah was probably right. But Matthew McCreary was the last person she wanted to think about. Josie put her hand on Hannah's hair and drew it down. Nothing more needed to be said about gratitude. It was time to leave. Everyone was waiting.

On this early Sunday morning the sky was overcast. Grace McCreary was dead five days. Matthew had been arraigned for her murder and the assault on Josie. The public outrage at Matthew McCreary's crimes was enormous but none so abhorred as those against Grace the child. Poor Grace. In the end she was the only one with integrity. Poor Matthew. In the end he was responsible for his own ruin.

Josie narrowed her eyes and looked up into the sky searching for a sign that there was some home beyond this earthly one where Grace was finally at peace. If there was, the heavenly secrets were well guarded well. The flat wash of grey wasn't breached by a shaft of glimmering light. She heard the sound of a lonely gull but no angel's voices. The beach was deserted and Josie acknowledged she hadn't really expected a miracle – not even a small one. She gave up on finding comfort there years ago.

Head down, Josie trudged silently across the sand with the others. Babcock looking so decent decked out in his penny loafers and slacks, a crisp shirt and old school tie. His jacket buttoned ever so properly, the American flag pin in place. She smiled, not in amusement, but in gratitude. His deference to Grace was noble. Archer looked like Archer. Black sweatpants, bright white sweatshirt with a hood. His hand was in his pocket. Josie knew he fingered the beads of his rosary. She wished she could offer prayers for Grace. Since she didn't believe, couldn't believe, there was a god who would let this happen, Josie was grateful that Archer spoke for Grace's soul.

Billy Zuni had taken charge of Max. Billy in his shorts and t-shirt, his long hair falling in his eyes exuded sadness. He didn't know Grace McCreary but he mourned what women had lost. Grace and Susan O'Connel had lost their life. Billy's own mother had died in her own way too, disconnected from her son.

Hannah walked beside Billy, a truce between them, a bond between them after what had happened in that small apartment in a neighborhood they hoped to never see again. She looked beautiful. She wore a dress as light as a spring day and a wool shawl embroidered with bright flowers that she had found in Josie's closet. Her hair was braided down her back. Three gold earrings glittered in each ear.

Faye pulled up the rear, lost in her own thoughts, struggling a bit with the sand because of her size but determined to make it to the water's edge under her own speed. Tim Douglas had been invited but he had declined. Josie had no doubt he would mourn Grace in his own way.

Finally, they were where Josie had wanted them to be.

''Here,'' Josie said, even though they were all aware of their destination.

''She died here, Jo,'' Archer said quietly, acknowledging the rightness of this choice

''No, it's where she finally lived her own life. She broke the bond she had with Matthew,'' Josie reminded him before she turned around. ''Billy?''

On cue Billy Zuni handed off Max-the-Dog to Hannah and stepped forward. He walked into the sea, into the lap of the tide that didn't so much roll as it brushed the shore, an anxious hand reaching out for the flowers he placed in the water. Hannah was next. In her hands were the pictures that Grace had cherished: her parents and Matthew, Doctor Wharton, the man who honestly cared about her. Hannah had wanted to rip Matthew's image from the family picture before she offered it up to Grace's grave but Josie stopped her. Matthew was a little boy in that picture and the family was happy. That was the time that should be memorialized, she explained. Hannah bent down, and the hem of her dress touched the water. Gently she released the photographs and they all waited until the pictures floated away toward the open ocean. Though no one spoke of it, they all hoped that these small offerings would find Grace and that Grace and Grace would find comfort in them.

''I guess that's it,'' Archer muttered. He turned away and the others went with him. Josie was left alone on the shore. As the breeze toyed with her short hair she stood at attention, alone with her thoughts, the ocean and the day. Reaching into her pocket, Josie pulled out the thing she had brought with her: Grace's emerald ring.

Lowering her eyes, she looked at it. Turned it. Admired it. Understood it, this symbol of love and loss. Grace's mother's ring that her brother had given her. The symbol of their love for one another, their commitment to one another. This was familial love gone awry. It happened in the best of families in a hundred different ways. Josie could not fault either one, nor could she pass judgment on the one who survived because once she had loved Matthew desperately, too.

Josie breathed in the ocean air. It was cool now, appropriate for the day. Would Grace take more comfort if the emerald was with her or would it be an affront, a reminder of the burden she had borne all these years? Josie's lips twitched. She knew the answer because she knew that little girls who were lost clung to the symbols of those who loved them as if they were magical. Josie raised her arm. The ring was in her fist. She was ready to throw it.

''Are you sure you want to do that?''

Josie turned her head. Babcock was standing beside her. He considered Josie the way he had so long ago with amber eyes that made no judgments only questioned the right and wrong of a matter.

''I think so. I think it's what she would want,'' Josie said, lowering her arm.

''She tried to do the right thing in the end even if it ruined her brother. It was a huge sacrifice.''

''Agreed,'' Josie said unsure of where he was going.

''That ring could be put to better use,'' he suggested. ''It's worth a great deal. You know, Mrs. O'Connell and Ms. McCreary were very much alike. They were very courageous. There are a lot of women like them who can't help themselves. The proceeds from that piece of jewelry could fund a shelter for a year. Money can do so many things.''

''Legally this ring belongs to Matthew McCreary,'' Josie reminded him. ''He would have to sell it. He would have to donate the proceeds.''

''Very true,'' Babcock mused. ''Although, I doubt he knew that Ms. McCreary had discarded it, do you? If what he said is true, he hadn't seen your client since she left Mrs. Crane's party. For all he knows, the ring is out there, '' Babcock raised his chin toward the water. ''He probably assumes it's on his sister's finger.''

''I could make a donation in Susan O'Connel's name,'' Josie mused. ''Just so there aren't any questions.''

''You could,'' Babcock agreed.

''I wonder what Grace would think of that?'' Josie mused.

''I think Ms. McCreary would be honored and so would Mrs. O'Connel. I don't think money meant much too either one of them. They were exceptional women.''

''You're right. And I agree they were exceptional.'' Josie swung her head to look at Babcock. ''And both are very, very dead while the men who killed them will find a lawyer and make excuses and live their lives.''

''And isn't that their privilege, Ms. Bates?''

''It is their right, Babcock.'' Josie corrected him as they walked away from the water's edge. ''What's the world coming to?''

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