Killjoy

'But you haven't heard yet if, in fact, there will be a new trial?'

'No, sir, I haven't.'

'Now let's get back to you,' he said.

She couldn't be cooperative a second longer. 'Sir, may I ask why you're so interested in my background?'

'You're being evaluated,' he reminded her. 'Two weeks after Skarrett was convicted, Jill Delaney was killed in an automobile accident.'

'Yes.'

Avery had forgotten much of her childhood, but she remembered that phone call clearly. She had just celebrated Carrie's birthday, a belated event since Avery had been in the hospital on the actual date, and was helping the housekeeper put the vegetables on the table before they all sat down to dinner. Avery had placed the mashed potatoes next to Uncle Tony's plate when Aunt Carrie answered the phone. A funeral director was calling to tell her that Jilly had been cremated in a fiery car crash, but there were enough of her remains left to put in an urn. He wanted to know what Carrie wanted done with the ashes and the personal effects, which included a charred driver's license. Avery was standing in front of the bay window staring out at some frantic hummingbirds when she overheard Carrie tell the man to throw them in the nearest Dumpster. She could recall every second of that moment.

Carter drew her attention back to their discussion when he suddenly switched subjects.

'You did your undergraduate work at Santa Clara University, graduated with honors with a major in psychology and a minor in political science and another minor in history. You then went to Stanford and received a master's in criminal justice.' Having said that, he closed her file. 'In your personal statement you said you made up your mind to become an FBI agent when you were twelve years old. Why?'

She knew he'd already read her answer. It was there in the personal statement she'd made when she'd applied to the Bureau.

'An FBI agent named John Cross saved my life. If he hadn't been watching out for me… if Skarrett had taken me from school, my life would have been over.'

Carter nodded. 'And you believed you could make a difference working for the Bureau.'

'Yes.'

'Then why didn't you become a field agent?'

'Bureaucracy,' she said. 'I ended up in my current position. I was going to put in another six months and then request a transfer.'

His assistant interrupted. 'Mr. Carter, they're waiting for you.'

The panic grabbed her again. 'Sir, Mike Andrews really should handle the press conference. Any credit should go to him and his team.'

'Look, none of us likes doing this,' he snapped. 'But this was such a high-profile case, and frankly, most people would appreciate receiving some recognition.'

'My coworkers and I would rather have raises… and windows, sir. We'd like windows too. Are you aware that our offices are located behind the mechanical room?'

'Space is at a premium,' he said. 'And when did you get the idea we were negotiating?'

Her back stiffened. 'Sir, in an evaluation-'

He cut her off. 'You told me you acted alone when you called Andrews.'

'Yes, that's correct, but the others were… integral. Yes, sir, they were integral in helping me go through those files for names.'

One eyelid dropped. 'You do realize that lying won't get you a raise, don't you?'

'Sir, Mel and Lou and Margo and I are a team. They did help. They just weren't as convinced as I was…'

The buzzer sounded on his intercom. Carter impatiently hit the button and said, 'I'll be right there.'

Then he reached for his suit jacket and put it on, frowning at her all the while.

'Relax, Delaney,' he finally said. 'You're off the hook. I'm not going to make you do the press conference.'

Her relief made her weak. 'Thank you, sir.'

She stood when he walked around the desk, the wadded panty hose hidden under the jacket draped over her arm. Carter stopped at the door and then turned back with the frown still creasing his brow.

'Don't ever use my name again without my permission, Delaney.'

'Yes, sir.'

'One more thing,' he said.

'Yes, sir?'

'Good work.'

Chapter 2

Marriage isn't for the squeamish. Both husband and wife must be willing to let their inner children play dirty if they want their marriage to survive and flourish. They must let their inner children roll around in the mud. Mistakes will be inevitable, of course, but a shower of love and forgiveness will cleanse the union, and the healing will then begin.

What a crock. Carolyn Delaney Salvetti sat in wide-eyed disbelief as she listened to the garbage the marriage counselor pontificated from his self-help, self-published manual, aptly and ludicrously titled Let Your Inner Child Get Dirty. Was the

moron talking about marriage or mud wrestling? Carrie didn't know, and at the moment she didn't particularly care.

Without being too obvious about it, she pushed the sleeve of her silk blouse up over her wrist and glanced down at her Cartier watch. Ten minutes to go. God, could she last that long?

She took a deep breath, let go of her sleeve, and leaned back in the plush chair, nodding ever so sagely so her husband and the moron would think she was paying attention.

Marriage isn't for the squeamish, he repeated in his slow, nasal, baritone drawl. His voice was like a loofah made of steel wool, irritating every nerve in her body.

The counselor was a pompous, fat, flatulent fraud who insisted on being called Dr. Pierce because he felt his full name, Dr. Pierce Ebricht, was too formal for such an intimate discussion. After all, he was supposed to be helping them bare their guts. After the first session, Carrie had dubbed him Dr. Prick. Her husband, Tony, had chosen him because he was 'in' at the moment. The counselor, with his drive-through-window degree, was the newest guru whom everyone who was anyone flocked to for marriage rejuvenation. Dr. Pierce was the Dr. Phil for the rich and famous, but unlike Dr. Phil, the prick was a complete buffoon.

But then, so was Tony. He sat beside Carrie, his sweaty palms held together as though in prayer, looking so earnest and engaged, like a wooden Howdy Doody the counselor manually manipulated, nodding in quick agreement whenever Dr. Prick paused from reading his bible to look up expectantly.

Chewing on her lip was the only way she could keep from laughing… or screaming. Oh, how she wanted to scream. She didn't dare, though. She had made a bargain with her faithless sleazebag of a husband, and if she didn't behave and pretend that she was really trying to save their Titanic marriage, she would be paying alimony for the rest of her life. It was a chilling possibility.

The odds were against her. Tony came from a long line of centenarians. His uncle Enzo was still chugging wine out on his postage-stamp piece of land on the good side of Napa at the ripe old age of eighty-six and didn't seem to be slowing down at all. His only concession to living healthy was, at the age of eighty-five, to quit smoking his unfiltered Camels-a three-pack-a-day habit-and increase the amount of garlic he put on everything he ate, including his morning wheat toast. If Tony turned out to be as healthy and fit as Enzo was, by the time Carrie croaked, she would be drained dry financially, and there would be nothing left in the coffers to leave to the only person she had ever loved, her niece, Avery. If, on the other hand, she cooperated with Tony and attended all ten sessions with Dr. Prick, and the marriage still ended-a foregone conclusion, in her opinion-then, Tony promised, he