Running From The Law

I’d keep it secret?”

“Any lawyer would have done that. It would be privileged.”

“You thought I’d be loyal to you no matter what, even to the point of keeping quiet about a murder. What other lawyer could you ask to do that?”

“I didn’t murder Patricia!”

“Then why me?”

“I didn’t think it would turn out like this, I tell you.”

Liar. Cheater. Bastard. I reached for the ignition, but Fiske gripped my forearm.

“Wait. Maybe… part of me did. Part of me must have wanted you to find out. So that it wouldn’t be a secret anymore.”

“Bullshit. Two-bit psychology.” I turned on the ignition despite his grip. “You wanted to destroy your life? Screw up your marriage?”

“I… think I must have,” he said, his tone anguished. “Yes.”

I looked at him while the engine rumbled. His face was obscured and he made no sound, but I had the sense he was about to cry.

“I think… I wanted to tell Kate,” he continued, almost thinking out loud. “I wanted her to know. It just… got out of control. I loved Patricia, Rita, and somebody killed her. I want to know who.”

It rang true. He sounded determined and bewildered, both at once. A natural reaction given the circumstances. Maybe he was innocent. Wrongly accused, or about to be. If so, his world was on the brink of falling to pieces, at his own hand. He slumped forward and rested his temple in his hand, inadvertently reminding me of a face card again. Not the king of diamonds this time. The king of hearts, the suicide king. Fiske was either that or a cold-blooded killer.

Why were men so damn complicated?

8

They have no right,” Paul said as he glared at the TV screen.

A black reporter stood on the wet flagstone path leading to the door of the Hamiltons’ huge house, a three-story stone Tudor with diamond-paned windows, an arched front door, and spiky turrets on both sides. Any idiot could see the place looked like a minicastle, which wouldn’t help public relations any.

“This isn’t news, it’s harassment,” Paul said, naked except for the towel around his waist. He’d taken a hot shower but it hadn’t relaxed him any. “This is harassment!” He aimed the remote control at the TV like a weapon and clicked up the volume.

The reporter fairly shouted, “We have tried to reach Judge Hamilton, but he has not been available for comment.”

“He’s asleep, you prick!” Paul shouted back. “Is he supposed to stay up all night to talk to you?”

“Relax, Paul,” I said, but I knew this case was blowing up in our faces. It was all over the radio and TV news. Our answering machine tape had a slew of calls from the press and three from the managing partner of my firm. His final message was to meet him in his office first thing in the morning. I wasn’t looking forward to it.

“They’re showing it again,” Paul said. “Can you believe it? The same goddamn tape over and over. My family, for God’s sake.”

I looked at the TV and caught the film of Paul, Fiske, Kate, and me, trooping across the front lawn under umbrellas. We’d left the restaurant in a homecoming I’d orchestrated, so I couldn’t help objectifying the scene. Fiske, vital and self-assured, didn’t look the part of a murderer, and projected like Blake Carrington with bona fide business acumen. When the reporters shouted questions at him from the sidewalk, he declined comment with a Windsor wave and the smile of a majority shareholder.

“People walking into a house is news?” Paul said. “I give up.” He sank to the foot of the bed and lowered the volume. “My poor mother.”

I squinted at Kate’s image on the TV screen, but I didn’t see his mother the way he did. Kate didn’t look poor, in close-up. On the contrary, she looked wealthy and haughty, with cheekbones that could cut hard cheese. The kind of wife you would cheat on with your pretty young secretary, whose soft, windswept photo came on next. I looked at Paul’s back as he watched TV. Beads of water glistened on his shoulders. His tan line peeked out from under the towel.

“Rita, look,” he said. “It’s you again.”

A picture of me came on. Brown eyes with smudgy eye pencil, a strong nose that needed powdering, crow’s-feet only surgery could improve, and a mound of long, dark hair exploding in the humidity. “Another bad hair year.”

“Silly. You’re beautiful.”

Bullshit. I watched him watch me as I said from the screen, “We are all very sorry about the death of Miss Sullivan, and our thoughts are with her family at this difficult time. We have no further comment.”

“You were great,” Paul said to the TV. “You were wonderful, Rita. You’ve been wonderful. None of us could get through this without you.” He turned suddenly toward me, and I didn’t know whether he’d caught me looking at his tan line.

“Sure you could.”

“Can’t you just take the compliment? I’m trying to tell you how much I appreciate you.” He edged closer to me on the bed and rubbed my instep, but I didn’t want his touch or his words to warm me.

“Hey, stop.”

“No, I’m going to compliment you. You ready?”

“Come off it, Paul.”

“No. Hold still. This will only hurt a minute. I think you’re a great woman and a great lawyer.”

“Paul, stop. You just like the fee.” I shifted away, but his hand chased my ankle and caught it.

“Oh, really? You think you’re cheap?”

“Say what? I think I’m free.”

“You, free? Just look around this room.” He clicked off the TV as Patricia’s attorney, Stan Julicher, came on, crying crocodile tears in front of his firm’s large nameplate. Now that Patricia was dead, the harassment case was over. Julicher would miss his contingency more than he would miss his client.

“Hey, I wanted to see that,” I said.

“How about this bed, huh? You think that came cheap?” Paul pointed at our four- poster, whose turned spindles stretched to a delicate arched canopy.

“This bed didn’t cost anything. You built it.”

“It still costs, honey. It’s all cherrywood. The labor I threw in for free, because I liked you so much.”

“What a guy.” The bed was a birthday present Paul had built in his father’s garage. I’d loved it the instant he’d taken me to see it, then I’d brought him wine and wrenches while he disassembled the contraption to get it out the door. He was never as good a planner as his father, which was part of his charm.