Beyond Suspicion

12

•

Jack and Cindy went out for dinner Friday night, a neighborhood restaurant called Blú, which specialized in pizzas from wood-burning ovens. It was a bustling place with a small bar, crowded tables, and smiling waiters whose English was just bad enough to force patrons to talk with their hands like real Italians. The chefs were from Rome and Naples, and they dreamed up their own recipes, everything from basic cheese pizza like you’ve never tasted to pies with baby artichokes, arugula, and Gorgonzola cheese. It was Jack’s version of comfort food, the kind of place he went whenever he lost a trial.

“How bad was it?” asked Cindy.

“Jury was out all of twenty minutes.”

“Could have been worse. Your client could have been innocent.”

“Why do you assume he was guilty?”

“If an innocent man were sitting in jail right now, you’d be kicking yourself all over town, not stuffing your face with pizza and prosciutto.”

“Good point.”

“That’s the truly great thing about your job. Even when you lose, it’s actually a win.”

“And sometimes when I win, it’s a total loss.”

Cindy sipped her wine. “You mean Jessie?”

Jack nodded.

“Let’s not talk about her, okay?”

“Sorry.” He’d told her about the latest confrontation with Jessie, though Cindy hadn’t seemed interested in the details. The message was pretty clear: It was time to put Jessie behind them.

“Do you think I made a mistake by leaving the U.S. attorney’s office?”

“Where did that come from?”

“It ties in with this whole Jessie thing.”

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about her tonight.”

“This is about me, not her.” He signaled the waiter for another beer, then turned back to Cindy. “I used to think I was good at reading people, whether they were jurors or clients or whoever. Ever since Jessie, I’m not so sure.”

“Jessie didn’t just lie. She manipulated you. This latest episode proves what a total wack job she is. You said it yourself, you thought she was on drugs.”

“Maybe. But what if these investors really are after her?”

“She should go to the police, exactly like you told her.”

“She won’t.”

“Then she isn’t really scared. Stop blaming yourself for this woman’s problems. You don’t owe her anything.”

He piled a few more diced tomatoes atop his bruschetta. “Two years ago, I would have seen right through her.”

“Two years ago you were an assistant U.S. attorney.”

“Exactly. You remember what my old boss said when we all went over to Tobacco Road after my last day?”

“Yeah, he spilled half of his beer in my lap and said, Drings are on the Thwytecks.”

“I’m serious. He warned me about this. Guys go into private practice, get a taste of the money, pretty soon they can’t tell who’s lying and who’s telling the truth. Like ships in dry dock. Rusty before they’re old.”

“You done?”

“With what?”

“The pity party.”

“Hmmm. Almost.”

“Good. Now here’s some really shitty news. Just because the rust on the SS Swyteck is premature doesn’t mean this ship is getting any younger, bucko. Even your favorite Don Henley songs are finding their way to the all-oldies radio station.”

“You really know how to hurt a guy.”

“It’s what you get for marrying a younger woman.”

“Is that all I get?”

She bit off the tip of a breadstick. “We’ll see.”

The loud twang and quick beat from Henley’s “Boys of Summer” clicked in his brain, triggering a nostalgic smile. I still love you, Don, but man, it sucks the way time marches on.

They finished their pizzas and skipped the coffee and dessert. The kick in the ass from Cindy had been a good thing for Jack. Behind the jokes and smiles, however, she seemed troubled.

“Jack?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think we’re doing the right thing trying to have a baby?”

“Sure. We’ve talked about this. You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

“No. I just want to make sure you’re not.”

“I want this more than anything.”

“Sometimes I’m afraid you want it for the wrong reason.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe you think we need another reason to stay together.”

“Where would you get an idea like that?”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, I’m glad you said it. Because we need to put that out of your head right now. How long have you been worried about this?”

“I’m not really worried. Well, sometimes I am. It’s been five years since… you know, Esteban. And people still think of me as fragile. Five years, and I’m still having the same conversations. ‘Are you doing okay, sweetie? Getting enough sleep? Have the nightmares stopped? Need the name of a good therapist?’”

He lowered his eyes and said, “You talked with your mother, didn’t you.”

“Yes. Last night.”

“I’m sorry I dragged her into this. I was trying to enlist a little family support. That’s all.”

“I understand. Look, let’s just forget this, okay?”

“You sure?”

“Yes. It’ll work out.”

“Everything gonna be okay with you?”

“Fine.”

“You want another Perrier or something?”

She shook her head. “Let’s go home.”

He reached across the table and took her hand. Their eyes met as she laced her fingers into his.

“What do you say we stop by Whip ‘n’ Dip, get a pint of chocolate and vanilla swirl to go, climb under the covers, and don’t come out till we kill the whole carton?”

“I’d like that.”

“Me, too,” he said, then signaled the waiter for their bill.

Jack left a pair of twenties on the table, and in just a few minutes they were in their car on Sunset Drive, moving at the speed of pedestrians. The ice cream parlor was up the street beyond the log jam, though the line was clear out the door, typical on a weekend. Even so, they arrived home before ten-thirty. Cindy went straight upstairs to the bedroom. Jack popped into the kitchen in search of two spoons. It was one of Cindy’s pet peeves. If you were going to indulge yourself with dessert, it should be on real silver, not those cheap plastic jobbies with edges so sharp that they could practically double as letter openers.

The master bedroom was on the second floor, directly over the kitchen, and Jack could hear Cindy walking above him. The click of her heels on the oak floor gave way to a softer step, and he realized that she’d kicked off her shoes. A trail of barely audible footsteps led to her dressing mirror. Jack smiled to himself, imagining his wife undressing. But it was a sad, nostalgic smile triggered by what seemed like ancient memories of a time when passions ruled, not problems. She’d reach behind her arching back and unzip her cotton sundress. With a little shrug she’d loosen one strap, then the other, letting the garment fall to her ankles. She’d stand before the full-length mirror and judge herself, unable to see that she didn’t really need that push-up contraption. It was a show he’d watched countless times, wishing he could just strip away all the emotional baggage and pull up behind her and kiss the back of her neck, unfasten the clasp, and reach inside, one for the delight of each hand.

But there was never any pulling up behind Cindy, no physical intimacy of any sort, unless she initiated it. That was their life since Esteban. Jack didn’t blame her for it. Her only crime had been falling in love with the governor’s son. Esteban had been his client, not hers. It was Jack who’d drawn the attacker into their world, not Cindy.

And that was something for which he could never forgive himself.

Jack started out of the kitchen, then froze at the sight of some broken glass on the floor. He dropped the frozen yogurt on the kitchen counter and ran to the French doors in the family room. One of the rectangular panes had been shattered. Jack didn’t touch anything, but he could see that the lock had been turned. Someone had paid them a visit.

“Cindy!”

His heart raced as he grabbed the cordless telephone and ran to the stairway. He was gobbling up two and three steps at a time and was about to call her name again when he heard her scream. “Jack!”

He sprinted down the hallway. Just as he reached the bedroom door, it flew open in his face. Cindy rushed out. They nearly collided at full speed, but he managed to get his arms around her. He saw only terror in her eyes.

“What is it?” he asked.

She grabbed him but never stopped moving, her momentum dragging him back into the hallway. Her voice was filled with panic. “In there!”

“What’s in there?”

She pointed inside the master suite, in the general direction of the bathroom. “On the floor.”

“Cindy, what is it?”

She fought to catch her breath, on the verge of hyperventilation. “Blood.”

“Blood?”

“Yes! My God, Jack. It’s-there’s so much of it. Back by the tub.”

“Call 911.”

“Where are you going?”

“Just call.”

“Jack, don’t go in there!”

He dialed 911 and handed her the phone. “Just stay on the line while I check this out.”

He hurried across the room to the dresser and took the gun from the top drawer. He quickly removed the lock and started toward the bathroom. Jack didn’t think of himself as a gun person, but one attack against your wife has a way of making you forever mindful of self-defense. Cindy called his name once more, a final plea to keep him from doing something stupid, but she was soon in conversation with the 911 operator.

“My crazy husband is going in there right now,” Jack heard her say. But that didn’t stop him. Too many weird things had happened in the last two weeks. He wasn’t about to let something-or somebody-bleed to death in their bathroom while they waited for the cops.

He stood in the bathroom doorway with arms extended and both hands clasped around the gun. He was aiming at nothing but at the ready. “Who’s in here?”

He waited but got no answer.

“The police are on their way. Now, who’s in here?”

Still no answer. He stepped inside and checked the floor. He saw no blood, but he’d ventured no farther than the first of two sinks-his sink. It wasn’t quite far enough inside their bathroom to see into the back area by the big vanity mirror and Roman tub-the place where Cindy had seen the blood.

He took two more steps and froze. He was standing at Cindy’s sink. Her medicine cabinet was half-open, and in the angled reflection he saw it: a glistening, crimson line of blood on a floor of white ceramic tile.

His pulse quickened. Jack had seen plenty of blood before, visited many a crime scene. There was nothing like seeing it in your own house. “Do you need help?”

His voice echoed off the tiled walls, as if to assure him that no answer would come. He took two more steps, then a third. His grip tightened on the gun. His steps became half-steps. Weighted with trepidation, he turned the corner. His eyes tracked the bright red line to its source. He faced the Roman tub and gasped.

A bloody hand hung limply over the side-a woman’s hand. For an instant Jack felt paralyzed. He swallowed his fear and inched closer. Then he stopped, utterly horrified yet unable to look away.

She was completely unclothed, only blood to cover her nakedness. An empty bottle of liquor rested at her hip. It was literally a bloodbath, her life seeming to have drained from the slit in her left wrist. Red rivulets streaked the basin, the thickest pool of blood having gathered near her feet.

“Jessie,” he said, his voice quaking. “Oh… my… God.”