Taylor shifted back in her seat and stared out the front of the car. She clenched her jaw, regretting her outburst.
“Look, folks,” Talmadge said. “We’ve got to stay calm and keep cool here. This ain’t over by a long shot. Not by a helluva long shot.”
“Great,” Michael mumbled, “I’ve got an attorney that says
‘ain’t.’ “
Talmadge turned and glared at Michael, his eyes narrowing. “You’ve got an attorney that speaks the same language as your jury, hotshot. If I were you, I’d try not to forget that.”
At the hotel, Taylor and Michael got out of the car quickly and slipped into the hotel, unnoticed, through a side door.
They walked quickly across the cavernous lobby, their footsteps silent on the thick carpet. They hurried to the bank of elevators and were lucky enough to get one alone.
“Can we have dinner together?” Michael asked quietly as the elevator door slid shut.
Taylor stared at the front of the elevator, her hands at her side. “Michael, I’m not hungry. I don’t think I could eat a thing.”
“Well,” he said, as the floor buttons above them lighted one after the other. “Would you spend the night in my room tonight? We could really use some time alone together. It’s been a while.”
Taylor felt her stomach convulse, then tensed, trying to hide it. “I’m exhausted. It’s been an awful day. I think I’ll just take a bath and read for a while, then go to bed early.”
Michael turned and faced the front of the elevator next to her. “This isn’t working very well, is it?”
“I’m just tired, Michael. Having your fiance on trial for murder tends to take a lot out of you.”
The buttons above them clicked from 9 to 10.
“You’re not starting to believe them, are you?” Michael asked.
“Can we not do this now?” Taylor whispered.
The elevator door opened on their floor and they stepped out into the hallway. Michael’s room was two doors down from hers. They stopped as he pulled out his key card. “I’ll just get room service, I guess. I can’t exactly go walking around downtown, seeing the sights. I’ll just watch a movie and go to bed, I guess.”
Taylor nodded. “I hope you get some sleep.”
Michael pushed the door open. “Listen, you change your mind, all you’ve got to do is knock on the door.”
Taylor nodded. “Good night,” she said.
Then he was gone.
Taylor walked down to her room and ran her credit card-size electronic room key through the reader, then walked in. The room was cold, the air dry and stale. She tossed her bag down on a chair, took off her overcoat and hung it in the closet, then sat on the edge of the bed and took off her shoes.
Her feet hurt; her head pounded.
She still couldn’t believe it.
But she had to believe it.
The pounding in her head quickened. She realized she was hungry, that the headache was probably the result of a blood-sugar crash. She needed to eat, but she couldn’t imagine putting food in her mouth.
She wandered into the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror. Deep dark purple pockets nestled under her eyes, visible even through the makeup. Her eyes were bloodshot.
They’d never been this bloodshot this often before. This had only been happening in the last couple of months.
Her neck ached. She rolled her head around on her shoulders, trying to loosen it. She was exhausted, so tired and sleepy she couldn’t think straight. But, she knew, there was no way she would sleep tonight. Even the Ambien and the Paxil didn’t work anymore. Even with the sleeping pills and the antianxiety medication, she rarely slept more than a couple of hours at a time.
She took off her watch and looked at it-seven-fifteen. It was going to be a long night. She couldn’t concentrate on her reading. Television and movies held no interest for her. She was too tired to think of anything.
Then she stood there a moment, glaring at her own image in the mirror. Funny thing about having your world crash down around you, she thought. Now at least you know what you’re up against and what you have to deal with.
Taylor set her jaw and walked quickly back out of the bathroom and over to the bed. She opened the nightstand drawer and pulled out the telephone directory. She opened to the blue pages, the government listings, and flipped to the heading labeled “U.S. Government.” She squinted to bring the tiny type into focus and scanned down the listings until she found what she was looking for. She picked up the hotel phone, punched 9 to get an outside line, then dialed.
“You’ve reached the Nashville office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” a recorded voice said. “There’s no one available to take your call. At the tone, please leave a message.”
The phone beeped. “Yes, my name is Taylor Robinson.
You have an FBI agent named Henry Powell in town sitting in on the Michael Schiftmann murder trial. It’s vitally important that I speak to him as soon as possible. Can you please get in touch with him and have him call me on my cell phone at 212-555-5645. It’s urgent that I speak to him as quickly as possible. Please have him call me.”
Taylor hung up the phone and sat there in the cold silence of her room. She pulled the covers back from the oversize bed and lay out flat on her back, her head sinking into the pillow. She turned the ringer up all the way on her mobile phone and set it on the nightstand next to her. She tried to will herself to relax, to concentrate on the hissing of the heating-unit fan as it moved the musty air around.
In time, she began to drift off. Not sleep really, just a gentle sliding under the radar screen of consciousness that was barely enough for her body to let go of the worst of it.
Then, what seemed like seconds later, the electronic chim-ing of the cell phone blasted her into consciousness. She shot upright, unsure of where she was, the bright yellow numbers of the alarm clock shimmering in the darkened room.
It was nine-thirty, she noticed out of the corner of her eye.
She’d been out almost two hours. She picked up the phone and hit the talk button.
“Hello,” she said, trying to sound awake.
“Ms. Robinson?”
“Yes, this is Taylor Robinson.”
“This is Agent Powell, returning your call. How may I help you?”
Taylor rubbed her eyes. “Oh, thank you for calling. I-
Could you hold on for a second?” She shook her head. Why had she called him?
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I had drifted off, Agent Powell, and I guess I was-”
“I didn’t mean to wake you up, Ms. Robinson,” Powell said. “Should I call back later?”
“No,” she said quickly. “No, not at all. I’m okay. I just, well … Agent Powell, I need to see you.”
“What?” the voice answered.
“I need to see you. Tonight. Is there somewhere where we can meet?”
“Well, I don’t know. This is a little unusual.”
“I need to see you, Agent Powell. Please. Where are you staying? I’ll come to your hotel.”
“Well,” Powell said, hesitating. “All right. I’m staying at the Doubletree Hotel, over on Fourth Avenue a few blocks down from the courthouse. There’s a small bar in the lobby.
It’s usually not very crowded. We can get a table and talk.”
“Fine,” Taylor said, “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Taylor climbed out of the taxi, handed the driver a twenty, and walked quickly into the Doubletree Hotel. She stood there, scanning the lobby, and spotted a small, open-air lounge. At a table for two in the farthest corner, she recognized Powell sitting alone, in a pair of khakis and a white, button-down collar Oxford cloth shirt. He looked more relaxed than in the courtroom, she thought, almost preppie.
She walked past the half dozen or so others in the bar and over to his table. He stood up as she approached.
“Good evening,” he said. “How are you, Ms. Robinson?”
Taylor pulled her coat off and folded it over the back of the chair at the empty table next to them, then rearranged a chair so her back would be to the lobby and sat down.