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.
“And how about that armoire, huh?” He jerked his head at the cherry cabinet across the room. “Made to order, all by yours truly. With big drawers for my best girl’s shirts and little drawers for her lovely undies. Just like you asked, right?”
I didn’t say anything. I remembered him refinishing the armoire, hand-rubbing it with a chamois. I tried not to think about how good his fingertips felt on my leg.
“Wasn’t it just like you asked? Wasn’t it exactly how you wanted it? With the pull-out drawer for your extra decks of cards?”
I wanted to smile, but it caught in my throat. “Not for cards, you.”
“For poker chips then. Poker chips to your heart’s content.”
“Not for chips, either.”
“But it’s a pull-out drawer, is it not?”
“Paul-”
“Your Honor, please direct the witness to answer the question.” He caressed my leg. “My Honor says you have to answer. Yes or no.” He liked to play lawyer and was good at it, from a lifetime of hanging around judges, lawyers, and courthouses.
“Yes.”
“I rest my case. Call your next witness.”
“Give me a break.”
The light from the bedside lamp gave his amused expression a soft glow, and he rolled onto his side and played with my knee. “Do you still like this?” he asked softly.
I tried not to pay attention to the sensation of his touch or to his chest, twisted across the white bedspread toward me. I kept thinking of the doctor’s letter.
“Huh? Do you like this, Rita? You used to like it when I did this.”
I knew where he was going. I had a dim memory of it, growing more vivid with each stroke of his hand, like ember to flame. “I used to like a lot of things, Paul.”
“I know. I remember them all.” His hand traveled up to my thigh. “It wasn’t so long ago, you know.”
“Yes, it was.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“It was very long ago. When you liked me and I liked you.” I heard bitterness in my voice.
He drew a line up from my knee with his forefinger. “I never stopped liking you. I like you still. But you stopped liking me, and I’m trying to get you back.” He hoisted himself toward me, and his towel slipped down.
I averted my eyes as if he were a stranger. “You can’t get me back.”