Part 12 (1/2)

THEPROSECUTOR'S OFFICEwas on the fourth floor of the county courthouse. Keely felt her stomach lurch, along with the elevator, as it stopped on the way up. Her heart pounded as the light above the door indicated the fourth floor and the doors rolled apart. Standing at the open doors, pressing at the Down b.u.t.ton, was the handsome youngblack man with bronze dreadlocks that Keely had seen in Lucas's office. He stood back to let her exit the elevator, and she was struck again by the blue-green eyes, so unexpected against his broad, African features. The young man got into the elevator and pressed the b.u.t.ton without meeting Keely's gaze, a distracted frown on his face.

Keely checked the numbers on the door and then approached the prosecutor's reception desk. She stood awkwardly in front of the desk and waited for Maureen Chase's secretary to get off the phone. The secretary scratched her scalp with the eraser of her pencil as she expertly persuaded the agitated caller that her boss couldn't be disturbed and would call him back before the day was out. Keely had to admire her style. She had that combination of efficiency and decisiveness that a person needed to run interference in a place as highpitched as the prosecutor's office. It was going to be difficult to get past her. Keely tried to summon every skill she'd ever had for being persuasive as the young woman returned the phone to its cradle and gazed up at her.

Keely forced herself to smile. ”My name is Keely Weaver. I'm here to see Miss Chase.”

The secretary glanced at the calendar, dense with penciled notes, on her desk. ”Do you have an appointment?” she asked.

”There's a rather urgent matter I need to discuss with her,” said Keely. ”It just came up.”

”I'm sorry. She's busy for the rest of the day. If you'd like to make an appointment . . .”

Keely nodded. ”I understand. It won't take along. I a.s.sure you.”

The secretary was used to lawyers' tactics and would not be moved. ”I'm sure it won't,” she said firmly. ”She's got a half hour free in the morning, the day after tomorrow. If you can just tell me what it's in reference to . . .?”

”It's personal,” said Keely.

The secretary turned back to her computer. ”Call her at home.”

Keely felt anxiety flooding her heart. She couldn't go home and tell Dylan that she hadn't even gotten in to see Maureen Chase. Casting about for some means of persuasion, she noticed the framed photo of ababy in a tiny Orioles baseball cap on the desk. ”Is that your son?” she asked.

”Yes.” Then she turned around and faced Keely. ”And don't start telling me how you have a son, too, and he's in trouble, because I get mothers in here all the time with the same problem. Tell it to your lawyer, who can talk to the D.A.”

Embarra.s.sed that her ploy had proved so transparent but still resolute, Keely said, ”Look, I know a lot of people need to speak to Miss Chase, and it's your job to screen them. But I'm not coming back the day after tomorrow. I want to see her right now, and I want you to tell her that.”

The secretary pursed her lips. ”You look like a nice woman,” she said. ”Don't make me call the security guard.”

”All I'm asking,” Keely pleaded, ”is that you tell her I'm here.”

”What you're asking is impossible,” she reiterated. ”I am doing what I am supposed to be doing. If I bothered her about every . . . crank who wants to see her right away, I'd lose my job, okay?” She pointed one red fingernail at the baby picture on her desk. ”He's gotta eat; I gotta work. Now, do you want to make an appointment or not?”

”She was engaged to my husband,” Keely blurted out.

The secretary leaned back in her chair and regarded Keely with new interest. ”Who?” she asked.

”Your boss. She was once engaged to my husband. Mark Weaver.”

The young woman's eyes widened. ”You're Mark's wife?” she asked.

For a moment, Keely was taken aback by the familiarity in her voice. She reminded herself that Mark was a high-profile attorney. Naturally, Maureen's secretary would know him. ”Yes,” said Keely.

”That was a tragedy,” she said. She reached for the telephone receiver, tapping her fingernails on the desktop. Then she turned her back on Keely. Keely heard the murmur of a conversation and then the young woman hung up the phone and turned back to her. She pointed a pencil at the closed door of Maureen's office. ”Go on in,” she said.

Keely tried to conceal her amazement at the instantaneous effect mentioning Mark's name had had. ”Thank you,” she said, trying to sound calm and dignified. Conscious of being watched, Keely walkedover to Maureen's door, tapped on it, and turned the k.n.o.b at the same time as the a.s.sistant D.A. called, ”Come,” from inside.

Maureen was seated at her desk with her back to Keely, tapping sharply on the keyboard of her computer. Amidst precarious piles of folders, half a bagel with cream cheese lay uneaten on a sheet of foil. A Christmas cactus, which looked like it had not seen a drink of water, never mind a bloom, in many a Noel, perched between the Rolodex and the phone. On her desk was a framed photo, which looked like it had never been dusted, of two redheaded children, a girl and a boy, their arms linked. Keely stared at it while she waited. She was quite certain that Maureen had no children. It could be a niece and nephew, but the colors in the photo were faded, as if it had been taken long ago. Maureen and her brother, perhaps, when they were young, Keely thought. Other than the one photo, there were no personal items to give any indication about the nature of the woman in the olive-green suit behind the desk.

”Miss Chase?”

Maureen was staring intently at the computer screen and her gaze did not waver at the sound of Keely's voice. ”Sit,” she said. ”I'll be done in a minute.” She ran a hand through her blaze of auburn hair and sighed. Then she swiveled around in her chair and leveled her keen, gray-green gaze at Keely. ”Well?” she said abruptly.

”I'm Keely Weaver.”

”I know who you are,” Maureen said.

Keely crossed her legs and tried not to make it apparent that she was studying the woman who was sitting across from her. She could not help picturing Mark with this woman, a woman he'd planned to marry. She was dressed in a stylish, well-tailored suit that revealed a slim figure. Her face was expertly made up, and each deft stroke of color had been used to emphasize her beautiful, even features. She wore chunky jewelry, and her fingernails were painted with a terra-cotta shade of polish. But there was something determinedly aggressive about her, as if she had steeled herself for an attack.

”I'm sorry. Am I interrupting your breakfast?” Keely asked.

”I'm done,” Maureen said. She wrapped up the half-eaten bageland dropped it into the wastebasket as if to put an end to any small talk.

All right,Keely thought.I can be all business, too.She took a deep breath and tried to keep any hint of pleading from her voice. ”I'm here because my son has endured enough with these two tragic . . . events in his life and he doesn't need all this badgering from your detectives and in the newspapers.”

”Badgering,” said Maureen flatly.

”Yes, badgering,” said Keely stubbornly. ”I know you cared about Mark, and for his sake, I'm asking you to leave my son alone. Mark always . . . spoke highly of you, and frankly this sort of thing seems a little bit . . . beneath you.”

Maureen's lips smiled, but her eyes were cold. ”That's your opinion,” she said.

”What does that mean?” Keely asked.

”Tell me, Mrs. Weaver, were you surprised to learn that your son had handled the weapon in your first husband's 'accidental' death?”

Keely did not reply.

”You see, I knew about it a long time ago. Mark told me about it. Around the time he was first representing you to the insurance company.”

Keely felt her face flame at the idea that Mark had told Maureen about this without telling his own wife.Forget about it,she reminded herself.The only important thing is Dylan.”It doesn't mean anything,” she said, ”despite your innuendoes.”

”That's what Mark thought at the time,” said Maureen. ”Poor fool. They didn't get along, did they? Mark and your son.”

Keely met her gaze belligerently. ”They had their problems. It was nothing serious.”

”The kid sold the bike Mark gave him for a present. We have that on authority from Mrs. Ambler. Dylan rejected every overture Mark made to be friendly to him.”

How do you know that?Keely wanted to say.

Maureen saw it in her eyes. ”Mark told me the kid hated him. Resented him.” There was triumph in her tone. She seemed to be relis.h.i.+ngthe fact that she had this information, that she could reveal it to Mark's widow. ”He confided in me.”

Keely felt outraged that Mark would have told their personal business to a colleague. But she couldn't afford to be sidetracked by her emotions. ”It's only natural,” said Keely, ”given Dylan's age and the situation. Mark understood that.”

”How much did he hate Mark?” Maureen asked. ”That's what I need to find out.”

”Oh, for G.o.d's sake,” said Keely. ”Dylan is a child. He didn't hurt anybody. He didn't shoot his father. He didn't 'arrange' an accident for Mark. This is just vicious speculation. He's a normal kid in tough circ.u.mstances, and you are persecuting him.”

Maureen leaned forward on her desk and looked at Keely with narrowed eyes. ”You really don't get it, do you? You should sit in my seat for a while.”