chapter 5
Assistant DA’s Office
San Francisco
It was supposed to be the most wonderful week of her life. She was healthy, successful, engaged to a wonderful man—and about to choose her wedding dress.
But Cara O’Connor sat stiffly at her desk, tied up in a thousand little knots.
Her softly tailored suit was immaculate as she spoke on the phone, jotting shorthand notes on a yellow legal pad with the pen her daughter had given her last Mother’s Day. “I don’t believe any of this, Tony.”
“Believe it. Chain of evidence was shot to hell. The nurse at the clinic bagged the blood sample, but he didn’t take it to be refrigerated until after he handled a gunshot wound and had a smoke on the fourth-floor balcony.”
Three weeks before, an eighteen-year-old Berkeley coed had been shot, assaulted, and left unconscious in a Chinatown alley. She’d managed to stagger to a small neighborhood clinic, where she was treated before police were called. Once she was lucid, she’d targeted her attacker as the honor-student president of a fraternity near her dorm. According to her account, they’d argued and he’d threatened her with the gun, then shot her and assaulted her.
The case should have been open-and-shut, but faulty procedure in collection of physical evidence could hammer the strongest case full of holes.
Cara closed her eyes. “This guy gets a medal for stupid.”
“Afraid it gets worse. Our friend thought he’d be helpful, so he cleaned the bullet they pulled out of the patient’s chest and wrote her name on it.”
Cara muttered a few choice phrases. A good defense lawyer could demand that the bullet be pulled as evidence, given this kind of mishandling. “What about her hands? Any signs of struggle? DNA evidence recovered?”
Her colleague sighed. “He washed her up with Betadyne. Cleaned her real good. Said her parents wouldn’t want to see her like this.”
“Don’t tell me we’ve got nothing?”
“The forensic people are going through her clothes and the other evidence now. We may get lucky, but the nurse dumped everything in a pile, so there’s a chance of cross contamination.”
Cara braced herself. “Do I want to hear this?”
“Probably not. A couple of tourists came into the clinic with food poisoning right about then. They threw up all over the victim’s clothes and shoes.”
Sometimes fate spits in your face, Cara thought, and this was one of those times. “Make a note to see this nurse gets a crash course in preservation of physical evidence, okay? Threaten to yank his license, whatever, but see that he doesn’t pull a stunt like this again.”
“You got it.”
“Now give me some good news, Tony. Tell me that we’ve got a deal in the Rothman case.”
Marcus Rothman was a prominent gay painter who had recently learned that his longtime lover was walking out for a younger man. Rothman had planned a nice, civilized farewell meal—and then fed his lover his favorite sushi, nicely marinated in wasabi and Drano, resulting in a particularly unpleasant death.
“Rothman’s counsel said they’ll go for temporary insanity. He just saw the Drano and acted without thinking.”
Cara gave a cold laugh.
“Yeah, I happen to agree, but Rothman has been undergoing therapy for long-standing abandonment and relationship issues. His therapist has volunteered to testify.”
“Can we establish that Rothman bought the Drano after he found out he and his lover were quits?”
“Tried that. The Drano’s been under his sink for years. Old bottle, date-stamped 1998.”
Cara cursed silently. “Keep working it. See if he bragged to anyone. Try his doorman or cleaning lady.” But she knew Rothman might slip away. Sometimes you took what you could get.
She flipped through a recent deposition from a defense lawyer. “I’m still waiting for that good news.”
“Try this. Barnhard’s people will go for voluntary manslaughter in the freeway road-rage incident.”
“Hmm.”
“Are you okay, Cara? You sound like you’re off on a Jeep trek in Mongolia. Lots of mental static on the line.”
“I’m fine, Tony.” Cara looked at the framed photo on the small antique table to her left. Two girls held up flaming marshmallows on crooked sticks. Their faces were streaked with dust, their hair tangled, their smiles incendiary.
The photo was six months old. Sophy was an inch taller now, and Audra was more reserved and serious, but her daughters were still knockouts.
Cara knew that they were both under stress. Despite all her reassurances, they were worrying about how the wedding would affect their future. Since the picture was taken, Sophy had lost a tooth, and Audra wanted to dye her hair blond. To top it off, the new nanny was coming tonight, and both girls were unhappy about that.
If only there had been some other way.
“Cara, you still there?”
“Right here.” She forced her thoughts back to work. “Go on, Tony.”
“Andrews is hanging tough. He figures our case is too thin.”
The assistant DA closed her file with a snap. “Not anymore, it isn’t. We just took testimony from the girlfriend in Vallejo. It seems our man Andrews bragged about the murder while he was drunk, then waved a wad of bills he’d received as payment. He even had a picture of the woman he was supposed to kill. His employer was very efficient.”
“So now we’ve got them both. Nice work. Tell me why you don’t sound happier.”
“Just tired, I guess.” Cara sipped her cold coffee and grimaced.
“Or distracted. I keep forgetting you’re getting married in a week.”
“Ten days, actually, but who’s counting?” Cara stretched, wincing at the sharp pain in her shoulders.
“Who’s counting? Me and half the population of San Francisco, that’s who. You were in the style section of the Chronicle last week, and I hear you’re mentioned in an evening TV spot on Sunday. Everyone wants to know what kind of dress you’re wearing and what color flowers you’ll have. Even my wife was pestering me for details this morning.”
“It’s not about me or the dress.” The dress Cara still hadn’t picked out yet, she thought guiltily. “This is about Tate. He’s very popular.”
“Senator Winslow’s not the only popular person, kid. Be careful or this wedding will turn into a three-ring circus. By the way, where are you two tying the big knot?”
“Sorry, Tony. I love you dearly, but that’s a state secret. If I talk, I’m toast, senator’s orders.” She laughed softly. “We agreed the ceremony would be strictly family, but we’re having a big reception in Carmel. You should have gotten an invitation weeks ago.”
“Right here on my desk. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. If I tried, my wife would divorce me.” Her colleague hesitated. He had been protective of her ever since Cara had met him while working in the public defender’s office. “Are you sure this is right for you? Tate Winslow is a stand-up guy who’s been the best thing that’s happened to California since the Beach Boys and liposuction. Even a blind person could see that you’re crazy in love.” His chair creaked. “But . . .”
“But what, Tony?”
“The man’s got his eye on Pennsylvania Avenue. His press people can waffle all they want, but we both know he’s going to run. Then your life will be public, Cara. Every part of it, for you and the girls. You’ll be swallowed alive, badgered incessantly by press, campaign donors, media consultants, press, legal advisors, press. Oh, did I mention press?”
Cara laughed. “I get the picture, Tony. Don’t think I haven’t seen it myself. Every smile recorded, every word dissected. Every hour accounted for.” She closed her eyes, suddenly very tired.
And very afraid. For her daughters, more than for herself.
“Damned right. Every detail in your past will be exhumed, inspected through high-powered microscopes. You two will become the next best thing to reality TV. They’re going to want to know if Tate snores and what you wear to bed.”
“No and no comment.”
San Francisco’s youngest female assistant DA sat back sharply, knocking a clay pot with dried bougainvillaeas to the floor. As Cara stared at her daughter’s shattered gift, a first-grade Mother’s Day project, she felt a stab of sadness. She’d have to collect the pieces and glue them back together before Audra saw them. But not now, when she was already late for a meeting.
“Thanks for the warning, Tony. Tate and I are prepared for whatever gets thrown at us. And right now I’m late for a meeting with the M.E., so send over those papers. I’ll run through them tomorrow.”
“Will do. You’re a tough negotiator, Ms. O’Connor.” Once again he hesitated. “I never meant that it was a bad idea, Cara. Just that you should be prepared for what comes next. The political process can be vicious, especially with what you’ve got on your plate from the Costello appeal.”
“Costello won’t walk, no matter how many appeals he files. We had a clean conviction right down the line. As for the appeal, I don’t expect to be handed the easy assignments because I’m a woman.”
“Hell, Costello scared the shit out of me. Gender’s got nothing to do with it. Watch your step.” He blew out a breath. “And I’m hanging up now before I make an ass of myself.”
The line went dead, and Cara sat back slowly. Richard Costello, her last high-profile case, was a poster boy for equal-opportunity sadism. He’d trafficked in human cargo through four border states and Canada. An eternal pragmatist, Costello smuggled whatever commodity had the highest value at the moment. Cocaine in, luxury cars out, Toyota car parts out and people in. He had made millions off the vast blood trails that flowed between Mexico, Central America, and the United States, and he had bribed, intimidated, or murdered all who stood in his way. At his peak, dozens of DEA and INS agents filled his payroll.
According to rumor, a few of them still did.
A very bad man.
He had tried to bribe Cara half a dozen times during his trial. On the day of his sentencing, he had given her a new message: She would die and her skin would be hung up as a trophy in his house, payment for her involvement.
Cara was used to death threats, but lately the thought of what Costello might do to her children left her paralyzed with fear.
She tackled three more short calls, dictated a note to her assistant, and then sat back slowly. Sunlight glittered off the cars flooding Bryant Street. Even six floors up she could hear the angry scream of horns and braking tires.
And she was late for her meeting. Why did she feel as if she were always running, always one step behind?
Frowning, she knelt beside her desk and swept the broken pieces of clay into a padded envelope, determined to work a miracle repair before Audra realized her first-grade masterpiece was damaged. As Cara studied the mass of broken pieces, she considered canceling her evening plans so she could help smooth the transition when the new nanny arrived. Her presence would make things easier for everyone, since Audra and Sophy had been extremely upset when Cara had announced the sudden departure of their longtime nanny due to illness.
At least that was the story they’d come up with for the girls and anyone else who asked.
Her door opened. “The DA needs you right away.” Her assistant waved a folder. “Press leak on the Costello case. The details of his appeal have gone public, and we’re already fielding press calls about possible tainted forensic evidence.”
Cara checked her watch in disbelief. “Impossible. We only heard from his counsel ten minutes ago.”
“That means it was public knowledge about eight minutes ago.” Her gorgeous, rail-thin assistant smiled grimly. “Here’s the authority you requested in the employee workplace privacy issue. Also, Senator Winslow’s office has called twice to confirm your dinner tonight. Eight o’clock at the Fairmount. I told them it was firm, but they want to hear it directly from you. Pushy people, even though they try to be polite about it.”
“Thanks. I’ll call them back.” Cara slid the padded envelope into her already crowded briefcase.
It was only after the door closed that she saw the small box on the floor under her desk. About the size of a cell phone, it was wrapped with brown paper and plain white string. Her name was typed on a label with the return address of the bridal shop where she and the girls had gone to look at dresses.
Probably some additional samples of trim for her to consider.
But when Cara pulled off the wrapping, her face went white. Inside the box was a single fragment of paper, torn from what appeared to be an old piece of stationery. There was one line of text on the sheet.
May 12, 1986. Los Reyes Clinic. Remember.
The words struck Cara like a physical blow. This time the message wasn’t about how she would die. In some ways, it was worse.
Moving like a sleepwalker, she shoved the box into her briefcase. Someone knew. After all these years, someone knew.
Voices echoed down the hall. She looked at the box resting on top of the broken pieces of her daughter’s gift. She didn’t have time to fall apart. She had to think, to act with her head, not her heart, or she would hurt everyone she loved.
She had hoped this day would never come, but now it had.
Slowly Cara stood up. She cleared her desk by habit, closed her desk drawers and locked them, then picked up her briefcase. By the time she reached the door, she had made a decision that no woman should ever have to make.
“Senator Winslow’s office.”
Cara sat tensely in her car, trying to stay calm. “Hello, Margo, it’s Cara.”
“Well, it’s about time. The Great Man has been pacing around his office for the last hour, and every three minutes he comes out to see if you’ve called yet.” Tate Winslow’s veteran secretary laughed. “Since he’s due out again any second, I’ll put you right through.”
Cara heard a click, and the deep voice of the man she loved filled the air. “Don’t tell me something’s come up again. You promised you’d pick out a dress tonight, Counselor, and I’m holding you to that.”
No wonder he was called The Voice. Cara loved the rich bass roll of his voice and the emotion he’d never been afraid to show.
He would make a wonderful president, she thought numbly.
“We’ll talk about the dress tonight, Tate. First I need to speak to you. Since I’m near your apartment, I was hoping you could meet me a little early.” She prayed he wouldn’t hear the lie.
“That’s the best offer I’ve had in months.” His voice fell. “If you’re planning to spend the night, it will be the best offer I’ve had in a decade.”
Cara tried to ignore the sharp stab of desire, mixed as it always was with the ache of tenderness. They were so perfect for each other—both overachievers, both products of tense households ruled by demanding mothers. Of course, Tate’s home had been on an exclusive street in Pacific Heights and Cara’s in a run-down row house near the Oakland docks. Tate had received a new BMW for his high school graduation, while Cara had received a bill for the first of many college tuition payments.
She closed her eyes. Forgive me, Tate.
“Honey, are you okay?” Tate Winslow’s voice hardened. “I heard about the Costello appeal. Has something happened? If so, I’ll send someone to—”
“I’m fine, Tate. I just—I miss you.” This much was true, without question. If a whole day passed without the sound of his voice, Cara felt as if a physical part of her were missing. “So ditch the policy wonks and get yourself over here.” She struggled for a tone of light seduction. “If you find a trail of lingerie scattered over the floor, don’t worry. It’s just another lovesick California constituent who’s desperate for some hands-on advocacy.”
“A smart senator always pleases his constituents. I’ll be there in eleven minutes,” he said huskily. “Assuming that I don’t get pulled over by S.F.’s finest for a moving violation. Hold on a sec.” He murmured a few words and she heard a door close. “Just cancelled two phone calls. Now I can be there in eight minutes. Honey, are you sure nothing’s wrong? What’s that sound I hear?”
Her heart breaking, Cara thought. Like dry stalks in a dry wind. “Just a truck going by. You really should tackle the urban noise issue, Senator. It would give you major voter points.” She was crying as she got out of her car, tears cold and slick on her cheeks. A woman with spiky orange hair walked past, staring at her curiously.
“I’ll pass your concern on to Greg. He sends his regards, by the way, and says he can’t wait to see you and the girls.”
“Your brother is far too smooth for his own good.”
“Don’t I know it. But with you, he actually means the compliments. And he really is crazy about the girls. So is my mother, who promises she’ll drop by with that Ming Dynasty Chinese bowl for the reception.” Tate sounded breathless. “Make that six minutes. It will be faster for me to walk in all this traffic. Add sixty seconds so I can stop for roses at the corner.”
“No roses.” Cara brushed vainly at her wet cheeks. “You’ve already given me too many gifts, Tate.”
“The hell I have. You send them all back.” The junior senator from California sounded out of breath. “Almost at Geary Street.”
Cara had dried her face by the time she reached Tate’s building. She waved to his doorman, then took the elevator up to the twelfth floor. In the sunny living room, she dropped her jacket and kicked off her shoes. One more time, she thought. To remember him—and how close we came to happiness. “I’ll be waiting, Senator. I’ll be the naked woman sprawled across your bed.”
“Hanging up now.” The phone clicked off. Minutes later a key rattled in the lock.
Tate Winslow opened the door and studied the trail of clothes that led across the floor into his bedroom. “If these clothes belong to a prior tenant, I’m going to be extremely disappointed.”
“Come on in and find out.”
Cara’s voice caught as he stood in the doorway, afternoon sunlight touching his ruggedly handsome face. She already saw changes there, lines of strain from too many late meetings and too many people who wanted a piece of his soul.
She raised one bare foot from beneath the covers. “I hope those phone calls you missed weren’t too important.”
“They’re all important. Wetlands conservation. Dwindling tax base. My mother says all I do is talk on the phone, do you know that? But the right word at the right time can make all the difference when—” He frowned. “Hell, Cara, you don’t want to hear about my problems now.”
The silk comforter fell to the floor. She pushed to one elbow, all smooth skin and teasing eyes. “You have one problem that I’m going to take care of, Senator.”
“In a minute you’ll have me on my knees, honey.” Tate tossed down his jacket, and his belt went flying. “I don’t see you for two days and it feels like a year.”
Cara considered the best way to distract him from his worries. “You mentioned a flower delivery?”
A huge bundle of roses appeared from behind his back. “Right here, ma’am. Do I rate a tip?”
“You bet.” She gripped his tie and pulled him closer, all teasing gone. “I need you inside me. Right now.” Her fingers dug into his shoulders. “Please, Tate.” One last time.
She closed her eyes, hiding the sadness he wouldn’t miss.
The force of his body came as a shock, pinning her against the sheets while his hands circled her waist. Whispering her name, he shoved aside the sheet and studied her full breasts. “God help me, I’ll never get enough of you.”
She was already aroused, already slick and restless with desire, and his fingers made her gasp with pleasure. “Now,” she said hoarsely, pushing up against him. “Don’t talk, Tate. Don’t think. Just do it.”
His clothes dropped in layers and then he pulled her astride him. Cara closed her eyes as his fingers found her with unerring skill. He pinned her hips and filled her in one deep thrust, taking her with brooding urgency.
For one blind moment the threats were gone, the worries forgotten. She gasped his name, shocked at the speed and intensity of the climax that ripped through her. She was barely aware of him watching her.
When she finally opened her eyes, he began the whole process again, until they both lay sweaty and exhausted, with the covers tangled around them and the faint scent of perfume drifting from the roses scattered over the floor.
“Do you have any idea how much I love you?”
Hard fingers trailed over Cara’s face, but she didn’t open her eyes.
It was too soon for words. She needed to prepare, to close her heart, which was still racing from the amazing sex she’d just had.
No, not sex. Something far deeper and infinitely more complex.
The skin at her neck prickled, and she looked down to see three diamonds glittering against her skin, strung like tears from a silver chain.
“For your wedding dress.” Tate smiled uncertainly. “If you want different stones or something bigger, you can exchange these. I already spoke to the jeweler about that. The girls thought they were just right.”
“You showed them to Sophy and Audra?”
“I figured it was a girl thing. They know you better than anyone, plus they’re brutally honest, the way only kids can be.”
The stones were clear and bright, like the old yearnings Cara couldn’t suppress. “They’re perfect, Tate.” Suddenly the diamonds felt unbearably cold. “But they’re far too expensive.”
“To hell with expense. I’m not getting married ever again—and neither are you, if I can help it.”
Something tore at her throat. Be hard, she thought. Do it now.
“I can’t take them.” She pressed the chain into his hand and stood up. Behind her the phone rang, but neither moved. Tate cursed at the sound of his assistant’s voice on the answering machine.
“Sorry to disturb you, Senator.” There was a discreet cough. “I’m afraid that call you’ve been waiting for just came through from London.”
Tate ran a hand through his hair. “I need to return this one, Cara. It will only take me ten minutes, then we can talk.”
The call made it easier.
She nodded calmly and picked up her clothes. “I have to shower. Don’t hurry for me.”
He was staring at her, a puzzled look on his face. “What’s wrong?”
Cara picked up her overturned shoes and studied them dispassionately. “Nothing.” Everything. “It’s been a long day, that’s all. Make your call, please.”
Standing beneath the hot spray of the shower a few minutes later, Cara locked her arms and took in long, shuddering breaths. It wasn’t normal to feel so much, to know someone simply by the echo of a footstep or the brush of his hand. It had to be unnatural that the air felt charged and seemed to dance whenever he was close.
She tried to believe that. It helped her to steel her resolve.
She had locked the door, and it rattled now.
“Cara? Damn it, what’s wrong?”
She was fully dressed when she opened the door. Her hair was brushed smooth, glistening where it was caught back in a rubber band, and her cheeks were pale beneath their careful makeup. “I have to go, Tate.”
“Go?” He stared at her, taking in her fully buttoned suit, the purse on her shoulder. “I don’t understand. You have to pick out your dress tonight. You know it’s your last chance. Otherwise, they won’t guarantee the work will be done in time.”
Oh, the insidious stab of weakness.
The pain of letting go of so many dreams.
“It doesn’t matter, Tate. I won’t be needing the dress after all.” Cara turned, drawing her hands behind her back. Don’t let him see, she prayed. Above all, don’t let him argue. “Not today. Not next week.”
“I don’t understand,” he repeated. “Do you have to work late again? Is this something to do with the Costello appeal?”
“It has nothing to do with work.” Cara hardened her voice, closed her heart. “It’s over between us.” She forced out the awful words like pits from a bitter fruit. “I’m sorry, Tate, but I can’t marry you. The wedding is off.”