Chapter 12
Suzannah was tired. Tired but happy.
The crime scene tape was still up when John dropped her home at eight o’clock to pick up her diaries. He wanted to stick close to her, but something had come up, something pretty hot to judge by his ill-concealed excitement. So she shooed him on his way, collected the diaries and drove herself to the station.
It didn’t take long to confirm that the date on every last one of the receipts confiscated from Geoffrey Mann's vehicle matched exactly with dates of flower deliveries. She was a little troubled that there were no corresponding receipts for a handful of the X’s on her calendar, but Ray indicated they had yet to search Mann’s apartment. Who knew what that would yield? As for Mann, he’d lawyered up—maybe he wasn’t as crazy as she’d initially thought—and would make an appearance this morning.
“Is that all for now?” she asked Ray.
“Far as I can see. We’ll keep you apprised.”
“Thanks.” She turned to leave, then turned back again. “Is John expected back any time soon?”
“Any minute. But he’s gonna have his hands full.” Ray grinned. “Popped a local businessman on money laundering and conspiracy to import cocaine, plus a half dozen other fraud-related possibilities.” He cocked his head. “Did you want me to give him a message for you?”
She wanted to invite John to supper. She wanted to cook something impossibly elaborate for him. She wanted to feed his every hunger. And she wanted to talk at last about that big unspoken thing between them that both thrilled and terrified her.
She felt a blush rise in her face. “No, it’s okay. I’ll catch up to him.”
She did catch up to him, but not the way she intended to. On her way out of the station house, she caught a glimpse of him escorting a handcuffed prisoner. Instinctively, she shrank back into the shadow of the stairwell. Gilles DeBoeuf! Vince’s client.
Dear Lord, it couldn’t be happening.
But unquestionably it was. Ray had said a local businessman. Money laundering, conspiracy to import cocaine, fraud. She shook her head in disbelief. She’d always disliked DeBoeuf, but because of his sexual mores, which were on par with the average alley cat, not because she thought he was involved in anything shady, let alone downright criminal.
She risked another glance, to make sure she wasn’t mistaken. No, that was DeBoeuf all right, with his Armani suit and hundred-dollar haircut. And oh, God, he was on his way to be paraded before the sergeant like a bar-room brawler or a petty thief. DeBoeuf would be livid at this humiliation.
She’d better talk to Vince.
Stepping out of the stairwell, she hurried out of the station, cell phone already in hand. Unlocking her rental, she jumped in and dialed the office, only to have Candace advise that Vince was already en route to the station. She hung up and dialed Vince’s cell phone.
“I guess DeBoeuf called you already,” she said without preamble.
“Yes, though he’d have done better to call Eddie Greenspan.”
The foremost criminal lawyer in the country? Author of the “Criminal Code”? “It sounds bad, I know, but there are plenty of home-grown criminal lawyers who can do the job, don’t you think?”
“From the sound of the case they’ve built against him, he might need to import OJ’s defense team. And maybe I will, too,” he muttered.
Suzannah’s pulse jumped. “What do you mean?”
“According to DeBoeuf, they’ve got detail like you wouldn’t believe. Every numbered company we’ve ever incorporated for him, every transfer, every asset we ever moved around.” Vince swore, the uncharacteristic epithet sounding strange in her ear. “Can you believe DeBoeuf accused me of selling him out?”
“No.” Suzannah’s blood ran cold. No, no, no.
“Yes! The little prick. As if I knew, or particularly cared, what he was doing with those companies. Dammit, I just followed instructions. He knows that.”
“Of course he does,” she soothed automatically, her mind racing sickly. “It obviously came from another source, which will be established in due course.”
Even as she spoke the words, the ice started invading her body, filling in the great yawning cavity that had suddenly opened up in her midsection.
She was the source. The conclusion was inescapable. She replayed it now, the night she’d surprised John in her den. He’d hidden his reading material, or rather intercepted her and distracted her before she could see it. She remembered it clearly because it was the only furtive vibe she’d ever got off him. Police stuff, he’d said, and she’d been only too ready to believe him. Or rather, only too ready to be distracted by an easy smile and a pair of skilled hands. Her skin burned with humiliation.
“Obviously, Gilles has already figured that out for himself, or he wouldn’t be asking me to represent him now, though frankly, I’ll try to talk him into hiring a good criminal specialist. But the thing of it is, no matter who represents him, I’m a little worried about going down right along with him.”
“But you didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Come on, Suzannah. You know how it works. How many times does the client get on the bus in exchange for bringing his lawyer down?”
Oh, she knew, all right. He referred to the practice of an accused providing evidence—real or fabricated—against someone else in exchange for a lighter sentence. Or for a reduced term if the individual already stood convicted. It was a risk you took to practice criminal law.
“I think you can relax on that score, Vince. They’d never offer him a ticket, not for you.” And not John, please God. Surely he wouldn’t see Vince hurt. Surely he wouldn’t do that to anybody. “You’re not a big enough fish, Vince.”
“Gee, I’m flattered. I think.”
“Number one, you’re not dirty. You’ve got an impeccable reputation, a respectable practice–”
“Present client excepted.”
“Agreed. And you’ve never made yourself a thorn in anyone’s side. Nobody’s got even the smallest incentive to want to hurt you, with the possible exception of DeBoeuf, if he really does think you sold him out, and anything he’s got to say will be taken with a bushel of salt.”
Vince swore again, muttered something. She pressed the cell phone closer to her ear. “What’s that?”
“I said, maybe you are. A big enough thorn in the side, that is. A big enough fish.”
Oh no, oh no, oh no. This isn’t happening.
“Suzannah? Are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“I want you to go home right now, gather up all the DeBoeuf files and take them to the office. Put them on my desk. They never left my office, you understand? They never left my care, custody or control.”
“It’s too late.”
A pause. “What do you mean, too late?”
“John Quigley. He’s the arresting officer. I’m pretty sure he saw them. He’s practically been living with me these last weeks, until the last day or so.”
Another curse from Vince.
“I think he read the files, Vince. I think that’s where he got all that detail.”
“Okay, here’s what you’re going to do,” Vince said. “Go home. Don’t talk to anyone. Let me look into it. Presuming DeBoeuf retains me, I’ll talk to the Crown Prosecutor as soon as I can manage it. We’ll know what we’re looking at then.”
“Vince, this is all my fault. I’ve been so blind. I left those files laying around.”
“Hey, sweetie, don’t beat up on yourself. They were just corporate files. You didn’t know—we didn’t know—they could be of interest to the police.”
“If anything happens to you –”
“Nothing’s going to happen to either of us. No way can they use anything Detective Quigley might have gleaned directly from those files.”
She made a strangled sound. “But he doesn’t have to have the files. Now that he knows all the answers, he can go down to Corporate Affairs or Revenue Canada or the freaking Registry Off
ice or wherever the hell he needs to go and ask precisely the right questions. It would be child’s play to gather the information now.”
“Exactly. So you have nothing to worry about. The clever detective put it together all by himself. You think he’s going to dispute that?”
“Vince, I feel so awful.”
“Of course you do, baby. That’s love.”
“No, that’s naiveté.” She wiped moisture from her cheek, amazed to find she was crying. “Look, Vince, I have to go.”
“All right, but don’t do anything rash. Let me look into this, okay?”
“Okay.”
She pressed the button to disconnect, shut the phone off and tossed it on the passenger seat.
“Goddamn you, John Quigley.”
She angled the mirror so she could examine her face. Ugh! She looked like a train wreck. Taking a tissue from her purse, she blotted her face, swearing they were the last tears she’d shed for that man.
Any man.
Slowly, deliberately, she took a compact from her bag and repaired the damage. Then she started the rental, backed out of her spot with exaggerated care and drove home.