She thought she caught a hint of a smirk, but couldn't be sure through the beard.
Dawn said, "That's it, Jerry! I told you this was totally a waste of time! We're going!"
"No-no. Just a second, darlin. This is your mother and she's got some bad ideas about me. I don't know why and I don't know who, but someone's been feedin her lies and I need to set her straight. I can't have her or anyone else be-lievin this about me."
So calm and reasoned… an excellent portrayal of an innocent man confronting his accuser. If it weren't for those eyes, Christy could almost believe…
"Just get out of Dawn's life and I won't say a word about this."
He smiled sweetly and put his arm around Dawn. "But I want to be a part of her life. She's become very important to me. So let's get back to this man I supposedly murdered—Gephardt, was it?"
"Gerhard. Michael Gerhard."
"I haven't read or heard anything about this. Where did it happen and what was the time of his death?"
Dawnie tugged on his arm. "Come on, Jerry. This is total bullshit."
"Just give me a minute, darlin. If he was killed while you and I were together, that'll prove I had nothin to do with it." He turned back to Christy. "If you'll show me the news article, we can probably settle this here and now."
Oh, hell.
"There is no article."
"Well then, a police report."
"I don't have that."
His expression turned puzzled. "Then… what do you have?"
"The man who found the body."
"The man you can't name. Well, if he reported the crime—"
"He did, but by the time the police got there the body was gone."
"What?" He laughed. "Somebody tells you a man was murdered but there's no body? How do we know this Gerhard ain't sittin in some bar in Florida drinkin up the money you paid him? I think you've been sold a bill of goods, Mrs. P."
For an instant, Christy floundered, at a loss for a response. Without a body, she looked like a fool. Then she remembered—
"Where were you last night?"
"Was that when he was murdered?"
"No, that's when you kidnapped a man."
"Really? Let's see… I was eating dinner at Peter Luger's with a game producer from Konami." He looked at Dawn. "I told you about that, right?"
She nodded. "He was pitching our game concept."
He turned back to Christy. "Now, I wish I could show you the receipt from the restaurant, but I didn't pay for dinner. I can have the producer back up my presence."
"You do that."
"I will. Meanwhile, where am I keepin this person I supposedly kidnapped?"
"He escaped."
"Well then, he must have pressed charges against me. How come I ain't been arrested?"
"He won't press charges and you know it."
"I know no such thing. When this man reported the crime, did he at least say when it happened?" He grinned. "I mean, what's the point of havin an alibi if we don't know the time of the crime."
Christy knew then that she was beaten. He'd played her like the proverbial fiddle, coming on all calm and rational while making her look like a scatterbrained paranoid.
Just what Jack had said would happen.
He raised his eyebrows. "Don't tell me there's no police report of this crime either."
"You know damn well there isn't."
He spread his hands in a gesture of supplication. "Mrs. P, do you hear yourself? You've been accusin me of two terrible crimes that never happened."
Christy wanted to shout that they damn well did happen but knew that would make her look more unbalanced than she already did.
"Look," he said. "Because of my feelings for Dawn, and because you're her mother, I'm gonna forget this ever happened—"
"Don't you—"
"—because I know you're upset about the difference in our ages."
"She's still in high school, damn it!"
"I'm aware of that. And I know I'd be just as upset if positions was reversed. But she's a woman now, and we have feelins for each other that won't be denied. I hope that you'll eventually find it in your heart to accept our relationship and give up usin these outrageous accusations to try to break us up. It ain't gonna work." He hugged Dawn against him. "We're in this together for the long run." He turned her toward the door. "Come on, Dawn. Let's go."
As she stepped through the door Dawnie looked over her shoulder and said, "Really, Mom, that was totally pathetic."
Christy stood frozen, paralyzed. She wanted to run to the door and scream for Dawn to come back. But that wouldn't work.
She's right: I am pathetic.
The very thing Jack had warned her about had happened. That man had driven a wedge between her and Dawnie—and she'd provided the hammer. He'd been so convincing, made such a good case for his innocence, that she'd almost started to doubt his guilt herself.
His guilt…
A wave of dizziness swept over her and she dropped into a chair.
What proof did she have of his guilt? Nothing. Just Jack's opinions. What if he was conning her? Without police reports, who could say a crime had been committed. What if—?
Wait. What was she thinking? She had to trust someone, and the same instinct that warned her against that man told her she could trust Jack.
She hoped she was right about him, and prayed he was having some luck finding hard evidence against this son of a bitch.
7
"Sounds to me like you shouldn't be expecting to ask him any follow-up questions," Abe said after Jack finished telling him about his Hank Thompson interview. "Not likely."
Holding a chip laden with green glop before his mouth, Abe said, "Looks awful, tastes wonderful," then made it disappear.
Jack had brought tortilla chips and a container of Gia's homemade gua-camole.
"I can't believe you've never had guacamole before."
"I was raised kosher. What do I know from Mexican food?"
"You haven't been kosher since the Roosevelt administration—Teddy's."
Abe sighed. "I should get out more already."
He dipped another chip, but on the way to his mouth some of the guacamole slipped off and landed on the cover of Rakshasa.
"Oy. Sorry."
Yesterday he'd dropped off the pair of Jake Fixx novels and asked Abe to give them a look while Jack concentrated on Kick.
"Did you get to read it?"
A stubby finger transferred the green dollop from the cover to his mouth.
"Skimmed is more like it. A novel maven I'm not. I prefer my fiction to pretend to be true."
"Like histories and biographies and newspapers?"
"Exactly. I need that pretense already. Take that away and my mind wanders."
"Did it stay on track enough to finish the book?"
"Barely."
"And?"
"As I said, I'm no maven of the novel, but for a Pulitzer Prize I don't think this P. Frank Winslow should be holding his breath."
"I don't care if he's any good. How close is he to what really happened?"
"Very. Too."
"Should I be creeped out?"
"Like a thousand hairy spiders crawling all over you."
"Swell." Jack shook off the sensation. "How the hell—?"
"The little details, they're different, but the big ones he's got: the ship, the big blue breeyes from India—maybe you should have been interviewing him instead of Thompson."
"Maybe I will." No, he definitely would. Had to. He could not let this go. But later. Now… "What do you remember about the Atlanta abortionist murders?"