‘It’s not been a very flattering few days,’ she said.
‘No, I guess not.’ Freeman drank some wine, then took a breath and began. ‘Until about ten years ago, attorneys weren’t allowed to advertise, did you know that?’
She nodded.
‘And even now, when it’s technically legal, it’s still not particularly good for business unless you’re doing divorce or DUI or ambulance chasing. I mean it kind of puts you in the low-rent market. Good attorneys don’t advertise because they don’t need to, and if they do need to, they’re not good.’ He had a good smile, a strong face. Sincere, brown eyes, a full head of dark hair. ‘It’s a vicious circle.’
‘And I am advertising?’
‘I’ve got seven associates left. I had to let three go in the last twelve months. Business is terrible. This is a high-profile case. Owen Nash was a well-known man.’
It didn’t surprise her. She was to the point where she thought nothing could surprise her. At least she knew.
But at the mention of Owen’s name, a shadow fell within her. She didn’t want to be sitting here, drinking wine, enjoying food. ‘I didn’t kill him, David.’
He patted her hand across the table. ‘Of course you didn’t.’
He didn’t believe her. He’d told her Saturday, before they’d even talked, before he’d reviewed any of the prosecution’s evidence, that it was irrelevant whether or not she’d killed Nash – he was going to get her off.
‘But I didn’t!’
He shushed her gently, index finger to his lips. ‘I must say, there is very little evidence that you did.’
‘What about the will?’
He brushed that away. ‘The will. Does the will put you on the boat? Did it give you the opportunity to kill Owen? Did it give you the means? You were home, weren’t you?’
She nodded.
‘All right, then. We will prove you were home. The will, like the rest of the so-called evidence, is completely irrelevant. What do they have? The will? The ticket to Japan?’
‘I thought the police would…’
‘Of course. Naturally.’ He emptied the bottle into their glasses and continued with the litany. ‘There is nothing physically tying you to the gun, no proof you pulled the trigger’ – he held up a finger, stopping her. ‘Uh, uh. No more denials. They don’t matter, you see? There is nothing that could prove you did it. I don’t even see a case that will get to trial. At the preliminary hearing, we point out the racial discrimination, mixed in with your profession… It’s really not going anywhere. There is simply no hard evidence.’
May Shinn was back in her apartment. David Freeman had driven her home, then walked up and made sure she was safe inside her door.
She ran a bath and sank into the hot water, letting the memories wash over her. She thought it might have been the closeness to death that brought her and Owen back to life.
The first couple of weeks they were inseparable – she canceled her appointments with all her clients. She didn’t know who Owen was then, didn’t know that he had money. All she knew was he made her feel things, that there was some connection between her mind and her body that she’d lost touch with long before, and now while it was back, for however short a time, she was going to keep it.
There was strange behavior – they tied each other up, blindfolded each other, tried every position and every orifice. They went outside at two in the morning and did it on the sidewalk. They shaved each other bare. He ate her with honey and chocolate and, once, garlic, which burned hotter and longer than Spanish fly. Owen had his appetites.
The man was also in fantastic shape. Big, barrel-chested, hard everywhere. He drank Scotch and wine and brandy and took pills to get to sleep. Gradually she became aware that he was doing business from her house – phone calls in the middle of whatever they were doing, mention of the Wheel, taking care of his daughter’s problems. He had a real life somewhere out there, but it wasn’t coming between them.
She didn’t understand it exactly. She just knew that in some unspoken way they were in this together, finding something out, something essential for them both to go on. It wasn’t the sex, or at least it wasn’t only the sex.
She’d made her living from sex for fifteen years, and none of it had seriously touched her. Her life, even her professional life, had evolved into something remote. She made love with her clients, but not every time she saw them. When they needed it, predictably missionary after the first few times, then she was there. Often they couldn’t make it. More often they wanted to hug, lie there afterward and talk.
She made them dinners, too. Scampi in brandy, raw oysters, rare filet and cabernet. She’d turned into a great cook. She sang for them, played piano while they sat with their bourbon or gin, gave them the companionship or escape or a kind of romance they didn’t find in their homes.
Owen, though. Owen wasn’t like anyone else. And not just his hungers. He didn’t live a life of quiet desperation. He wasn’t looking for respite, or peace, or a sheen of culture laid on top of the vulgarity of the world. He’d seen it for what it was, or more, he’d seen himself for what he was.
No games. And she was with him. The oblivion – the sex – the sex was the only way they both knew anymore to get to it, to get underneath the crust. Something was cooking inside each of them, threatening to blow if it didn’t get some release, get through the crust.
It was morning, early, before dawn. The sky was gray in the east and still dark over the ocean.
May Shinn had been out of bed for an hour, walking naked in the dark. She moved away from her turret windows and went back through the kitchen to the bedroom, stopping to pick up her razor-sharp boning knife. Owen slept on the bed, breathing regularly, on his back.
She put the edge of the knife up under his throat, sitting, watching him breathe. The bedroom was darker than the rest of the apartment. Finally she laid the blade down across his collarbone and kissed him.
‘Owen.’
He woke up like no one else. He simply opened his eyes and was all the way there. ‘What?’
She moved the edge of the blade back up so it touched the skin above his Adam’s apple. ‘Do you feel this?’
‘Would this be a bad time to nod?’
‘Do you want me to kill you?’
He closed his eyes again, took a couple of breaths. ‘That’s where we’re going, isn’t it?’ He didn’t move.
‘Owen. What are we doing?’
He took a moment. Perhaps he didn’t know either. Maybe they both knew and it scared them too much. ‘What are we doing?’ she asked again.
‘We’re showing each other each other.’ He swallowed. She could feel the blade move over his skin.
‘I don’t know what I feel.’
‘You love me.’ And as soon as he said it, she knew it was true. She felt her eyes tearing and tightened her hand on the knife. ‘And I love you,’ he said, ‘but I don’t want you to put your hopes in me. I’m not saving your life, May.’
‘I’m what you want, though.’
‘That’s right. You’re what I want. But I play fair. I’m telling you straight, the best way I know how.’
‘I’m a whore, Owen. I’m nothing, but I play fair, too. You know me. I don’t know how long I’ve loathed what I am. I don’t want to care about you, but you’re my last great chance…’
Owen had closed his eyes again. She pulled the knife away from his throat. ‘I’ve warned you,’ she said.
‘And I’ve warned you.’ He pulled her down and kissed her, held her against his chest.
23
The next morning, Pullios was sitting in Hardy’s office when he walked in at 8:25. She held the morning Chronicle folded in her lap. ‘Nice story,’ she said. She opened the paper to the front-page article, in its now familiar spot lower right: ‘State To Seek Death Penalty In Nash Murder.’ And under it: ‘D.A. Claims Special Circumstances – Murder For Profit – In Tycoon’s Death.’