Vulnerable (31 page)

Yet Tamara never responded to her appeal.

Sicily was crossing the floating bridge heading to Crescent Island, holding her coffee tumbler in her trembling hand when she heard her cellular ringing. She attempted to change lanes. Because her Everything Dayna-endorsed bag was on the passenger's floor, she could not grab it. She reached for the dial and lowered the volume of Maxwell playing on her CD player. His voice—his lyrics—kept her from thinking about what she most wanted to think about.
What might have been.

Once she exited the freeway leading to Crescent Island, she
placed her coffee tumbler in the beverage holder and pulled over to the side of the isolated, two-lane road. She parked feet away from a sign in large letters, “Welcome to Crescent Island,” that greeted each visitor or local upon entering the islet. When she reached for her cellular, she spoke, “Three messages?” Her heart began to pulsate, but Sicily was not even aware of her racing heartbeat.
Tamara?
Anxious, she listened to the first message, but was instantly crestfallen. While the second message played, she began to sit upright. “Oh, Lord!” Sicily listened to the third message. “What?” Hurriedly, she dialed her office and her EA answered on the first ring. “It's Sicily.”

With a sigh of relief, the assistant said, “You
are
coming in today?”

“Why would I not?”

“I wouldn't blame you if you didn't. It's pandemonium!”

“I've received three calls, all about the media—the satellite vans, everything. Homeowners adjacent to the campus, they are com-plaining. All I need to hear next is that there are helicopters flying overhead. Please tell me it's not so!”

“Not helicopters. But the press…what do I tell them? They are so pushy.”

“No comment! That's what you say. No matter what they say to you, you tell them flat-out,
no comment!”

“Okay, sure.”

“Did Rawn Poussaint come in today?”

“He's here, yes.”

Sicily was hardly surprised. “Look, I'm fifteen minutes away. The board president has called an executive meeting. Start sending e-mails. Find out each trustees' availability and make it work.”

“Will do.”

Sitting in her car, the sound of quiet consuming her, her heart and mind rushed much faster than her emotional state could handle.
Sicily was confused, not about how to handle Rawn, but about Tamara.
This was the one.
In every conceivable way, Tamara was the one—talkative and charming and educated, and she was complex, which for Sicily meant that there would always be some level of passion. And she knew how and where to touch. Tamara had almost all of what Sicily wanted and needed. They coalesced beautifully; they clicked—and from the start. In a blink of an eye, she went from attached to alone. Disappointment, most often, was a profoundly deep thing.

I forget to Om.

•  •  •

Two nights ago, Dr. Poussaint was about to leave for the airport and taking the last flight out of DIA into Seattle when Khalil called him.

“Dr. P., I think you should hire Ezra Hirsch.”

“Hire him, why? Who is he?”

“He's an attorney, and Rawn needs one. I can't talk sense into his head, but you can reach him.”

“He didn't kill the woman. What does he need with an attorney?”

“We both know that. But, Dr. P., we live in voyeuristic times. The media is controlling this. That puts pressure on authorities…I think you should at least contact Hirsch.”

Impatient, Dr. Poussaint reached for a pen and pad nearby and asked, “What's his number?”

Now, days later, he sat with his son in Café Neuf. They attempted to discuss anything and everything except the obvious—D'Becca. Ezra Hirsch was late, and Dr. Poussaint loathed how some people did not place more value on time, especially his.

Rawn felt his father's exasperation. “Daddy, it's probably traffic. Plus, it's raining.”

Dr. Poussaint did not want to take out his frustration on his son. He sensed that he was not himself. He wanted to diminish any lingering tension, so he said, “The ferry might have saved him some time.”

With weary eyes, Rawn looked over to his father seated across the table, and quietly, he smiled because he knew it was what his father needed to see.

Jean-Pierre greeted their table. “Anything more, Dr. P?”

“C'est tout,
Jean-Pierre.
Merci.”

“Rawn?”

With his eyes pressed shut, he nodded, sliding an Orangina to the side.

“Anything,
d'accord?”

“Definitely.”

Ezra Hirsch entered Café Neuf. Rawn looked up to the tall man standing at the entrance, raindrops dripping from his gray overcoat, his dirty-blond hair flat against his skull, and not holding an umbrella it made Rawn reminisce the day he first set eyes on D'Becca. She had rushed into Café Neuf out of the cool summer rain, her outfit soaked, her expensive shoes ruined, her hair she spent hours waiting to have done at Gene Juarez was—and the phrase Sicily jokingly used on Thanksgiving—a hot mess. Soaking wet, Ezra Hirsch was a mildly good-looking man in his early-forties. A polished and highly visible Seattle attorney, he won a high-profile case last year for the famous running back, Lou Baker Washington, on rape charges. Rawn, and everyone he discussed the case with, believed Washington raped the young woman, but the pundits who went on television talk shows to discuss the case said Hirsch chose the right jury and the chances of Washington being acquitted were pretty damn good. Hirsch appreciated something the prosecutor did not: both men and women
would give Washington the benefit of the doubt, in particular, because he had a solid reputation and he was, at least publicly anyway, happily married; whereas the young groupie, who had pursued the ballplayer for months, was less credible. When he had invited her to his room following a game in Seattle, Hirsch had persuasively argued to the jury that things did not turn out as the accuser had hoped. Because she had felt dissed after their sexual encounter, the following afternoon she had walked into a Seattle police station and said to an officer seated at the desk, “Lou Baker Washington raped me last night.”

“Ça va!” Jean-Pierre greeted the attorney.

At first puzzled, Hirsch eventually cracked a grin which revealed a visible diastema. He said, “Ça va.”

“Can I?…”

“Ezra Hirsch?” Dr. Poussaint called out.

“Oh, the solicitor. Welcome!” said Jean-Pierre.

“I'll go…”

“Oui-oui.
Anything you want? Café au lait?”

“You don't serve beer, do you?”

“No, not the
bière.”

“Fine, I'll…Sure, a café au lait.”

Rawn and his father were on their feet when the distinguished attorney approached their table. In a formal manner, they shook hands and introduced themselves.

“We appreciate that you would see us on such short notice.”

“Well, I follow CNN like a lot of Americans. And Khalil tells me the two of you grew up together. He thinks—and I likewise think—you need a lawyer. At the very least, you need legal counsel.”

“We need to find out what's going on. There has been no new information. This woman that was killed…D'Becca—her death remains a mystery. There are no suspects; not even this Sebastian
Michaels, whom the authorities have cleared. Only my son. They don't say he's a suspect…”

“Yes,” said the attorney. “He's become a person of interest.”

“His name…his reputation is being tossed around like a Frisbee. When this kind of thing gets started…Once information gets put out there, you can't control it. It's like the mathematical theory of chaos. The whole idea that a powerful storm in New England may be caused by a butterfly flapping its wings in China…” Dr. Poussaint looked over to his son and back to the attorney. “Mr. Hirsch…”

“High-profile events can have a butterfly effect, yes. And it's Ezra, please.”

“Ezra…as we speak, the private school where my son teaches, the trustees are having a meeting.”

Jean-Pierre said,
“Pardon!”
He placed the café au lait on the table. “I make café au lait like Rawn like.” He grinned.

Out of politeness, Rawn's lips curved faintly.

“Okay!
Merci!”
said the attorney.

“You very welcome.” A non-intrusive man, Jean-Pierre excused himself from their table.

Hirsch took a sip from the bowl, and with an approving expression, said, “Now that's the real deal!”

They laughed, which eased any anxiety that might have existed since he arrived.

Hirsch leaned into the birch and polar wood table, his hands wrapped around the bowl of café au lait. His tone and body language solemn, he said, “I won't discuss my fee until I hear what Rawn has to say. What you tell me here at this table doesn't leave this table.” He looked to Dr. Poussaint, the person who had reached out to him and most likely the person who would be paying his retainer. “What Rawn says here at this table gives me an idea of
exactly what I need to do. Or what I
can
do for him.” He turned to Rawn and looked straight into his somber eyes.

Rawn nodded, leaning closer into the table.

“I'm familiar with the board of trustees of Gumble-Wesley. I play golf—and yes, Dr. Poussaint, I understand that you are quite the golfer, but that's a subject to follow up on at a later time…I play golf with one of the trustees. Insofar as there being a conflict, there's no conflict. But I would trust that, as you say, Dr. Poussaint, the board
is
discussing your son as we speak, and they're probably deciding on whether Rawn should take a leave…”

“A
leave?”

“Let him finish, Rawn.”

“The coverage at the Academy has been on nearly every news outlet. Yesterday, footage of you leaving the school and getting into your Jeep was looped over and over—the media tailing you like you're a celebrity. It's unfortunate or fortunate, depending on how you choose to look at it, that you're photogenic and educated and come from a background that—how shall I put it?—is not typical in potentially high-profile cases when the accused is not a public figure. All the cable talk shows are still talking about you. It's become a cause célèbre.
Politically Incorrect
and Leno, probably even Letterman, commented about it last night. It's…Rawn is a distraction.”

“I see your point,” Dr. Poussaint said.

But Rawn did not.

“What do you feel comfortable sharing with me?”

With a shrug, Rawn asked, “What do you want to know?”

“Why don't you start at the beginning?”

S
icily had been pacing back and forth and chomping at the bit for ten minutes. Of all the times her cellular was turned off! With the mobile in her hand, she recited a simple, barren prayer:
Please call back, Tamara.
Something innate told her this one would not be answered in her favor. Still, her heart did the believing, not her spirit. Not her logic. Not her God-given good sense. Good sense did not
feel
.

Her telephone rang, and she looked over her shoulder, startled by the sound. “Oh, great! She's calling on my landline.” Sicily could not reach the telephone fast enough, and once it was in her hand, she punched the receive call button. Anxious, she greeted the caller with a rushed, “Hello!” Her shoulders slumped. “Oh, Rawn. Hi.”

“Can I come up?”

Instinctively, Sicily turned to look beyond the stunning paned windows that took up a full wall and offered her a gloomy Elliott Bay view. “Where are you?”

“I'm at the payphone on the corner.”

“Rawn…” Hearing his voice confiscated the stone that rested in her heavy heart. “First, I'm getting you a cell phone, and two, it's pouring! You could've pushed the buzzer.” She walked to the window and looked out at the cold rain painting the city a fusion of charcoal gray and silver. Sicily thought, rain always rearranged the energy in the universe.

“I wasn't sure whether you were alone. And…someone might see me, and I don't want it to get back to the board, or end up on one of those gossip TV programs.”

“Aren't you a little paranoid?”

“Situationally…Hey, this thing has been surreal.”

When she opened the door to her loft, Rawn stood before her drenched, coolly and rationally as usual. He did not look like a man the authorities were eyeballing for the death of D'Becca, and investigating whether he was the one who could murder someone and behave as though he were innocent. Sicily could not help but wonder what her life—their lives—would be like in that very moment had he never met D'Becca, and she and Tamara never exchanged phone numbers at the Library Bistro the night of Pricilla's reading and book signing at Elliott Bay Books. Who would they be if she were straight? If she had the slightest urge to be with men—like Tamara—Rawn would be at the top of her list. She knew when they first met—and before she trusted him enough to tell him she was lesbian—that Rawn had a thing for her.

“Come in!”

“Oh, great!” he greeted her, the room smelling of sandalwood. “A fire. You aren't expecting?…”

“No.” She cut him off, closing the door.

“I needed…You're the only person I can really talk to. Khalil might as well move to London. Tera…she's so busy. You won't believe it. She called Janelle for advice.”

“Janelle? Your
ex
, Janelle?”

“That Janelle.” Rawn peeled his bomber jacket off; it was soaking wet.

“Did you talk to her?”

“Janelle? Yeah.”

“Let me get something so you can dry yourself off. Place your jacket on the back of the stool.”