The Gray Zone (17 page)

When Weaver and the other man came back into the room, they could barely contain their excitement, the looks on their faces like first-grade boys who had just learned how to make underarm farts.

Weaver spoke first. “I’m going to introduce myself again. I’m Hal Weaver. And you are … Natalie St. Clair. Right?”

Kelly started a mantra in her head:
All’s well that ends well … Stay in control … Less is more … Silence is golden.

“Your fingerprints have shown up in some very interesting places,” put in the other man.

All’s well that ends well … Stay in control … Less is more … Silence is golden.

The men had unraveled quite a bit of her life, and they laid it out before her in their badgering way. She was silent through all of it, even when they placed her at the scene of Porter’s murder and tried to imply she’d had something to do with it; even when they asked about her foster parents and running away. When they unspooled her life all the way back to her mother’s murder and her father’s life sentence, the inside of her cheek bled from biting it. But still she refused to speak.

Finally, the smaller man just looked at Weaver and shook his head. Weaver stomped to the door and shouted into the hall.

“Would someone get that fucking lawyer in here?”

* * *

The Long Beach police headquarters, like every other urban police station, was a human sewer, backed up and oozing people into every available corner and surface. The lobby was a cacophony of shouts, threats, pleas, and cell phone jingles. An orderly line of yuppies reporting minor thefts snaked along a side wall, cautiously eyeing the drug addicts, hookers, and carjackers.

This was Jake’s domain, however, and he strode in, nodding to the officers on duty.

Weaver and his partner were hovering like frustrated hawks on
either side of Kelly when Jake pushed open the door into the room. All three of them wheeled around, the small man looking surprised, Weaver pissed off. Kelly’s face was unexpectedly calm, like a Madonna in a painting, with just a curl of seductive irony around her mouth. Even after nearly a week of thinking about practically nothing or no one
but
Kelly Jensen, Jake was utterly unprepared for the beauty he had first been attracted to during her act at Shrake’s.

One hand still on the doorknob, he pounded on the inside of the door with his other hand, as if he had forgotten to knock before entering. “Hello, gentlemen,” he said, not looking at the men. He purposely addressed the wall above and behind them. “There I was in my office, waiting for my client to call, when I had a premonition … And guess what that premonition was?” He held up his hand, halting a reply from either one of them. “It was that you guys, just like this brick wall, were going to be deaf, dumb, and blind to the law.”

Weaver growled. “Enough of your fuckin’ games, Brooks. We’ve got her nailed.”

Jake snorted. “What you need is a dose of reality, my friend.” He looked over at Kelly. She raised an eyebrow about a millimeter. He smiled at her.

“Gave up the song-and-dance act, eh?”

Kelly responded almost in a monotone. “I pulled a groin muscle.”

Her voice was buttery smooth, like caramel sauce. Jake was momentarily caught off guard. The two detectives seemed surprised to hear her speak too.

“A groin muscle?”

Kelly winked at him. “Not my own.”

Weaver’s patience was running on empty. He whirled on Jake.

“This isn’t Monopoly. She’s not landing on Chance or Community Service. She is going straight to Jail. There’s enough evidence against her to lock her up for a long time.”

Jake patted Weaver on the back. “I’m looking forward to hearing more about your crack investigative work at the preliminary hearing.”

He turned and offered Kelly his hand to help her out of the chair. “Your arraignment’s in forty-five minutes at the courthouse. We can walk from here. You don’t have to think about these bozos anymore until the trial.”

While relieved to be out of the interrogation room, Kelly was still on high alert. She could smell his adrenaline pumping at the challenge she presented. She had instinctively known Jake Brooks would come to her defense and would never believe her to be Porter’s murderer; she’d sensed his trust in Porter’s judgment. But she didn’t yet know how much she could trust him.

On the walk to the courthouse, Jake pressed Kelly for the answers to three questions: Where were her kids? What was her registered address? Where was she working? If they had to post bail, so be it, but it would be a hell of a lot easier if he could get her released on her own recognizance. Unfortunately, her answers—as terse and non-elaborative as his questions—didn’t make OR very feasible. Kids? She couldn’t say without putting them in danger. Address? Las Vegas. Job? Unemployed. Jake felt like a racehorse being loaded into the gate by a green jockey. This was pathetic. This was impossible. This was fucking exciting!

Kelly glanced at Jake and saw his nostrils flare. Was he enjoying this? She tried to picture him with Porter. Jake’s features were so much sharper, more chiseled than Porter’s softer face. Porter trusted Jake, she reminded herself. Could she?

Jake tried again. “You
do
have kids?”

Kelly knew he needed the information. “Two. A boy and a girl.”

“Where are they?”

“I told you. I can’t say.”

“With you? Nearby? Out of state?”

“They’re being properly cared for, okay? Child Protective Services would be fine with it.”

“With friends? Their father?”

Jake saw Kelly’s face shut down. He eased up.

“What are you doing in LA?”

“I had—business here.”

Jake squinted. This case was going to be a bitch.

If the police station was a human sewer, the courthouse was the sewage processing plant, a factory for separating, sorting, and organizing the components of the manure. All the characters from the police station were present, but here in the courthouse they were calmer, quieter, and more anxious.

Kelly and Jake waited their turn, watching the accused approach the judge. Some had attorneys with them; many more did not. The scene was familiar to both of them: Kelly from her hours spent in juvenile courts as a foster child and Jake from his many years in front of the bench. They both sized up the judge, a muscular young Asian man with very short, almost shaved hair and with robes that looked a size too small. The prosecuting attorney barely noticed them. When Kelly’s name was called, they stood together and Jake followed her to the front of the courtroom.

As he had done with every case before hers, the judge cleared his throat, put on his glasses, and read the charges.

“Case number Five-oh-three-oh-four-dash-eight-nine. Natalie St. Clair, aka Kelly Jensen, you are charged with counterfeiting, identity theft, and conspiracy to defraud. How do you plead?”

“Not guilty, your honor.”

“Not guilty,” said Jake at the same time. Kelly glanced at him.

The judge looked up and took off his glasses. That he recognized Jake was clear. Whether that was going to help was not.

“Unless either of you objects, I’m going to enter a trial date of six weeks from now.” He looked first at Kelly, who nodded. He looked at Jake.

“No objection, your honor.”

Kelly sensed a movement to her right and saw the bailiff approach the judge and place the file folder he was carrying in front of him. On went the glasses again, as the judge studied the papers inside. Kelly swiveled around. The small detective who had interrogated her was standing in the back of the courtroom. He grinned at her and touched two fingers to the side of his forehead in salute.

Under her breath she said to Jake, “That detective is here.”

“I know,” murmured Jake. “I was expecting this.”

“Your honor,” Jake said loudly. “I’d like to request that my client be released on her own recognizance.”

The judge kept reading. After ten seconds that felt like ten minutes, he looked up. Off came the glasses. He tapped the file folder with them.

“On what grounds? I see some convincing arguments here that she’s a flight risk.”

“Your honor …” Jake paused and thought quickly. Her kids were in Nevada. Her last job was in Nevada. Her last address was in Nevada. She
was
a flight risk. “My client has left her job in Nevada and is relocating to Southern California.”

“What’s she planning to do here?”

“She’s in the entertainment industry. Actress. She has letters of interest from agents. I can get you copies …”

The judge shook his head. “I’d rather see lottery tickets.”

Jake quickly thought through Kelly’s story, looking for a way out.

“Your honor, I’d like to request supervised own recognizance,” he said. “My supervision.”

Kelly turned to him with a look impossible to decipher—part shock, part outrage, part gratitude.

The judge locked eyes with Jake. “You’ve got your reputation to consider, counselor.”

“My point exactly,” answered Jake.

It occurred to the judge that at last CNN might stop calling to book Jake Brooks as the ever-ready legal talking head with verbal diarrhea. He glanced crossly at the detective against the back wall with intense dislike. He had met that weasel before, and they hadn’t made fast friends. He wasn’t going to be bullied in his own courtroom. He looked at Kelly and grimaced.

“Ms. St. Clair, you are released into the supervised recognizance of Mr. Jake Brooks. Trial date is in six weeks. The bailiff will give you the time and courtroom. Next case!”

Kelly kept her mouth shut all the way out of the courtroom. Once they were outside in the fresh air, she took a breath and laid into Jake. “You’re my babysitter now?”

Jake grinned and nodded.

“It’s better than more jail,” he said simply. “And you’d have had to give up a lot more information to post bail.”

Kelly went silent and followed Jake to his car. He opened the passenger door for her. A saxophone case was on the backseat, belted in like a child. A substitute for a woman, perhaps? Kelly peered back at Jake.

“Allow me to introduce you to my addiction—my sax,” he said, still grinning. He leaned close. “So, just how many of these little capers have you pulled?”

Kelly raised her chin and shook her head.

“Where are you taking me?”

“My office.”

Kelly stepped into his car, flashing her legs.

The kind of legs I wouldn’t mind climbing over
, thought Jake. And then,
Jesus, what are you thinking? Your best friend’s girlfriend? Your
dead
best friend’s girlfriend?

“Hey, Brooks!”

Jake spun around. Standing there were Brewer and Norris, the FBI agents he had alienated the morning of Porter’s murder. The ones who were taking credit for bringing Stacy Steingart to justice.

Norris sneered. “Hey, Natalie St. Clair. Why’d you do it? Why’d you murder your boyfriend?”

Brewer couldn’t resist needling her too. “Your fingerprints are all over Garrett’s room. We know you were there.”

Kelly’s eyes slid from the FBI agents to Jake, judging the danger. But she didn’t have time to figure out an escape before Jake stepped between her and the men.

“Are you losers auditioning for a TV show? You think my client’s going to break down here in the parking lot? Let me remind you that you just
shot and killed
the woman you said was Congressman Garrett’s killer. So unless you’re going to arrest my client and tell the world you just killed the wrong person—on the government’s behalf—you can fuck off.”

Jake’s voice was calm, but his muscles were tensed, like an animal about to spring.

“What about the prints?” pressed Brewer.

“You asshole,” muttered Jake. “What
about
the prints? My client could have been in that room at any time, for any reason. She could be a professional gambler, a hooker, or a maid. Maybe she’s a drag queen. Or maybe she’s just an innocent bystander that you are in the process of harassing.” He shut Kelly’s door firmly and strode to the driver’s door. “See you around,” he said, smiling. Then he fired the engine and roared away.

They drove in silence. Kelly leaned against the passenger door,
looking out the window. She glanced at Jake. He was an arrogant prick—an intelligent, good-looking, arrogant prick. She remembered how infuriating he’d been the night he’d seen her perform at Shrake’s. She guessed they had involuntarily stung each other that first night at the club. Porter had never gotten under her skin like that, never pushed her buttons. He had always been stable and yielding. But there was something more pressing she had to think about now.

“They found Porter’s killer?” she whispered.

Jake glanced at her as he steered the car left on a green arrow. “Have you heard any news since yesterday?”

Kelly’s breath caught. She shook her head.

“No?” Jake flicked on the radio. It was tuned to an all-news station. They listened to a traffic report and two ads. Then the announcer came on.

Updating our lead story at this hour, FBI sources are saying the woman killed when a SWAT team stormed a compound in northern Nevada late yesterday had sent threatening letters to Congressman Porter Garrett. Drafts of six different letters were found during a search of the buildings. The late congressman was found dead in a Las Vegas hotel room last week …

Kelly felt Jake looking for her reaction. She turned to him.

“Is this the truth?”

Jake laughed. “It’s on the news. It must be true, right?” He turned serious when he saw her face. “The DNA did it. Porter was found—did you know this?—with some hairs clenched in his fist and skin under his nails. They checked out with the suspect. Stacy Steingart.”

Kelly’s face froze.

“You know,” Jake said, “I think he grabbed those hairs on
purpose. Even in death his first thought was to protect someone and lead the detectives to the killer.” Jake looked over at Kelly. “To protect a lover, maybe?” He let his voice trail off.

Kelly shook her head to keep the tears from forming in her eyes.

* * *

Settled a little while later in his office, Jake sat on top of his desk, his feet resting on the arms of his chair. Kelly sat in a nearby chair, below him. She knew he was trying to make her uncomfortable enough to get a rise out of her. When she didn’t recoil, he started talking.