Just Take My Heart (7 page)

Zach knew he had made a mistake. He should never have been sitting on Emily's porch watching television when she got home that night. Immediately, a worried look had come into her eyes, and she'd been very cool when she thanked him for taking care of Bess.

He knew that the only reason she hadn't changed their arrangement yet was because of her trial, but he was certain that very soon she would find some excuse to get rid of him. Even worse, would she run some kind of check on him? She was a prosecutor after all. She must not get suspicious.

Zachary Lanning had been the name he'd picked for his new identity in the months that he planned his revenge on Charlotte, her mother, and her kids. He tried never to think about his other names, even though sometimes they bubbled to the surface in his sleep.

In Des Moines he'd been Charley Muir, and in that life he had been an electrician and volunteer fireman. Charlotte was his third wife, but he didn't tell her that. He used his savings to buy her a house. Charley and Charlotte, it sounded so warm and cozy. Then in two years, she kicked him out. Her mother moved in with her and the kids. She camped in my house, he thought, even though when I lived there, she never even came to visit. Charlotte sued him for divorce and the judge awarded her the house and alimony because she claimed she had given up her good job to stay home and cook meals for him. Charlotte was a liar. She had hated that job.

Then he found out that she was dating one of the other guys in the firehouse, Rick Morgan. He overheard Rick tell someone that Charlotte had split because she was afraid of him, that he was creepy . . .

It had been a treat watching Emily Wallace spend her whole summer pulling a case together to convict a guy for killing his wife. And she's going to do it, too, Zach thought, that's how smart she is. But she's not smart enough to know I killed five people at once!

He took pride in the fact that Emily's name and face were all over the media --it was almost as though they were complimenting him, too.

No one is closer to her than I am, he thought. I check her e-mails. I go through her desk. I touch her clothes. I read the letters her husband wrote to her from Iraq. I know Emily better than she knows herself.

For now he had to do something to quell her suspicions, however. He scouted around the neighborhood and found a high school kid who wanted some kind of after-school job. Then Friday evening of the second week of the trial, he watched for Emily coming home and stopped her as she was getting out of the car.

"Emily, I'm so sorry, I've been switched to working the four-to-eleven shift in the warehouse for awhile," he lied. "That doesn't do you much good with Bess."

He really resented seeing that this time the expression in Emily's eyes was one of pure relief. Then he told her about the kid down the block who was willing to take over walking and feeding Bess at least until Thanksgiving, when she'd start rehearsals for the school play.

"Zach, that is very sweet of you," Emily told him. "Actually, I'll be keeping more reasonable hours, so I won't need any help."

She might as well have added the word "ever." Zach could tell that Emily wouldn't be letting anyone in and out of her house again.

"Well, here's her number, just in case, and here's your key," Zach said, then not looking at her, his tone shy, added, "I watch that Courtside program every night. You're doing a great job. I can't wait to see how you treat that guy Aldrich when he gets on the stand. He must be a terrible person."

Emily smiled her thanks and tucked the key in her pocket. That's a happy ending, she thought as she walked up the steps to the front door. I was trying to figure out how to cut off this situation and the poor guy did it for me.

Zach watched her go with narrowed eyes. As surely as Charlotte had put him out of his house, Emily had put him out of her life. It wouldn't be the way he had hoped, that she'd let the kid down the block help out with that dog of hers, then be glad to have him take over again. That wasn't going to happen.

The fury that had washed over him at other times in his life en-gulfed him again. He made his decision. You're next, Emily, he thought. I don't take rejection. I never have and I never will.

When she was in the house, for some inexplicable reason, Emily felt uneasy and double-locked the door behind her. Then, when she was on the back porch, letting Bess out of her crate, the thought crossed her mind that it wouldn't be a bad idea to get a bolt for the porch door.

Why am I getting all these feelings of apprehension? she asked herself. It has to be the trial.

I've talked so much about Natalie that I feel as though I've be-come her.

Since the trial began it had become a pattern for Gregg Aldrich to go directly to his lawyer's office from the courthouse and spend a couple of hours going over the testimony of the prosecutor's witnesses who had been on the stand that day. Then a car would drive him home. Katie, adamant in her need to be with him in the courtroom, had agreed that she would go home when the court recessed around four p.m. and meet her tutor there.

She had also agreed, at her father's insistence, that at least some evenings would be spent with friends who attended school with her in Manhattan before she became a boarder at Choate in Connecticut.

The nights she was home they watched Courtside together. The inevitable result was that seeing the highlights of the trial and hearing the panel discussion brought Katie to a state of anger and tears.

"Daddy, why doesn't Michael ever stand up for you?" she would demand. "He was so nice when we used to go skiing with him, and he was always saying how much you helped Natalie's career. Why doesn't he say it now, when he could do you some good?"

"We'll show him," was typical of Gregg's replies to his daughter. "We'll never go skiing with him again." He would shake his fist at the television in mock indignation.

"Oh, Daddy!" Katie would laugh. "I mean it."

"So do I," Gregg would say, quietly now.

Gregg admitted to himself that the evenings Katie went out for a few hours with friends gave him a needed break. During the day, the love he felt emanating from her as she sat a few rows behind him in court was as welcome as a warm blanket would be to someone in the throes of hypothermia. But sometimes he simply needed to be alone.

This was one of the evenings Katie had gone out to dinner. Gregg had promised her that he would order room service from the club in the building, but after she left, he poured himself a double scotch over ice and settled down in the den, the remote television clicker in his hand. He intended to watch Courtside, but before then he needed to search his memory.

At their meeting a few hours earlier, Richard and Cole Moore had warned him that Jimmy Easton would be on the witness stand tomorrow and that the whole case hung on his credibility as a witness. "Gregg, the crucial, absolutely crucial statement he'll make is when he talks about meeting with you in the apartment," Richard had warned.

"I'll ask you again. Is there any chance he was ever there?"

Gregg knew his response had been heated. "I never had a meeting with that liar in my apartment and don't ask me about it again." But he was haunted by the question. How could Easton possibly claim he was here? Or am I going crazy?

Now, as he took a sip of the scotch, Gregg found himself bracing for his nightly viewing of Courtside, but when it came on, the soothing effect that the fine single-malt scotch had offered vanished. Seventy-five percent of the viewers who had responded to the Courtside Web site poll thought he was guilty.

Seventy-five percent! Gregg thought incredulously. Seventy-five percent!

A clip from the trial showing Emily Wallace looking directly at him came onto the screen. The expression of disdain and contempt she conveyed made him cringe now as it had in the courtroom. Everyone watching this program was seeing it, too. "Innocent until proven guilty," he thought bitterly. She's doing a mighty good job of proving I'm guilty.

Aside from the obvious, there was something about Emily Wallace that was unsettling him. One of the panelists on Courtside had called her performance "pure theatre." He's right, Gregg thought, as he closed his eyes and lowered the volume of the television. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the folded sheet of paper that was like so many others he had scribbled on during the day in court. He had been doing some calculation. The rental car had 15,200 miles on it when he picked it up, and when he returned it 680

miles had been added. Five hundred and forty would account for the round trip from Manhattan to the Cape. He'd driven back and forth between the motel in Hyannis and Natalie's home in Dennis five times between Saturday afternoon and Sunday evening. About 20 miles each round trip. At the most that would use up another 100 miles or so.

Just enough mileage left for me to have driven to Natalie's house that Monday morning, killed her, and been back in Manhattan on schedule, Gregg thought. Could I have done that? When did I ever jog for over two hours? Was I so out of it that I don't remember going there?

Could I have left her bleeding to death?

He opened his eyes and turned up the volume with the remote. His former close friend Michael Gordon was saying: "Tomorrow there should be fireworks in court when the state's star witness, Jimmy Easton, testifies that he was hired by Gregg Aldrich to mur-der his estranged wife, acclaimed actress Natalie Raines."

Gregg pushed the off button on the remote and finished his drink.

"Your Honor, the state calls James Easton."

The door leading from the holding cell opened. Easton emerged, walking slowly toward the witness chair, escorted by sheriffs officers on either side of him. As she looked at him, an expression that had been a favorite of her grandmother's rushed through Emily's mind: "You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear."

Jimmy was wearing the dark blue suit, white shirt, and patterned blue tie that Emily had personally selected for his appearance in court. Under protest, he had gotten a haircut from the jailhouse bar-ber, but even so, as Emily had remarked to Ted Wesley, he still looked like the con man he was.

From long prior experience before criminal judges, he knew what came next. He paused as he reached the area directly in front of the bench. Judge Stevens directed him to first state his full name and then spell his last name.

"James Easton, E-A-S-T-O-N."

"Sir, please raise your right hand to be sworn," the judge instructed.

The pious look on Jimmy's face when he swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth caused a ripple of snickering among a number of the spectators in the courtroom.

Terrific, Emily thought, dismayed. Pray God, the jury will keep an open mind about my star witness.

Judge Stevens rapped his gavel sharply and warned that anyone who reacted verbally or visibly to any witness's testimony would be removed immediately and would be barred from attending further sessions.

When Jimmy was settled in the witness chair, Emily walked over to him slowly, her expression grave. Her strategy was to immediately elicit from him his prior criminal record, and the plea agreement he had made with her. She had addressed his background as a longtime felon in her opening statement and now she wanted to get the details out immediately. She hoped that facing these circumstances head-on would at least convey to the jury that she would be forth-right with them and that this witness, despite his laundry list of crimes, should be believed.

I'm walking on thin ice, she thought, and maybe the ice will break. But as she asked question after question in a matter-of-fact tone, Jimmy Easton's response was everything she could hope for. His voice humble, his manner hesitant, he admitted to his many arrests and frequent prison terms. Then out of the blue he added gra-tuitously, "But never once did I hurt a hair on anyone's head, ma'am. That's why I couldn't go through with the deal to kill Aldrich's wife."

Richard Moore sprang to his feet. "Objection."

Way to go, Jimmy! Emily thought. So what if it was stricken from the record? The jury heard that loud and clear.

It was already late morning when Easton's testimony began. At twelve twenty, Judge Stevens, recognizing that Emily was about to transition her questioning to Easton's involvement with Gregg Aldrich, said, "Ms. Wallace, since we're close to the usual twelve thirty lunch break, I will recess until one thirty."

Superb timing, Emily thought. Now Jimmy's record will be at least somewhat separated from his testimony about Aldrich. Thank you, Judge.

Her face impassive, she waited at the prosecutor's table until Eas-ton was escorted back to the holding cell by a sheriff's officer, and the jurors had left the courtroom. Then she hurried to Ted Wesley's office. He had sat in the courtroom all morning and she wanted to get his reaction to the way she had handled Easton.

In the two weeks since the announcement was made that he'd been nominated to be the attorney general of the United States, there had been a flurry of press about him and the coverage had been generally very favorable. Why wouldn't it be? Emily asked herself as she hurried down the corridor. Ted had been a prominent attorney and active in Republican circles before he was appointed prosecutor.

When she entered his office she could see a stack of clippings on his desk that she was sure were about his nomination. And it was obvious that he was in a very upbeat mood.

"Emily!" he greeted her. "Come on over here. Take a look at these."

"I'm sure I've seen most of them. You're really getting fabulous press. Congratulations."

"You're not doing so bad yourself. You've pretty much knocked me off the front page with the great job you're doing on this case."

He had sent for sandwiches and coffee. He pulled open the bag and started unpacking the food. "I ordered ham and swiss on rye for you. And black coffee. Right?"

"Perfect." She accepted the sandwich he held out to her.

"Then sit down and relax for a few minutes. I want to talk to you."

Emily had just started to unwrap her sandwich. Something's up, she thought and looked at him, a question in her eyes.

"Emily, I'm going to give you a piece of advice. You haven't wanted to publicize or even discuss the fact that you had a heart transplant two and a half years ago. Everyone in this office knows that you had heart surgery and, of course, you were out sick for several months. But because you were so quiet about the details, I think I'm the only one here who knows that your surgery actually involved a transplant."

"That's true," Emily said quietly as she opened the packet of mustard and squeezed it across the bread. "Ted, you know what Mark's death did to me. I was a basket case. People were so kind, but I was smothering in sympathy. Then, not even a year later, when out of the blue I had to have my aortic valve replaced, it was more of the same. Everyone expected me to be out for three months anyway. So, when the valve failed so quickly and I ended up needing a transplant, I was blessed to get one right away. I went back into the hospital quietly and only told a very few people, including you, what had happened."

Ted leaned forward in his chair, ignoring his own sandwich and looking at her with deep concern. "Emily, I absolutely understand and have always understood why you didn't want to talk about this. I saw your reaction when I asked you six months ago if you felt well enough to take this case. I know you don't want to be considered to be fragile in any way. But let's face it. You are trying a very high-profile case and are becoming very well known. The case is on Courtside every night and your name keeps coming up. They're talking about you. It's only a matter of days before they start really digging, and trust me, they'll find out about this. It's great human interest. Between the transplant and losing Mark in Iraq, you're going to be fodder for the tabloids, even though they'll probably be nice to you."

Emily took a sip of the coffee. "Your advice, Ted?"

"Be prepared. Expect the questions and don't let it upset you. Like it or not, you've become a public figure."

"Oh, Ted, I hate that thought," Emily protested. "I've never wanted to talk about it. You know that some of these guys make it tough enough to be a woman in the prosecutor's office."

Including and especially guys like your cousin, she thought.

"Emily, believe me, I've admired the fact that you absolutely have never allowed me to give you any slack because of the health problems you've had to deal with."

"There's something else," Emily said quietly. "Mark didn't expect to die. He was so sure he'd make it home. He had so many plans for what we would do the rest of our lives. We were even suggesting to each other the names we'd call our children. Now I am constantly and fully aware that I am alive because someone else died. Whoever that person was, he or she had to have plans and hopes for the fu-ture. That's never been easy for me to accept."

"I can understand that, too. But take my advice. Be prepared to be asked about it."

Emily took a bite out of the sandwich and forced a smile. "To change the subject, my guess is that you believe I'm doing okay so far with Jimmy Easton."

"Emily, I was watching Richard Moore squirming when Jimmy was laying out his prior record and the plea deal. You were taking the wind out of Moore's sails when you were dealing with it all up front. You managed to convey to the jury that you think Easton's a real lowlife, but that in this case he's not lying."

Emily took a few quick bites of her sandwich and wrapped the rest of it up. "Thanks, Ted. I was hoping you'd feel that way." She hesitated, trying to swallow over the lump in her throat. "And thanks for everything else . . . Your support when I lost Mark . . . When I got sick . . . And then giving me this case, I'll never forget it."

Ted Wesley stood up. "You've earned every bit of support I have ever given you," he said heartily. "And trust me, Em, if you convict this guy Aldrich, I can picture the new prosecutor offering you the first-assistant position. Believe me, that's not far-fetched. Go back in there and sell Easton to that jury! Make them think he got religion."

Emily laughed as she got up from her chair. "If I can do that, then as my grandfather used to say about me, I could sell a dead horse to a mounted policeman. See you, Ted."