T. Bunn - Winner Take All

Marcus protested, “But your client is dead .”

“We’re still seeing to her interests!” He slackened his hold on the case long enough to a jab a finger at Marcus. “That man is representing an abuser and a murderer! Dale Steadman can’t be granted the chance to hurt this poor little child!”

“Fine.” Judge Sears started to rise from her chair. “In that case, the bailiff will escort you to my chambers, I will issue a protective order on everything I find, and then you will show me whatever you have in camera .”

This meant only the judge would review whatever he was holding. But Hamper merely looked more trapped. “Your honor, I declare attorney-client privilege.”

“You’re now representing a different client?”

“That is correct.”

“Is your client before this court?”

“Not at this time.”

“Does your client have a valid interest in this case?”

Hamper was growing increasingly agitated. “He feels a desperate concern for this child.”

“That is not a satisfactory answer in my book.” Her desire to get right in his face was so strong she perched herself on tiptoe and gavel. “I want to know who your client is.”

Clearly this was the question Hamper feared. “My client has instructed me not to reveal his identity. I did not come down here intending to make an appearance in this court.”

“But you did.”

“Under duress, your honor. Under duress. Given the circumstances, this court must agree I should have a chance to confer with my client before answering your question.”

Hamper had her, and they both knew it. Judge Sears reddened until her freckles all but disappeared. “You were playing that poor HHS lawyer like a puppet. You had everything but your hand up the back of his jacket. Now tell me what your client’s interest is in this case!”

“Judge, I can’t do that.”

“Then someone in this court is going to jail!”

Hamper deposited his briefcase at his feet, so as to use both hands to swipe at his face. “Your honor, my client’s instructions were very precise. He told me to assist this young attorney with the brief related to Celeste Steadman. He told me to appear in court. And he told me not to reveal his identity. That is all I can say.”

“Then I am ordering you to speak with your client and gain authorization. Otherwise, come tomorrow I’ll be sentencing you to ninety days in jail. If he wants to be heard by this court, he will be heard on the record. If you act in this court, you will do so with full disclosure of your client’s and your motives.” She smiled at his stricken expression. “Cheer up, Mr. Caisse. You should find ample acquaintances among the prison community.”

“Your honor-”

She banged her gavel. “Next case.”

“Why did you want to meet with my husband, Ms. Stansted?” Kirsten was seated opposite Evelyn Lloyd in the city apartment equivalent of a palace. The parlor was oval-shaped and flanked by bas-relief onyx pillars. Along one side resided museum-quality art. Along the other, seven French doors opened onto a terrace larger than Kirsten’s entire townhouse. Down below, the cars streaking along rain-washed Central Park West sounded like shredders working on tissue paper. The open patio doors formed billowing parachutes from silk drapes. The light was muted to pastel patterns. The floor was a mosaic of blue marble and old wood. The ceiling was twenty feet high and sculpted around a pair of crystal chandeliers.

Kirsten replied, “I’m not sure I can answer that.”

“Try.”

“Erin Brandt was last seen alive at Lincoln Center. I’d like an insider’s glimpse of the place, just to see if there’s something we might find.”

Evelyn Lloyd cocked her head. “You think you might discover something missed by the local police?”

“We’re working on different purposes, Mrs. Lloyd.” A silent housemaid drifted past the open door. “My first concern is locating the child.”

Evelyn Lloyd was dressed in daywear of ivory crepe de chine. “You realize my husband has cancer.”

“Yes. I’m very sorry.”

“You are also aware that we could not have children.”

The French parlor clock ticked down elegant seconds as Kirsten balanced a bone china cup on her knees. “No. I had not heard that.”

“It was a blow to my husband, I don’t mind saying. We were married almost eight years before the doctors finally stopped pretending they could spend my fortune and give us what Kedrick longed for above all else. An heir.”

Kirsten set her cup on the table between them. She directed her eyes to her hands. Not to avoid Evelyn’s gaze, but rather to focus more intently upon what was being said. “ Your fortune.”

“Kedrick came into our marriage with little more than a title, a crumbling palace in Wiltshire, and the vast ego of ancient power voided by time.”

Kirsten tasted the air, hunting for what she was missing, what Evelyn wished her to hear. A woman of this moneyed clan did not share such confidences. It was not done. Ever. Particularly with a stranger. “It must have been hard, not being able to give him what he wanted.”

“Far harder for my husband,” Evelyn responded, rising to her feet. “As it happens, Kedrick is at the Met now. Let me call and tell him you are on your way over.”

She had no choice but to gather her remaining questions and be led from the room. “Thank you.”

At the door, Evelyn Lloyd offered her a cool hand and the words “Erin Brandt had the gift of drawing the audience over to her side, even when they didn’t want to come. Even when she was the villain of the piece. It made her a star, but it also made every other woman in the world her enemy.”

Kirsten kept hold of the long-fingered hand. “Why every woman?”

“Did I say that? Forgive me. I meant every singer.” She opened the door. “Thank you so much for stopping by.”

Kirsten was coming down the apartment house’s front stairs when she was struck by the stench. The all-too-familiar mixture of body odor and bad cologne pushed her away from the street and back inside.

The uniformed doorman lounged just inside the second set of doors. “Can you please call me a cab?”

The blank stare said she was not paying his salary. “Lady, there’s a hundred of them going by every minute.”

Kirsten fished in her purse and came up with a ten. “I’d really be grateful. I think I’m being followed.”

The doorman pushed himself off the wall and sauntered outside. A whistle, a wave, and the man was holding the door open for her. She powered forward, slipped the note into his waiting palm, and tumbled inside. The doorman paused long enough to grin and ask, “Old flames die hard, don’t they.”

“What?”

“The stalker. He’s after one more bite from the apple, right?” The doorman’s gaze swept down her frame. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

Kirsten ripped the cab door from his hands and said through the plastic divider, “Go, please.”

“Where to?”

“Just go.”

Only when they had pulled away and lost themselves in the sullen stream of city traffic did the gasping hit her. The sweats. The feeling of just how close she had come. Her purse became a vault with a tricky lock she had to struggle over. The cell phone almost defeated her. But she finally managed the number and said as soon as Marcus came on, “He’s here.”

“Who?”

“The guy who attacked me in Düsseldorf.”

“You saw him?”

“Smelled.” Despite the morning and the fact that she was coming to trust this man, she could not halt the sudden suspicion. That he would patronize her. Play down her fears and her imagination. Tell her something disparaging, like how she needed to put the past behind her, something utterly natural and completely despised. “I smelled him.”