Нора Робертс - Hideaway

He smiled at Sparks as he said it. Red had been very careful to keep those arrests, interviews, deals under his hat. “There’s direct corroboration in those statements, and evidence in hand supports that. As does the statement of the minor child.”

“It’s Mr. Sparks’s contention that Ms. Dupont and Mr. Denby worked together on this scheme, duping him.”

“Did they dupe you into sticking a needle full of propofol into that little girl’s throat?”

“I didn’t—”

“Cut it. You wore a wig—which we recovered—and sunglasses, but Caitlyn has eyes. Good ones. And ears. You spoke to her before you jabbed her, and you spoke to her behind the wolfman mask—also recovered—you used to scare a ten-year-old girl. You jabbed her, stuffed her into a serving trolley, then drove away from a good man’s memorial, from an already grieving family.”

“Sheriff, a child under such duress would hardly be able to, without a reasonable doubt, identify voices in this way.”

Michaela let out a laugh. “You haven’t met this child. Put her under oath, in a courtroom, I can promise you a jury will hang on her every word. The word of a child whose own mother plotted with her lover to use her, to drug her, to terrify her. For money. Your voice is on the phone, too, Sparks, demanding ten million dollars in exchange. They didn’t call the police, but they recorded the calls.”

“Your partners rolled and rolled hard. Denby’s pretty steamed you made the deal with him for two million—fifty-fifty—when you asked the Sullivans for ten. That opened him up like a steamed clam. And if you actually think a woman who’d bang her personal trainer in the same bed she shares with her husband, a woman who’d trade her own daughter’s sense of safety, allow that child to be drugged and terrorized, has any sense of loyalty, you’re an idiot.”

He shifted to Rozwell. “I’m laying this out for you because I’m tired, I’m disgusted, and I’ve used up my tolerance for bullshit today. Both Dupont and Denby have taken a deal. Your client’s last in line, and I figure everybody in this room knows the last in line gets shit. Maybe this fuck gave you a sob story, played the horrified dupe, and how sorry he is about the poor kid caught in the middle, but we have evidence that blows all of that aside.

“To sum it up, your dickbag of a client spotted Dupont for a mark, the last in a long line of wealthy women he bled for money. We have names, and will get statements to corroborate that. With Dupont, he saw a big-ass payday, enough to retire in style, starting with Mozambique.”

Layering it on, Red sent Sparks a pitying look. “You had a bunch of searches on Mozambique—no extradition treaty—on your laptop, asshole. He hooked up with his sometime partner, Frank Denby, to run the con. Blackmail—pictures taken with his camera, also now in evidence—of his mark and himself in—what’s that phrase?—in flagrante delicto. Said mark, being the worst shit of a mother in the history of mothers, agreed to the kidnapping for ransom—Sparks and Dupont boosted the price to screw Denby. She set up the kid, told her where to go for a goddamn game of hide-and-seek, where Sparks was waiting with the needle, the trolley, the van.”

As if revolted—not a stretch—Red rose, turned away. “Pick it up, Deputy. I need a minute to settle my stomach.”

She did, and seamlessly, snapping out the rest, or at least the high points.

Rozwell’s face showed little. Red figured he’d handle a poker game as well as he did a courtroom. But everybody had a tell. He had to look for Rozwell’s, but he caught it.

Just the slightest tightening at the corner of the mouth, a muscle twitch that brought out a tiny dimple.

When Michaela finished, Red sat again. “There isn’t a judge in the world who’s going to dismiss a single one of the charges. There isn’t a jury in the world that’s going to look at that sweet little girl and not convict. And your client gets life without parole.”

He glanced at Sparks. “Keep playing the game, and that’s your grand fucking prize.”

“I did it for love!” Sparks filled his outburst with grief.

“Jesus,” Red muttered. “Same coin, same mold.”

“Charlotte swore she—”

“Be quiet, Grant.”

“Mark, you have to believe me. You know me. I would never—”

“I said be quiet.” This time Red heard more than a hint of weariness. “I’ll need a few moments with my client.”

“Take it. I need some air anyway.”

When he went out, Red realized he actually did. “I’m going to step outside and breathe a minute, Mic.”

“Do you think he’s going to bail? The lawyer?”

“I’d say he’s considering it. Give me a holler when they’re ready.”

Outside, he looked up at the sky, found himself grateful the night was filled with stars. He might wish he still had the energy left to sneak into Maggie’s bed for a late-night booty call, but since he didn’t have the stores left, a star-strewn night sky would have to do.

It calmed him, reminded him life offered a whole bounty of good things from the simple to the amazing. You just had to take a few minutes now and then to find them.

He heard the door open behind him. “Be right there, Mic.”

“Sheriff, your deputy’s taking Mr. Sparks back to his cell for the night.”

Red nodded at Rozwell. “All right then.”

“I’ll need another few minutes with him in the morning, and would like to meet with the prosecutor.”

“I can arrange that. Let’s say nine o’clock.”

“That’s fine. I’ll be here. I wonder if you could recommend a hotel, motel, just a decent place to spend the night. I didn’t have time to make arrangements.”

“Sure can. Come back to my office. I’ll give you a couple close by—if you’re looking for close.”

“Close would be great.”

“You can call from here, make sure they’ve got a room for you.” In his office, he scribbled names on a pad. “The top one? Good beds, good service, and twenty-four-hour room service if you need it. They charge for Wi-Fi though, which burns my ass.”

“Thanks.”

“Go ahead, use the room.”

Red walked out, waited for Michaela, and considered he probably had the energy for that cold beer before bed. And a hot shower. Christ, he wanted the shower more than the beer.

Rozwell walked out.

“All set?”

“Yeah, thanks. I’ll be here at nine. I left my cell phone number on your pad if you need to reach me.” He started for the door, turned, looked Red in the eye. “I have a daughter. She’s only four. I have a little girl of my own.”

And when he walked out, Red knew they’d deal.

Michaela walked back—still spit and polish, he thought. And had to admire it.

“You settle him in?”

“He tried tears on me. Slow, soulful ones. He’s good.”

“We’re better. Rozwell wants to meet with the prosecutor in the morning. I’m going to contact him on my way home. You can take tomorrow off.”

“I’d like to see it through.”

“Be here by nine then. I’ll walk you out.”

“We’ll walk each other out.”

“Works for me.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Dillon liked mucking out the stalls. He loved the romantic smell of horses—even mixed with horse-shit bedding. Every clear memory of his life involved the ranch, and his favorite ones included horses.

His favorite of favorites was the night he, his mom, and Gram watched Diva deliver her first foal. Some of it had been kind of yuck, but mostly just cool. They’d even let him name the foal, a pretty bay with four white socks and a crooked white blaze.

He’d called her Comet, because the blaze looked like a comet trail. Sort of.