Kim Baldwin - The Gemini Deception

She couldn’t grasp the bizarre predicament she was in, and no matter how hard she tried to come up with a reasonable excuse for this obscene development, she kept returning to the one devastating fact that no one would believe or even listen to her. Somewhere deep inside, she wanted to trust that the real killer would turn up; she would be released, apologies made, and her life would return to normal. It was just a misunderstanding, she told herself. Justice would prevail because justice always…

She couldn’t bring herself to finish the thought. If time and experience had taught her anything, it was that life was nothing but a string of undeserved events. But as unfair and hard as her life had been, nothing could have prepared her to be suspected in a double homicide. She couldn’t harm a bug, never mind an innocent man and his ex-wife, leaving two kids orphaned in the process. Sure, she’d always been pretty indifferent and distant when it came to people and her social life—some had even called her antisocial. But murder?

“No. No, it’s not possible,” she murmured to herself. She stood and walked to the front of the cell. “None of this is real.” She grasped the bars. The metal was so cold in her palms, she shivered. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

Ruby guffawed from behind her. “Neither did I, honey. It was self-defense.”

Before Ryden could react, a portly cop jangling a heavy ring of keys appeared in front of their cell.

“Hey, Smitty,” Ruby called out. “Got another innocent one here.”

The cop snorted derisively and leered at Ryden, his gaze lingering on her breasts. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

Ryden let go of the bars and stepped back. “Please, you have to believe me.”

“I hope, for your sake, your lawyer can make the investigating detectives believe you.” He unlocked the door. “Come with me. He’s waiting.”

At least Magda had managed to get a lawyer down here.

The cop handcuffed her and led her to a small, bare room, devoid of anything except a table, two chairs, and a well-dressed man in his fifties. He stood as Ryden entered. “Ms. Wagner, I’m Sean Swartz, your attorney. Please, take a seat.”

She didn’t know much about labels or fashion, but she could recognize when someone reeked of wealth. Swartz didn’t look like he worked pro bono or charged minimum rates. He wore a tailored navy suit with a starched white shirt and silk tie, his hair was stylishly clipped, and his leather loafers were immaculate. He even smelled expensive—his subtle musky aftershave a stark departure from the cheap shit that most of the guys who came into the flower shop and local bar wore—and the Rolex on his left wrist undoubtedly cost more than she earned in a year. In short, the guy looked more like a power-hungry corporate attorney than the cheap lawyer she’d asked for.

She hesitated to sit across from him, afraid the act alone would deplete her account. “Did Magda mention my finances?”

“I’m well aware of your financial status. You don’t need to concern yourself with that.”

“Don’t be so sure.” Maybe she should have been more specific with Magda about her savings.

“You have bigger problems to worry about, Ms. Wagner,” Swartz said. “Let my fee be the least of your concerns. We’ll work out an arrangement.”

Ryden finally sat down. “I don’t know where to start.”

“I’ve been briefed on your case and have read the police report. You really don’t have to say much.”

“I don’t understand. Granted, I’ve never had to deal with murder accusations and lawyers before, but far as I know, you need my side of the story. The truth.”

“You claim you didn’t kill the Laudens. That’s all I need to know for now. We’ll get into details when the time is right. I’m here to advise you not to answer any further questions. You need to exercise your right to remain silent, because the cops already have enough evidence against you to take to the grand jury.”

Ryden couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “What evidence could they possibly have?”

“The tool they found at your shop was the murder weapon. It fits the medical examiner’s findings of the wounds inflicted on the Laudens, and the blood on it was a match for both victims. You even admitted in Detective Johnston’s presence that it was yours.”

“That can’t be possible. I didn’t kill them.”

“It’s only circumstantial evidence, but very damning,” Swartz replied. “And your employer told the detectives you were going to the Lauden residence that evening to see Tim, who’d been in to flirt with you several times. She intimated there might even have been some romantic element developing between you. It’s enough for the grand jury to indict you on two charges of first-degree murder. If convicted, you’ll be given a minimum sentence of life without parole, and you easily could receive the death sentence because of the gruesome nature of the crimes.”

Ryden collapsed back against the chair, a wave of hopelessness overwhelming her. She knew murder cases often took months to go to trial. Even if she was set free in the end, her future was bleak. “Well, then, that’s that. I’m going to rot in a cell.”

“No, you won’t.” The attorney got up, went to the door, and knocked on it.

“What do you mean?” she asked. “Do you know something?”

“Like I said, Ms. Wagner,” he replied just as the cop opened the door, “we’ll talk details when the time is right. First, we have to tell the detectives you’re not going to give them any more information and get you out of here. I have a car waiting outside.”

A half hour later, they emerged from the jail to find a driver standing curbside in front of a black Lincoln Town Car. He looked like he could have played for the Philadelphia Eagles.

“We’re going to my office,” Swartz said as they got in. “Would you like something to drink?” The car’s minibar was stocked with only the best scotch, bourbon, and brandy, and though she rarely drank, she was tempted, given the circumstances. She declined, however, determined to keep her wits about her.

“I’d like some answers instead,” she told him as they pulled away from the curb. “Like, why the hell is such an obviously affluent lawyer taking my case, knowing I have limited funds?” She had a million other questions, but that was at the top of the list.

“All in good time, Ms. Wagner. I’ll explain everything, including our course of action, as soon as we’re alone.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence and parked in front of a glass-and-steel office building on the opposite side of town from her apartment. Instead of dropping them off, the halfback of a driver got out and walked with them into the building, though he waited outside the plush suite of offices emblazoned with a gold plaque that read S. SWARTZ, ESQ.

The outer reception area was impressive enough, but Swartz’s twenty-second-floor inner office confirmed Ryden’s assessment that the attorney usually represented only the wealthiest of clients. The room was bigger than the whole flower shop, and its floor-to-ceiling windows provided a magnificent view of the downtown skyline. Swartz’s polished cherry desk and matching credenza sat at one end of the room, and a cozy sitting area—with expensive teak and leather couches, Tiffany lamps, and original oil paintings—filled the other.

She couldn’t have felt more out of place. As Swartz directed her to one of the couches, she imagined she looked as ragged as she felt, dressed in faded jeans, tennis shoes, and wrinkled sweatshirt.

He sat across from her, all business. She watched patiently as he set his briefcase on the coffee table between them and removed a thick file. Her name was typed neatly in one corner. “So…” He flipped the file open. “Here we are.”