Mortal Crimes: 7 Novels of Suspense (55 page)

And then warm hands grabbed her under her armpits and held her up.

“Easy there,” said a concerned male voice, as its owner lifted her back to her feet.

She closed her eyes and willed herself to disappear.

“Aroostine?” Mitchell asked.

Crap.
She hadn’t disappeared.

She opened her eyes to see him staring at her with concern.

“Are you okay?”

She forced her mouth into an approximation of a smile.

“I’m fine. Thanks for catching me. I just … got lightheaded. I guess maybe I should have stayed home one more day after all,” she lied. She rolled the divorce papers into a tube so he couldn’t see the caption.

He raised an eyebrow at that. He and Rosie had been in a complete uproar when she’d shown up for work as usual. Apparently, they thought she’d just waste the final week of trial prep curled up on her couch nursing her swollen mouth.

To his credit, he didn’t bother to say ‘I told you so.’ Instead, he moved his hands to her back and gently guided her through her office door and deposited her in her chair.

Then he picked up her desk phone and punched in an internal extension.

“What are you doing? I’m fine, honestly,” she insisted.

He held up a finger to silence her then said, “Rosie? This is Mitch. Your first chair just collapsed in the hallway. I guess no one told you the junior attorney’s responsible for keeping the trial team healthy? Bring her a cup of tea or something. And a bowl of soup—I’m sure she didn’t bother with lunch.”

He ended the call and smiled at Aroostine. “Help is on the way.”

“Thanks. Really, thank you. But that wasn’t very nice to Rosie. She’s going to feel responsible.”

She opened her top desk drawer and jammed the papers into it.

He cocked his head. “She knows I’m just giving her a hard time, and she clearly cares about you.” He sat on the edge of the desk, his legs dangling just beside her chair, and lowered his voice. “We both do. Are you sure you don’t want to talk about whatever’s really going on?”

She felt trapped by his proximity and by the question. He seemed to be genuinely worried and interested. But there was no way she was going to tell the cute guy who worked in the next office about her failed marriage.

“I told you. I overdid it. And, you’re right, I skipped lunch.”

She lifted her chin and met his eyes, daring him to push it further.

He didn’t.

He sighed. “Take better care of yourself.”

He pushed off the desk and stepped past her.

“Thanks again for the hand,” she said to his back as he left the office.

He didn’t respond, but pulled her door shut on his way out.

She waited a full minute before yanking open the desk drawer and retrieving the divorce complaint.

She smoothed the wrinkled pages and licked her lips, putting off the inevitable for another few seconds.

She read the sterile boilerplate language with the sound of her heart banging in her ears. Joe’s lawyer—and at least he’d had the decency to get an out-of-town attorney—had filed a very simple, no-fault divorce complaint. He asked the court to dissolve the marriage because it was “irretrievably broken.”

The dispassionate document made no reference to the years they’d spent renovating the old farmhouse on the edge of town, room by room, the walks through the woods with their dog, the nights they’d passed in a blur of candles, tangled sheets, and intertwined limbs. Just a polite request to declare their relationship dead and beyond repair. Heavy tears fell on the papers before she could stop them.

Rosie rapped softly on the door and then cracked it open.

As she stepped quietly into the office balancing a tray of food, Aroostine flipped the papers over so they were face-down on the desk and wiped her face with the back of her hand.

“Hey, I brought you some tomato bisque and a cup of tea. Do you need anything else?” Rosie asked in a solicitous voice.

She crossed the room and arranged the food like an offering to the gods, just so, in front of Aroostine.

“No, this is great. And, thanks, Rosie. Mitchell shouldn’t have called you like that. You didn’t need to run downstairs for me.”

Rosie waved a hand at the clumsy attempt at an apology.

“Don’t be stupid. You need to eat. You really shouldn’t have come in today.”

“Well, thank you, anyway.” She picked up the spoon and hoped Rosie would take the hint and leave before she started to cry again.

“Don’t mention it.”

Rosie turned to leave, then hesitated, and shifted back around to look at Aroostine.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just … um, I thought you ate before we met to go over the exhibits?”

Aroostine gnawed on her inner cheek and tried to think quickly. She was a
terrible
liar. And she’d forgotten that she’d told Rosie she was going to grab a bite earlier.

“I was going to but I got pulled into a meeting with Sid. That was stupid. I should have at least eaten a yogurt or something, huh?”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess.”

Rosie gave her a quizzical look before she walked away.

Aroostine dropped the spoon on the desk. Food was the furthest thing from her mind.

She checked the time on her phone’s display.
4:50 p.m.

Joe would just be finishing up for the day. His clothes would be covered in wood shavings after spending hours sanding and smoothing reclaimed barn planks to turn into hand-crafted coffee tables, bookcases, and dressers for rich Northeasterners who wanted authentic, one-of-a-kind furnishings for their weekend country homes.

The late afternoon light streaming through the big, leaded glass windows would bounce off his slightly too-long blond hair when he bent down to pet Rufus and wake him up for the short walk from the workshop back to the house.

A pain seared her chest.

Dammit, Joe.

Her hand hovered over the phone. She took several deep breaths and tried to quell the roiling feeling in her stomach. Then, before she could lose her nerve, she called his cell phone.

Four rings. Then his voicemail picked up. She told herself he probably had his music up too loud and didn’t hear the phone. The alternative was too ugly to consider.

The device beeped in her ear, and she made no effort to hide the pain in her voice when she left her message:

“Hey, it’s me. I got the divorce papers today. We need to talk. Call me, please.” She hesitated then added, “I love you.”

She dropped the handset back onto the receiver with a shaking hand and set her mouth in a firm line. She’d done what she could. Now she had to put Joe out of her mind and focus on the trial.

________

Eight miles away, Franklin Chang clicked on a set of coordinates with his own shaking hand.

“Got ya’,” he muttered under his breath, tracing the call the attorney had just placed to mobile number assigned to a small town in Pennsylvania.

He opened another window and typed in a code, checking first to ensure that his monitor’s privacy screen was active.

In less than a second the subscriber’s name and other identifying information scrolled across the screen: Joseph Charles Jackman, age twenty-six, married to one Aroostine Higgins. Mr. Jackman’s address, place of business, social security number, and Pennsylvania driver’s license number followed.

Bingo. A surge of excitement shot up his spine.

He stared at the screen for a long moment and memorized the words and numbers, thankful not for the first time for his photographic memory. This wasn’t something he wanted to write down, not even in the notebook. He didn’t ever want this information to be traced back to him.

He jumped to his feet, fumbling around in his pocket for the cell phone.

He paced in a circle while he placed his call. This was it. His mother’s ticket home.

The man answered on the third ring.

“What?”

“I have something. Something big. But if I give it to you, you have to release my mother.”

The man snorted. “You’re in no position to make demands.”

“Actually, you’re wrong.”

“I don’t have time for these games. Perhaps your mother doesn’t need the use of her hand at all, eh?”

“No, listen to me. Aroostine Higgins is married, and I can give you her husband.”

A low, appreciative whistle sounded in Franklin’s ear.

“Well done.”

“But I’m not going to unless you agree to let my mother go.” He edged his voice with steel.

A long silence followed.

He waited.

And waited.

He was beginning to worry he’d been too forceful and missed his opportunity, when the man said, “Fine.”

Fine.
One terse, clipped word that would save his mother’s life.

“Thank you. Let me speak to her.”

“The information first, Franklin. And then you may talk to her. You have my word.”

He hesitated for a moment, and then the information that he’d seared into his brain spilled out in a rush of numbers, letters, and jumbled words.

“Stop,” the man demanded.

Franklin stopped.

“Now, slowly, begin again, please, and explain how you came to know all this.”

Franklin gulped and forced himself to speak calmly despite his racing pulse and pounding heart. “The lawyer placed a personal call just now. I’ve been monitoring her incoming and outgoing calls, just like you wanted, to see if there was anything you could use.”

“Very good. Go on.”

“She left a message at this number regarding divorce papers.”

“She is married? And they are estranged?”

“Apparently.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone. Franklin took a moment to feel sorry for whichever henchman had failed to uncover these basic vital statistics. He assumed both that there were many henchmen and that they were maimed—or possibly killed—whenever they screwed up. This belief, combined with his constant concern and worry about his mother, had completely destroyed his ability to sleep and eat. But that was all about to end.

“And she is divorcing the husband?”

“No, it sounded more like he is divorcing her. She seemed upset and surprised.” Franklin scrolled through his memory to recall the message she’d left. “She asked him to call her. Said she loved him.”

“This is interesting. You’ve done well. Repeat the information now, and as I promised, you may talk to your mother.”

Franklin closed his eyes and sent up a silent prayer of gratitude before rattling off the information that man would need to do whatever it was he planned to do to Joseph C. Jackman. He regretted what might happen to the man, but he had his own priorities.

He heard shuffling and murmured voices, then the man activated the speakerphone.

His mother’s soft voice was in his ear.

“Franklin?”

“Mom, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, honey.”

“No you’re not. He told me he broke your fingers.”

“Oh, that. It was nothing.” She scoffed.

In the background, Franklin could hear the man muttering darkly.

“Mom, don’t say that—don’t challenge him.”

His mother sighed. “It doesn’t matter. He’s going to do what he’s going to do.”

“It’s over. I got him what he wanted, and he’s going to let you go!”

She sighed softly. “Oh, honey, no he’s not.”

“He
is
,” he insisted. “We have a deal.”

His mother’s voice was gentle but insistent. “I don’t think this is a gentleman who honors his agreements. I think I’m going to die in this cabin. Just remember, I love you very much.”

He shook his head as if she could see him. “Don’t talk that way—”

“Play time’s over, Junior,” the man’s deep voice replaced his mother’s refined one. “I have work to do. And so do you.”

“Wait. I’m done. You’re going to let my mother go. You said you would.”

The man laughed, an ugly, black laugh. “There’s been a change of plans.”

He was still laughing when he hung up on Franklin.