Nanny (4 page)

“A little.”

“Have you told your doctor?”

A tight head shake.

Summer started to speak, but Sophy bowed her shoulders and plunged into the chaos of the big, open changing room, clutching her backpack. She looked slightly sick, Summer thought. Most of the other girls were staring and Summer heard a whispered “baby” as they walked to the front row of lockers. She had a sudden and entirely wonderful idea for retaliation.

Sitting down next to Sophy, she toed off her pink slippers. “When are you going to pick out your new dress?”

Big gray eyes blinked at her. “What new dress?”

“For the wedding. Rehearsal dinner, remember? Tom Cruise is coming and you don't want to wear just any old rag for Mr. Mission Impossible, do you?”

Sophy stared up at her, knapsack clutched to her chest. “Tom
Cruise
?”

“Sure.” Summer bent down and picked up her street clothes, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Play along, and we'll
really
give them something to gossip about.”

Sophy began to smile. “Oh, right. I forgot all about the rehearsal dinner. Do you think he likes pink?”

“Why don't we call and ask? Tom owes your mom a favor since she agreed to be a legal advisor for his next movie.” Summer hid a smile. Heads were starting to turn, just as she'd hoped. “You know what he said to your mom?” She could feel the curiosity growing, hot and sharp, as she bent closer to Sophy. “Laugh. Really loud.”

Sophy's clear voice rang out on cue.

“That's what your mom told me, word for word.” Summer tossed Sophy her shoes. “How about we call him on the way home?”

Sophy blinked. “You mean, I could call Tom Cruise? Right now?”

“Absolutely.” When Summer stood up, thirty sets of eyes lasered in her direction. “Ready to go?” she asked sweetly.

All motion stilled in the room.

“You bet,” Sophy bubbled, shrugging on her knapsack. “I bet Tom likes pink best.”

“Bet you a dollar he goes for red. Really hot red.” Summer pulled out her cell phone and tapped it thoughtfully on her chin. “Why don't you call him and see? The number is already programmed. Just press three on the speed dial.”

The silence around them was fierce as they walked through the room. This time no one whispered “baby” or anything else at Sophy.

Summer hoped Cara O'Connor wouldn't mind the white lie. At least Sophy was standing tall now, a grin engulfing her face.

Not bad for her first day on the job, Summer decided.

chapter
5

Assistant DA's Office
San Francisco

I
t was supposed to be the most wonderful week of her life. She was healthy, successful, engaged to a wonderful man—and about to choose her wedding dress.

But Cara O'Connor sat stiffly at her desk, tied up in a thousand little knots.

Her softly tailored suit was immaculate as she spoke on the phone, jotting shorthand notes on a yellow legal pad with the pen her daughter had given her last Mother's Day. “I don't believe any of this, Tony.”

“Believe it. Chain of evidence was shot to hell. The nurse at the clinic bagged the blood sample, but he didn't take it to be refrigerated until after he handled a gunshot wound and had a smoke on the fourth-floor balcony.”

Three weeks before, an eighteen-year-old Berkeley coed had been shot, assaulted, and left unconscious in a Chinatown alley. She'd managed to stagger to a small neighborhood clinic, where she was treated before police were called. Once she was lucid, she'd targeted her attacker as the honor-student president of a fraternity near her dorm. According to her account, they'd argued and he'd threatened her with the gun, then shot her and assaulted her.

The case should have been open-and-shut, but faulty procedure in collection of physical evidence could hammer the strongest case full of holes.

Cara closed her eyes. “This guy gets a medal for stupid.”

“Afraid it gets worse. Our friend thought he'd be helpful, so he cleaned the bullet they pulled out of the patient's chest and wrote her name on it.”

Cara muttered a few choice phrases. A good defense lawyer could demand that the bullet be pulled as evidence, given this kind of mishandling. “What about her hands? Any signs of struggle? DNA evidence recovered?”

Her colleague sighed. “He washed her up with Betadyne. Cleaned her real good. Said her parents wouldn't want to see her like this.”

“Don't tell me we've got
nothing
?”

“The forensic people are going through her clothes and the other evidence now. We may get lucky, but the nurse dumped everything in a pile, so there's a chance of cross contamination.”

Cara braced herself. “Do I want to hear this?”

“Probably not. A couple of tourists came into the clinic with food poisoning right about then. They threw up all over the victim's clothes and shoes.”

Sometimes fate spits in your face, Cara thought, and this was one of those times. “Make a note to see this nurse gets a crash course in preservation of physical evidence, okay? Threaten to yank his license, whatever, but see that he doesn't pull a stunt like this again.”

“You got it.”

“Now give me some good news, Tony. Tell me that we've got a deal in the Rothman case.”

Marcus Rothman was a prominent gay painter who had recently learned that his longtime lover was walking out for a younger man. Rothman had planned a nice, civilized farewell meal—and then fed his lover his favorite sushi, nicely marinated in wasabi and Drano, resulting in a particularly unpleasant death.

“Rothman's counsel said they'll go for temporary insanity. He just saw the Drano and acted without thinking.”

Cara gave a cold laugh.

“Yeah, I happen to agree, but Rothman has been undergoing therapy for long-standing abandonment and relationship issues. His therapist has volunteered to testify.”

“Can we establish that Rothman bought the Drano
after
he found out he and his lover were quits?”

“Tried that. The Drano's been under his sink for years. Old bottle, date-stamped 1998.”

Cara cursed silently. “Keep working it. See if he bragged to anyone. Try his doorman or cleaning lady.” But she knew Rothman might slip away. Sometimes you took what you could get.

She flipped through a recent deposition from a defense lawyer. “I'm still waiting for that good news.”

“Try this. Barnhard's people will go for voluntary manslaughter in the freeway road-rage incident.”

“Hmm.”

“Are you okay, Cara? You sound like you're off on a Jeep trek in Mongolia. Lots of mental static on the line.”

“I'm fine, Tony.” Cara looked at the framed photo on the small antique table to her left. Two girls held up flaming marshmallows on crooked sticks. Their faces were streaked with dust, their hair tangled, their smiles incendiary.

The photo was six months old. Sophy was an inch taller now, and Audra was more reserved and serious, but her daughters were still knockouts.

Cara knew that they were both under stress. Despite all her reassurances, they were worrying about how the wedding would affect their future. Since the picture was taken, Sophy had lost a tooth, and Audra wanted to dye her hair blond. To top it off, the new nanny was coming tonight, and both girls were unhappy about that.

If only there had been some other way.

“Cara, you still there?”

“Right here.” She forced her thoughts back to work. “Go on, Tony.”

“Andrews is hanging tough. He figures our case is too thin.”

The assistant DA closed her file with a snap. “Not anymore, it isn't. We just took testimony from the girlfriend in Vallejo. It seems our man Andrews bragged about the murder while he was drunk, then waved a wad of bills he'd received as payment. He even had a picture of the woman he was supposed to kill. His employer was very efficient.”

“So now we've got them both. Nice work. Tell me why you don't sound happier.”

“Just tired, I guess.” Cara sipped her cold coffee and grimaced.

“Or distracted. I keep forgetting you're getting married in a week.”

“Ten days, actually, but who's counting?” Cara stretched, wincing at the sharp pain in her shoulders.

“Who's
counting
? Me and half the population of San Francisco, that's who. You were in the style section of the
Chronicle
last week, and I hear you're mentioned in an evening TV spot on Sunday. Everyone wants to know what kind of dress you're wearing and what color flowers you'll have. Even my wife was pestering me for details this morning.”

“It's not about me
or
the dress.” The dress Cara still hadn't picked out yet, she thought guiltily. “This is about Tate. He's very popular.”

“Senator Winslow's not the
only
popular person, kid. Be careful or this wedding will turn into a three-ring circus. By the way, where are you two tying the big knot?”

“Sorry, Tony. I love you dearly, but that's a state secret. If I talk, I'm toast, senator's orders.” She laughed softly. “We agreed the ceremony would be strictly family, but we're having a big reception in Carmel. You should have gotten an invitation weeks ago.”

“Right here on my desk. I wouldn't miss it for the world. If I tried, my wife would divorce me.” Her colleague hesitated. He had been protective of her ever since Cara had met him while working in the public defender's office. “Are you sure this is right for you? Tate Winslow is a stand-up guy who's been the best thing that's happened to California since the Beach Boys and liposuction. Even a blind person could see that you're crazy in love.” His chair creaked. “But . . .”

“But what, Tony?”

“The man's got his eye on Pennsylvania Avenue. His press people can waffle all they want, but we both know he's going to run. Then your life will be public, Cara. Every part of it, for you and the girls. You'll be swallowed alive, badgered incessantly by press, campaign donors, media consultants, press, legal advisors, press. Oh, did I mention press?”

Cara laughed. “I get the picture, Tony. Don't think I haven't seen it myself. Every smile recorded, every word dissected. Every hour accounted for.” She closed her eyes, suddenly very tired.

And very afraid. For her daughters, more than for herself.

“Damned right. Every detail in your past will be exhumed, inspected through high-powered microscopes. You two will become the next best thing to reality TV. They're going to want to know if Tate snores and what you wear to bed.”

“No and no comment.”

San Francisco's youngest female assistant DA sat back sharply, knocking a clay pot with dried bougainvillaeas to the floor. As Cara stared at her daughter's shattered gift, a first-grade Mother's Day project, she felt a stab of sadness. She'd have to collect the pieces and glue them back together before Audra saw them. But not now, when she was already late for a meeting.

“Thanks for the warning, Tony. Tate and I are prepared for whatever gets thrown at us. And right now I'm late for a meeting with the M.E., so send over those papers. I'll run through them tomorrow.”

“Will do. You're a tough negotiator, Ms. O'Connor.” Once again he hesitated. “I never meant that it was a bad idea, Cara. Just that you should be prepared for what comes next. The political process can be vicious, especially with what you've got on your plate from the Costello appeal.”

“Costello won't walk, no matter how many appeals he files. We had a clean conviction right down the line. As for the appeal, I don't expect to be handed the easy assignments because I'm a woman.”

“Hell, Costello scared the shit out of me. Gender's got nothing to do with it. Watch your step.” He blew out a breath. “And I'm hanging up now before I make an ass of myself.”

The line went dead, and Cara sat back slowly. Richard Costello, her last high-profile case, was a poster boy for equal-opportunity sadism. He'd trafficked in human cargo through four border states and Canada. An eternal pragmatist, Costello smuggled whatever commodity had the highest value at the moment. Cocaine in, luxury cars out, Toyota car parts out and people in. He had made millions off the vast blood trails that flowed between Mexico, Central America, and the United States, and he had bribed, intimidated, or murdered all who stood in his way. At his peak, dozens of DEA and INS agents filled his payroll.

According to rumor, a few of them still did.

A very bad man.

He had tried to bribe Cara half a dozen times during his trial. On the day of his sentencing, he had given her a new message: She would die and her skin would be hung up as a trophy in his house, payment for her involvement.

Cara was used to death threats, but lately the thought of what Costello might do to her children left her paralyzed with fear.

She tackled three more short calls, dictated a note to her assistant, and then sat back slowly. Sunlight glittered off the cars flooding Bryant Street. Even six floors up she could hear the angry scream of horns and braking tires.

And she was late for her meeting. Why did she feel as if she were always running, always one step behind?

Frowning, she knelt beside her desk and swept the broken pieces of clay into a padded envelope, determined to work a miracle repair before Audra realized her first-grade masterpiece was damaged. As Cara studied the mass of broken pieces, she considered canceling her evening plans so she could help smooth the transition when the new nanny arrived. Her presence would make things easier for everyone, since Audra and Sophy had been extremely upset when Cara had announced the sudden departure of their longtime nanny due to illness.

At least that was the story they'd come up with for the girls and anyone else who asked.

Her door opened. “The DA needs you right away.” Her assistant waved a folder. “Press leak on the Costello case. The details of his appeal have gone public, and we're already fielding press calls about possible tainted forensic evidence.”

Cara checked her watch in disbelief. “Impossible. We only heard from his counsel ten minutes ago.”

“That means it was public knowledge about eight minutes ago.” Her gorgeous, rail-thin assistant smiled grimly. “Here's the authority you requested in the employee workplace privacy issue. Also, Senator Winslow's office has called twice to confirm your dinner tonight. Eight o'clock at the Fairmount. I told them it was firm, but they want to hear it directly from you. Pushy people, even though they try to be polite about it.”

“Thanks. I'll call them back.” Cara slid the padded envelope into her already crowded briefcase.

It was only after the door closed that she saw the small box on the floor under her desk. About the size of a cell phone, it was wrapped with brown paper and plain white string. Her name was typed on a label with the return address of the bridal shop where she and the girls had gone to look at dresses.

Probably some additional samples of trim for her to consider.

But when Cara pulled off the wrapping, her face went white. Inside the box was a single fragment of paper, torn from what appeared to be an old piece of stationery. There was one line of text on the sheet.

May 12, 1986. Los Reyes Clinic. Remember.

The words struck Cara like a physical blow. This time the message wasn't about how she would die. In some ways, it was worse.

Moving like a sleepwalker, she shoved the box into her briefcase. Someone knew. After all these years, someone
knew.

Voices echoed down the hall. She looked at the box resting on top of the broken pieces of her daughter's gift. She didn't have time to fall apart. She had to think, to act with her head,
not
her heart, or she would hurt everyone she loved.

She had hoped this day would never come, but now it had.

Slowly Cara stood up. She cleared her desk by habit, closed her desk drawers and locked them, then picked up her briefcase. By the time she reached the door, she had made a decision that no woman should ever have to make.

 

“Senator Winslow's office.”

Cara sat tensely in her car, trying to stay calm. “Hello, Margo, it's Cara.”

“Well, it's about time. The Great Man has been pacing around his office for the last hour, and every three minutes he comes out to see if you've called yet.” Tate Winslow's veteran secretary laughed. “Since he's due out again any second, I'll put you right through.”