Trophies (36 page)

"Did you enjoy it?"

The cold spread from my skin into my soul.
"Don't be an ass. If I did, would I have PTSD?"

His understanding expression didn't change.
"I don't know. Tell me about it."

I was moments from a meltdown, pressure
building inside me like the soundtrack of a disaster movie. If I
had a flashback, if I lost control and reacted inappropriately, it
would give Wingate all the excuse he needed, if not to arrest me,
then to have me locked away while the Kraut and Sherlock fought for
my release. That would put paid to my license to carry and perhaps
that was the real point of this exercise: not to obtain a
confession and arrest a killer, but to prevent some fatal Rambo
incident from happening in the future.

The more I considered it, the more likely it
seemed. I drew a breath, then another, deeper one. For once, the
stupid exercises worked. Deliberately I withdrew from his vicinity
and leaned back in the chair. My new perspective pushed the stress
into the recesses of my damaged brain. Wingate's moment was over
and he had lost.

"No." My voice was calm. "I can't discuss
specific missions."

His expression tightened. "I can always ask
Colonel Holmes or subpoena your records."

I didn't need to look at William. "Then do
it."

For a moment more he watched me with that
focused stare, so like Sherlock's. Then he broke eye contact and
drank his coffee. It was almost an admission and acceptance of
defeat, and my next breath came even more easily.

"The Boston police department," he said, his
voice again its elegant and conversational self, "received a tip
concerning an alleged and uncharacteristic argument between Edith
Hunter and one of the artists participating in the
Friends and
Fantasies
show. I questioned Sharon Righetti, professionally
known as Sidnë, and she admitted to the argument but claimed it was
irrelevant to the investigation."

His complete change of subject and demeanor
confirmed my suspicion. Elation swept through me, the same sort of
elation I felt when a lock surrendered to my ministrations and some
poor sod's final defenses crumbled before me. I fought for control
and I had won. Perhaps Sherlock was right: perhaps I could function
so long as I had someone or something to defend.

"We are, of course, following that up. In the
meantime, Ms. Righetti claimed to have seen a man sitting inside
Edith Hunter's car, parked outside the gallery that night, less
than an hour prior to her murder. I want to see if she can pick you
out of a lineup."

William stirred. "Charles is wearing a
military uniform. That's hardly inconspicuous."

"That's a good point, Counselor. We'll find
him a change of clothes." Wingate looked me over. The last vestiges
of his intensity drifted away and his glance over my uniform was
almost polite. "I don't think mine will fit you." He was both
shorter and stouter than I.

"True." My own voice was gentle now although
not yet relaxed, and the sound of it sent confidence surging
through me. "And I would like to look good for the record, you
know."

"You and I are a size," William said. "We can
swap clothing temporarily."

Wingate rose; Margot and the street uniform
filed out. "There will be an officer at the door," he said with his
hand on the knob. "You can change in here."

William waited until the door was closed
behind them then started unlacing his shoes. "Why are you so
tense?"

I followed suit, kicking off my boots and
deliberately starting with my fatigue pants. "Because I don't like
being accused of murder." I stripped them off, revealing the hidden
holster and the Colt.

"What the hell!"

It was worth it. "I'm a military officer,
William. Carrying weapons is the sort of thing we do, you know." I
set the holster on the table, then started on my shirt. I felt much
better.

Give William credit, he recovered quickly.
"Did you do it?"

"Do what?" Perhaps I'd missed part of the
conversation.

He handed me his pants and took mine. He said
nothing aloud, and suddenly he didn't need to. Suddenly, I didn't
feel good at all.

"Are you asking if I shot Aunt Edith?"

"Yes, Charles. I'm asking if you shot Aunt
Edith."

I stared at him. I could do nothing else;
that pitch out of left field, from the man I'd considered at least
temporarily on my side, stunned me more than Wingate's veiled
accusations. It was as if the last twenty years had been stripped
from me, like my clothing, and I was once again a small boy exiled
far from home to live with a relative I'd never met. I didn't even
have the self-possession to pull on the pants I held in both hands
and to my horror, tears blurred the ugly room about me.

"No," I finally managed to say without my
voice cracking. "No, I did not shoot Aunt Edith. She was my best
friend."

He straightened the fatigue shirt, tucked it
in, and fastened the trousers, all without his stare leaving my
face. Finally he nodded. He believed me. I had passed muster.

"All right. I'm an attorney, Charles. Like a
policeman, I have to ask the tough questions."

I couldn't let it go quite that easily. "Even
to your family?"

He didn't hesitate. "Sometimes especially.
Get dressed; what are you waiting for?"

I was waiting for my hands to stop shaking,
but that would take a while and I wasn't about to tell him that.
Instead I turned my back and just did my best. It helped my state
of mind to consider how ridiculous he looked in olive drab
fatigues.

The leather holster shifted on the table; he
was examining the Colt. But all he said was, "Comfortable, these
are."

"Your pants are loose. Why don't you try
running or something?"

He handed me the holster. "You get to explain
this to them."

"He didn't search me and he didn't ask me.
You weren't here yet and I wasn't going to volunteer anything."

"You still get to explain it."

current time

William told me afterward that Sidnë didn't
have a clue: "She almost thought she recognized the police sergeant
at the far end of the lineup, but that was the best she could
do."

Wingate, furious over his mistake and
perfectly red in the face, returned my Colt and holster without an
apology, although he did inform me that, with the permission of my
sort-of counselor, he'd taken ballistics samples from it to compare
with the report he'd just received, even though the huge slug from
a .45 couldn't possibly have made those neat wounds in Aunt Edith's
torso. Then William and I swapped clothes again in the conference
room. It was over, the worst I had was the shakes, and perhaps no
one had noticed those. I would even have time for lunch before the
reading of Aunt Edith's will.

On the front step of the station house, I
waved for a cab, which ignored me. "Just how much help were you
intending to be in there?"

"Considering the trouble he could have made
for both of us if I attempted to practice law in his domain without
a license," William said, his voice dry, "not a lot."

I shot a look his way then tried for another
cab. That one didn't seem to like the look of me, either, and drove
on.

"Besides, he colored within the lines,
according to the only law I know." William raised a hand for a
third cab and it pulled over immediately. He turned to face me.
"But if you go back in there, you will need a criminal attorney at
your side. A proper one."

Great. I stared into his still wary
expression. This experienced barrister thought I needed a good
lawyer, too. I sighed. "William, look—"

"Don't bother." He opened the door of the
cab.

And again I could cheerfully hit him. "You
could make this easy, you know."

"The same way you do?"

To hell with him. I started to walk away.

"No, one more moment, Charles. I do have
something to say. Wait a bit," he said to the cabbie. "Go ahead and
start the meter." He pushed the cab door to and turned back to me.
"Colonel Holmes tells me there's a chance Lindsay might also be in
danger."

Of course, Sherlock as a father himself would
feel the need to mention that. "A very small chance, I hope."

"He wants to keep her close so he can protect
her. I admit, with guns that's probably going to be easier for the
two of you than for me. But, Charles—"

Here it came. I fought to keep from rolling
my eyes. For some reason, I didn't want him to know my opinion of
his message.

"—if anything happens to my daughter while
she's in your care, I'll kill you."

Right on cue. "Nothing's going to happen to
Lindsay, William. Believe it or not, I like her. She's something I
never was."

His eyebrows raised. "A girl?"

Okay, I left myself wide open for that one. I
allowed myself the eye roll. "A good kid, I meant."

For some reason, my simple words had an
unexpected effect. William froze, one hand on the cab door, staring
at me with his eyebrows almost in his hairline, as if he wondered
whether I was hallucinating just then. But as his gaze lingered on
my face — and I'm certain it reflected the confusion I felt at his
reaction — his eyebrows slowly returned to normal altitude. The
sound of gears meshing inside his brain was almost audible even
over the growling of the cab's engine. Finally he shook his head,
somewhere between disbelief and wonder, stepped into the cab, and
it drove off.

I had my hand in the air for another when I
noticed a shapely figure, undisguised by dowdy blue jeans and
tee-shirt, leaning against the side of a light green Volvo station
wagon in the parking lot. I lowered my hand. She spoke on her cell
phone but those intimate brown eyes were on me. Instead of their
usual serenity, their expression was deep, like an undertow in
spring tide, and she didn't blink. Ignoring the cell phone, I
pulled her close. She snuggled into my arms. I rubbed her back and
wished this was all over, that I had nothing better to do than go
home, hold her close, and convince this deeply moral woman to
forget her standards for a few hours and then for the rest of her
life.

"He's here, Sherlock." She handed me the cell
phone and rested her head on my shoulder.

I couldn't help but notice how well the brown
of her hair blended with the olive drab of my fatigues. "I'm fine,
boss." I let my hand drop down her back until I felt denim and
trusted myself to go no further. In public, at least.

"Good," he said. "You sound okay. No
problems?"

"Wingate's trying to pin the murder on me.
We've got to solve this soon or he'll find a way to lock me up for
something and there goes my license to carry."

One of her arms slipped around and pressed
against the small of my back. The other slid between us, below the
waistband of my trousers, and touched the hidden holster. That
rested near a rather personal section of my anatomy, and when the
leather rubbed against my skin my arm contracted, tightening her
against me.

"We won't take that lying down," Sherlock
said.

I admit it took me a moment to understand his
intended meaning; I was confusing it with hers. "Wingate let slip
that he has the ballistics results."

"Then we'll go in tonight. We're meeting back
at the house now for lunch. See you there." He rang off.

I dropped the cell phone into the purse
dangling off her shoulder and added my other arm to the fence
enclosing her. She let me hold her for a few swift heartbeats more,
then squeezed my biceps and pulled back.

"It's a long way for me."

And I knew she didn't mean the drive to
Cambridge.

I had Caren swing by my condo so I could
collect additional clothing. While she drove, I watched the
mirrors, even borrowing her compact so I could examine the cars
behind us without advertising the fact. But I detected no tail,
Impala, Suburban, or otherwise.

It was just before noon when we arrived back
at the house. Sherlock already had sandwiches, Mooseheads, and his
glass of water on the table. I ran upstairs for a shower and
changed into my walking-out greens. For a trip to an attorney's
office in July to face my entire family, I'd have preferred the
whites — they always felt more formal and summery — but there
wasn't going to be any salvaging them; Mister Suburban's first
attack had ensured that.

While dressing, I realized I was getting used
to the idea that Aunt Edith wouldn't return. Never again would I
read Shakespeare aloud for her in the parlor, the tea set and a
heady bouquet of cut roses between us on the coffee table. And
while the thought brought a heavy ache to my heart and cold rage to
my mind, it no longer caused me to freeze in place and glance over
my shoulder, waiting for her to walk into a room. It was progress
of a sort.

When I dug my wallet and change from the
fatigue trousers' pocket, I also found that old ring of Uncle
Hubert's, still in there from where I'd pulled it off the previous
evening. On impulse, I put it back on. All right, it was truly
hideous, but it was comfortable to wear and it was growing on me,
like a new image of myself.

I also took the time to re-rake that damned
lock on the garret door, in tune to Sherlock's caustic comments and
with Lindsay poring over my shoulder as if I practiced some
wonderful form of magic. I blocked the door open again with the
stack of books, nodded to Lindsay with as much dignity as I could
muster amidst Sherlock's carping — by then it felt like a rather
ragged banner, like something Prissy might wear — and escaped back
downstairs. In future, Wingate could come calling as many times as
he liked; that door would not be shut ever again.

Sherlock drove Patricia, Lindsay, and me to
the office of Wynne Cameron Gamble et al., attorneys at law
specializing in family and estate management, and rode up in the
elevator with us.