Suspect

Morgan’s eyes opened wide. “That’s old,” she informed him. “That’s very old.”

“Er…yes, I guess it is.”

“My grandpa is old. My grandma is old. My nana is old. My poppa is old. Miss Rose is old—”

“Who is Miss Rose?” Liam asked, interrupting what threatened to become an endless litany of the aged. “Is she your teacher?”

“No!” Morgan chuckled at his ridiculous mistake. “Miss Rose is my dog. She frew up on Mommy’s shoes ’cos she ate Peter’s chicken nuggets. Mommy shut her in the laundry room.”

Liam had no idea how to respond to this wealth of information. Tom, on the other hand, simply laughed.

“The bit about throwing up on Mommy’s shoes might have been more than we needed to know, Morgan, love. Peter, you can play with your sister for a while.” He set his son on the floor and dragged a box of wooden blocks into the center of the room. “Build a house for Morgan’s dolls,” he suggested. “Build a red house.”

Peter, clearly a man of few words, sat down without complaint and carefully selected a dozen or so red blocks. “He’s very good with his colors,” Tom said proudly. “He knows them all.”

“Er…great.” Liam felt as if he’d been plunged into a foreign country where he spoke only a textbook version of the language and didn’t quite grasp the native customs. According to Morgan, Peter was three years old. Didn’t all three year olds know their colors?

“Do you like how I fixed Barbie’s hair?” Not wanting to be overlooked, Morgan extended her naked doll for closer inspection and Liam noticed that the stiff blond hair was haphazardly decorated with glittery pins.

“Er…very nice,” he said.

Tom smiled. “Barbie is beautiful, honey bun. I love all those pink diamonds. Why don’t you try dressing her in a skirt to match? Then she can go to the ball.”

Morgan frowned. “She’s not Cinderella. She’s Barbie.”

“Right. But Barbie can go to a ball if she wants.”

Morgan considered this in silence for a second or two, then shrugged. “Daddy, tell Peter not to pull the heads off of my Barbies.”

“Peter, are you listening? No chopping off Barbie’s head, okay?”

Peter interrupted his turret building long enough to give a reluctant nod.

“Okay, be good both of you. Don’t fight. I’ll be right back.” Tom appeared unaware of anything in the least strange about his conversation with his kids. Maybe discussion of head-removal was a normal exchange when you were dealing with preschoolers? Since he’d been thirteen by the time Megan was four, Liam had spent very little time playing with his sister but for sure he couldn’t recall harboring any murderous impulses toward her Barbie dolls.

Liam followed Tom out of the family room, trying to remember when he’d last spoken to a human being under the age of twelve. He supposed it must have happened at least once or twice during the past fifteen years, but he’d be damned if he could remember the occasion.

A slender, pretty woman sat at the kitchen table across from a tiny little girl with poker straight, mouse-brown hair who was coloring with magic markers. The child’s head was bent so intently over her task that it was impossible to see her face. The little girl didn’t send a single glance toward the newcomers, but the woman rose to her feet, her smile not quite hiding both fatigue and worry.

“Liam?” She pushed her chair away from the table and stood up, holding out her hand. “Hi, I’m Alexia, Chloe’s sister. I’m so glad you’ve agreed to help us. I’ve seen you on TV several times and your glowing reputation precedes you.”

Liam let the possible reference to Sherri Norquist’s trial slide over him. Surprisingly, it barely stung. “With any luck we’ll be able to get Chloe’s problems squared away fast,” he said. “Then your sister won’t need my help or anyone else’s.”

Alexia didn’t look reassured. “I’m not optimistic about this being resolved quickly,” she said, her voice low. “The whole situation is made-for-TV perfect and, boy, are they reveling in the mess.” She glanced quickly toward Sophie, who gave no sign that she’d even noticed Liam’s arrival in the room, much less that she was paying attention to the conversation. Once again, Liam was forcefully reminded of his own family’s situation only two months earlier. Media intrusion then had been a nightmare for his mother and sister. He could barely imagine how much worse it would be if you were trying to shield young children from a brutal reality.

“I have a couple of questions for you,” Alexia murmured, walking over to the sink where she stood staring at the dish detergent as if she couldn’t remember why she was there.

Liam followed, gesturing toward Sophie when Alexia didn’t speak. “Is your niece going to be upset at being picked up by a complete stranger?”

Alexia shook her head. “I’ve told her the truth—that you’re here to drive her home—so I’m sure she’ll go with you willingly. She’s taking the loss of her father very hard. She’s been frighteningly quiet today.” She gave a quick shrug. “Although I guess that’s a dumb thing to say. How else could she take Jason’s death except badly?”

“It’s a difficult situation all around and the media attention makes everything that much more difficult.” Liam winced at the platitude but he was sneaking covert glances at his daughter and didn’t have much brain power to spare for conversing.

“Especially in our family. Did you know that our father—Chloe’s and mine—is the deputy superintendent of schools in Colorado Springs?”

“No, I wasn’t aware that Chloe had parents in the state.”

“We all moved here in the late eighties, when Chloe started serious training for the Olympics. Once we were here, we fell in love with Colorado and never left.”

He’d been ignorant of that, along with virtually every other fact about Chloe’s life. “Is your father’s profession significant for some reason?” he asked.

“Well, just that he’s such an important figure in their community and the notoriety of Jason’s murder is already proving horribly difficult for him and my mother.” Alexia sighed. “Dad always tries so hard to set a good example for his students. Family is really important to him and to my mother. This is just the pits.”

Tough for dad, maybe, but the situation wasn’t exactly easy on Chloe, either. “I’ll do my best to prevent the situation getting any worse than it already is,” Liam said coolly. “I recommend, however, that you and your parents avoid piling any more burdens on your sister’s shoulders, even by implication. She’s carrying a heavy enough load as it is.”

Alexia flushed. “I’m sorry. I must have sounded like a jerk just now. That’s what comes of listening to my mother cry into the phone all afternoon. She’s terribly worried about Chloe, of course.”

But not worried enough to have driven up from Colorado Springs, apparently. Liam stowed that fact away for future reference. “I’m optimistic that I’ll be able to keep your sister out of jail,” he said. “You can pass that information on to your parents if it will make them feel any better.”

Alexia stared at him in mute horror and he realized that, despite everything, the possibility of her sister ending up behind bars hadn’t hit home until this moment. She rubbed her forehead, as if trying to send away a sudden headache.

“The talk show hosts have been salivating at the possibility of Chloe in prison for the past couple of hours,” Alexia admitted. “The fact is, I was so angry at their outrageous comments that I dismissed everything they said as ridiculous.”

“Most of what they said probably was. Still, we have to manage the timing of your sister’s arrest—if it comes—in such a way that the police have no excuse to hold her in jail overnight while we wait for a bond hearing. That can be trickier than it sounds. Accused murderers are usually required to wait trial in custody, but I’m optimistic we can persuade a judge not to lock Chloe up.”

Alexia took a few seconds to absorb the horrifying prospect of her sister awaiting trial behind bars. Apparently, she couldn’t handle the implications and changed the topic. “It’s mind-blowing that the media can use Jason’s murder as entertainment,” she said. “Chloe was the most loyal wife you could imagine, but the TV reporting today managed to make her sound like a nympho on steroids. They interviewed every guy in Colorado she ever dated from the time she was sixteen and edited the sound bites so you’d have thought she spent her life hopping from bar to drunken party and back again. How the hell do they think she won her Olympic medals? By falling out of bed and whizzing down the ski slopes between parties? Have they any idea—any remote clue—what it takes to train for such dangerous and grueling races?”

The annoying thing about the media, Liam reflected cynically, was not that they were so often wrong, but that they were occasionally dead right. Alexia seemed to think Chloe was a saint; Sophie’s existence proved she was, at the very least, capable of breaking her marriage vows and committing adultery. He sneaked another glance at the top of his daughter’s head, which was all he could see since she was still coloring with fanatic concentration. He doubted if Sophie could hear what was being said and he reassured himself that there was no chance that a three-year-old—an age level that apparently had trouble distinguishing red from blue—would be able to grasp the significance of the conversation.

Liam forced himself to turn away from his daughter. There was no point in shattering Alexia’s glossy image of her sister. In fact, from a defense attorney’s point of view, family and relatives who firmly believed in a suspect’s innocence were valuable assets and he needed to bolster Alexia’s good opinion of her sister.

“The reporters are probably annoyed that they haven’t been able to find Chloe to interview her,” Liam said. “Unfortunately, when they can’t get hard information, they tend to move on to speculation.”

Alexia grimaced. “Yes, we learned that when Chloe was part of the Olympic ski team. In fact, I was thinking the best way to counteract the harmful publicity might be to choose one of the more sympathetic reporters and give them an exclusive interview.”

“Bad idea,” Liam said quickly. “Trust me, any sort of family interview right now would be a very bad idea.”

“Why?” Tom had joined them. He put his arm around his wife’s shoulders and she leaned against him gratefully. “That’s what Chloe used to do when the sports journalists got on her case. Her PR rep would call a few journalists and get some positive articles out there.”

“This is different.” Liam tried not to sound impatient. “We’re not talking about putting a stop to rumors that Chloe is overtrained, or having a hard time with her left knee joint. We’re talking about avoiding an arrest for murdering her spouse.”

“We could find somebody friendly,” Tom persisted. “Somebody from ESPN who remembers her warmly—”

“Take my advice on this, no reporter is genuinely sympathetic to a suspected murderer. Worse, when the piece airs, the police would be watching and analyzing every word that comes out of Chloe’s mouth.”

“But all she’s going to say in an interview is that she’s innocent!” Alexia protested. “And she can’t be tripped up because she didn’t do it!”

“The first lesson for you to learn right now is that innocence doesn’t count for much in a court of law, and even less in the court of public opinion.” Liam spoke flatly, no longer trying to win over Alexia and her husband. On the question of media contact, he was adamant. Chloe had spent most of her young adult life in the spotlight and it was natural for her family to think they knew how to handle reporters. They didn’t, not in the wake of a celebrity murder.

“I’m giving you advice based on my experience trying other high profile criminal cases,” Liam said. “I guarantee that there are plenty of secrets concerning her marriage that Chloe doesn’t want revealed, whether or not they relate to Jason’s murder.”

“But—”

“No buts. As long as I’m her defense lawyer, Chloe will refuse any and all interviews. I can’t force you two to do the same, but I’m strongly requesting it. If you want to help your sister, don’t speak to the press. Or the police, for that matter. Your only smart response to any and all questions is no comment, whoever is asking—friendly neighbor, church minister, cop, reporter, one answer fits all. No comment. Practice saying it until it’s a reflex. Advise your parents to do the same.”

Tom started to protest again, but Alexia put her hand on his arm, silencing him. “Then what options do we have? Sit back and wait for Chloe to be tried and convicted by the media?”

“We can’t tackle the media or the cops in a vacuum. We need a comprehensive strategy. I’ll have a better idea of exactly what we’re facing when Chloe and I have had a chance to talk.”

“You haven’t discussed the case with Chloe yet?” Tom sounded incredulous. “What have you been doing all day, for Christ’s sake?”

“Serving my existing clients.” Liam kept his voice level. “I spent most of today in court. Consequently, I don’t know enough of the facts of this case to have even the outline of a strategy.”

“I’m sorry.” Tom gulped in air and shoved his hand through his hair. “This situation is getting to me. I didn’t mean to criticize.”

“That’s okay. It’s stressful for everyone. However, right now we’re wasting valuable time. I need to get your niece back to her mother.”

“Like I said, the poor little thing has barely spoken since she got here.” Alexia dried her hands on the dish-towel, although she hadn’t actually washed them. “Normally she’s as chatty as Morgan and the two of them love to play together. But not today.”

Liam followed Alexia’s worried gaze toward the child at the table. Sophie was still coloring. Despite his inexperience with kids, even he was able to recognize her extreme focus as an avoidance tactic.

Ignoring the roller coaster that had begun operation in his stomach the second he walked into the kitchen, he crossed the room and drew up a chair next to Sophie. Next to his daughter.

“Hi, Sophie,” he said, hoping she couldn’t hear the squeak in his voice. He cleared his throat. “My name is Liam. I’m…um…a friend of your mom.”

Sophie said nothing. She continued to color exactly as if he hadn’t spoken—as if he didn’t exist. By comparison, blue-nosed Peter had been positively friendly.

Liam felt sweat gather under his shirt collar. He was astonished to discover that he wanted, quite desperately, for Sophie to acknowledge his presence.

“Your mom asked me to pick you up and drive you home,” he said. “Well, not home exactly. I’m going to take you to the place where your mom is staying for the night.”

Silence.

“Your mom is really anxious to see you.” He wondered if anxious was too hard a word for Sophie to understand. “She’s waiting for us,” he elaborated. “If you’ve finished your picture, we need to get going.”

Sophie finally looked up from her coloring. Her face was pale and pinched with worry, but that wasn’t what made Liam feel as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. It was her eyes that had him gaping. They were huge, long-lashed and green. His sister Megan’s eyes staring out at him from his daughter’s face. Megan’s eyes, displaying Sophie’s heart-wrenching grief.

“Mommy isn’t waiting. She’s gone away,” Sophie said with unsettling calm.

“Well, yes, I know she went away,” Liam agreed. “She’s kind of busy right now. That’s why she sent me to fetch you.”

Sophie’s expression remained shuttered, as if she struggled to hold an unbearable weight of sadness inside. “Mommy is wiv my daddy. They’re in heaven. That’s far away.”

“Sweetheart, no!” Alexia swooped across the kitchen and hugged Sophie to her chest. “My God, I had no idea she was thinking that.” She rocked her niece back and forth, tears wetting her own cheeks although Sophie didn’t cry. “Sweetheart, your mommy is fine. She’s waiting to see you, I promise!”

“She’s in heaven,” Sophie repeated, but this time there was a faint question in her voice. “Wiv my daddy.”

Liam knelt beside Sophie’s chair, reaching instinctively for her hands. They were ice-cold and he chafed them as he spoke. “Sophie, I promise, your mom is waiting for you in Denver. She’s sad that your father is…” Dead? Murdered? Gone to heaven? Jesus, what euphemisms did you use to explain death to a three-year-old? Liam swallowed. “Your mom is waiting for you,” he finished lamely.

“We should have realized Sophie wouldn’t understand if her mother vanished almost the moment we told her about Jason,” Tom said. He rubbed his hand across the stubble on his cheeks. “Jeez, we really blew that, didn’t we?”

Alexia combed her fingers through her niece’s flyaway hair. “Sophie, sweetie, your mommy isn’t in heaven. She’s right here, I promise.”

“No, Mommy isn’t here,” Sophie said with incontrovertible logic. “Only you and Uncle Tom are here. And the other man.” She nodded toward Liam, finally acknowledging his existence.

“Well, she’s not right here in the kitchen, but Mommy is very close by. She isn’t with your daddy in heaven, I promise. She’s in Denver, like Liam said, waiting to see you.”

Sophie slowly put down her marker. “If my mommy isn’t in heaven, why did she go away?”

“She had grown-up stuff she needed to take care of.” Alexia chose her words with visible care. “She wanted to stay with you, but she just couldn’t. That’s why she sent Liam to get you.”

“I don’t know him.” Sophie kept her gaze fixed on her aunt.

“He’s a good friend of your mommy’s. Can you say his name?”

Sophie nodded. “Liam. It’s easy-peasey.”

“Right. Liam will take you in his car. It’ll be a little way to drive, but not nearly as far as going to Nana and Poppa’s house.”

Sophie said nothing, but Liam thought he detected a slight reduction in the tension that had held her spine straight and her tiny, skinny body so rigid that it looked brittle. The oddest ache was lodged in the pit of his stomach and he fought the urge to push Alexia aside and take his daughter into his arms. It was physically painful for him to see her so miserable.

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