Conviction of the Heart (3 page)

Her cheeks turned the faintest shade of pink. “No, Lieutenant, your directions were fine. I took the long way around so I could wind down a little.”

As she sat down, he held her chair and carefully pushed it in. “I might have been here before. About a thousand times.”

“A thousand? Really?”

“Maybe.” He chuckled, feeling like he’d turned a police-issue flashlight on himself. “My dad was a cop, and my grandfather was a cop, and
his
father was right off the boat from Italy. So I practically grew up in this neighborhood.”

She smiled, and the smile gave her whole face a warm glow, as if someone had lit a candle inside her.

Concetta brought two menus and poured icy water into short, heavy glasses. “Vito made lasagna today,” she said.

Nick glanced across the table at Suzanne. “You don’t want to pass up Vito’s lasagna.”

Her gaze flicked across the menu, then she handed it back to Concetta. “Of course not.”

“Two lasagna.” Concetta scribbled on her pad. “He’s got fresh bread in the oven. I’ll bring some out. Wine?”

“Merlot?” he asked, and Suzanne nodded.

“Got just the thing.” Concetta grinned and waddled back to the kitchen. Nick glanced in that direction and caught a glimpse of all the would-be mother hens clucking up a storm in the back. They’d fussed over him since he was a boy eating meals with his grandfather; Nick was sure he remained their topic of conversation. He and Suzanne.

Fortunately, Suzanne seemed oblivious to the buzz. “So, a legacy cop,” she said. “Your family must be proud you’re a lieutenant.”

Nick nodded. “Best day of my dad’s life, I think. Even better than the day I graduated from Pitt.”

“You went to Pitt? My alma mater, too.”

“Not in the same class, I’m sure.” Nick was forty-five; he’d always thought of Suzanne as at least ten years younger.

The fingers of her left hand ran lightly over the fork, cushioned in the folded white napkin on the table. “Well, I went for law school. We wouldn’t have seen each other anyway.”

“Probably not. It was twenty years ago, before I joined the force.”

She looked up, surprised. “I was just finishing up. But I was sure you were older than I am.” She hesitated, bit her lip. “I just turned forty.”

“Not so much. I’m forty-five.” There, he said it. He hated thinking about the passing of the years. So many of them, so many alone. An awkward silence between them preceded the arrival of the wine, as well as hot bread with the strong aroma of garlic and cheese. He uncorked the bottle with a well-practiced hand, then poured them each half a glass.

He suppressed the urge to ask about her love life. “Where’d you go for undergrad?” he asked instead.

“Penn State.” She took a sip of the wine, holding the cool edge of the glass against her lip for a moment.

“Business major?” he guessed.

“Oh, no! Sociology. Headed for a career involving ‘Would you like fries with that?’” She laughed. “Graduate school was pretty much a given.”

“So you’ve been bent on saving the world all along.”

She shrugged. “Some of it, at least.”

He could understand the sentiment. “I believe that’s what I do, too. God knows there isn’t much other reason to be on the street some days. I want to know I’m making a difference for some man, woman or child every time I step out on the street.”

He waited for her to mock him, as other women had over the years. Many women wanted to date a police officer. Some found it a ticket to an “E” ride, great benefits, good pay, the opportunity for them to hang out with the girls at the outlet malls all day and get their nails done. Some, with violent men in their pasts, thought being with a cop would protect them. Some just were cop groupies, taking the thrill and excitement of the profession by proxy.

But most denigrated his genuine need to serve as corny and fake.

Suzanne didn’t poke fun. She skewered him with a dissecting gaze. After a few silent moments, she ostensibly accepted him at face value. “Did you always want to be a cop?”

“Sure. I mean, the family history and all. Guess I never wanted to be anything else. Except an astronaut.” He grinned.

“You? Roger Ramjet? Hard to believe.” She laughed softly, and he thought the cool distance in her eyes mellowed. Maybe he had a chance with her.

“More Elroy Jetson, I think. You know, visions of the future, all of us with jetpacks to get where we wanted to go, whatever’s ‘out there.’” He gestured toward the ceiling. He saw her about to laugh and gulped some wine.

Their salads arrived, and he was grateful for the distraction. By the time they’d finished those, then the bread, and the stacked tomato, noodle and cheese bit of heaven that defined Vito’s lasagna, he’d discovered her to be an educated and interesting companion.

They’d talked their way through politics and religion. They’d danced through current events, books, movies, and a shared love of 1970s music. They’d discussed parents and the difficulties of being adult children.

Everything, essentially, except their possible feelings about each other.

Neither seemed inclined to bring that up.

All the while, he supposed she was appraising him. Her gaze perched often on his lips as he spoke, almost as warm as a touch. He imagined what they would taste like, those soft lips. He was ready. One of them had to make the first move.

As they sat over coffee and the remains of a shared tiramisu, he decided to go for it. He leaned forward, speaking quietly, almost a whisper.

“What?” she asked. When she leaned forward to hear him, he kissed her.

“Hey!” she said, pulling back. Expression alarmed, she picked up her napkin, holding it in her hand on the table before her, almost like a shield.

Damn it.

Immediately contrite, he said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” He sat straight, and raised his hands. “Sorry. I had to get it out of my system. I’ve been thinking about kissing you ever since you walked in here. You look amazing.”

She eyed him, retracted her hand and its napkin into her lap. “Well…thank you.” Her eyes slipped away, but a smile tried to hide in the corner of her lips.

He reached for his coffee cup, fiddling with its handle. “Thank you for not slapping me.”

“And risk being charged with battery on a police officer? Not likely.” Suzanne took a deep breath, then let it out. “I’m a big girl, Nick. I like to make informed decisions, that’s all.” She stood up. “Thank you for dinner.”

He awkwardly rose to his feet, too, chagrined his impulsive move had brought the evening to a close. “You’re very welcome. It’s been great. Suzanne, really, I’m sorry. I’d love to see you again.”

“You know, I’d like that, too.” She studied him a moment, then leaned down and kissed him. “Good night, Lieutenant.” She headed for the door.

Off balance, he sank back into his chair. Concetta was at his elbow with a coffee carafe before he could even form a sentence.

“She’s not Italian,” she scolded.

“With that hair? I doubt it.” He laughed.

“A Mick…What your ma would say, rest her soul.” She clucked her tongue. “But, Nicky, that one is quality,” she said with a smile. “The dress…those earrings. She’s got money, right?”

“Huh? I guess, yeah. She’s a lawyer.” Nick was still mulling over her kiss, hoping it meant what he thought it did.

“A lawyer?” She turned back to the kitchen, calling out, “A lawyer!” The watching faces lit up with approval like a Christmas display.

“Concetta.” He held his hand over the cup as she was about to pour. “I’ve had enough. Got to be up at the crack of dawn tomorrow.” He gave her three twenties. “Keep the change.”

Concetta grinned and patted him on the arm. “You’re a good boy, Nicky. I hope this one sticks.”

“Yeah. So do I.” As his face twitched into a goofy smile, he wandered off toward the door.

Definitely hope this one sticks. She’s worth it.

Chapter Four

When Madeleine Morgan arrived on Friday morning, she appeared every bit the pampered politician’s wife. The earlier panic seemed under control. Her hair was coiffed, the blue suit expensive, and she even wore pale lipstick. But dark half-circles under her eyes and the ragged edges of her polished nails told a different story.

Donna gave her the standard intake form on a clipboard, which Madeleine filled out while clutching a large brown envelope with a dried coffee stain on the front. Suzanne hoped the envelope contained the documents she had requested. She stole a peek at Maddie, then went back to her office, pacing while she waited, the office seeming smaller the more she walked.

She’d rented the space before Carson Street emerged as one of the hottest nightlife areas in Pittsburgh, and she’d been lucky to have signed a long term lease. The office was in the back of the building’s second floor, and the broad window looked out toward the Monongahela River. At one point in time, tenants might have been able to see the river from the window, but the area between Carson Street and the river had gradually built up with shops and warehouses, blocking the view.

She had four good-sized rooms, the largest of which she’d taken for her own office, its walls lined with books she hardly ever used now that most of her research was done online. Behind her grandmother’s desk sat Suzanne’s worn black leather chair, a hulking bit of furniture that, after ten years, molded around her bottom. A pair of upholstered loveseats with a small gray print sat diagonal to one another. That was where Suzanne preferred to interview her clients. The “family” setting seemed more intimate, and more likely to put clients at ease when discussing sensitive personal, even shameful, matters.

Two framed diplomas graced the wall. Her favorite framed art, though, made by her daughters over the years, hung across from her desk, reminding her of the reason she worked so hard.

“Thank you again for this appointment,” Maddie said as Donna ushered her in.

Suzanne held out her hand for the envelope, which Maddie gave to her. “Of course. Have you heard from your husband?”

“He calls twice a day, but I never know what time each call will be. He…he doesn’t suspect anything, if that’s what you mean.”

“Good. Are people still keeping tabs on you?”

Suzanne opened the envelope and drew out a marriage certificate, retirement documents, a deed to the house, birth certificates for Joshua, age fourteen, and Katie, ten, and Social Security cards for the family, and half a dozen other pieces of paper that would start to define the assets and debts of the Morgan family.

“His friends drive by in the evening to make sure I don’t go out after dark.” At Suzanne’s curious look, Maddie added, “He always thinks I'm meeting another man.”

“Other men only come out after dark?” Suzanne asked with a grin.

There was no answering smile. “I'm not allowed out after dark,” Maddie said in a monotone.

Too soon for humor for this one, Suzanne realized. Maddie was still beaten down, subjugated. Healing would take time. She’d learn to step away from the cloistered life she was living.

“I'd be willing to bet he also controls all the money.”

Maddie nodded.

“He probably hides it, or keeps you ignorant enough so you don't know the extent of the accounts.”

“I have some idea. But you're right. It's been my job to make a lovely home and raise his children, not to interfere in his business.”

Pretty typical. “He’s always been like this?”

“Yes.” Maddie's voice was flat.

“You’ve been married for…” She read down the intake sheet. “Sixteen years?”

Maddie nodded.

“He was like this even before you married him?” She looked Maddie in the eye. “Was he physically abusive then?”

Maddie shuffled her shoes on the carpet, eyes cast down. “Yes,” she said quietly.

“Some judges might not understand this, Maddie. I mean, why you’d marry him when you already knew he was an abuser.” Suzanne quit writing and looked closely at her client, whose panic seemed to flicker back to life. “You don’t have to explain to me—I know many reasons why domestic violence survivors stay with abusers. At some point, we’ll need to explain to the court. So, let’s see if we can flesh those reasons out.”

Maddie squirmed in the chair, picking at her skirt. A long few minutes passed before she answered. “He was always so good afterward. It only happened once before we were married, and he said it would never happen again. He promised.” She leaned back against the cushion, but sat upright again almost immediately, her hands fretting in her lap. “The next was almost two years later. He begged me to forgive him. I did.” Maddie looked out the window. “The next time, it was too late.”

“How do you mean?”

“I was pregnant with Joshua.”

Suzanne nodded with understanding. “And after that?”

“He made sure I was pregnant often enough so I never had the courage to get out.” She looked directly at Suzanne. “He’s beaten me so badly I lost four pregnancies. Only Katie and Joshua survived. I’ve held on as long as I can. I won't sit around now and wait for him to kill me. I can’t do that to my babies.”

One tear, then several more, cascaded down her cheeks. Her thin fingers picked at the expensive skirt.

“I’d recommend we file papers to keep him away from you and your children. If we file today, we’d get an immediate restraining order. He couldn’t come to the house or send anyone after you. Do you have somewhere you can stay until the dust settles? Friends? Relatives?”

“He’s run off all my real friends. He’ll probably go after you, too. He does that. He wants to make sure no one helps me.” Maddie took a long, ragged breath. “All I have left are the wives of his buddies. I can’t tell them what’s really been happening. Not after I’ve covered it up so long. No one will believe me.”

Suzanne sighed. Despite Maddie’s assertion that Greg Morgan would go after Suzanne, she certainly couldn’t base her representation on that. Maddie would have to be able to count on her, no matter what. Suzanne could take care of herself. “How about family members?”

“My parents are dead. My sister lives in California and isn't much help.”

“Did you talk to the people at Womanspace?”