Deceived (2 page)

Taylor handed Brandon her business card. He glanced at it, gestured in the direction she should head, then walked with her. “Bartholomew. Any relation to the B in HBW Shipbuilding Enterprises?”

“Yes,” she said.

He reached a closed door. He studied her for a second before opening it. “Really? An assistant D.A.?”

People had a hard time reconciling the Bartholomew name with the government-service job. She didn’t bother explaining. On this last Thursday of June, before the upcoming Fourth of July holiday on Monday, most of the assistants, along with the D.A., were attending a bar association convention in Florida. The Deputy Chief was scrambling for bodies and had passed by Taylor’s office with the options of misdemeanor court, a guilty plea hearing, or making sure a subject and his defense lawyer stayed in check in a homicide interview. Taylor had chosen the interview and left before someone with more seniority could steal the assignment. Hands down, it was the most interesting of the options, even before she realized that Morrissey was the subject of the interview, arrived in his gorgeous house, figured out that he had fathered a child with the murder victim, and way before he had placed the baby in her arms and gazed at her with eyes that were the color of pure, expensive jade. Now, the quick assignment had become downright fascinating.

“Yes,” she said, “an assistant district attorney.”

“Why?”

People couldn’t get past the fact that she could be described as a debutante, an heiress, former Queen of Carnival, and an assistant D.A. Most, though, didn’t so blatantly ask why. She folded her arms and met his stare. “I’m here for your interview, Mr. Morrissey. Not mine.”

His serious gaze softened. Without the full weight of untold worries in his face, his eyes became riveting and his lush lips worth more than a passing glance. Yet he didn’t smile. “Good for you,” he said. “Not so great for me.”

He opened the door for her, revealing a large, lived-in, legal war room. Two conference tables could seat fourteen people. Four computer monitors filled work stations along one wall. Laptops were on one of the conference tables. Large-screen televisions were mounted on one wall. Audiovisual equipment was encased on sleek shelves. Against another of the walls there was a jury booth, with seating for twelve. The mock-trial courtroom also had a judge’s bench and a podium. Joe and Tony, the homicide detectives, were seated at one conference table. She recognized Brandon’s lawyer, Randall Whiteman, seated with them. All three men were on their phones, and it took a minute or so for them to end their conversations. The detectives nodded hello to Taylor, while Randall crossed the room to introduce himself.

Brandon focused on Joe. “You said you had a few questions. That’s it. So why is the D.A.’s office here?”

Joe answered, “We do things differently than when you were on the force.”

“That’s nice, considering my last day on the force was more than fifteen years ago. Glad to see there’s been some evolution. Still,” Brandon said, “why? You’re not seriously thinking that I had anything to do with Lisa’s murder, are you?”

“The new policy is that when an interviewee in a murder investigation has a lawyer present, the D.A.’s office sends a lawyer. You have Randall, so the D.A. sent Taylor, who will ask whatever questions she sees fit and make sure the new protocols are followed.”

Brandon made no move to sit. He remained standing, next to Taylor, arms folded. “Randall’s here because he’s my friend.”

When she heard the tension in his voice, warning bells flashed. Part of her job there was to make things go smoothly, and his tone indicated that her task could prove tricky. Taylor glanced at Randall. He wore a conservative, navy-blue business suit. She knew from her work that he was no stranger to criminal law courtrooms. He might be Brandon’s friend, but he was also one of the best criminal defense lawyers in the city and, at least for now, his quiet, calm demeanor indicated he was willing to let his client have free rein.

“If Randall were only a friend, he wouldn’t be allowed in the interview,” Joe said, “and you know it. You made it perfectly clear that you wouldn’t answer questions without Randall present.”

“I talked to you last night,” Brandon said, “before Randall arrived.”

“And now we need an official statement,” Joe said.

Brandon glared at Joe, Tony, and Taylor. “You’ve all lost it if you’re seriously thinking of me as a suspect.”

“Mr. Morrissey,” Taylor said, drawing green-eyed ire, “insults aren’t going to move this process forward.”

“I told Joe everything that I knew last night,” Brandon said. “This is insane.”

“We need an official statement,” Taylor shrugged as she stated the obvious, “and we have to record the interview.”

Joe flipped on a recorder as he set it on the table and said, “We won’t start until you sit.”

Brandon’s face flushed red. He didn’t sit. He stared at the recorder, then at Joe, then his gaze fell on Taylor. He gave her a long hard glance, then he turned his attention back to Joe. The silent stare that Brandon and Joe shared had a current of mutual respect, but also wariness. “You’re kidding. A recorder?”

To corral Brandon she decided to threaten the one thing that she guessed was priceless to the unshaven father, who had overnight become an infant’s sole parent. Time.

“We can do this downtown, Mr. Morrissey,” Taylor said. “The detectives agreed to conduct this interrogation in your home as a courtesy, but we can go downtown and reconvene at the station.” Her comment won her a hard glare and a clenched jaw. She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and said, “You decide. Here, now, and relatively quickly, or downtown, and,” she paused, as she watched a pulse throb at his temple, “not so fast.”

***

Well, damn.

Taylor had him, and he’d been easy to get. He had worked for years on controlling his temper, and just like that, he had regressed. Brandon gathered control as he drew a deep breath and studied her. He was used to smart, pretty lawyers. Taylor, though, was off-the-charts gorgeous, and, as he studied her, he bet that her good looks didn’t always work in her favor. Golden strands streaked through thick, honey-colored hair that fell midway down her back. Her subtle, tasteful tan complemented the warm tones in her almond-shaped, brownish-green eyes. Her ultra-feminine suit showed off her curvy figure, but she also looked professional. Natural sultriness was toned down by good taste, time, money, and effort, which made her even more alluring. She was a stunning beauty and, for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why a Bartholomew would be an assistant D.A. His eyes fell on the card that she had handed him. Taylor Marlowe Bartholomew. He digested all three of her names. What the hell? His gaze bounced back to her. She wasn’t only a Bartholomew. Her other two names were family names. Filthy-rich, upper-crust family names.

She raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Well? Here, or at the station?”

He sat at the conference table, across from Joe, with the recorder between them. “Here.”

Focus on their questions, he told himself, as he’d told countless clients in similar situations. So many other thoughts, though, sizzled through his brain. Murder. Fatherhood. Lisa, a perfectly nice woman. Murdered. Damn. Parenthood.
Single
parenthood. Damn it.
Sole
parenthood. Murder, and the police were interrogating him.

Joe, gray-haired, barrel-chested, and olive-complected, was frowning. Brandon had prior experience with Joe, and, if he had to put money on it, he’d have bet that Joe wasn’t happy to be there. Joe’s partner, Tony, sat on Joe’s right. Unlike Joe, Brandon didn’t have experience with Tony, a younger man with dark hair and dark eyes. His glance fell again on Taylor, who sat next to Joe.
Damn.
She was a distraction. Joe gave introductory comments for the benefit of the recorder, then asked, “Tell us for the record why you arrived at Lisa’s home last night at one forty-five in the morning.”

“I received a call around midnight from a girlfriend of Lisa’s who was babysitting. She said that Lisa hadn’t returned from work to pick up Michael. Lisa never ran late. She was concerned. Lisa doesn’t have family. She didn’t know who else to call.”

Taylor said, “Tell us about your relationship with Lisa.”

Brandon hesitated. He didn’t want his relationship, or lack of a relationship, with Lisa becoming public record.

She arched an eyebrow. “Well?”

“Look,” Brandon said, “the reality is that some thug wanted Lisa’s purse and killed her for it. The city might have a new D.A., a new police chief, and new procedures, but what you’re doing with me, here, tells me that the city has the same damn ineffectiveness.” He glared at Joe. “Go do your job, find the thug, and put him away before he kills someone else.”

“Don’t criticize,” Joe said. “Not that long ago, when you needed good police work you came to the NOPD.”

“And the NOPD almost cost me my life,” Brandon said. “All you guys had to do was confirm what I knew and make an arrest, but the NOPD didn’t do the job. You left me to do the dirty work.”

“Don’t forget that you were in it up to your ass,” Joe said. “You’re not a stranger to violence, Brandon, and if you hadn’t come to the NOPD back then, there’s a strong chance that you’d be doing prison time right now.” He paused. “If you’d like, we can make that violent incident part of the record in this investigation.”

Randall interrupted. “Ask your questions, detective. Stay away from irrelevant history.”

“No,” Joe said, his face flushed. “We’ll do this at the station.”

As Joe stood, Brandon’s anger ebbed. The simple fact was that given Brandon’s history, Joe wouldn’t be doing his job if he didn’t talk to Brandon. Plus, as Taylor had figured out, today’s reality was that he didn’t have time to cool his heels at the police station. Brandon ran his fingers through his hair, took a deep breath, and said, in as apologetic tone as he could muster, “Wait. Please. Sit down.”

Some of the red left Joe’s cheeks and neck. He gave Brandon a hard stare, then plopped into the chair with a sigh.

In a calm voice, Taylor asked, “Did you know Lisa well?”

“No.”

“When did you first meet her?”

“About eleven months ago,” Brandon said. “Our son is two months old. Lisa and I slept together the night that we met, and,” he paused as Taylor frowned. She tried to conceal her disapproval with an impassive expression, but not before Brandon guessed that one-night stands were beneath her well-bred upbringing. “I didn’t talk to her again until two weeks ago, when I learned about Michael. It was a one-night thing. I’m not proud of this. It’s not the way I ever anticipated becoming a father.”

The room was quiet as Taylor’s eyes held his with a serious look that made him feel cheap, which was exactly how he had acted with Lisa. Joe’s cell phone rang, shattering the silence. He turned off the recorder, answered his phone, stood, and gestured to Tony to step out of the room with him. Taking advantage of the break, Randall stood, stretched, then turned his attention to his phone.

Taylor. Marlowe. Bartholomew.

Any New Orleanian knew that Taylor was oil, Marlowe was shipping, and Bartholomew was shipbuilding. The businesses of Taylor and Marlowe had been sold in the early eighties at prices that had put the families on the Forbes lists. As a Bartholomew, she was also heir to her father’s position in the shipbuilding company, the same company that had been the downfall of Brandon’s grandfather, and, by association, the entire Morrissey family. To Brandon’s knowledge, Taylor wasn’t simply an heir to George Bartholomew and the Bartholomew fortune. She was George Bartholomew’s only heir.

Now, luminous hazel eyes held his in a steady gaze that reminded him of the distance between his world and hers. He was the grandson of a convicted traitor. The son of an alcoholic, who had never amounted to much and who had taken the coward’s way out of life. With each word that Brandon articulated, the distance between their worlds would grow greater, and, as he returned Taylor’s stare, he realized that her beauty was no competition for her sobering, unsmiling eyes. The focused attention that she gave him was unsettling, and the last twelve hours had been disturbing enough. Joe’s reentry into the room gave Brandon a needed break from her.

Joe switched the recorder back on. He heard Joe whisper to Taylor, “I’ll take over. We’ve got to hurry and get out of here.” To Brandon, Joe asked, “Where did you first meet Lisa?”

“At my office. She came with questions.” Brandon paused, then decided that he’d said enough.

“How the heck does a trip to an office for legal advice become a one-night stand?” Joe asked.

Randall said, “Detective, we don’t need judgmental attitude coloring your questions.”

Joe glanced at Randall with more than a little disgust. “Answer the question, Brandon.”

As Brandon replayed Joe’s poorly-worded question in his mind, he glanced at Taylor. Joe’s question assumed that Lisa had approached him for legal advice, while Brandon hadn’t meant to give Joe that impression. Taylor was staring at Brandon, one eyebrow arched, with a slight frown, as though she knew that Joe’s assumption needed confirmation. Damn it. He had to stop looking at her. She was a distraction.

Brandon focused on Joe’s dark-eyed, weary gaze. Joe wasn’t asking him whether Lisa had sought legal advice. Joe was assuming that Lisa had been to his office for legal advice, then asking how Lisa’s visit to his office had become a one-night stand. Brandon felt more comfortable focusing on the how and why of the one-night stand than on the real purpose behind Lisa’s original visit to his office. “I couldn’t help her,” he said. “She was disappointed. I took her out on one of my boats for a cruise. One thing led to another.” Brandon watched Taylor lean towards Joe. Before she could make her point, Joe continued, “So after your boating trip, which became a one-night stand, you had no contact with Lisa until two weeks ago?”