Mimosa Grove (9 page)

“Six o’clock Saturday?”

She nodded, then remembered what she’d been about to ask Marie and Tula and asked him instead.

“What should I wear?”

A slow smile spread across his face, and she knew he was remembering her wearing nothing at all.

“Anything casual and comfortable,” he said. “They’ll cook outdoors…eat outdoors…dance outdoors. Whatever’s going on will be under Louisiana stars.”

“Okay, and thank your sister again for the invitation. I’m looking forward to meeting some of my neighbors.”

Marie snorted none too lightly.

“You know you and Tula are invited, too,” Justin said. “It’s a celebration for the life of Rachelle.”

Marie’s lips pursed, but she didn’t voice her disapproval of the fact that they’d kissed.

“Thank your sister for me, but my dancing years are far behind me. I’ll be in bed long before the dancing starts.”

“I might come with my nephew, Jean,” Tula said.

“Then we’ll see you there,” Justin said. He looked back at Laurel, as if reassuring himself one last time that he had not imagined the previous events of the day.

“I’m here,” Laurel said, then added, “And I’m not going anywhere.”

He shook his head, as if still unable to believe what had happened.

“Okay then,” he said softly. “See you Saturday?”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Laurel said.

“I’ll let myself out,” he told Marie, and left before she could grill him with her own set of questions.

The moment the front door closed, Marie turned.

“Girl…what on earth was that about?”

Laurel lifted her chin, hoping she wasn’t going to insult Marie, but well aware there was no way she could explain.

“Mamárie, I know our relationship is new, and I’m already loving you dearly, but there’s something we need to get clear. I am not a girl, I am a woman. And since I believe it’s rude to kiss and tell, you’re going to have to trust me on this.”

Marie’s eyes widened; then she started to grin.

“Well now,” she said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d be thinkin’ that Miz Marcella was back in this house.”

“Then you’re not mad at me?” Laurel asked.

“Nope,” Marie said, then pointed at Tula. “And I know you’re keepin’ this to yourself, too, aren’t you, old friend?”

Tula acted as if she’d just been insulted.

“Since when have I betrayed a confidence and told something you didn’t want told?”

“You told my daddy I went to New Orleans with Oliver Stanley.”

Tula rolled her eyes. “Lord have mercy, old woman. That was more than fifty years ago. And it was a good thing I told, or your daddy wouldn’t have known where to look to bring you back.”

Marie sniffed. “Did it ever occur to you that I didn’t want to be brought back?”

Tula laughed. “Lots of times, but that don’t change the fact that I was right in tellin’.” Then she turned to Laurel. “That Oliver Stanley was a good-lookin’ man for sure, but good looks don’t mean a thing. They sent him to Angola for killin’ a man, and if he hasn’t already passed, he’s still there.”

Laurel stifled a grin. “We’ve all had our weak moments, haven’t we, Mamárie?”

“It took longer than a few moments. That Oliver had more goin’ for him than good looks,” Marie said, and then laughed aloud when Laurel’s mouth dropped.

Laurel could only imagine the stunts these two old friends had lived through in their lives and decided it was time to change the subject.

“Tula, I’m looking forward to your grandson coming to help clean up the grounds and wonder if you know of two or three more people who’d be interested in doing some work inside? It would involve climbing on ladders, cleaning and polishing woodwork, and the like.” She heard some muttering and hissing behind her and added quickly, before Marie ignited, “Mamárie would be in charge of everything, of course. There’s a lot of cleaning to do, but I can’t have my best girl climbing on ladders and getting dust in her hair.”

The hissing turned into a sort of clucking sound. Laurel didn’t dare look for fear she would laugh.

“I’m sure we can come up with some help,” Tula said. “Lots of people loved Miz Marcella. They’d be happy to help you clean up a little.”

“It will be more than a little,” Laurel said. “But if they work out, there might be a permanent position for one or two of them. Ultimately, it will be Mamárie’s decision. If they don’t respect her authority, then they just won’t work out.”

All was silent behind her now. Laurel figured it was the perfect time to ask.

“Mamárie, is that all right with you?”

“I could use some help. But I won’t stand for any foolin’ around.”

Laurel nodded seriously. “That’s what I figured. You tell Tula what you need, and she’ll have a better idea of who to ask. Now, if you two don’t mind, I’m going to take a shower and wash off the evidence of my gardening.”

“I’m making blackened catfish for supper tonight,” Marie said.

“Sounds good,” Laurel said. “I’ll help you later.”

Marie started to argue, but she was coming to realize that none of this had anything to do with getting too old. Instead, it was Laurel who had the need—a need to belong.

“That would be good. And you can tell me about growin’ up in Washington, D.C., while we’re workin’.”

While Laurel was finding her balance in her new home, her father was struggling with her absence. To compensate, he’d thrown himself into his latest case. He had investigators digging through every piece of evidence that he’d been presented with, making sure that there would be no surprises come the day of the trial.

He’d interviewed Cherrie Peloquin, McNamara’s secretary, and knew that the defense could poke enough holes in her testimony to render it useless. Any number of interpretations could be attributed to what she’d heard McNamara say. But the facts could not be misinterpreted. McNamara was an alias for Dimitri Chorkin. He had been planted in the U.S. years ago as a Russian spy. The military had finally admitted that certain top-secret files had been tampered with, and there was information recovered from a computer confiscated from McNamara’s home that could be interpreted as evidence that he’d been in contact with enemies of the U.S. through e-mail. Separately, none of the facts were hard-core proof that Chorkin was anything but a fake. It wasn’t against the law to live under an assumed name, and they couldn’t prove that Chorkin had ever done anything illegal in the U.S. under his real name. But add it all together and the feds believed they had a fairly solid case. But Robert wasn’t satisfied with “fairly.” He wanted a lock.

However, no one was more surprised than Robert when he got a call from Carter Murphy, McNamara’s lawyer. McNamara wanted to talk to the prosecuting attorney, and not even Murphy knew why. Robert agreed to the meeting, but with reservations.

Carter Murphy was a small man in appearance, but he had the IQ of a genius, which was fortunate, because it was going to take a genius to keep Peter McNamara from a life sentence in a federal prison. Part of his problem was McNamara himself. McNamara, or Chorkin, whatever he called himself, was of the opinion that he could finagle his way out of this “situation,” as he called it, by giving up some players who were in a much bigger league than himself. But Carter knew something about the federal prosecutor that McNamara didn’t. Robert Scanlon didn’t bargain and he didn’t make deals—not with men who sold out their country. Of course, technically speaking, McNamara hadn’t sold out his country, because he wasn’t a United States citizen. But under the circumstances, Carter seriously doubted Scanlon would see it that way.

He glanced at his watch, then up at the door of the visiting room, and wished to hell everyone who was supposed to be here would show up. He didn’t like prisons. Then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the conference table, and reminded himself that being a lawyer had been his idea. He could have gone into the mortuary business with his father and saved himself the hassle of dealing with the living.

While he was feeling sorry for himself, the door opened. Robert Scanlon came in, nodded courteously to Carter Murphy, and then took a seat on the opposite side of the table.

“Mr. Murphy, it’s been a while,” Scanlon said.

Carter nodded. “The Tyler case, right?”

Robert Scanlon grinned. “Yes, I believe it was at that.”

Carter resisted the urge to tell Scanlon to wipe that damned grin off his face, but it would have been childish, considering that he’d been the attorney for the defense that had taken the loss. Marshall Levon Tyler, convicted of ten serial killings, was sitting on death row, awaiting his termination, thanks to the relentless prosecutor.

Robert glanced at his watch, then back at Murphy.

“What’s this all about, anyway?”

Murphy frowned. “I’m as much in the dark about this as you are. I advised him against this, but McNamara has a mind of his own.”

“I don’t make deals,” Robert warned.

Murphy shrugged. “I have none to pitch. However, I cannot speak for my client.”

Before anything else could be said, the door opened. McNamara entered in handcuffs and leg irons, and accompanied by two armed guards. The odd thing was, despite the chains and prison garb, McNamara still managed to look somewhat stylish.

“Mr. Scanlon, isn’t it?” McNamara asked as he seated himself in the only empty chair.

“Mr. Chorkin, I’m going to ask you to be brief. My time is valuable.”

Peter grinned. By calling him Chorkin, the prosecutor was taunting him with the reminder that he was not an American citizen.

“Of course it’s valuable,” he said. “As is what I have to tell you. I want to make a deal.”

Robert stood abruptly, glaring at both Murphy and his client.

“I told you, I do not make deals.”

Peter was leaning back in his chair. His head was tilted to one side, and there was a big smile on his face.

“But you will this time,” he said.

Robert’s heart skipped a beat. There was something about McNamara’s grin that made his stomach knot. Still, he maintained his stance. He glanced at Murphy.

“I’ll see you in court,” he said, and started toward the door.

“Confiscate my property…have me deported…drop the charges of treason, because we both know that your evidence is circumstantial at best.”

Robert stared at the man in disbelief, then glared at Murphy.

“This is ridiculous. You should have more control over your client than to waste my time like this.”

Without another look at McNamara, Robert started toward the door again.

“Wait! Hear me out!” McNamara said, jumping to his feet.

Carter grabbed Peter by the arm. “Sit down, and for God’s sake, why don’t you stop while you’re ahead?”

McNamara stared at Carter and then sneered.

“Small man…small mind…why did I ever think you’d be of any use to me?” He looked up. Robert Scanlon was standing at the door. “The U.S. suffered some major setbacks during the war with Iraq that didn’t play very well in the media.”

“What are you talking about?” Robert asked.

Peter sat back down, his hands resting in his lap as he spoke.

“I’m talking about the deaths of U.S. soldiers under friendly fire.”

Robert frowned. “It’s war. It happens, but you have no right to talk about anything that has to do with our military. You betrayed them. You betrayed us all.”

Peter shrugged. “Still, it’s very bad press to shoot one’s own men, which is why the FFR is so valuable, and why it would be in your best interests to have it back.”

Robert stifled a groan. Have it back? That meant it was gone, and he didn’t even know what it was. As much as he hated to admit his ignorance, he had to ask.

“What the hell is the FFR?”

“Call your friends in the Pentagon and ask them,” Peter said.

Robert started to tell him to go to hell, but the smirk on the man’s face made him nervous. Instead of leaving, caution won out. He pointed at Carter.

“I’m going to make a call. Don’t either one of you leave.”

Peter leaned back in his chair.

“Where on earth would I go?” he asked.

Again that self-serving, satisfied smile on McNamara’s face was too easy. Robert wanted out.

“Guard! Guard!”

The prison guard opened the door.

“My cell phone was confiscated when I came in. I need to make a call.”

The guard pointed him toward a pay phone, then buzzed him out of the containment center.

Robert punched in the numbers, cursing beneath his breath when he hit a wrong button and had to start over. There was nothing in his notes about anything called FFR. He had no idea what McNamara was talking about and hated looking less than prepared, but instinct told him this could be serious.

“Department of Defense. How may I direct your call?”

“This is Robert Scanlon. I need to talk to Secretary Fredrich.”

“I’m sorry, but Mr. Fredrich is in a meeting and—”

“I’m the prosecutor for the McNamara case. It is vital that I talk to Mr. Fredrich now. It’s an emergency.”

“Just a moment, Mr. Scanlon. I’ll see if I can reach him.”

Robert leaned against the wall as he waited, absently noting a camera high up in the far corner of the hall. Robert began to relax, reminding himself that he was the one in charge. McNamara was just desperate, posturing and threatening without a snowball’s chance of making any of it work for him. He wasn’t going free. Not if Robert had anything to do with it.

“Sherman Fredrich here.”

Robert flinched, then straightened, as if they were face-to-face, instead of speaking on a phone.

“Mr. Secretary, this is Robert Scanlon. I’m lead prosecutor on the McNamara case.”

“Yes, how can I help you, Mr. Scanlon?”

“What is an FFR?”

The silence that came afterward was just as telling as the smirk on McNamara’s face had been.

“Secretary Fredrich?”

The friendly tone in Fredrich’s voice was gone.

“I need to know where you heard that term and who said it.”

Crap.
“I’m in a meeting with McNamara and his counsel. He’s trying to bargain with me to make a deal, and is using the FFR as a reason for me to consider his requests.”