Ghost writer, p.14
Ghost Writer, page 14
I chose my words carefully. “Esther, I did some investigating. I found some things out, some things that legitimize Donomar’s claim.”
Esther raised her eyebrows and crossed her arms. “What?”
“I found out through a source that Roberts really was killed in Bear Woods. But the FBI moved the body to North Haven.”
“Why would they do that?”
“According to my source, the FBI had come up short in their investigation. They didn’t have any leads, and since it was such a high-profile case, we were starting to look bad. They hired a psychic, something taboo back then, who was sure the body would be found in North Haven. The bureau came under a lot of heat for that decision, so when the body was found elsewhere, they moved it to cover it up.” I paused, letting the DA process all this. “This was also around the time Joseph Beyers was charged with selling secret information to the Russians.”
Esther had sat down. She didn’t look up as she spoke. “Beyers . . . he was a supervisor and former counterintelligence officer for the FBI, right?”
“Yes. If you’ll remember, it was horrible publicity for us. We were so desperate and uninformed about it all that we ended up having to use a Russian official to set up a false spy operation just to catch him.”
Esther still didn’t look up. I was glad. That meant she was thinking hard.
“In the end, even Beyers’s own wife helped in the investigation. It was a mess of a nightmare for us.”
“So what you’re trying to tell me is that the FBI, still reeling from bad publicity due to the Beyers incident, hired a psychic in order to try to overcome another botched investigation, and when she failed to come through, they moved a body so they wouldn’t look bad?” Esther looked up at me.
“That’s what I’m saying. According to my source, the agents involved covered it up so drastically that only a few people inside the department know about it. A handful. No more.”
Esther looked me in the eyes. “Well, apparently one more.”
She was catching on quickly. “Yes. Only one other person would know where Roberts was actually killed.”
Esther thought for a long moment. I didn’t want to interrupt her. I knew this was all making sense. Finally, she spoke. “Who’s your source?”
My heart stopped. My source? I couldn’t identify my source. “Esther, you know I can’t—”
“Oh, but you can, Agent,” she said with a small smile. “You have to.”
“I can’t! It could jeopardize his career.”
Esther Caladaras stood, placed her hands on her desk, and looked at me fiercely. “You expect me to turn a conviction when I don’t have a source? A name?”
I had nothing to say. Of course I couldn’t. “Esther, there is an innocent man on death row! He is going to die in three weeks if we don’t do something.”
She turned to stare out the window. “You’re convinced. I’m not.”
I quickly joined her there. “But you have to admit that the only other person who could know that is the killer!”
She shrugged silently.
I turned her toward me. “Esther, please. You’re a tough DA. Everyone knows that. But I also know your convictions run deep enough that you couldn’t let an innocent man die for a crime he didn’t commit!”
Esther broke free of me, walked to the door of her office, and opened it. “Give me the name of your source. Then we’ll talk.”
I rubbed my eyes tiredly. “You ask the impossible. My source would ruin everything for himself if he were exposed.”
I walked past her out the door, and as I did she added, “Well, Keaton, have you ever considered the fact that your career could be in jeopardy, too?”
I stopped and turned around. There was one thing that would drive this woman to my side. And I had to know where this thing came from. “Esther, why do you hate the FBI so much?”
Esther paused. She looked hard and soft all at once. She started to answer several times and then stopped herself. Finally, in a trembling voice I’d never heard from her, she said, “My brother was killed in a stakeout that went bad. He was a field agent. Virginia.”
She closed the door, and I prayed that man’s untimely death would be the key to setting Jerome Mitchner free.
chapter 12
The leaves rustled in the slight northern wind as Jonathan Harper and Sydney Kasdan drove north to Naomi Yates’s house, a small but beautiful cottage home in an exclusive neighborhood. The drive took a little over half an hour with no traffic, but it was worth every minute, especially with the leaves turning colors.
They had rolled the windows down, though it made it a little chilly. Still, the air was cleaner and fresher the farther north they went, a nice addition to a wonderful fall morning.
They chatted on their way out of town about business. Jonathan rambled about his morning’s events, which included a disgruntled author’s threat to sue the house, another author’s relentless pursuit to change the cover of her book, and a third author’s agent pressing for more money. A typical day, minus the Zippy incident.
But in the back of Jonathan’s mind, all he could think about were the bruises on Sydney’s face. As she was getting into his SUV, he also noticed a rather large one on the underside of her left arm. Sydney seemed unaffected, continuing to discuss the house, the authors she admired, and her dream of becoming a fiction editor like him.
As they turned onto Conwell, a narrow winding road that would take them ten minutes to drive, Jonathan couldn’t contain himself any longer. He had to know the truth about those bruises.
“So how’s your fiancé’s . . . car?”
Sydney kept her eyes forward. “It’s okay. A little damage in the back.”
“What exactly happened?”
Sydney tugged at her sleeves and pulled each one down over her hands to try to stay warm. “Oh, just a little fender bender.”
Jonathan rolled up his window. “No kidding? You’re awfully banged up to have just been in a fender bender.”
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t wearing my seat belt.” She smiled and glanced at him. “There’s a reason those things are in cars.”
“Hmm. So you hit your head on the windshield and cracked it?”
“Yep,” Sydney said, fiddling with the side of the door.
Jonathan paused. He didn’t want to sound confrontational, but at the same time, he knew she was lying. The windshield had not been cracked. And whether or not something else was happening was yet to be seen. But he had to know why she was lying to him.
“Sydney,” he said slowly, but in a tone that made her look over at him, “I walked by your boyfriend’s—your fiancé’s—car on Friday. There was no crack in the windshield.”
Sydney stared at him for a moment, then stared out the window in silence. Jonathan had hoped she would just offer the real explanation, but she seemed to be withdrawing instead.
“Sydney, listen, I don’t mean to put you on the spot here. Honestly. But I’ve been around long enough to know that those bruises look like something else.”
“Like what?” she said, her tone bland, her eyes distant.
“I know it’s none of my business—”
“Then why are you asking?”
Jonathan stopped. He knew the reason he was asking. But did she? “Because . . . because I care about you, Sydney. I don’t want you to be in a relationship that might harm you—” He cut his words off, fully aware of the irony that danced in the words he just spoke. “In a relationship that could bring physical harm to you.”
Tears formed in her eyes, and she turned to look back outside. “Jeremy never means to hurt me. He just . . . he just loses his temper sometimes. He doesn’t mean to. I probably provoke it.” Jonathan couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You don’t understand. He’s trying to change. He had a rough childhood.”
“Those are all excuses. None of them valid.” Jonathan reached for her hand. “You deserve better.”
She continued to weep. “The whole office knows. All the secretaries. They talk about it in the break room. I walk in and everyone gets real quiet. I’m embarrassed. I don’t know what to say.”
“You need to get out of the relationship,” Jonathan urged.
“You don’t understand. We’ve been together for eight years. He’s everything I know. He’s my whole life.” She fiddled with the engagement ring on her left hand. “He’s comfortable.”
Jonathan understood that statement. More than she knew. “Yes, but you could end up dying.” Jonathan spoke slowly. “Sydney, he could lose his temper and get so out of control that he could kill you.” He tried to drive and look at her at the same time. “I mean, from the looks of it, he came real close last time.”
Sydney touched her face delicately and said, “I guess I’m just afraid of being alone.”
Jonathan fought every urge inside of him to tell her he would not let that happen. He wanted to help her, but he also knew he was inching closer and closer to a very dangerous line that begged him to cross over. He wasn’t sure how Sydney felt about him, but he was very sure of how he felt about her. He cared for her enough to insert himself into her life and help her out of a situation she shouldn’t be in. He cared enough to think about her outside the workplace. He simply cared too much.
He turned into Naomi’s neighborhood. Sydney looked out her open window again. “What beautiful houses,” she said, gazing at each of them as they passed by.
Jonathan loved it, too. He’d been here a few times working on books with Naomi, and he always marveled at the unique architecture and lush landscape that seemed to paint a perfect picture. Each house sat on more than four acres, and there were no fences dividing neighbors’ yards. Every home was unique but inviting. People still sat out on their front porches in the evenings. Children played in the streets. Smoke swirled above tall brick chimneys as soon as it turned fall. It was like something out of a children’s book.
Jonathan was a little relieved himself that the conversation had switched gears. He’d gotten the information he’d wanted. He’d said what he needed to say. Now it was time to back away and let her deal with her problem. He just hoped his heart would obey his mind.
“You’re going to love Naomi’s home,” Jonathan said. “She has the most unbelievable gardens you have ever seen.”
“She seems like that type,” Sydney said softly. “People who garden are nice people.”
Jonathan laughed. “Is that so?”
“Definitely. My grandmother gardened. And so did my uncle. They were both nice. They both had a fine appreciation for Mother Nature. They always treated me like I was a delicate flower, which needed the perfect amount of water and sun and air to flourish.”
“Apparently they were good gardeners,” Jonathan said quietly, pulling into Naomi’s driveway.
The front of the cottage-like house was brick, and Boston ivy climbed up the sides with elegance. On the red front door hung a wooden sign that said “Welcome to my Fairy Tale.” Two rocking chairs and a small table barely fit on the tiny porch, which was neatly swept and tidied as if it were part of the inside. A few potted plants with colorful flowers lined the sidewalk, and a small flower bed filled with ferns sat neatly against the house.
“It’s darling!” Sydney said as she got out of the car. “It’s exactly how I imagined she lived!”
Jonathan laughed, wondering how much time Sydney spent thinking about what kind of house Naomi Yates lived in. Sydney waited for Jonathan and followed him up the brick sidewalk. Jonathan said, “We won’t make it to the front door before—”
“My Jonathan, my Jonathan!” Naomi Yates exclaimed with delight, beckoning him to move faster as she came out her door. She was hunched and wrinkled, feeble and little. Her hair was perfectly white and soft, cut chin-length and straight as a bone.
“I’m ‘her Jonathan.’ Don’t ask questions,” he said with a chuckle. He stepped up onto the porch and leaned down to give her a hug.
“You precious angel, you’re so handsome!” she said and patted him on the cheek. Then she peeked around him at Sydney. “And this must be Sydney?”
Sydney stepped forward gracefully. “Sydney Kasdan. It’s such an honor to meet—”
“Oh, enough of that, enough of that,” Naomi said, pulling them both into her house. “I’m just glad to have some company. I get lonely, you know. It’s just me and the flowers and books most of the time.” She eyed Jonathan’s old briefcase. “Dear, do you ever leave your work at the office?” Jonathan simply smiled and followed her in.
The inside of the house was as cozy as imaginable. A small fire was going and wherever there was space, a book filled it. Thousands of books decorated her home. And Jonathan had always found it interesting that none of those books were hers. She didn’t have a single copy of any of her own books in her house. He’d once asked her why and she said, “My Jonathan, they’re in my heart. I don’t need them taking up space here.”
Naomi ushered them into the kitchen, where a large glass window framed a wonderful garden of flowers in her backyard. Sydney gasped.
“How beautiful!”
Naomi smiled and turned on the stove to make tea. “A little bit of heaven before I get there,” she said. “And that’s probably not going to be too long,” she added with a tiny snicker.
Sydney turned to her. “You’ve done all this?”
“Yes, dear. It’s my hobby. I love flowers.”
“If you’ll notice on every single one of Naomi’s books, there is a flower somewhere on the cover.”
“You’re kidding!” Sydney said. “I’ve never noticed that. I’ve read all your books, Mrs. Yates. I’m a big fan.”
Naomi smiled and took teacups from the pantry. “I made some chicken salad for lunch, and I have fresh mint from my garden for the tea I made you, my Jonathan.”
Jonathan wrapped an arm around her small shoulder. “That’s my girl.” Then he said, “Mind if I give Sydney a tour of your home?”
“Oh, this dusty old thing?”
“Yes, this dusty old thing. It’s quite a treasure.”
“Fine, fine, but my housekeeper doesn’t come till Wednesday, so you’ll have to excuse the messes.”
“We’ll be right back.”
Jonathan gave Sydney the grand tour, which included the marble bathroom, the third-story study where Naomi used to write, and, of course, the library, which was even featured in Architectural Digest and held an unbelievable collection of classic literature. Naomi’s husband, Ira, who had died ten years before, was an architect who had designed this house for her after reading her children’s book Cottage in the Woods. The story went that her illustrator had spent days just trying to design the cottage Naomi had in her head. He finally got it, and as a surprise for their fiftieth wedding anniversary, Ira had designed this house for her, which was exactly like the cottage in her story.
Murals covered the walls of her home. Over her fireplace was a mural from Alice in Wonderland, and on the ceiling of her bedroom was another one from Peter Rabbit. Her house was one big celebration of stories.
Lunch was perfect, too, as Sydney and Naomi chatted lightly and Jonathan told stories from their nearly fifteen-year relationship as editor and writer. Afterward, Sydney helped Naomi clear the table. Then Naomi said, “Dear, wouldn’t you like to go look at my garden? You’ve been staring at it since you arrived.”
“May I?” Sydney asked anxiously.
“Of course. It’s there for admiration.” Naomi put a few dishes in the sink. “I’ll join you after I finish up here.”
Jonathan moved to the back door to follow Sydney, but Naomi said, “My Jonathan, why don’t you help me with the dishes? My hands are getting weak.”
“Of course,” Jonathan said and let Sydney go on without him. “Your arthritis—how is it?”
Naomi filled the sink with warm water and soap. “Oh, good days and bad. I can predict the weather better than those fancy computers on the TV screen.”
“You’re taking your medicine?”
Naomi waved her hand. “Does no good. Does no good.” Naomi sat at the table as Jonathan washed each plate by hand. “Dry with the green towel, my Jonathan.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jonathan said, laughing at the fact that Naomi Yates loved to play his mother. “And they go in the left side of the cupboard, right?”
“Yes, yes,” she said. “Are you still writing?”
Jonathan laughed as he washed and dried. “Oh, Naomi, that was so long ago.”
“I’m ninety, you know. Fifty or sixty years ago is long ago. It hasn’t been that long. You were quite good.”
“No, I wasn’t,” Jonathan insisted. “It was just a hobby. You’re the only one I let read my work anyway.”
“You wrote with passion!”
Jonathan smiled. “I’m glad you think so.”
“It is true. You should write again.”
Jonathan shook his head and added more soap to the water. “Maybe when I find something to be passionate about, Naomi.”
Jonathan continued to wash dishes, and for a while Naomi watched Sydney make her way around all the flowers and trees outside. Then she said, “You’re looking good, my Jonathan.”
“As are you,” Jonathan replied.
“You look young.”
“I feel young,” Jonathan said, though that wasn’t completely true. He was in good health, but the circumstances of his life were beginning to take their toll.
Naomi tapped her fingers against her small kitchen table. “So . . . revisiting your youth by flirting with one?”
Jonathan turned around. “Excuse me?”
Naomi glanced outside. “I’m old, but I’m not naive, my Jonathan.”
