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He raised his chin, and his voice was defiant. “Yes, I do. Everybody knows I can’t do sports. And don’t try to tell me I can.”
Oh, Lord. A reaction to Ben and the “weenie” comment? “Let’s wait and see. Maybe Grandpa and I can practice with you.”
In response, all she heard was the thud of more kicking.
A RAGGED VOICE SCREAMED into the gusting wind. “Dad! Dad!”
Bert windmilled his arms, struggling through the roiling waves, losing his footing in the sifting sands of the lake floor. “Hang on, I’m coming!” He half jogged, half swam toward the sound. Cold breakers, huge and powerful, beat him back, but he thrashed on.
“Bert!” Something hard—a piece of driftwood?—knocked against his shoulder. Again the cry. “Bert! Wake up!”
He fought onward toward...the red eye of the luminous dial on the bedside clock-radio, which read two-seventeen.
“Bert, are you all right?”
He pushed onto his elbows, struggling to free his legs from the tangled sheet. A cold sweat drenched his body. Shivering, he reached for the blankets at the foot of the bed. Finally, his respiration slowed. “Okay. I’m okay, now.”
Claudia turned on the bedside lamp. “Was it the dream again?”
Would he ever be free of it? “Yes.” He forced back the phlegm crowding his throat.
“Bert, it’s been eighteen months.”
“Don’t you think I know that?”
“Are you sure you don’t need to see a profess—”
“No! I don’t want to hear any more about it. At least in the dream, I can see him, hear him....”
“It’s not good for you—”
“But I can’t reach him. God, I get so close.” His voice broke.
Claudia slipped out of bed and put on her robe. “I’ll bring you some warm milk. It’ll help you get back to sleep.” She glided from the room.
Sleep! He resisted it, feared it. Because no matter how hard he tried, how he willed it with every sinew in his body, he couldn’t bring Rich back. He threw an arm over his eyes and bit back a sob. His son. His only child. Gone.
After a few minutes, he sat up, leaned against the pillows and fixed his eyes on the familiar bedroom furnishings—the massive walnut armoire, Claudia’s dressing table, the built-in bookshelves. He concentrated on the normalcy of his surroundings. Yet the imprint of his son’s anguished face stared back at him everywhere he looked. God, if it weren’t for Nicholas, he didn’t know what he’d do. But he couldn’t spend time with Nicholas every day the way he’d be able to if his grandson lived here. He couldn’t oversee his upbringing. Couldn’t fill that empty space Rich used to occupy. It wasn’t Andrea’s fault, of course. She did her best, but, damn, it wasn’t the same as having Nicholas under the same roof.
Claudia eased open the door with her hip and backed into the room, carrying a tray. “Here we go.” She turned around and walked toward him, setting the tray on the bedside table. “Hot milk and graham crackers.”
“I’m not hungry.” Besides, he didn’t appreciate being treated like some small boy in a nursery, damn it.
“Now, Bert—” Claudia’s voice affected the patronizing tone of a nanny “—it’ll make you feel better.”
He waved the proffered mug aside. “Why can’t you understand, Claudia? Nothing is going to make me feel better.”
Eyeing him closely, his wife set down the mug and seemed about to say something critical when she apparently changed her mind and merely said, “Well, suit yourself, then. I’m going back to bed. Turn the light out when you’re ready.”
He couldn’t believe it. Within mere seconds, she was sound asleep. They simply didn’t understand each other any more. It baffled him that she had been able to go on so smoothly with her life, as if her son’s death were just another bump along life’s road instead of a cataclysmic upheaval. Most mothers would have disintegrated into grief, their lives forever altered. He couldn’t understand Claudia. Maybe denial was her way of coping, but it sure as hell wasn’t his.
He leaned over and turned off the lamp. In the darkness, he thought about Nicholas. At least he hadn’t forgotten Rich. But the lad seemed so sad, so unreachable.
If only he and Claudia had custody...
CHAPTER THREE
AFTER DROPPING NICKY at school the next morning and barely catching the inbound Rapid, Andrea dashed into the jury room. The bailiff directed her to the coatrack, then lined up the jurors.
“Girl, you look frazzled.” Shayla patted Andrea’s shoulder as they entered the courtroom. “Take a deep breath and calm down.”
“I was afraid I’d be late. I had to get my nephew off to school.”
“Mornings are hectic at my house, too. Rousting my teenagers outta bed takes an act of Congress.”
As the panel settled into their seats, Andrea stole a look at Tony Urbanski, who sat back in his chair, knees apart, studying the ceiling while Arnelle Kerry whispered into his ear. He looked distractingly handsome in a pale green button-down shirt, paisley tie and camel blazer. But who was noticing? When they rose for the judge’s entrance, she had the feeling his eyes were fixed on her.
The ballistics expert took the stand then, and Andrea forced herself to pay attention. The man clearly knew his stuff but, even with charts and photographs, he had a difficult time making the arcane comprehensible. Details about angle of bullet entry and weapon caliber were hard to follow, but she did grasp that the police had found and identified the weapon that evidence showed had, indeed, killed Mr. Bartelli. When photos of the entry wound were flashed on the video screen, among the spectators, a tiny gray-haired woman with an olive complexion gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. The widow? Beside her, a younger woman, perhaps her daughter, consoled her.
Somehow with that tiny gasp, the dry recitation of evidence took on painful reality. That bullet from that gun had robbed a family of their loved one.
Andrea glanced at the defendant, his white shirt more wrinkled today, wondering what would possess a teenager, whose future lay before him, to kill someone. Well, she wasn’t naive. Maybe he was involved in a gang or had been high on drugs or simply had made a stupid mistake. The way he sat, his shoulders hunched, his head bowed, reminded her of a cowering animal. She’d like to think that, as the defense had suggested, he’d been framed. How? By whom?
After the defense attorney finished her cross-examination of the ballistics expert, the judge called a recess. Dottie Dettweiler followed Andrea into the rest room. “I can’t believe it took that man forty-five minutes to tell us about guns. Why do I need to know about the patterns of powder bums? Why don’t they just tell me that gun is the murder weapon and get on with it?”
Andrea stood at the mirror fluffing her hair. “Careful, Dottie. We can’t discuss the case. Basically, though, the prosecution has to prove everything to us.”
“Holding us captive, more’s the like.” Dottie, in a huff, disappeared into a stall.
What would happen when the jurors finally deliberated? Would people like Dottie try to rush a verdict? A few minutes ago Chet had groused, “Fifteen dollars an hour it’s costin’ me ta sit aroun’ here listenin’ to this garbage.”
Andrea shuddered and turned away from the mirror. A jury of your peers. Among the five scariest words in the English language.
Outside in the hall, Andrea wandered to a window overlooking downtown. A brisk wind roiled the surface of Lake Erie and pedestrians scurried between buildings.
“I brought you a soda.” Andrea looked up. Shayla extended a can. “Hope you like Sprite.”
“Thanks, I do. What do I owe you?”
“Forget it. You can return the favor this afternoon.” Shayla perched on the window ledge. “I also brought news.” Her eyes sparkled. “About our fellow juror.”
Andrea lifted her lips from the can. “Oh?” Shayla’s body language was obvious—she was practically salivating. “Who’re you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, girl. Him.” She nodded toward the pay phone where Tony Urbanski stood deep in serious conversation.
“Shay-la.” Andrea drew out her name chidingly. “I warned you about matchmaking.”
“Honey, we gotta do somethin’ besides listen to those lawyers. I’m takin’ good care of you.” She set her soda down and folded her arms. “Now, you wanna hear what Shayla discovered?”
The heck of it is, I really do. “You’re going to tell me anyway, right?”
Shayla chuckled. “Listen up, missy. Mr. Tony Urbanski works for Great Lakes Management Group. He has a cushy job and a flat in one of those pricey warehouses over by the river. He grew up in Detroit and got a university education at Michigan State. He’s been here two years. And now for the best part—” She picked up her drink and took a maddeningly slow sip.
Andrea pursed her lips and threw Shayla an accusing look. “You’re going to make me ask, aren’t you?”
“I’ve gotta have a little fun, too.”
“Okay.” She enunciated very clearly. “What is the best part?”
“He’s single, never been married, and—” She arched her eyebrows suggestively and leaned forward.
Andrea couldn’t help herself. “What?”
“He asked me all about you.”
Having fair skin was a detriment at times like this. A blush made it impossible to look neutral. But, then, she didn’t feel particularly neutral.
When she turned to walk toward the courtroom, Tony, the phone still clamped to his ear, a broad grin creasing his face, followed her with his eyes.
TONY SPRINTED TO THE BANK after lunch to set up the wire transfer of the five hundred dollars. It had always been like this. His father made good money as a forklift operator, but what he didn’t gamble away, he drank. Early on, Tony had devised a game plan. If he wanted to get ahead, he couldn’t expect help from Pops. He’d have to rely on himself, bust his butt and make it happen. It hadn’t been easy, but he took quiet satisfaction in his success.
Crossing the square on his way back to the courthouse, Tony set aside unpleasant reminders of his past and concentrated on Andrea Evans. With all the subtlety of a battering ram, Shayla Brown had invited him to lunch with her and Andrea. Not that he’d minded. Quite the contrary—the perky blonde was easy to look at Like an inquisitive bird, she had a way of cocking her head when she listened that made him feel as if she really cared, and she exuded...not naiveté exactly...more a zest for life rarely seen in adults. When his eyes strayed, from time to time, to her delicious curves, he felt rather like a ravening wolf creeping up on an unsuspecting lamb.
He’d learned she’d grown up in Shaker Heights, had majored in marketing at Miami University and owned her own toy store. Not bad for such a young woman. A car honked at him, and he stepped back up on the curb. Since moving to Cleveland, he’d had little time for a social life, unless you counted the occasional party like the one Kelli’d had at Halloween. The few women he’d dated had tended to be executive types with an attitude. Andrea’s softness was a definite contrast. A welcome one.
He chastised himself. He hadn’t gotten where he was by worrying about his personal life. Besides, a workaholic like himself shouldn’t be entertaining thoughts about any woman, no matter how temptingly attractive.
That decided, by the time he reached his place in the jury box, he was able to settle back and listen, first to the coroner and then to the fingerprint expert, who established that the print on the murder weapon matched the defendant’s. By the time the judge adjourned for the day, he was beat. Did these people have to pass a nerd test to qualify as expert witnesses?
Outside, sunshine faded to dusk and adjacent office buildings disgorged workers into Public Square. Inexplicably, despite his earlier resolve, he found himself rushing to catch up with Andrea and Shayla. “Hey, what’s your hurry?”
Andrea spun around, the red of her woolen scarf complementing her rosy cheeks. “Oh, hi, Tony. I’m trying to get to the store before my manager closes.” Shayla stood to one side, a knowing look on her face.
“Do you have a minute?” What in the world was he doing? He could almost hear Kelli laughing and saying, “Okay, big boy, what now?” He fumbled for a coherent comment.
Shayla didn’t have any trouble finding something to say. “Funny how circumstances have thrust us all together, isn’t it? I mean, how else would the two of you have met? And if you’ll pardon my interference, I think you should make the most of it.” She grinned smugly.
“I beg your pardon?” Tony said.
“Shayla—” Andrea protested.
The older woman ignored them both and hurtled on. “Never a good idea to ignore Lady Luck.” With her thumb and forefinger, she picked up Andrea’s wrist and held it out for inspection. “Tony, this skinny little gal needs fattening up. Why don’t you take her to dinner?”
Andrea shifted uncomfortably, pulling her arm away. “Really, Shayla, I’m sure Tony has plans of his own.” She looked pointedly at him. “Don’t you?”
A conference with Barry, letters to sign...but he’d be through in an hour or so. “Actually, no,” he found himself saying. “How about it, Andrea?” Was he out of his mind?
Shayla beamed. “Well, then. That’s settled.” She glanced up at the Terminal Building clock. “Oops, gotta run or I’ll miss my train.” And she was gone.
Andrea edged after her. “Wait.”
Tony stopped her. “I’m serious.”
“Tonight?”
“I’m free. How about you?”
She fingered the strap of her shoulder bag. “I don’t know if this is such a good idea.”
“Do I need a character reference?”
She smiled. “No, Shayla’s checked you out. It’s not that—”
“Then what?”
“This jury thing.” She wrinkled her nose. “I mean, it would be fraternizing. I don’t think we should compromise the process.”
She hadn’t turned him down...yet. And this was one argument he could handle. “I don’t know about you, but I wasn’t planning on discussing the case.”
“No, of course not. The judge made that very clear.”
“So—” he tucked her arm in his and started toward the Rapid station “—I don’t see what harm there would be in some off-duty socializing.” Harm? Hell, he couldn’t wait.
She glanced up at him, her expression wary. “You promise you won’t bring up the case?”
He crossed his heart. “I promise. I can pick you up at seven.”
“Because of the short notice, the ‘you’ will have to include Nicky.”
“Nicky?” Who the hell was Nicky?
She seemed to be enjoying his bewilderment. “Nicky’s my nine-year-old nephew and he’ll make a wonderful chaperon.”
Oh. “That’s great.”
“We’ll be at Never-Never Land.”
“’Scuse me?”
“Never-Never Land.”
“Should I fly in?”
She laughed merrily. “That won’t be necessary. I forgot. You don’t know. That’s the name of my store in Shaker Square.”
He cracked a wry smile. “What a relief. For a minute there I was afraid you and Peter Pan had flitted off to Honalee along with Puff.”
As they neared the ticket booth, she gave him the address. Then she turned and laid a hand on his arm. “You’re sure this is okay?”
