Claiming His Family Page 8

  Alyson bit her tongue and glanced at Dex. She should have done as he said and let him do the talking. But something inside her wouldn’t allow her to stand quietly by while her son—her life—was on the line. “That blood was planted, and you know it. My question is, how did you get Smythe’s blood out of the prison without anyone noticing?”

  Runyon quirked a brow and turned to Dex. “She has quite an imagination for a scientist.”

  Dex gave him a glare that would melt a more sensitive man. Or one with half a conscience. “I want to hear your answer.”

  “My answer? I’ve never taken anything from Andrew Clarke Smythe except my very reasonable and legitimate fees. And I never gave him anything except the best legal advice money could buy.”

  “Did you hire a private investigator for him?”

  “What does it matter if I did? I hire private investigators to work on several of my clients’ cases.”

  “And you act as a go-between?”

  “Sometimes. What are you trying to get at here, Harrington?”

  “I want to know how Andrew Clarke Smythe’s blood found its way outside those prison walls.”

  “Have you ever considered that you may have the answer to that question already? That maybe Andy has a DNA double out there?”

  “That’s ridiculous and you know it.” Alyson couldn’t keep her mouth shut one second longer. “DNA is unique, just as people are unique. The only way Smythe could have a double is if he had an identical twin. And we all know he has no identical twin.”

  A slow grin spread across Runyon’s face. “Do we?”

  Doubt wound through Alyson’s resolve like a grapevine through tree branches. She glanced at Dex.

  A frown furrowed his brow. “He has no identical twin. I turned his life upside down preparing for his trial. I would have found a twin.”

  “To the best of my recollection,” Runyon drawled, “Andy’s parents refused to answer your questions.”

  Alyson remembered Dex’s frustration in the months leading up to the trial. Not only had Smythe’s parents refused to talk, but everyone within the influence of the Smythe money kept their mouths shut, as well. In the end, pure police work and scientific analysis had convicted the rapist.

  Runyon hefted his golf bag to his shoulder. “Well, none of that matters anyway. I doubt they’ll be talking to you now, either. And I have to get to my golf game. Some of those boys I’m playing with are known for their cheating. I don’t want to lose the hundred I have riding on this game because of a kicked ball.”

  “Not so fast.” Dex held up a hand. “I have more questions for you.”

  “None that I’m going to answer. Haven’t you heard of attorney-client privilege, counselor? I’m ethically bound to keep my client’s confidences. And that includes the discussions I might or might not have had with a private investigator.”

  Alyson dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands. “You can’t just walk away from this.” Alyson’s voice rang shrill in her ears. Desperate. “Smythe murdered a woman.”

  Runyon’s eyebrows jutted toward his nonexistent hairline. “And I’ll take that charge seriously only if you can show me evidence, Miz Fitzroy. Now I have eleven more holes to play. If you want to waste my time further, I trust you’ll make an appointment at my office.”

  Alyson stared at his retreating back and tried to quell the tears of frustration surging for release. “Is it true, what he said? Can he stonewall us like that, no matter what he knows? Can he refuse to even give us the private investigator’s name?”

  “He can if he’s not part of a conspiracy.”

  “In other words…”

  “If he didn’t do anything illegal to help Smythe break the law, he doesn’t have to say a word. In fact, he’d probably be disbarred if he did.”

  “But if he staged a false rape to get Smythe pardoned?”

  “He would be part of a conspiracy, and attorney-client privilege wouldn’t apply.”

  Her heart soared with hope for a second, then crashed somewhere in the vicinity of her toes. “But unless he talks, we have no way to prove he’s part of anything Smythe has done.”

  Dex turned toward the golf cart. “Correct. And that leaves only one thing for me to do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s time I have a talk with the governor. He won’t want to hear about my resignation on the news tomorrow.”

  Chapter Eight

  The door swung open and Dex strode into his office. He didn’t say a word, merely offering Alyson a solemn glance before shrugging out of his suit jacket and sinking into his desk chair. Leaning back, he ran a hand over his face.

  Alyson eyed him from the corner of the room. While he’d met with the governor, she’d waited in his office, since it was one of the few places they both agreed she’d be safe from Smythe. And though thoughts of her father’s time between these four walls hovered in the back of her mind like a ghost, the problems of the past seemed insignificant compared to her worry for Patrick. And for Dex.

  She was probably one of the few people on earth who knew exactly how much Dex’s career meant to him. How he’d come from nothing, earning scholarships to get him through college and law school. How he’d worked night and day trying every case he could get his hands on, from the smallest misdemeanor until he worked his way up to felonies. And finally how he’d earned his way to an appointment from the governor and hopefully to election by the people in November. He’d put his heart and soul into this job. And looking at his face now, so pale and drawn, she knew exactly how much it cost him to give it up.

  Standing, she set the paperback she’d been staring at on the chair seat, crossed the room and stopped next to his desk. “How are you holding up?”

  He didn’t glance at her, but stared straight ahead, eyes weary. “I’m fine.”

  “Right. You’re downright peachy. Just like me.” She hadn’t meant to let sarcasm slip out, but she couldn’t help it. It was so like Dex to withdraw into himself when facing a personal crisis. She’d seen him do it more than once. But he wasn’t going to do it this time.

  She stepped behind his chair and rested her hands on his shoulders as she’d done so many times before. His muscles were tense, bunching like coiled springs under his crisp white dress shirt. She dug her fingertips into the knots and began to knead.

  He’d helped her so much these past days. If it wasn’t for him—his shoulder to cry on, his strength to lean on, his determination to find Patrick—she didn’t know how she would have survived. And now it was her turn to help him. And though she wasn’t sure how to accomplish it, she’d give it her best shot. And the only place she knew to start was to get him talking. “How’s the governor holding up?”

  “He’s not so fine.”

  “Not happy, eh?”

  “To say the least.”

  “What reason did you give him for resigning?”

  “The ever-vague ‘personal reasons.’” The pain aching in his voice cut into her like a sharp blade.

  She worried her bottom lip between her teeth. “There must be a way around this. Isn’t there some way you can resign temporarily?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know how Smythe found out about Mylinski’s involvement in the case, but we can’t take the chance that he’d sniff out a false resignation. There’s too much at stake.”

  He was right. There was too much at stake. Far too much. And that left Dex only one option. He had to do as Smythe said.

  Unless they could find Patrick before the press conference tomorrow.

  Alyson continued to massage the knots out of his shoulder muscles, her mind racing with possibilities. “While you were with the governor, I was thinking about some things Runyon said.”

  Dex glanced over his shoulder and raised his eyebrows. “And?”

  “What if Smythe’s parents arranged for Connie Rasula to fake the rape? The Smythes certainly have enough money to make it worth Runyon’s while to smuggle Andrew’s bloo
d out of prison.”

  “I suppose it’s possible. But the question is why?”

  “What do you mean? Isn’t it obvious? They’re his parents.”

  “That’s not enough reason. Not for people like the Smythes. I doubt any one of them would risk one hair to save a family member. That family makes my background look positively wholesome.”

  Alyson’s hands stilled. Dex had mentioned before that he’d had a troubled family life growing up. But every time she’d pressed him to tell her more, he’d clammed up, as if unwilling to open himself that much. Or unwilling to relive the memories. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Seems Andrew’s father beat his mother and his mother passed the abuse on to Andrew. Among other lovely things.”

  “I didn’t mean Andrew Smythe’s family. I meant yours.”

  Dex stilled. He didn’t look at her, but she didn’t need to see his face to know how his jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed guardedly behind his wire-rimmed glasses. Tension pulsed off him in waves. “Some things are better left alone.”

  “And some things are better if you talk about them.”

  He shook his head, the office light sparking off his blond hair. “This isn’t one of them. Trust me. We both have enough pain to deal with in the present. We don’t need to go looking for more.” He stood from his chair, effectively shucking her hands from his shoulders. But instead of pacing to the far corner of the room, he planted his feet, as if something was keeping him rooted to the spot.

  She searched for words to say—words that would convince him to open himself to her. But none formed on her lips. She raised a hand, letting it hover near his arm. She wanted to touch him again, to reach him, but she didn’t know how.

  She’d never known how.

  She let her hand fall to her side. “You don’t think talking to Smythe’s parents would do any good?”

  “I didn’t say that. Right now I think we need to explore every possibility. We have no other choice.” He stepped away from the desk, away from her.

  Standing alone, she placed her hands on the back of the chair. She’d been foolish to think she could help him. Or that he would accept her help. He was the same man, after all. The man who’d survived who-knew-what horrors in childhood. The man who’d leveraged his way into the district attorney’s office with nothing but hard work and stubbornness.

  The man who’d walked away from her the moment she’d failed to live up to his impossible standards.

  Nothing she could do would make him change. Not a year and a half ago. And not now. The only thing she could do was worry about herself. Because she faced more dangers than Andrew Clarke Smythe posed. She’d given Dex her heart once, and it had almost destroyed her. She couldn’t let herself fall into that trap again.

  DEX SLAMMED the car door and looked up at the looming Gothic Tudor-style mansion that the Smythe family called home when they were in Madison. Sheer stone walls stretched in long wings on either side of the entry, gray as weathered bone. Sharp-angled roofs stabbed into the cloud-darkened sky like spears raised in battle. Windows stared down at Alyson and him like cold eyes.

  He glanced at the half dozen cars parked in the circle drive and then at Alyson as she climbed from the car. “Judging from the cars, someone’s entertaining.”

  Alyson followed his gaze. “Richard or Patrice?”

  “Must be Patrice. I had Maggie place a call to Smythe Pharmaceuticals earlier today. Richard’s out of town.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  He shrugged and circled the car. “Doesn’t matter. Both are equally hard to deal with.”

  Alyson nodded and looked up at the house. She was walking into a lion’s den and she didn’t even seem to know it. Or maybe she did. He doubted it would make a difference. She would clearly do anything to get Patrick back, whatever the cost. He’d bet she was a wonderful mother, so loving and giving. Always concerned about others’ needs.

  Just as she’d been concerned about him when he’d returned from his trip to talk to the governor. He pressed his lips into a grim line. He’d never told anyone about his family, but he’d come close to spilling it all to Alyson.

  Thank God she’d let the subject drop. Reliving the past didn’t do any good. It would only have served to remind him of his vulnerability during a time when he especially couldn’t afford to be vulnerable. Or weak. He focused his attention on the mansion. “Are you ready?”

  Alyson shivered and started to climb the stairs leading to the house. She ripped her attention from the windows and met his gaze. “Just nervous, that’s all. I keep thinking that Andrew Smythe could be up there, looking down on us.”

  “If he is, he has more to be nervous about than you do. I’d love to get my hands around the bastard’s neck. Unfortunately the best we can hope for is to find out if his parents helped him get out of prison. Or have any idea who did.”

  “Or if they’re helping him hide Patrick.”

  “Knowing Patrice Smythe, I don’t see that happening. But that doesn’t mean she won’t be able to clue us in about who might be helping him. The trick will be getting her to talk.”

  Alyson gave an eager nod and quickened her pace up the stone staircase.

  Dex lengthened his stride to keep up. “Don’t get your hopes up. Like Runyon pointed out, they both refused to talk to me two years ago. There’s no reason to assume Patrice will talk to me now.”

  “She has to. I can’t bear to think of Patrick spending another night away from me.” Setting her chin, Alyson focused on the grand entry. “We’ve got to find him.”

  “And we will. I promise you. We will.” Reaching the door, Dex pressed the doorbell. Chimes echoed through stone. Before the ringing stopped, the door opened and a small woman who resembled a delicate bird stood in front of them. “May I help you?”

  Dex remembered the petite housekeeper from the months leading up to Smythe’s trial. She’d always met him at the door. And she’d always turned him away with instructions to talk to the Smythes’ attorney. He gritted his teeth. Only the filthy rich could duck talking to law enforcement. But this time he wouldn’t take no for an answer. If she tried that tack again, he’d bull his way through the door and force them to talk with his bare hands, if need be.

  “Is Mr. or Mrs. Smythe in?” Dex asked.

  The woman nodded. “Mrs. Smythe is in, but she’s busy with guests.”

  “Tell her Dex Harrington is here to see her. Tell her I need to talk to her about her son.”

  “I’m sorry. She really is busy.”

  “Tell her I’m here to apologize.”

  He could feel Alyson’s eyebrows raise at the obvious lie. The housekeeper didn’t seem to notice. She merely nodded and pulled the door open wide.

  They stepped into the grand entry hall. Dex looked around the foyer, taking in the way the crystal chandelier threw droplets of light on the oak floors and art-covered walls. Stairs swept up to the level above with the drama of a Southern plantation house. Amazing how some people lived. Coming from his poor background, he might be envious if he didn’t know the seedy side of the Smythes’ seemingly perfect lives.

  The housekeeper gestured to an arched doorway. “Have a seat in the living room. I’ll tell Mrs. Smythe you’re here.”

  They stepped into a living room furnished in cream and gold and lowered themselves into plush chairs. Dex hated sitting still like this, as if waiting for something bad to happen. He itched to pace the length of the room. Instead he followed Alyson’s example and took in the scenery, glancing out one of the plate-glass panes facing the lake. The capitol dome rose out of the fog on the opposite shore.

  “It’s about time you apologized, Mr. Harrington. After all you did to my son, it’s surprising you have the guts to show your face here.”

  Dex turned in his chair and looked into the face of Patrice Smythe. Whereas the housekeeper had always reminded him of a delicate sparrow, Mrs. Smythe resembled a bird of prey. Sharp eyes riveted on Dex. Rouged chee
ks hollowed below high cheekbones. And her lips pressed into a severe line. She hadn’t changed in the past two years. If anything she’d grown harder.

  Dex tried to assume an appropriately chagrined expression. “I just need to clear a couple things up first, if you don’t mind.”

  “I have guests, so make it quick.”

  “When is the last time you saw your son, Mrs. Smythe?”

  “The afternoon he was pardoned. I planned a party for him. He stayed five minutes. Why?”

  “Did you visit him while he was in prison?”

  “Me? Go to that awful place?”

  “How did you communicate with your son?”

  “Through his attorney, Mr. Runyon.”

  “And did you pay Mr. Runyon to act as a go-between?”

  She narrowed her mascara-rimmed eyes. “This doesn’t sound like an apology.”

  Anger churned in his gut. He couldn’t hold it in any longer. Just the thought of apologizing for taking Andrew Clarke Smythe off the streets made him want to hit something. “Your son was guilty of victimizing six women. I have nothing to apologize for.”

  “You’ve read the papers, haven’t you, Mr. Harrington? My son didn’t rape those women. Someone else is out there. Why don’t you focus on finding him instead of on embarrassing our family? Now if you aren’t going to apologize, I have nothing more to say to you. Mary Ann will show you out.”

  Alyson jumped up from her chair before Patrice Smythe had the chance to turn around. “Wait.” Chin raised in determination, she looked as if she was ready to take on an army to get to the truth.

  Patrice looked down on her as if she were a dirty spot in the carpet.

  “We didn’t come to talk about your son’s past, Mrs. Smythe.”

  Patrice arched plucked eyebrows. “Why did you come?”

  “Do you know if your son has a baby?”

  “A baby? Andrew?”

  “Yes.”

  “And why are you asking me?”

  “You’re his mother. I just thought—”

  “If he has a baby, he hasn’t told me. Not that he would share that kind of news with his mother. Who’s the mother of this baby?”