Johnston - I Promise Page 24

Before she could say more, Marsh took her in his arms again. His mouth carne down to cover hers. She dropped the soft leather briefcase she had brought and heard it hit the linoleum floor. A moment later Marsh lifted her into his arms and headed for his bedroom.

  Delia didn’t protest. Of course, he never left her mouth free long enough for her to get a word in edgewise. Even if she could have spoken, there was nothing she would have said to stop him. She loved him. He loved her. Their future together was precarious, to say the least. Every moment they had together was precious, to be savored and saved as a poignant memory that might be all she had of Marsh North for a very long time to come.

  Marsh made short work of her boots and jeans and shirt, quickly stripping her. Her eyes devoured him as she returned the favor. De-sire spiraled through her.

  “I want you inside me,” she said.

  Need flared in his gray eyes as he lowered them to the bed, pressing her thighs apart with his knees as his body mantled hers. He drove into her in a single bold thrust.

  Delia gasped and then groaned in satisfaction. Her hands slid from their grip on his shoulders into his hair, clenching handfuls of the silky stuff to pull his head down for her kiss.

  She wrapped her legs around him and arched upward to seat him more deeply. Their tongues mimicked their bodies as he moved inside her, while his hand slid between them to caress her. An animal sound emerged from her throat as her body tightened in exquisite pleasure. In moments he had driven them both to the brink.

  Just when Delia didn’t think she could bear any more, he was gone, leaving her bereft. She murmured a sound of protest as he withdrew, blinking at him in confusion. “Marsh?”

  “Shh,” he said, his chest heaving, his body taut. “I want to take my time. I don’t want this to end. I want to remember every moment of loving you.”

  Because it might be the last time? she wondered.

  He made love to her breasts and throat and belly with his lips and tongue. His hands cupped her breasts and made of them a treasure to be explored. His mouth found its way to the heart of her, and she arched upward as she felt his silken hair against her thighs.

  He made her feel exalted, revered, adored. Her fingertips grazed flesh that quivered beneath her touch, and her mouth followed where her hands led to return pleasure for pleasure.

  It wasn’t enough. She wanted them joined. She teased and taunted until he made them one again. She felt his urgency, his fear, and his need and answered with an urgency and fear and need of her own. Time was running out. This might be all they had. She wanted to crawl inside him and stay there, wanted to be a part of him, body and soul.

  She felt the inevitable surge of her body toward completion of the sex act, the power of it driving her, making her aware of the impossibility of staying where she was. She had to move forward. She had to take the next step. There was no standing still. In this, as in all things, there was no holding on to the present. The future beckoned. The past and its promise was gone forever.

  Delia clung to Marsh as her body arched in the throes of climax, heard his cry of exultation as he spilled into her.

  She welcomed his weight on her, folded her arms around him and held him close as he nuzzled her throat, their spent bodies sweat slick and heaving for the air to keep them alive.

  “I’m too heavy,” Marsh said as he slid down beside her and tucked her close to him.

  They lay quietly until their breathing eased. Delia settled her head against Marsh’s chest and listened to his heart. It beat slowly now, steadily, strongly.

  “What are we going to do?” she whispered, raising her head to meet his gaze. “I can’t live without you, Marsh. I don’t want to live without you.”

  He pulled her atop him, and his arms tightened around her. “We’re going to figure out Sam Dietrich’s angle. We’re going to get your name cleared. Then you’re going to resign from the New York bench and marry me.”

  Delia laughed at the determined look on Marsh’s face. “I see you’ve got everything worked out.”

  “Damn straight.” He shifted her away and sat up. “We’d better get to it.”

  He rose, heedless of his nakedness. She admired the sight of his sleek back and buttocks as he pulled on Jockey shorts and jeans.

  She was dressed nearly as quickly as Marsh was and followed him out to the kitchen, where she had dropped the briefcase full of papers her secretary had faxed to her. She wished Marsh had put on his shirt. She found the sight of him, bare-chested in low-slung, well-worn jeans, entirely too distracting.

  He caught her staring and grinned. “I’m ready to look at whatever’s inside that briefcase whenever you are.”

  She stuck out her tongue at him, and when he made a move to reach for her she backed off warily. “Marsh, we have to do this.”

  “I’m waiting on you,” he said.

  She didn’t want to work, she wanted to play. But they didn’t have the time. Reluctantly, she set her briefcase on the kitchen table and pulled out a lined yellow legal pad.

  “I’ve made a chart of the six suspicious plea bargains,” she said. “I thought it might help us to organize our thoughts.”

  She pulled a chair around and sat down next to Marsh as he looked over the information she had put together.

  “I thought I might find some simple, visible connection between the cases,” Delia said. “Nothing jumped out at me.”

  “Let’s presume, for the sake of argument, that Dietrich doesn’t get paid off in money,” Marsh said. “That he’s using some other form of barter for payment.”

  “Such as drugs?”

  Marsh shrugged. “Why not? It makes sense. Especially since the first of these plea bargains happens to be with a kid who sells drugs for a living. Or maybe Dietrich’s getting some other kind of stolen goods as payoff,” Marsh said, pointing to Harris’s crime—the sale of stolen property.

  He frowned. “Only, I can’t see the Brooklyn DA accepting stolen goods. Too easy to trace. Besides, you can only use so many TV s and stereos and VCRs. There’s always the possibility Dietrich is taking cash.”

  “Even if that premise works for the first and second plea bargains, what about the third one?” Delia asked. “Rosa Torres isn’t selling anything except herself.”

  “She’s a prostitute?”

  Delia nodded. “She took a knife to her boyfriend when she caught him in bed with her girlfriend.”

  “What about some sort of gang connection between all of these cases?” Marsh asked.

  “Perez is a member of the Snakes. Washington and Lincoln are part of the Black Boys. None of the others have any relation to gangs.”

  “Where do they all live? Any connection there?” Marsh asked.

  Delia looked at her notes. “All the Blacks and Hispanics live in Flatbush. Pisakowski lives in Carroll Gardens. Harris lives in Park Slope.”

  “Figures,” Marsh said. “But it doesn’t help us much. What about prior offenses?”

  “They all have them.”

  “So they’ve all been through the system before,” Marsh mused. “Any of them get light sentences before? I mean, has Dietrich cut any of them any slack in the past?”

  Delia looked hurriedly through the case files before she glanced up at Marsh. “No,” she said, frowning. “Nothing as light as what he wanted me to agree to for these subsequent offenses, even though he was the DA for two of the previous cases.”

  “Which two?”

  “Perez and Washington.”

  Marsh looked at the chart. “Perez was the first suspicious plea bargain Dietrich brought to you. So what did Perez find out about Dietrich between the first crime and the second crime that forced the DA to deal?”

  “Maybe Perez saw Sam do something illegal,” Delia suggested.

  “Caught him buying drugs? Or sold drugs to him? And recognized him because he had seen him in the courthouse?”

  Delia shook her head. “Sam Dietrich is too ambitious to do anything as stupid as buying drugs on the
street. The man wants to be governor. He wouldn’t make a buy directly. He’d get someone to do it for him.

  “Besides, I’ve spent enough time around Sam that I think I’d notice if he was a user. There’s no sign of it in his behavior. But I could easily be wrong.”

  Marsh scratched his nose. “There’s no sign of it from his bank accounts, either. Drugs cost a lot of money.”

  “Maybe you didn’t find the money in his bank accounts because he takes money from people to do deals, but spends it on drugs, rather than depositing it,” Delia said.

  “That assumption might work. As long as he got his payoffs in cash and stuffed it under a mattress until he spent it.”

  Delia made a face. “Not likely, huh?”

  “I wouldn’t say so. What about something Perez could have seen him do that wouldn’t allow for a middleman.”

  “Like what?”

  Marsh pointed to Rosa Torres. “Visiting a prostitute.”

  “Surely not. Sam could afford a better class of woman if he wanted one.”

  “Maybe he likes things done to him a nice woman won’t do,” Marsh suggested.

  “I can’t imagine—”

  “What if Perez saw Dietrich with a prostitute doing something perverted?” Marsh said. “That would give him an incentive to deal, wouldn’t it?”

  “If that’s true, what about the rest of these cases?” Delia said. “You’re not going to suggest they all saw Sam breaking the law, are you?”

  “I’m betting there’s a connection between them somewhere. One of these perps holds the key to this puzzle. But we may have to go to New York to find it.”

  Delia raised her brows. “We?”

  Marsh smiled wryly. “Would you mind if I came along?”

  “I’d appreciate the help,” Delia said. “But what about Billie Jo?”

  “Do you think Rachel would mind keeping her at the Circle Crown for a couple of days?”

  “I suspect she’d enjoy the company,” Delia said.

  “When are you heading back to New York?” Marsh asked.

  “As soon as I’ve hired a ranch manager.”

  “How long is that going to take?”

  Delia grimaced. “Your guess is as good as mine. I’ve got the word out that I need someone. Hopefully—”

  The kitchen phone rang shrilly. Marsh answered it and stood listening for a moment before he started shaking his head. “Go turn on the TV in the living room,” he ordered brusquely. “Rachel says there’s something on the news about you.”

  Marsh had already hung up the phone and was two steps behind Delia as she hurried to the living room. She turned on the TV in time to hear a female news commentator say, “More accusations of impropriety have been leveled against Brooklyn’s Hanging Judge. Sources say a crime committed against Judge Carson in her youth has left her with a private ax to grind. The numbers speak for themselves. No other judge in the Brooklyn Supreme Court demands such tough sentences.

  “But are they fair and impartial? That question has provoked an investigation of Judge Carson’s courtroom practices by the state attorney general’s office.”

  Delia turned to Marsh. “An investigation?”

  “Shh. Let’s hear the rest of it.”

  The camera cut to rumpled, tired-looking Assistant DA Frank Weaver standing on the steps of the Brooklyn Supreme Court Building. “All I know is Delia Carson was an excellent prosecutor.”

  “So she sent a lot of men to jail?” a TV reporter standing beside him asked.

  “That’s what I just said, isn’t it?” Frank retorted. “But she would never—”

  The reporter cut him off. “Back to you, Sherry.”

  “That’s all on this breaking story,” the TV commentator said. “We’ll have more for you on the news tonight at ten. This is Sherry—”

  Delia punched the TV off and whirled on Marsh. “Cliff had a hand in this! I know it!”

  The phone shrilled again. Marsh headed down the hall to the kitchen to answer it with Delia right behind him. “It’s for you,” he said.

  She stared at the phone for a moment before taking it from him. “What is it, Rachel? I see. Don’t let them in. I don’t know what I’m going to do!” she said. “Don’t answer the door again. Don’t answer the phone. Wait. I’ll let it ring once, hang up, then call back, so you’ll know it’s me. Don’t do anything till I get there.”

  Delia hung up the phone. “I have to go home.”

  “Reporters are calling the house?” Marsh asked.

  “Two TV crews are squatting on the doorstep!” Delia paced the kitchen agitatedly. “What am I going to do now?”

  “Are you asking for my advice?”

  Delia lurched to a stop as Marsh stepped in front of her.

  “If you’re asking, here’s my suggestion,” he said. “Don’t go home. Head straight for New York.”

  “Right now? Tonight?”

  Marsh nodded. “The sooner we get to the bottom of Sam Dietrich’s secret, the sooner we can show that Dietrich has a private reason for complaining about your work.”

  “What about the investigation that’s being launched against me?” Delia said bitterly. “Exposing Sam isn’t going to stop that.”

  “Why wouldn’t it?” Marsh said. “If nothing else, it’ll turn the spotlight on Sam instead of you.”

  “What about the charge that I’m tough on criminals because I have a private ax to grind?”

  “Do you?”

  Delia stood stunned, staring at him. “How can you ask me that?”

  Marsh kept his gaze locked with hers. “Why are you so tough on criminals, Delia? Isn’t it possible you’re punishing a lot of other men for what Ray John did to you?”

  “How can you even suggest—”

  “Before you protest too loudly, think about it.”

  “I’m a good judge,” Delia said defensively.

  “I’m not saying you aren’t. I’m only asking you to look inside yourself and ask honestly whether your strict pronouncements from the bench might not be influenced by what happened to you, by the fact you were once a victim yourself.”

  Delia felt tears stinging her eyes and nose. “I’m fair. Criminals should be punished.”

  “Because Ray John never was?”

  Delia stared at Marsh, gritting her teeth to keep her chin from trembling. She had always known she wanted a role protecting the good guys from the bad guys, well aware that Ray John’s behavior was what had motivated her to pursue a legal career. But had she been doing more than merely punishing criminals? Had she been avenging herself, as well, through all those harsh plea bargain arrangements, all those tough sentences?

  She looked up at Marsh, the agony of acknowledging such a failing apparent in her eyes.

  Marsh’s arms closed around her, and she leaned her head on his shoulder. She felt Marsh’s lips against her temple, reassuring, supportive.

  “What if it’s true?” she whispered. “What if I’ve been penalizing all those criminals for what Ray John did to me and Rachel? What can I do about it? I can’t go back and change anything now.” She swallowed with difficulty past the lump in her throat. “Maybe I don’t deserve to be a judge. Maybe I should hand in my resignation.”

  Marsh took her by the shoulders and separated them. He smiled down at her. “Not before you prove yourself innocent of all charges. Not before you prove that Sam Dietrich’s complaints originate from attempts to hide criminal behavior of his own.”

  “I’ve just told you I may be guilty of what they say!” Delia protested. “I’ve been giving out the harshest sentences I can.”

  “There’s no law against that,” Marsh pointed out.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Have you ever committed any illegal act, taken a bribe, solicited one, bargained under the table—”

  “Of course not!” Delia replied indignantly.

  “Sweetheart, nothing else matters. Every one’s human. We all act from different motives. Yours only matter if y
ou let them push you into doing something beyond the legal limits. You’ve never done that.”

  “But I let my feelings influence my decisions.”

  “Name me one judge who hasn’t,” Marsh said. “You’re no different from anyone else. Personalities make a difference. You told the public when you campaigned that you intended to be tough on criminals. All you’ve done is keep that promise.”

  “But my reasons—”

  “Are your own,” Marsh said. “What’s important is that you understand the motives for what you do, not that they be revealed to everyone else. It’s the suggestion of impropriety that got the attorney general involved. They’re not going to find any, are they?”

  “No.”

  Marsh’s arms folded around her again. “Then nothing else matters.”

  Delia gave a tear-choked laugh. “I can’t believe you just talked me out of resigning. I thought you wanted me to resign!”

  “I do,” Marsh said. “But I want it to be because you choose me. Not because you’re forced into it.”

  Delia raised herself on tiptoes to kiss Marsh on the lips. “Thank you, Marsh.”

  “I haven’t done anything.”

  “You’re trusting me to choose a future together. I’d say that’s everything.”

  His mouth came down to claim hers. They were both out of breath by the time he released her.

  “Lord,” he said, his heart thumping crazily, “if we don’t get out of here soon, we’re going to end up back in bed. Let me call Billie Jo before you talk to Rachel again and explain what we’re doing. Then I’ll call the San Antonio airport and find out when the next plane leaves for New York.”

  “There’s no need for me to go back to the Circle Crown to pack,” Delia said. “I have whatever I’ll need in my apartment in New York.”

  “Good,” Marsh said. “All we have to do now is expose whatever it is Sam Dietrich’s trying so hard to hide.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Delia felt like screaming. Everywhere they turned in Brooklyn, she and Marsh had found a dead end.

  Jaime Perez was dead, killed in a hit-and-run accident. Franklin Harris’s parole officer hadn’t seen him for three months. He thought Harris might have taken off for Florida, where he had relatives. Rosa Torres had been making regular visits to her parole officer, but he had no idea where she was if she wasn’t at her address in Flatbush. He suggested Delia and Marsh try Sunset Park near the BQE—the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway—after dark. Rosa had been picked up for hooking there in the past.