Sacred Trust

“Might we move ahead, please?” Agent Mauro interrupts. “Ms. Northrup, I would like you to tell us about the time when Ms. Bright first began to come to the Monterey Peninsula.” Beginning to write on his notepad, he adds, “That would be fifteen years ago, correct?”

“More like fourteen,” I lie.

He stops writing and looks at me.

“Up till then,” I add quickly, “we had only telephone contact and an occasional meeting in New York City, when she would fly in for a few days on business. If I could take the time, I would meet her in New York for a day or so of shopping and shows.”

“And you never saw her here until fourteen years ago?”

“Never,” I say firmly.

Agent Mauro studies me a long moment. I stare back, unflinching. He looks down at his notes, and when he lifts his eyes I get that deer-in-a-gunsight feeling again.

“Ms. Northrup, you and Ms. Bright had a relationship at one time that was closer than simple friendship, I understand.”

My face turns hot, and my glance flicks to Ben. “Where—”

“Did I learn that? Let me put my cards on the table, Ms. Northrup. We know quite a lot about you. Where you went to school, what your grades were from kindergarten on, and the fact that you have a genius IQ you’ve seldom bothered to use.”

“I—” Stunned, I shove my hands into my pockets, trying to hide their slight shaking as Mauro continues. Out of the corner of my eye I see Ben watching me, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“We have names of your friends through high school,” Mauro continues, “the fact that you were class president not once but three times despite being somewhat of a rebel, the unfortunate state of your marriage at the current time…” He pauses. “And, of course, your relationship with Marti Bright.”

I am speechless. Appalled. I have heard about the long arm of the law, of course, and how thorough it can be. But that they have this kind of information on me is unthinkable. Who have they talked to?

My anger grows, and I no longer think to be careful. “If you know all this, why the hell are you here asking me questions? Why don’t you go back to your informants and ask them?”

“Ms. Northrup,” Agent Mauro says calmly. “There are certain…shall we say, ‘holes’ in the information we have been given.”

“Imagine that.” My voice is icy. “Something the Secret Service can’t find out about someone.”

“For instance,” the unflappable Mauro continues, “who did Ms. Bright see when she was here on the Monterey Peninsula?”

“See?”

“Friends, associates. She must have had a reason for coming here.”

The older man, Hillars, leans forward slightly again. I am alerted to the fact that my answer to this is important. They are setting a trap. But for who?

“Mr. Mauro, pardon me, but you’ve obviously done your homework. You must know Marti wrote and photographed several stories here and in Santa Cruz about the homeless. She won awards for those stories—they weren’t exactly hidden in a drawer somewhere. Again, why are you asking me things you already know?”

He smiles, though there is no warmth in those gray eyes. In fact, they are so flat and cold they remind me of a pit bull sizing up its next meal. “I suppose you might say I’m more interested in why Ms. Bright came here so often over the years, not that she did. Why here, when there are so many other cities with these problems? In fact, bigger cities with bigger problems?”

“Maybe she liked the weather,” I snap.

“Or maybe she was having an ongoing liaison here with someone,” Mauro says smoothly, not skipping a beat.

“A what?” I am momentarily startled. Then I can’t help laughing. “A liaison? You mean an affair? Good God. You don’t know as much about Marti as I thought.”

Mauro narrows his eyes. “Why do you say that, Ms. Northrup?”

“Because Marti was all-business. She didn’t have time for liaisons, she didn’t care about anything but her work.”

“Are you speaking of just lately, Ms. Northrup?

Or was she that way when she was here fifteen years ago, as well?”

I have purposely told him Marti did not come here until fourteen years ago. Did he forget—or is this part of the trap?

The only thing I’m sure of now is that it’s time I took a stand. Rising, I say firmly, “Agent Mauro, I need to go home and feed my dog. If you don’t have some sort of subpoena in your back pocket, I’m not answering any more questions—until, that is, you tell me what this is about.”

Mauro looks at Hillars, and a question seems to pass between the two men. Hillars gives a microscopic shrug. Mauro closes his notebook and slips it back into his inside coat pocket. Both men stand, and Hillars gives me a look that seems to border on either anger or contempt. I can’t be sure, as it’s quickly gone.

Mauro, courteous as ever—on the surface, at least—extends a hand. “Thank you very much for your cooperation, Ms. Northrup. We may need to talk with you further. If so, we’ll be in touch.”

I accept the hand and am rewarded when he drops mine after a brief clasp. He is clearly irritated with me.

Good. Whatever he brought me here for, he didn’t get.

A heavy silence fills the room after they leave. I turn to Ben, my voice as cold as my hands. “I’d like to go now.”

Ben looks at Arnie, who shrugs. “I’ve had enough excitement for one day.”

Ben nods. Standing, he walks around the table to my chair. The tie comes off. So does the jacket. The shirt sleeves are rolled up, and he smiles.

The wall comes down. Or so he thinks.

He is, after all, a man.

Ben pulls his black Explorer to a stop in front of my house.

“Just let me come in with you,” he says for the second time. “I just want to be with you, Abby. You shouldn’t be alone.”

I jump out and speak through the open passenger-side door as my hand prepares to slam it. “No thanks. I prefer to be alone.”

“Goddammit, Abby, I had to cooperate with them! I would think you’d be grateful, for that matter.”

“Grateful?” The amazed tone in my voice says it all: what I am feeling, thinking, remembering about that cold office, that cold chair and the cool, un-emotional presence of a man I had only hours before made love to, allowing questions that were slanted to make me give the Secret Service of the United States some piece of information that might, for all he knew, incriminate me.

“Yes, dammit, grateful!” he says. “If you’d been Jane Doe off the streets, you think it would’ve been that easy? Maybe you should spend some time finding out what usually goes on when a suspect is being questioned.”

He clamps his jaw shut. Too late.

“Suspect. You’re calling me a suspect now. Damn you, Ben. It’s my name, right? My name in the dirt where Marti died. Is that what this is all about? Did the sheriff call in the Secret Service? Or did you? How else would they even know about me? And what the hell does the Secret Service have to do with any of this, anyway?”

“You know damned well I didn’t call them,” he says. “You should also know that if Arnie hadn’t called me—if he hadn’t told them you and I were friends—it could have gone a whole other way.”

“And you should know that you are one son of a bitch, Ben Schaeffer.”