Priceless

Jacob smiled up at her, just as he always had. “Honey, it’s too late for Arthur. It’s not his fault.” He reached up and stroked

the side of her face. “You look like your mom, did I tell you that?”

Charlotte sobbed. “Yes, Daddy, you told me that.”

And then she took his head in her arms and held him tightly, as he started to sob himself. “It was just a small thing, Jackie, just a small thing. I’m so sorry, Jackie.”

Charlotte held on tight and waited for the lawyer.

Chapter TEN (#ulink_80aa89c5-ab1c-53c6-91f3-7477e0803383)

After that, things got even worse. Jacob had cried for a while and then fallen silent and sullen, refusing to talk even to Charlotte. Arthur had ordered the investigators from the room.

“I think it’s clear your father is in shock, Charlotte. I think we should have him looked at by a doctor.”

Charlotte felt as if she herself could use some medical attention, or at least a Xanax or three, but she pushed it down. “Will it be someone we know or someone they bring?”

Arthur frowned. “I’m not sure.”

In the end, the investigators allowed Jacob’s own doctor to attend him, and once Dr. Levinger was finished, they allowed him to transport Jacob to a hospital for further evaluation.

Mallory was brusque. “Mr. Bedford, if this is your client’s attempt to escape prosecution by feigning illness, then you should advise him that it hasn’t worked for organized crime, and it won’t work for him.”

Arthur was starting to get his confidence back, now that his own shock was receding. He looked down his nose at the policeman. “Good grief, Detective, there’s no need to be rude. Mr. Williams has suffered a great shock, and the doctor merely wishes to ensure that there isn’t anything else going on. If he collapses while in your care, it wouldn’t look very good for you, would it?”

Mallory said nothing for a moment, then, “I’m not sure you realize how angry people are about this. If I let him leave the building unguarded, he might not make it to the sidewalk.”

Charlotte went pale. “What are you talking about? What people?”

“The people whose money he stole, Miss Williams. Did you think it was all faceless corporations and big banks? No, he took the life savings of couples who’d planned to retire, who’d worked all their lives and were finally about to be able to rest. He took the nest eggs of families with children. He took whatever he wanted, Miss Williams, and people tend to look askance at that kind of greed.”

“You’re wrong about him,” Charlotte said, although inside she was feeling less sure. Her father had seemed so happy and normal and confident only the other night. Was it possible that everything she took for granted, everything she thought was certain, was actually a total lie? She’d have broken down if she’d had any tears left.

WHEN THEY LEFT the building, her father in a wheelchair, his doctor at his side, she saw firsthand what Mallory had been talking about.

“There he is, there’s Williams!” A small crowd surged forward, their faces twisted with rage. “You thief!”

Charlotte made eye contact with one woman, a normal-looking woman in her early forties maybe.

“You bitch!” the woman cried. “Your father stole everything I ever worked for. He’s a fucking thief, and I hope he dies in jail, and you, too, you whore!”

Charlotte faltered a little, feeling as if she’d been physically assaulted. As she paused, she felt a hand on her elbow, guiding her, and she managed to keep going. As she passed the woman, she felt wetness on her face—the woman had spat on her. Charlotte stumbled, but the hand on her elbow was strong and kept her going.

“Don’t stop, Charlotte. I’ve got you.” The voice was low in her ear, but she kept going.

Someone threw something at her father, and he ducked his head. It smashed on the ground, a bottle.

Suddenly, the police formed a barrier between their small group and the larger crowd, and they got to the ambulance. As the doors slammed and it pulled away, Charlotte was propelled to another waiting car, and she turned to see who was helping her.

Scarsford. He didn’t let go until she was in the car, and when he did, her arm felt suddenly cold.

Faces pressed up against the window, struggling with the police, fingers pointing, rage, anger, and … loss. She could see sadness and panic on these faces and suddenly realized what her father stood accused of. And she realized in the same moment that he was guilty and that life was never going to be the same again.

THE SCENE WAS similar in front of her apartment building, although there were fewer police to protect her. Scarsford kept his arm around her shoulder, and she ducked her head, but she could still hear the insults and threats people were throwing. Not to mention the photographers.

“Come on, gorgeous, they’re going to love you in jail. Give us a smile.”

“Over here, bitch, over here.” “Look up, Charlotte. Let’s see you.”

They wanted something to put on TV, just as Emily had said, and she was damned if she was going to give it to them.

And then someone said, “I hear you fuck your father for money, Charlie.”

She looked up, enraged and horrified, and a million flash bulbs went off. That was the shot the tabloids would run of her. She looked terrible: furious, scared, but still hot as hell. Editors ate it up all over the country. It was a shot that would haunt her forever.

Scarsford yelled at the photographers to get back, and they got close enough to her building for the doormen to step in. Suddenly, she was in the lobby, safe.

Scarsford took out a handkerchief and wiped her face. It came away red.

“Am I bleeding?” Charlotte was surprised.

A brief smile flickered across his face. “No, more traditional. Tomato. Someone threw one, I guess, and splattered you.”

She looked down at her suit. Oh, yeah. All over her. “Just as well I picked navy.”

Scarsford’s phone rang, and he stepped away to answer it. When he looked back a few moments later, she was gone, the distant chime of the elevator the only trace of her. The lobby guard was watching him expressionlessly, and after failing to come up with a legitimate reason to go after her, Scarsford left.

THE ANSWERING MACHINE was full, but the apartment was empty.

Greta and Davis had left, presumably to go home, but Greta had left her enough food for three dinners, and Davis had left a big note on her bed with his cell number and an exhortation not to go anywhere without calling him first.

Charlotte was glad to be alone. She needed to think.

She wandered upstairs and took a long shower, trying to relax and get rid of the smell of the downtown jail. Operating almost on auto pilot, she hot-oiled her hair and wrapped it in a warmed towel, then covered herself with pure shea butter warmed in her palms. A floor-length Turkish toweling robe and slippers made her feel almost cozy, and she curled up in her dad’s chair in the den, flicking on the plasma and curling her fingers around a fresh cup of hot chocolate.

She flicked from channel to channel for a while but couldn’t help herself. She turned to CNN. She spilled her cocoa.

Emily was on the screen, apparently standing in front of her building. The subtitle said, “Family Friend,” but Emily didn’t sound all that friendly.

“Yes, Mr. Williams was always at work. We hardly ever saw him. Charlotte was basically raised by the servants.”

Servants? Davis and Greta weren’t going to like that at all.

“It really isn’t surprising that Charlotte went off the rails like she did.”

Charlotte’s jaw dropped. Emily disappeared, replaced by the horrific shot of her from earlier. Great. She looked like that Munch painting. The announcer was talking about her.

“Jacob Williams has a daughter, of course, the socialite Charlotte Williams, who was nearly expelled from Yale a year ago for allegedly burning down a building in a lovers’ spat.” Then they showed a variety of party shots of her, a few of them quite risqué. Where had those come from? Surely Emily wouldn’t have—