CHAPTER 20

When I arrive at Erin’s home, scented candles are lit along a mantel, the flames flickering from the phantom sea breeze blowing in. Past her bare shoulder the sun is dipping slowly behind Chinaman’s Hat in Kaneohe Bay. The calm waters are shimmering as though lit from below, creating a scene fit for French cinema. Only here there are no cameras, no crew, no audience. Just us and the reality of the situation. Her situation. So when she suggests the couch, I point to the dining room table. More room. There are files, I say. Photos and such. We’ll need to spread out.

A grudging nod does nothing to mask her disappointment, and I suddenly wonder whether I shouldn’t have brought Jake.

There’s no mention of my cut-up face. She doesn’t ask and I don’t say. But for the first time I wonder whether the attack may be related to her case. It wouldn’t be the first punch I’ve taken in my capacity as a defense lawyer. The first was delivered on the steps of the Brooklyn criminal courthouse by one of my own clients. The second I received during Joey Gianforte’s homicide case here on the island.

I fold my hands atop the table. “The handbag is the problem,” I say, searching her eyes. “Absent evidence your handbag was stolen, the prosecution is going to infer that you were in possession of both the Zippo and the key card the entire night.” I unfold my hands, lean back, take a deep breath. It’s nearly time for me to ask for the truth. “The Zippo was discovered in the room, so we know it survived. The handbag, however, may have burned up without a trace.”

“What are you saying?”

I plant my elbows on the table and speak slowly so that she hears clearly every word. “First and foremost, I need you to be entirely honest with me. I don’t want to waste man-hours searching for something that’s never going to be found. The police won’t do much looking, because the Zippo being in the room and the purse having disintegrated in the fire fits perfectly with their theory of the crime.”

I watch her lips but they remain emotionless. Usually by now, the client is indignant, appalled at being accused of lying to her own lawyer. Erin simply shrugs her bare shoulders. “I don’t know,” she says. “Last I remember having my handbag on me was when I last left Trevor in the room.”

I sigh inwardly. We’ll continue looking for the little leather Fendi, hope that it turns up in the home of a known arsonist. But until it’s found, we’ll have to operate under the assumption that the handbag burned, the Zippo remained, and that the jury will likely believe that Erin was in possession of both in the moments before the fire started.

“Enemies,” I say.

“What about them?”

“Trevor have any?”

“None that I know of.”

“How about you?”

“Me?”

“Any enemies?”

She shakes her head as she stands, floats over to the end table, and rescues a cigarette.

I watch as she steps lightly over to the mantel, places the cigarette between her lips, lifts a scented candle, and holds the dark end to the flame. “No one on the guest list?” I say.

Erin inhales, exhales, shrugs as though the answer is of no consequence.

“No one who might have wanted to hurt Trevor?” I say.

Quietly, “No.”

“No one who might have wanted to hurt you by hurting him?”

Again, “No.”

“All right,” I tell her as she sits, blowing smoke across the table. “Let’s go over the guests one by one.” I begin with Mia.

Erin insists that up until that day, she considered Mia a friend. Despite Mia’s betrayal, Erin is unwilling to entertain the notion that she might have had something to do with Trevor’s death.

“Tara?” I say.

“She’d never do anything to hurt me.”

“How did Tara feel about Trevor?” I ask.

“Trevor? She thought he was great for me. They always got along as well as any best friend and boyfriend could.”

“Tell me about Isaac Cassel.”

Her lips turn up at the corners like a burning strip of paper. “He was Trevor’s best man. Followed Trevor around like a puppy dog.”

“That’s all?” I ask because I know that’s not all. This afternoon I saw photographs of Isaac and recognized him at once. He was the man holding Erin outside the hotel during the fire. Not to mention the only man she remembers dancing with at her own wedding reception.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what was your relationship with Isaac?”

“Mine? Isaac and I were friends.”

“And now?” Once I identified Isaac in the photographs sent over from the prosecutor’s office, I immediately asked Flan to do a search, to find out who was paying the rent for this gorgeous Kaneohe house.

“Still friends,” she says. “In fact, Isaac is the one putting up the money for this house.”

She’s either being forthright or clever, guessing at how much I know, trying to gain my trust. “Why’s he doing that?”

“I don’t know.” She leans forward, lowers her head so that she has to lift her eyes to see me. “I’m sure the right answer is, ‘because he knows I’m innocent.’” Her breasts press against the table, accentuating her cleavage. “But the truth is, Isaac probably carries a torch for me.”

“You dated him?”

“Briefly. In fact, that’s how Trevor and I met.”

I consider how to phrase the next few questions. A query too blunt and she may experience a knee-jerk reaction, take the default position of any criminal defendant and lie, lie, lie.

“How long did you and Isaac date?” I ask. In other words, Were you fucking him?

“A few months.”

“Was it serious?” More than just sex?

“I think for him it was.”

“And you broke it off when you fell for Trevor?” Does Isaac have a motive I can use to create reasonable doubt?

“Around that time, yeah.” She sets her lit cigarette, now just a butt, onto the edge of a ceramic ashtray and leans back, arching her body like a kitten just waking from a nap. Her pale green dress creeps up, but her legs are mercifully hidden under the table.

Still I feel the heat of infatuation rising up my chest, clawing at my throat.

An hour later a few questions remain. About Trevor’s sister Lauren and her longtime fiancé. About Erin’s parents, particularly about her mother and how she reacted when she heard the news of Trevor’s infidelities. But I realize I can no longer stay.

Another of Cashman’s Ten Commandments: Thou shalt sleep with neither client nor witness.

Last time I disobeyed that one, things all went to hell.

When she stands, the silky dress falls like a theater curtain over her form, and I decide that yes, indeed, it’s time to go.

“Can I get you a glass of Merlot?” she says. “Because I certainly need one.”

I shake my head. “I have to be heading out.” I stand and try to prevent our eyes from meeting. “I have a date tonight.”

“Oh, really?” It’s the first time she smiled all evening. “May I ask her name?”

“Miss Hawaii.”

“Nice name.”

“That’s what I said.”

I pack up my papers and slide them into my satchel, failing for perhaps the first time in my life to place the contents of the file in their proper folders.

She steps around the table, just as I place the leather strap over my arm.

“May I ask you one more question, Kevin, before you go?”

I face her, and immediately regret it. Her eyes are merely inches from mine, and it takes a small moment for me to catch my breath. “Of course.”

“I spoke with Joey Gianforte,” she says. “Suffice it to say, I was very impressed.”

“I’m glad.”

Erin leans forward. When she speaks, her breath is warm and smells of smoke. “But Joey’s is the only number you gave me.”

“So?”

“So I don’t know your track record back in New York.”

I set my satchel down on the chair and stare into her eyes, the sun now all the way set, the candlelight soft, a light breeze blowing in from all sides. “Well, what do you want to know?”

Erin Simms is like the fire itself, something I should run from whether she started the blaze or not. In either case, she’s my client and can burn me in every way imaginable. Besides that, she’s vulnerable, was made a widow only a few hellish, hazy hours after being made a wife. Anything now but a curt good night would be unethical, immoral; it could downright damage her case.

She doesn’t say another word, doesn’t mention Brandon Glenn or anything else about my life and career back in New York. She simply stares up at me, her eyes steady, her lips pouting, all but begging to be kissed.

Only now do I realize that every action I’ve taken since the night of the fire has been leading to this moment. Taking her case, accepting her bail assignment, interviewing her here in her home alone, it’s never been about money or justice. She’s been my motive all along.

Our lips are nearly touching and I can almost taste the smoke on her tongue.

I want to leave. I need to.

But I can’t.

I’ve already traveled too far down this path to turn back.