Waking the Serpent Page 12

  The silence exploded into a brief cacophony as reporters clamored to get their questions in first, but Carter calmly defused it. “We’ll only be answering a few questions since time is limited. Please don’t waste it.” He nodded to a woman holding her mike in his face.

  Despite the mike trained on Carter, the reporter faced Rafe. “Mr. Diamante, was Phoebe Carlisle helping you grieve or consulting with you on a spiritual matter?” She grinned as the crowd erupted into laughter.

  Carter was unfazed. “Mr. Diamante will not be answering any questions of a personal nature. Thank you.” He nodded to the next reporter.

  “Has your client been implicated in the poisoning death of Rafael Diamante Senior?”

  “No, he has not. The investigation into the possibly tainted alcohol Senator Diamante ingested is still ongoing, so I can’t comment as to the specifics, but my client is not a person of interest in that investigation at this time.” Carter pointed to another reporter. “Yes?”

  “How do you respond to the allegations that the website hosting Barbara Fisher’s adult entertainment web page shows your client accessing it on multiple occasions prior to her murder?”

  To Rafe’s credit, he showed no outward response to the question.

  “I can’t comment on any specific allegations pursuant to the case against my client, but Mr. Diamante stands by his claim that he had no knowledge of Ms. Fisher’s alleged illegal activities and maintains his innocence of all charges against him in this case.”

  Several reporters tried for a follow-up question, but one voice rose above the rest. “Mr. Diamante, county records show you were under the care of various mental health professionals from the ages of twelve to seventeen. Can you respond to reports you were being treated for a behavioral disorder?”

  Rafe’s expression hardened but he kept silent.

  Carter leaned toward the mikes. “My client will not be answering any questions of a personal nature.”

  The man persisted. “I have sources who say your treatment stemmed from ongoing childhood trauma. Was there trouble at home, Mr. Diamante? Did your father abuse you?”

  Rafe’s face went red with anger. Before Carter could stop him, he stepped forward and grabbed the mike out of the reporter’s hand. “That is absolutely false. Who told you that? My father never laid a hand on me in his life.”

  “Rafael.” Carter stepped between them as Rafe pushed the mike back at the reporter. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. There will be no more questions.”

  Phoebe turned off the television, not wanting to hear the commentary that followed—or to see the footage of her sex tape being trotted out again. God. She had a sex tape.

  Carter’s warning about Rafe’s mental health issues took on more significance in light of the reporter’s ambush questions. How much of what Rafe had said on the phone this morning could she even believe? She knew nothing about him, really. Not the real Rafe.

  The air began to shimmer with the migraine-like aura that presaged the presence of the dead. She was mentally exhausted, but she’d committed to seeing this thing through.

  The hesitant approach and the sudden jolting as if she’d come to the end of a people mover without warning had all the earmarks of the shade who’d come to her on the morning Barbara died, but she could tell now it wasn’t Barbara. This was the shade who’d tried to speak to her outside the temple, the one who’d led her there.

  “I’m not supposed to be here. I only have a moment. I can’t get close to him.”

  “Close to whom? To Rafe?”

  “He’s not what you think. None of this is what you think.”

  “Tell me, then. Tell me who you are.” The shade stopped communicating abruptly, as if a steel door had slammed down between them. “Matthew?” Phoebe doubled over as something struck her psychic center like a fist plunged through her body, dragging the shade with it. But another was taking its place before she could pause for breath.

  “So you’re the evocator.” The soft Southern accent was as breathless as Phoebe felt.

  “Barbara?”

  “Geez, you’re good. See, I thought I was for real, but it turns out I was a joke. You’re the real deal.” The shade’s energy was jumpy and scattered, as if she were looking over her shoulder on the metaphysical plane, ready to leap out at any moment.

  “You’re safe here. You can talk to me.”

  A high-pitched, frightened laugh came out of Phoebe’s mouth. “Safe? You have no idea. You saw what they did to Monique, and that was nothing.”

  The mental leaps were as dizzying as the little physical ones. “To Monique? You mean her client? The cop that beat her up?”

  “Wasn’t the cop. I mean, he let him in, so maybe it was him, too. But they pay extra for the ride-along.”

  “Who does?” Phoebe clutched her head as Barbara pulled away sharply and snapped back without stepping out.

  “He’ll know I was here. I just wanted to warn you.” Tears started to flow from Phoebe’s eyes, a peculiar sensation when they weren’t her own. “You know, you think at least when you’re dead, you won’t have to worry about working or getting out of the business. It’s not fair. But Monique didn’t deserve to be dragged into this. You should have left it alone. Maybe it’ll stop with her. But just, please, let it be, Phoebe Carlisle. You don’t understand what you’ve stumbled into, and we don’t need you making it worse.”

  Phoebe clutched her head as the shade left her. Barbara Fisher was like the worst amusement-park ride ever. Except Phoebe had been the ride. The ride. Was that what Barbara had meant by a ride-along? Phoebe had been thinking in terms of a ride in a cop car. But what if she’d meant the shades were the ride-alongs? But who was going along for the ride? The client or the escort?

  As Phoebe’s equilibrium reset, Barbara’s cryptic warning about Monique began to worry her. Monique’s deposition in the county’s case against her was tomorrow. What if whoever was behind Barbara’s murder intended to intimidate Monique into keeping her mouth shut about the truth of what was going on?

  She tried Monique’s number but got her voice mail after several rings. Maybe Monique was busy with a client and had the ringer off. As Phoebe started to click the screen off, a text message appeared—from Rafe. How’s Puddleglum? I forgot to ask.

  He’s fine, thanks, Phoebe wrote. Sulking about his cat door being closed, but otherwise okay. She sent the message then typed another. Saw the press conference. How are you?

  A pause followed but the message app indicated he was typing. Phoebe was expecting a long reply, but what eventually came was Wrecked.

  I’m sorry, she replied. It looked pretty brutal.

  Anyone bothering you? A slight pause. Besides me.

  Phoebe smiled as she typed back, You’re not bothering me. And no. No fallout yet. Just my sisters wanting to know how—She jerked her hand back from the keypad, realizing she’d been about to tell him they’d teased her about how big Rafe’s cock was. So not appropriate. But the partial sentence had accidentally sent.

  To know how...? he texted back after a moment.

  Phoebe reddened, glad he couldn’t see her face. How I’m doing.

  And how are you doing?

  She considered the answer. Better than I was this morning.

  Yeah?

  Yeah. She added a smiley as an afterthought then wondered if that was too much.

  Rafe didn’t text again. Apparently, it was.

  * * *

  Phoebe’s message floated on the screen of his phone like a smiley-shaped life raft. She couldn’t have any idea how much that little emoticon meant to him right now. His world was falling apart.

  The reporter who’d raised the specter of Rafe’s counseling sessions from middle school and high school had put a crack in the dam that held back Rafe’s darkest secrets. If r
ecords of those private sessions had somehow been made public, the details of what he’d discussed with his counselors soon would be, too. Maybe it was a good thing his father was gone. Because this would have killed him.

  Hamilton assured Rafe he was “on it.” He’d have an injunction in place by this afternoon to prevent the release of any more privileged information. But, like prehistoric life in Jurassic Park, information would find a way.

  Unless Rafe did something to put a stop to it himself.

  He prepared his altar for a spell to confound, but in the smoke rising from the burning parchment on which he’d written the words, the shape of a coyote seemed to dance—two embers leaping up like glowing eyes and another below them like a laughing tongue—before dissipating with the rest of the ash.

  Chapter 16

  The following afternoon, there was still no sign of Monique. Phoebe waited downstairs by the entrance to the courthouse as long as she could. She’d warned her client this wasn’t optional.

  As she gave up and headed inside, a commotion broke out at the security check behind her.

  “Ms. Carlisle!”

  Stupidly, she turned, and a camera crew began rolling from outside the barrier while smartphones went up all over the place.

  “Are you involved in building the defense for your lover, Rafe Diamante?”

  Phoebe headed up the stairs, doing her best to ignore the clamoring calls behind her. Hopefully she’d be inside a courtroom before they got through security.

  “Do you have anything to say about the death of Monique Hernandez?”

  Phoebe stopped short. That couldn’t be what she’d heard.

  The reporter had managed to clear security and he bounded up the stairs behind her to push his mike in front of her. “I understand you were representing Hernandez in the DA’s case against her for possession, solicitation and assault of an officer of the law. Is there a connection between her death and that of fellow call girl Barbara Fisher?”

  Phoebe tried to go around him but the traffic on the stairs was at a standstill with people stopping to stare at her and others coming out of the nearby courtrooms to see what was going on. “I’m unaware of the reports of my client’s death and I have no comment at this time.”

  “So she was your client.”

  Phoebe sighed. “Yes. I’m her court-appointed public defender.”

  Other reporters who’d made their way in while the first waylaid her were starting to surround her.

  “Ms. Carlisle, are you and Rafe Diamante romantically involved or was yesterday morning’s house call a one-time thing?”

  “Has your boyfriend been named as a suspect in your client’s death?”

  “Do you work for the same escort service as Fisher and Hernandez?”

  A voice carried from the crowd below. “Looked like he was down there a long time. How’s his technique?” Laughter followed and Phoebe closed her eyes, trying to take calming breaths.

  “Ms. Carlisle won’t be answering any more questions.” Carter Hamilton’s calm, authoritative voice was a welcome relief. “You can all clear out of here or be brought up on charges of contempt from every judge in this courthouse whose sessions you’re disrupting right now.”

  Phoebe opened her eyes as he descended the steps toward her, expertly weaving through the gawkers, and took her by the arm to lead her through the upper corridor into an empty conference room.

  He closed the door as she sank into the nearest chair. “Are you all right?”

  “Just a little stunned. I was waiting for my client—she was going to be deposed—one of the reporters asked if I had a comment on her death and I just froze.” She started to get up. “I should go check to be sure it’s true.”

  “If your client is Monique Hernandez, it’s true. I was watching the television in the jury assembly room while waiting for my appointment when they interrupted Judge Judy with a special report.”

  “Murdered?”

  “The police haven’t released a statement on the cause of death. Just says she was found unresponsive in her apartment.”

  Barbara Fisher’s aimless rambling about Monique came back to her. Maybe it’ll stop with her. What if her seemingly disjointed words hadn’t been aimless? What if Barbara had been warning her Monique was next?

  Carter was watching her with a worried look.

  “Thanks for rescuing me. I guess I’m going to have to be better prepared for this sort of thing from now on.” Phoebe bit her lip, trying to keep from blushing. “Rafe says you got the, um, video taken down, too. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “My pleasure.” Carter glanced at his feet with a slight smile that said he’d obviously seen the extended version but had the good grace not to bring it up. “It’ll blow over before too long. Every couple of days something new becomes the internet frenzy. Fortunately for you, but not so fortunately for Rafael, I think the serious media players are now more interested in his distant past than in yesterday morning.”

  Phoebe shook her head. “How did someone get their hands on his juvenile mental health records?”

  “I imagine the same way someone got into his gated community to take that footage. There’s always someone willing to bend the law for the right compensation.” Carter put his hand into his pocket to silence his phone as it buzzed. “You’re going to need some help getting out of here. Feel like getting something to eat?”

  “Don’t you have an appointment?”

  “It looks like the other party’s going to be tied up in court for the rest of the day. I was actually heading out after getting a text from him when I saw you.”

  Phoebe smiled. “Well, in that case, I’d love an escort. But I think we’d draw attention if we tried to eat anywhere together.”

  “Anywhere public, sure. I was thinking of my hotel suite.” Carter smiled. “Strictly a business lunch, of course. Or dinner. I suppose it’s getting a little late for lunch.”

  Dinner en suite didn’t sound exactly like strictly business, but it was difficult to take Carter Hamilton as anything but sincere. He had an almost anachronistic gentlemanliness about him.

  Phoebe shrugged. “Why not?”

  He also had a way of projecting an air people respected, which was useful in getting out to his car without being surrounded by the press again. Reporters still tried to get his and Phoebe’s attention, but they stayed back at a respectable distance and took “no comment” for an answer.

  “I’ll have someone from the hotel bring your car by while we’re eating so you can slip out and head home without a fuss whenever you like.”

  Phoebe nodded and handed over her keys to let him make the arrangements. It was kind of nice to have someone who wanted to do everything for her. He even opened the car door.

  * * *

  Dinner was served on Carter’s balcony. The afternoon rain had hit on the drive over, but the balcony was perfectly protected and provided a lovely view of the storm against the ridge of red rocks.

  Carter kicked off his shoes while they relaxed inside afterward. “So would it be rude of me to ask you about your ability with the shades? I must admit to being terribly curious.”

  “Not at all.” Phoebe slipped off her own shoes and tucked her feet under her legs. “What do you want to know?”

  “Have you always had the ability? Or is it something you sought out?”

  “Always.” She nodded, taking a sip of her amaro. “My parents thought they were imaginary friends when I was little. I just thought everyone had them.”

  “So they just came to you? Any shade that happened to be near?”

  “No, it was mostly limited to the dead who were similar in age to me. Kids that had drowned or died in accidents. A lot of times they didn’t know they were dead or didn’t understand what it meant. I was the first perso
n they could find who actually talked to them, so they’d be pretty relieved to have someone listen.”

  Carter tilted his glass in the light of the fire, admiring the color of the liqueur. “But you don’t just listen. I mean, step-ins take over the body, don’t they? Speaking through you, taking independent action with your physical frame. That’s why the standard doctrine of the Covent is that they’re too dangerous. Have you never encountered a shade who wouldn’t honor your desires? I mean, has a shade ever taken even temporary control of you?”

  “There have been one or two who were extremely strong-willed.” She wasn’t about to mention her recent experiences—certainly not what had happened with Rafe. “But I can generally reason with them. You just have to be firm about your own intent. They can pick up on an unconscious willingness to do something you might not otherwise do—kind of like alcohol lowering one’s inhibitions.” She laughed as she set down her empty glass. “Moderation is the key, as in so many things in life.”

  Carter filled her glass again from the crystal decanter. “Even moderation should only be done in moderation.” He winked and held the drink out to her.

  She eyed it dubiously. They’d had spicy lillet as aperitifs before the meal, as well as white wine with dinner. “I still have to drive home tonight. This might not be much for someone else, but I’m kind of a lightweight.”

  “You’re welcome to stay here.” Carter’s expression remained neutral, not revealing whether this was an invitation to something more or just a polite offer to ease her mind. “There are two beds. No pressure.” He set the glass on the table. “I’ll leave it up to your judgment.”

  Phoebe was starting to feel a little foolish about her hesitation. She laughed at herself and took the drink. “I think I’m a little rusty at socialization. Sorry if I’m being weird.”