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  Peter dropped his hands and thought about that. He’d never heard of such a possibility before, a live birth. An infant surviving an abortion. He looked at Mac. “How far along was she, the mother?”

  “She’s not completely sure. Says she thought she was twenty-two weeks, and the doc examined her and said he thought twenty-three. Stephanie Kand’s autopsy will give us more information.”

  Peter stared, unable to fix the facts and the images in his mind. “All right,” he said after a moment. “Let’s go back a little. Did Miss Chasson give us any details?”

  The detective who’d seen almost every crime in the book now hiked his shoulders in answer to Peter’s question and gave him a helpless look. “According to Miss Chasson, they started the whole business on Tuesday last week, sent her home and told her to come back the next day. Said the procedure would take about twenty-four hours to complete, and that it would be easy and pretty painless. She says no one told her this could happen.”

  “And she’d signed consent forms?”

  “Yes. She was really upset and so was the father. Her old man is Frankie Chasson.”

  Peter raised his brows. “Import-exports?”

  “That’s him.” Mac heaved a sigh.

  A minute passed while Peter thought about that. He knew the name. Everyone in the Parish knew that name. Then he rose and walked to the window. Beyond the levee he could see the Mississippi River, as busy this morning as any highway with freighters, tugs and barges, a paddle-wheeler heading upriver, still just below the Greater New Orleans Bridge—the GNO—that linked the Westbank, including Gretna, to the business district.

  He clasped his hands behind his back, watching the ferry moving away from the landing toward the Eastbank. “Who told her that the baby died?”

  “The nurse who was with her in the procedure room, that day.” He looked down at his notes. “She said the nurse told her the infant died almost immediately, within a few minutes of birth. She asked, so the nurse told her it was a boy. Glory Lynn says they told her most women don’t want to see the baby.”

  “So this has happened before?”

  Mac shook his head. “I don’t know. Like I said, I’ve sure never heard of this before. She says the same nurse drove her home. Glory Lynn lives in an apartment by herself. She called her father. They came down to the station . . . You know the rest.”

  Dropping his head, Peter rubbed the tops of his eyeballs. Then planted his elbows on the desk and dragged his fingers down his face as he looked at Mac. “So you got the warrant. How’d that go?”

  “Her old man has some pull, let me tell you. At first we—Paul and I—didn’t think we had enough, but Glory Lynn was bound and determined to find that baby, and the judge signed the warrant. She still thought there was a chance he might be alive. Old man Chasson was in a rage; said he was going to find his grandson one way or the other.” He shrugged. “Glory Lynn was wild to find out what had happened to that child.”

  “Well, you know how it goes. We got the warrant. Best we could make out from Miss Chasson, it had been about twelve hours since she’d left the clinic. The search objective was limited to locating the body, and the procedure room that she’d occupied. Dr. Kand came along for forensics.

  “We got there before they’d closed for business yesterday. Nurse Broussard was there, apparently in charge; the doc had gone.”

  “Only one doctor practices there?”

  “Yes. Charles Vicari. I imagine we’ll find he owns it. Anyway, Broussard wouldn’t cooperate. Said she’d talk to her lawyer. Eventually we found the body in a freezer, back in a storage room.”

  “That’s so hard to comprehend.” Peter stared. “Broussard said nothing?”

  “Nope. Tight as a clam. Just stood by watching while Dr. Kand did her thing. We took the photos. Bagged the body . . . it was so small, man.” His voice was thick with sorrow and he shook his head. “And then we transported it to the morgue. Kand said she’d get on the autopsy and the forensic analysis soon as she can.”

  Peter bent forward, staring at the desktop, hands shielding his eyes. “Let me know as soon as you find anything, Mac, cause and manner of death.”

  “Should have that by Monday, she says.”

  Both of them fell silent. Minutes passed. Peter knew nothing about children. He wondered if the child, the fetus, whatever it was at that point, had fingers and toes, and facial features. Babies had never been a part of his life, nor were they a part of his life plan.

  Mac broke the silence. “Like I said, it’s a crazy case. But if Glory Lynn’s right and there was someone else in that room—that second nurse, Clara Sonsten—we might get a break. I’ll find her; get her statement.

  “I’ll talk to the receptionist again,” he added. “We’ll need another search of the place, and we’ll want to search those records.”

  “Healthcare privacy issues won’t make that easy.” Peter chewed his lower lip. “Mac, check out this doctor’s background, and his connection with the clinic. Find out how long he’s been there, any ownership interest. Where he was before. Like that.”

  Mac nodded.

  Peter straightened, mulling over the contradictions. Glory Lynn Chasson choosing an abortion and then changing her mind when the infant was born alive. Laws governing abortion prior to birth were clear. But what happened here? And where does the law draw the line? Did a woman’s choice extend to an infant born alive?

  That was only one question.

  He roused himself. He needed more facts. Peter looked at Mac. “I’d like to see the autopsy and pathology reports as soon as Stephanie completes them.”

  4

  Sunshine streamed through the window over the kitchen table where Rebecca sat brooding. It was Monday morning and she was attempting to read the paper but couldn’t concentrate. A slice of toast lay untouched on a small plate beside her. Beside the plate, an almost translucent fluted china cup of chamomile tea waited, steaming. She’d thought it would settle her stomach; better than her usual coffee.

  The Times-Picayune was folded in half and then in quarters, and Rebecca struggled to focus her eyes and thoughts on the article she’d begun reading before the words had seemed to move. A sheen of perspiration shone on her forehead and cheeks as she fought to relax. Peter would be down soon and he’d spot that something was wrong right away. She didn’t want to think about what was causing this nausea. She only had forty-five minutes to get to work and prepare for the meeting today and she wasn’t feeling well. She didn’t have the energy to put on an act that would convince Peter that nothing was wrong.

  The article, which took up a significant portion of the front page, covered Peter’s current trial, a death by raining bullets last New Year’s Eve. Drugs were involved. This case had been stuck in the black hole of pre-trial preparation since then, and she knew that Peter was glad it was finally in court. The longer a defendant stalled, the more frightened and forgetful witnesses became. They were picking the jury this morning, she read, and glancing at the clock, she knew she’d gotten a reprieve from an inquisition. He was running late and he’d fly through the kitchen this morning at the speed of light to get to the courthouse.

  Rebecca wrinkled her nose and turned the page. As a general rule she viewed litigation as a zero sum game—in order for one to win, someone else had to lose. She picked up the cup and sipped the tea, feeling the soothing warmth as it went down her throat. Shaking a crease from the page, she refolded the paper, and sipped the tea again, realizing that she was already feeling better.

  When Peter strode in a few minutes later she could see that he was feeling good. Relieved that the nausea had disappeared, she set the paper down beside her and turned her face up for his kiss. He wore his first-day-of-trial suit, dark gray, with a white buttoned-down collared shirt and a blue and gray tie. She’d given him the tie for a present on his last birthday. He claimed it was his favor
ite.

  He greeted her in a cheerful tone and planted a kiss on her cheek, and as she drew back, smiling now, her eyes followed him. His smile was contagious. She picked up the newspaper again, thinking how lucky she was to be married to this man that she loved so much. Two years of marriage with Peter had been just about perfect.

  “I see you’re picking a jury this morning,” she said, peering at him over the paper.

  “Yes, but my bet is they’ll want to cut a deal.” He went to the counter where the she’d left a thick mug there, the one he liked to use. “We’re hoping anyway because our main witness has disappeared.”

  She shook her head, reading on. Witnesses terrified into silence; that was an ongoing problem. “You’d think there’d be some way to protect them.”

  “It’s tough.” He poured coffee into his cup and added a teaspoon of sugar. “Witnesses usually live in the same neighborhood as the perp. When he’s picked up, they’re still there, still living in the same place surrounded by gang members, and families and friends. Lots of animosity. It takes courage to talk.” He gulped down the coffee.

  “Can’t you protect them?” She put down the paper and sipped the tea. She could feel it returning again, that wavy, foggy feeling.

  “Only if they want to move out of the neighborhood, change their lives.” Rinsing the cup under the faucet, he set it in the drain. “I’m letting Sam try this case. I’ll be there with him, but he’ll take the lead.” Sam was a young assistant district attorney that Peter was training. He was aggressive and smart, a good combination, Peter had said. “The experience will do him good.”

  Settling back in her chair, Rebecca picked up the toast and took a cautious bite. Please, please don’t let that nausea return. Not now. “I’ll be home around seven or so tonight, I think,” she said. “Will you be late?”

  “I’ll let you know. I’ll call later.” He left the room and she chewed the toast and sat very still, hoping this strange feeling was her imagination. She heard him going through the living room and the hallway and into the study they shared. When he returned a moment later with some files, he picked up the pace, heading for the door that led to the garage. At the door he stopped and picked up his briefcase. Then he turned, looking at her.

  “Say. I’ve been thinking of something.”

  She turned, looking at him.

  “We should celebrate your new partnership. If I’m right and the defense takes a plea this week, I’ll be free in a few days. What’s your schedule like this weekend? Could you get away for a couple days?”

  Ah, to get away. To rest. Rebecca mentally scanned through her schedule. It just might be possible.

  “We’re closing the bond offering next week, but it’s in good shape and Sydney could manage that for a few days.” Sydney Martin, her favorite associate, was a hard worker. Both Rebecca and Amalise had taken the younger woman under their wings when she was hired five years ago, the third woman lawyer hired by Mangen & Morris.

  With a broad smile she looked at him, brows high, and nodded.

  He grinned.

  She cocked her head. “Where would we go?”

  “How about Italy.” He smiled. “A quick trip to the Amalfi Coast? Maybe Positano for four or five days?”

  Memories lit her mind—they’d spent their honeymoon in the village of Positano two years ago, staying at the hotel Le Sirenuse. Visualizing the small horseshoe cove at the foot of the town and the green blue water stretching all the way to the horizon, she could already feel the warm sun soaking into her skin. They could lounge on beach chairs for hours and think of nothing but each other.

  “Peter, I would love that,” she breathed. “I’ll check my calendar and make it work if you can.”

  “Good,” he said. “Let’s plan on it.”

  Through the window she watched him back the car out of the driveway. Then, turning back to the paper again, the room spun. She braced her elbows on the table and covered her face. No. No. No.

  Not again. Closing her eyes, she let a few minutes pass. And then she shoved back the chair and hurried through the kitchen and down the hallway, walls swaying around her.

  5

  When she reached the office, Rebecca looked up the name of a doctor. She looked at the number she’d written down and put down the pen thinking she was feeling better and perhaps didn’t need a doctor after all. But then her stomach churned.

  Resigned, she picked up the telephone and dialed.

  The appointment was confirmed for four o’clock the following afternoon.

  Just then Rose Marie hurried into the office, breathless.

  Rebecca hung up the phone, turned back to her desk and looked at her secretary. “What’s got you all riled up?”

  “Spin-it—that new magazine everyone reads?” Rebecca nodded her head. “Well, they want to interview you. They saw the firm’s partnership announcements, and want to fit you into an article they’re doing on ten women in law to watch. But they’re just about to go to press, so the schedule is tight.”

  Rose Marie threw up her hands. “They’ve chosen you as one of the group.”

  Rebecca stared. “Me?” Spin-it was a national magazine, very avant-gard. Her mind spun with possibilities. “What about Amalise?”

  “They didn’t mention her.”

  “Oh.”

  “They’re on the phone right now. They want to schedule the interview day after tomorrow. Asked if that would work for you.” Rose Marie smiled and glanced at the credenza where Rebecca kept her calendar. “Check the date, they’re holding.”

  Rebecca picked up the calendar, still open, and put it on her desk, scanning the schedule. “I could do it Wednesday morning.” If she was to escape to Italy with Peter, she’d need time on Wednesday afternoon to transition the bond deal to Sydney. She smoothed both hands over the pages of the calendar, then looked at Rose. “Is this for real?”

  Rose Marie glittered. “Oh yes. They said they also saw the article in New Woman a few months ago. They want to send a reporter and a photographer and they’ve asked which hotel to book, one that’s close. I told them the Roosevelt.” Rose Marie spun around. “I’ll go confirm it now.” Looking back over her shoulder just before she disappeared through the door, she laughed and said, “Rebecca, you’re going to be a star.”

  Rebecca, smiling, waved her off and pulled a file across her desk. But when Rose Marie was gone, she looked up again, her mind racing. She looked around the office, wondering if it would be possible to get into her new partner’s office before the Spin-it people arrived. The managing partner could make it happen, she knew, and he’d be thrilled about the publicity for the firm.

  Picking up the phone, she dialed Doug Bastion’s office. Wanda Stanford replied that Mr. Bastion was busy at that moment, but that he would call back.

  Rebecca knew better. Hold onto control. She said she’d wait.

  Leaning back in the chair, Rebecca envisioned Doug’s face when she told him of the article that would reach every client’s desk. She was certain Doug would find a way to get her moved into the new office before those Spin-it people showed up.

  For a moment she entertained the thought of inviting Amalise to join the interview. But, quickly she discarded the idea. That could complicate her request for a quick office move. And besides, they had chosen her, not Amalise . . .

  Two hours later, carrying an armload of documents, Rebecca strode into the conference room on the eighteenth floor of Mangen & Morris for the meeting on the bond offering. Today, as an antidote to the anxiety that the brief nausea had wrought, she’d worn a gray silk suit that she especially liked, one tailored to fit her curves. The waistband was a bit snug today, but a day or two of eating only salads would take care of that.

  And now she was feeling fine, just fine. The tone she’d heard in Doug’s voice when she told him of the Spin-it request told her what she n
eeded to know—she was number one in the new partner ranks. Moving her into the new office was not a problem, he’d assured. By Wednesday morning when the reporter arrived, she’d be ensconced in new furnishings. And the promise of the trip to Italy with Peter this weekend had lifted her spirits too. So as she walked into the conference room there was a spring in her step and a smile on her face and she shifted her thoughts to work, resolved to focus on nothing but this transaction for the rest of the day.

  The large conference room featured a row of long windows on the outer wall of the room. Sydney and the other Mangen & Morris lawyers on the transaction team had arranged themselves along that far side of the table, with the sun at their backs. They’d saved the middle seat for her. In a large meeting this was generally the power seat. From Doug, Rebecca had absorbed the workings of power in this man’s world; how to win it, hold it, and use it.

  Four lawyers from the Dallas office of Johnson, Morris & Field sat facing the Mangen & Morris group. When she entered the room, she greeted Wilson Hanover, a partner in Johnson, Morris, and then she stopped and shook hands as he introduced her to the other lawyers from his firm. As she rounded the end of the long table and took her seat, Wilson congratulated her on the recent partnership announcement.

  The Johnson, Morris team had arrived late yesterday afternoon they said, in time for dinner at Mr. B’s on Chartres Street. They were staying at the Monteleone Hotel just across the way. Listening and smiling, Rebecca rose and walked to the credenza along the wall to her right, where coffee and ice and cold drinks were. Sydney volunteered that Mr. B’s was one of her favorite restaurants, and then Wilson added they’d spent some time investigating the history of the Napoleon House, too. In 1821 the café, a local landmark, was the focus of a failed attempt to rescue Napoleon from exile on the island of Elba.

  Oh well, someone said—not everything goes according to plan.

  Rebecca filled a glass with ice, picked up a Tab and a napkin, and returned to her place at the table. She watched the drink foam as she poured it into the glass. “I think we’re close,” she said to Wilson, across the table. Her voice was casual, but she knew that if he agreed, the trip to Italy on the weekend would become a distinct possibility. “How do the changes we made last night look to you?”