An icy chill shot up her spine as a creepy thought took hold.

Someone else. Someone who stood to acquire great wealth and power from their deaths, not to mention great satisfaction from executing them with his own hands.

Bile rose in Taylor's throat as the logical name insinuated itself in her mind. No. It couldn't be.

But it would explain why she'd had that edgy feeling all night, the feeling that something was drastically wrong--even though she'd never received a phone call from her stalker.

She'd a.s.sumed he was toying with her.

What if that wasn't the case? What if he hadn't called because he'd been preoccupied with something far more heinous?

Taylor shuddered.

No media reports would answer questions like these. She had to talk to Reed. He'd know about the homicides by now. The Berkleys were his clients. He'd have more details.

She grabbed the phone and punched in his office number.

"Harter, Randolph and Collins."

"Reed Weston, please."

"Just a moment."

The call rang through, and Reed's secretary picked up. "Mr. Weston's office."

"Yes, Cathy, this is Taylor Halstead. May I speak with Mr. Weston, please?"

"I'm sorry, Ms. Halstead, he's with a client."

"I understand. But this is very urgent. Mr. Weston knows I wouldn't interrupt otherwise. If you tell him it's me, I'm sure he'll take the call. I promise to make it brief."

Cathy cleared her throat, discernibly ill at ease. "Normally, I'd do as you ask. But, in this case, my instructions were no interruptions whatsoever. And no exceptions. I apologize, Ms. Halstead, but I can't put you through."

A weighted pause.

Then Taylor let the poor girl off the hook. "All right, Cathy, I understand. Please leave Mr. Weston a message to call me as soon as possible."

"I will."

With a growing sense of unease, Taylor hung up.

Reed with a client. No interruptions whatsoever.

She propped her elbows on the desk, dragging both hands through her hair.

G.o.d help her, but she had a sinking feeling she knew exactly who Reed's client was.

CHAPTER 25.

9:55 A.M.

HARTER, RANDOLPH & COLLINS.

Jonathan stared at Reed as if he'd seen a ghost.

"You're telling me this firm doesn't want to represent me anymore? In other words, they think I'm guilty. Without even hearing a word I have to say."

"No." Reed folded his hands on his desk. "They think there's a conflict of interest since they represent Douglas and Adrienne's estates. They know I'm going out on my own, and that I'm a d.a.m.ned good trial attorney. So they're giving me the case. Unless you don't want my representation-- which would be pretty stupid, considering how much I know about you, your background, and your relationships with Douglas and Adrienne. But that choice is yours. Make it."

"Great." Jonathan eyed Reed darkly. "You're hardly biased in my favor."

"That's irrelevant. I don't need to like you. I don't even need to believe you're innocent. I need to represent you. And I need you to give me the facts so I can protect your interests. This is business, Jonathan, not personal. You could be in a lot of trouble. You need a good criminal attorney. So either you trust my legal abilities or you don't."

"You arrogant b.a.s.t.a.r.d, you know you're the best." Jonathan rose, rubbing the back of his neck and pacing around. Emotionally, he looked like he was hanging on by a thread. "I still can't believe they're dead," he muttered.

Reed watched him carefully. He was definitely in shock. But was it from finding out about the murders or committing them?

"Jonathan, before you say another word, I need your answer. Am I representing you or not?"

"Yeah. You're representing me."

"Fine. Then sit down." Reed pointed to the chair. At the same time, he rose, walked over, and poured Jonathan a gla.s.s of water, which he shoved in his hand. "Drink this. And try to relax. We're due over at the Nineteenth Precinct shortly. We don't have the luxury of time. So let's start with the basics. How do you want to plead?"

"Not guilty." Jonathan shot him a scathing look. "Which happens to be the truth. I did not kill Douglas and Adrienne."

"Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts between one and six a.m. ?"

"Unfortunately not. I was home, in bed, the way most people are in the middle of the night."

"Did anyone see you arrive at your apartment--the doorman, a neighbor, anyone?"

A slow exhale. "The doorman. We said a few words before I went upstairs."

"What kind of words?"

"I asked him to keep the media away. There were a couple of obnoxious reporters who'd followed me home."

"Good. Then you have several people to attest to your whereabouts at..." A questioning look. "What time did you get home?"

"Around midnight. And I stayed there, all night," he added emphatically.

"What about Douglas and Adrienne--did they leave Le Cirque the same time as you did?"

"No. They were still there, saying good night to the last guests."

"Right." Reed jotted something down, his expression unchanged. "And they sent you home early because you were drunk, p.i.s.sing them off, and starting to become noticeably embarra.s.sing."

Jonathan's jaw tightened, but he didn't deny it. "Something like that, yes."

Reed put down his pen, met Jonathan's gaze head-on. "I don't have the official police report yet. So tell me what you know. I don't want any surprises. I know how they were killed. Douglas's neck was snapped and Adrienne was choked and raped. Evidently, there was s.e.m.e.n present. What else should I know?"

A hard swallow. "When I got there, the crime-scene investigators were dusting for fingerprints, looking for clothing fibers, footprints, all that forensics stuff. I wasn't allowed in. When they carried out the body bags, they unzipped them just long enough for me to identify Douglas and Adrienne. Then they took the bodies to the medical examiner's office. The cops said they won't have any more details until autopsies are performed."

"What kinds of questions did the detectives ask you?"

Jonathan took a gulp of water. "When was the last time I saw Douglas and Adrienne alive, did I know of anyone who'd want them dead, and what were my whereabouts between one and six a.m. They asked about the party at Le Cirque, and about the added benefits and responsibilities that would fall in my lap with both Douglas and Adrienne gone."

"To which you said?"

"Nothing coherent. I was in shock. But when they asked if I'd be willing to provide a routine DNA sample, it suddenly clicked in my head that I was a suspect. So I agreed to the DNA test, but said I wanted my attorney present."

"Anything else I should know about the crime scene?"

Grimly, Jonathan nodded. "One of the things I saw them bag was an empty old-fashioned they found on the coffee table. If it's the gla.s.s I think it is, the prints on it will turn out to be mine."

"And why is that?"

"Because I was at the brownstone yesterday prior to the party."

"To visit Douglas?"

"No--Adrienne."

"Adrienne? Why in G.o.d's name would you go see her?"

"She's my father's wife."

"Cut the c.r.a.p, Jonathan. You hated Adrienne's guts. She hated you, too."

"She was handling it."

"Yeah, right. Adrienne didn't just handle anything--except Douglas. He would have acknowledged you and Gordon years ago if it hadn't been for her pressuring him not to. That p.i.s.sed the h.e.l.l out of you."

"Not enough to kill her. And you know how much I respected Douglas. He was my father, for G.o.d's sake. Okay, so he didn't make that public until now. But he still provided for me--a home, a top-notch education, important business contacts. He gave me everything."

"True. But you'll have a whole lot more with him and his wife out of the way."

Jonathan slammed down his gla.s.s. "G.o.ddammit, Reed, I didn't kill them."

Reed pursed his lips. "Okay, let's say for the moment I believe you. We'll bypa.s.s the circ.u.mstantial evidence, the motive, everything. Be aware that the police won't be so generous."

"I'm sure not."

"Let's move on. Let's talk about your state of mind. You're one screwed-up guy these days. And you're a suspect in more than just last night's tragedies."

Jonathan tensed. "You're talking about the situation with Taylor."

"Yes. And we are going to talk about her. Not with emotion or threats, but with facts and truth. I need to know just how irrational you are. It could sway the police."

"You're going to tell them that Taylor thinks I'm stalking her?" Jonathan asked incredulously.

"Of course not. But she was at the party last night. They're bound to question all the guests. And when they get to her ..."

"Jesus Christ." Jonathan dropped his head in his hands. "This is an endless, f.u.c.king nightmare. I'm not only going to be painted as a greedy, violent, homicidal maniac, but a psychotic stalker, too. They might as well shove me in a cell and throw away the key."

"Don't let your mind go down that road," Reed advised, scrutinizing every last detail of Jonathan's reaction. More and more, he was sure the guy was innocent. "I don't want you losing it on me. No matter what, you've got to keep it together. Remember, if you didn't commit last night's crimes, the DNA will prove it. Lots of people hate their families. Some even come into a lot of money when their families die. But very few people snap their father's neck or rape and choke their stepmother just to come into their own." Reed's eyes narrowed. "We have two major unanswered questions to explore before we leave this office. One--why did you go to see Adrienne? And, two--what's your agenda with regard to Taylor?"

"You know my agenda," Jonathan replied, addressing the second question first. "I was very up-front with you about it. I think Taylor's the right woman for me. I plan to win her over."

"You've got a strange way of showing it. That was one weird conversation you had with her last night."

"She told you what I said?" Jonathan blew out his breath. "Of course she did. I must have sounded like a drunken lunatic. Maybe I am a lunatic. G.o.d knows, I have reason to be. That's what I wanted to share with her and what I meant about her not having all the facts. I would have told her there and then, but it wasn't the time or the place. But, yeah, I believe that once she knew everything, it would have made all the difference. Taylor's an emotional healer. She would have understood who I am, and why. And she'd have helped me find the peace I've been searching for."

Reed's forehead creased. "I'm not following."

"How could you?" Jonathan rose again, crossing over to the sideboard. He ignored the water and poured himself a Scotch.

"Easy," Reed cautioned. "You want to be sober when we talk to the police."

"I will be." Jonathan took a healthy swallow. "Believe me, it'll take more than one Scotch to dull my mental faculties. And a h.e.l.l of a lot more to erase my demons."

He turned, his expression stony, almost removed, as he spoke. "You asked why I went to see Adrienne.

I went to let her know that I have some ugly evidence against her--evidence that would have knocked Douglas's socks off if I'd shared it with him."

"So you blackmailed her?"

A shrug. "It depends on what you call blackmail. I told her to stop interfering with my relationship with Douglas and my career at Berkley and Company. That's it. I told her she could have all the money, prestige, and notoriety she wanted. Just so long as she let me do my thing. I would make Douglas an even bigger fortune than he already had. I guess Adrienne knew it, because she didn't fight me on it.

She said that if I did as I promised, she wouldn't throw any obstacles in my path."

Reed leaned forward. "What was this evidence?"

"A tape. Gordon made it years ago. I guess he figured it might come in handy someday."

"Gordon?" That was the last name Reed had expected to hear. "The two of you were in this together?"

Something about Reed's choice of words seemed to strike Jonathan as ironic, because he gave a humorless laugh. "No, Reed. What Gordon was in, he was in by himself. He was just smart enough to include me in the proof, just in case."

"What was on this tape?"

Another bitter smile, and Jonathan downed the rest of his drink. "An argument. One that revealed a facet of our stepmother's perverted, s.a.d.i.s.tic mind."

Reed was starting to put together some very ugly pieces. "You'd better explain."

"I'll make it brief so neither of us pukes. You know that my mother, Belinda Mallory, was a maid at Douglas's estate. That's how they met and how Gordon and I were conceived."

"Yeah, you told me."