prosecutors, according to the papers.
There were some who said innocent people were rotting away in prison because of that.
“As a matter of fact,” Blake added, taking the man’s business card, “this is a first.”
“It’s the first time I’ve been in the Ramsden Building, too,” Schuster said, lifting the back of his black-and-white tweed jacket as he set down his soft-sided leather briefcase and sat. “Like everyone else in San Diego, I’ve driven by it countless times.”
Blake nodded. The building was one of the first things he’d done after his return to the States—and the family business—five years before. One thing he’d learned during his four-year sojourn abroad was that image was everything. Show them you’re big and impressive, and you will be. He’d also gained an almost spiritual appreciation for the artistry of the architecture he’d spent five years in college analyzing.
“It’s as interesting inside as it is out. The spirals and columns are fascinating,” the prosecutor added.
“You’ve never been to Barcelona, I take it?”
Schuster’s frown held more question than anything. “No, why?”
“They’re based on the Sagrada Familia, a famous Gaudi church.” He could bore the man with all the other architectural details represented in the new home of Ramsden Enterprises, one of the state’s oldest and most elite custom-home builders—and now its leading commercial builder as well—but he wouldn’t. “Gaudi was an innovator, part of the art nouveau movement. He created fairy tales out of rubbish. And this particular project is one he never finished.”
To his credit, Schuster appeared interested.
Rocking back in his chair, Blake placed his hands on his thighs. After five years, he still wasn’t used to the creased dress slacks he wore.
“You’re a busy man, Schuster. I’m sure you didn’t come here to discuss architecture. Unless you’re in the market for a new one-of-a-kind home?”
“What do you know about the Terracotta Foundation?”
“Only what I’ve read in the papers. It’s a privately owned and administered foundation whose alleged purpose is to raise funds, through investments and donations, and disperse them to third-world countries.”
“How about Semaphor?”
Resisting the urge to adopt a less relaxed position, Blake said, “It’s a nonprofit organization that raises public awareness of charitable foundations.”
“Your father was on the board.”
Blake knew that. The open position had been offered to Blake five years before, when he’d flown home in shock to take up the reins of the family business.
“Is there a problem here?” he asked as he leaned forward, putting his feet firmly on the floor and resting his forearms on the edge of his desk. The glass was cool on the skin left bare by the rolled-up sleeves of his dress shirt.
Schuster shook his graying head. “Not with you, no.” The pockmarks on the man’s face gave a hint of fierceness to his serious expression.
“And not with my father, either.” Of that Blake was certain. Walter Ramsden might have been obsessive, inflexible, and impossible to live with, but he had been as honest as they came. In all his dealings.
“How well do you know Eaton James?”
CEO of Terracotta Industries, which owned the Terracotta Foundation. “Well enough.”
Schuster raised one eyebrow. Blake looked away and stared out the twelfth-floor wall of windows that flanked the west side of his office, giving him a view that—if all civilization were wiped away—would take him straight to the ocean. Having it so close, that vast place of mystery and life, somehow calmed him.
“The man tried to swindle my father.” Blake gave Schuster dates. Times. Quotes from an investment agreement. Accounts. “That’s what I mean by well enough.”
“Are you willing to testify to this?”
Of course. If he had to. The one thing that held steady in his life was his compulsion to tell the truth. To tell it and to live it. But he didn’t relish showing his late father for the fool he’d apparently been in that incident, particularly since it was the only time in the man’s entire life that he’d been led by sentiment rather than logic.
“I have a paper trail outlining a series of investment frauds that, with your validation, could nail James to the wall,” Schuster said. “Without your testimony—the explanation that will tie all the paper evidence together—he could walk.”
“When do you need me in court?”
“YOU SURE LOOK gloomy.”
Leaning her head against the back of the seat, Mary Jane nodded.
“Was it rough, apologizing in front of everyone?”
“Nah.” She hadn’t cared. She was sorry she’d spit on Mrs. Thacker.
“Then what?”
“I just wish I didn’t have to go to any dumb school.”
What she wished was that she could stay home where Mom always knew what she meant, knew that she wouldn’t do bad things on purpose, and didn’t think it was weird that she didn’t know her dad.
She wished she’d never told that to dumb Jeff Turner anyway. But he’d made her really mad when he’d said her dad didn’t want her because her hair was so curly and she said weird stuff.
At least she hadn’t told Jeff that her dad didn’t know her, either—didn’t even know about her.
“School’s not dumb, Mary Jane. You’re a very smart little girl, but if you don’t learn facts and information, that intelligence isn’t going to do you a lot of good.”
“You could teach me at home.”
“Honey, you know I have to work.”
“Well, I can stay home alone and teach myself.”
“Did someone say something mean to you after I left?”
Thank goodness it had been yesterday when Jeff had said her dad didn’t want her. Because she couldn’t lie to her mom, and she didn’t want to tell her what he’d said.
“No.”
What if the thing Jeff said was true? What if her father didn’t want her?
“You sure?” Mom’s face was all soft and kind of smiling when she looked over at Mary Jane.
She nodded. And looked out the window for a while, thinking about her dad. Mom had told her a long time ago who he was. Her mom didn’t keep it a secret, because her grandma had kept secrets from Mom and Aunt Marcie that had turned out to hurt them a lot.
That
