like this to him. “I assume the old tart offered you some sort of proof,” he said, a trifle angrily.
“She’d hired an investigator, rounded up a bunch of affidavits from people who knew Mom when she was just a teenage waitress. According to them, she was already pregnant by Stover when Dad appeared on the scene.”
“You saw the affidavits?”
Jake nodded. “They seemed genuine.”
“Where are they now?”
“I don’t know. Monica claimed that, after showing them to me, she’d put them in her safe-deposit box.”
The lawyer winced. In all likelihood, the affidavits—genuine or otherwise—would be found by the investigators probing Monica’s death. Her son, Brandon, a self-involved would-be actor and sometime errand boy for his mother, would become their proprietor. Even if he didn’t choose to bandy them about, they’d become part of the public record if Jake was tried as her murderer.
Somehow, Sterling had to keep that from happening. If it did, Kate would be wounded to the quick. And the family would be shaken to its foundations. Setting aside Jake’s bombshell for the moment, he concentrated on another aspect of the problem that was troubling him.
“From the way you describe events unfolding, your fingerprints must be all over Monica’s living room,” he said. “Your DNA, too, in the form of blood drops and fingernail scrapings. But…think carefully…did you touch the letter opener she stabbed you with? It’s likely to have been the murder weapon.”
His expression pained and his brown eyes focused on a point in midair, just past Sterling’s left shoulder, Jake tried to recall the details of the harrowing experience he’d had the night before. “I think so,” he said at last. “I must have, at some point, when I tried to wrest it from her grasp.”
Sterling stifled a groan. Jake was in hot water up to his eyebrows. True, there weren’t any eyewitnesses to testify that he’d done Monica in, because the simple fact was that he hadn’t. But there was more than enough damning physical evidence against him. If the police and the district attorney’s office settled on him, and suspended their efforts to find the real killer, he might end up being convicted of Monica’s murder.
He was going to need a crackerjack criminal attorney—preferably a team of them. As a lifelong practitioner of family and corporate law, Sterling wasn’t qualified to manage his defense. But he’d do his utmost to help. Frowning, he weighed the pros and cons of getting someone else involved at once, and decided against it. Jake would appear at police headquarters as a pillar of the community who had been victimized by Monica and had left her recovering from her excesses—an innocent man willing to tell the authorities all he knew, who had brought his family attorney with him for moral support.
It was time to call the police. Before picking up the phone, Sterling set some parameters for Jake. The Fortune executive was to repeat his story to the authorities exactly as he’d told it to him, without embellishment.
“The blackmail, too?” Jake asked reluctantly. “If it gets out that I’m not Ben’s son, Nate will sue to have me disinherited.”
Sterling was torn over that issue. There was always the hope that the whole ugly story would remain hidden until the real murderer was found. But that possibility was exceedingly slim. Besides, it must be clear from the physical evidence that Monica and Jake had struggled. For that, there had to be a reason. If Jake didn’t offer one, his story wouldn’t hold together.
The attorney wished mightily that he could consult with Jake’s yet-to-be-chosen defense attorney on that crucial issue. But it wasn’t to be. With characteristic firmness, he came to a decision. “You’ll have to tell them about it,” he said. “Your story won’t make sense if you don’t. And it’ll come out anyway. When it does, you’ll be seen as withholding evidence. As for Nate, there’s no way he can pull such a stunt. You’re Kate’s son, whoever your father was. And it was from Kate, not Ben, that you inherited.”
Instead of contacting Detective Rosczak, and working from the bottom up, Sterling went straight to the top. Nels Petersen, the Minneapolis police commissioner, happened to be a personal friend. “I understand your boys want to talk with a client of mine, Jake Fortune, the CEO of Fortune Industries, in connection with the death of Monica Malone,” he said forthrightly when Commissioner Petersen came on the line. “Mr. Fortune admits he visited Miss Malone yesterday evening. Though he had nothing whatever to do with her demise, he realizes the details of his exchange with her might prove helpful…”
Jake fretted visibly as Sterling listened to the police commissioner’s reply. The lawyer didn’t bother to enlighten him. “He’s out of town just now, but he’ll be back by dinnertime,” he said at last. “All right if we meet with you and the detectives who are handling the case at the Government Center around 7:30 p.m.? You’ll be there personally, I trust?”
It was a big favor to ask on a Saturday evening, when Commissioner Petersen doubtless had other plans. Yet the man agreed. Now, thought Sterling, all I have to do is drive Jake back to Minneapolis, see to it that he gets a shower, a shave and a hot meal, and help him firm up his story. At times, he reflected, lawyering was a lot like baby-sitting.
Jake’s encounter with the police that evening at the Hennepin County Government Center went as well as could be expected. With Sterling and Commissioner Petersen present, Detective Rosczak and his partner, Detective Harbing, didn’t try any tricky stuff. Yet they were hard-edged, skeptical, persistent. To Jake it felt as if they went over every point of his story a hundred times. Though both detectives seemed surprised, even taken aback, by his admission that Monica Malone had been blackmailing him, neither of them appeared to believe his version of what had taken place.
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