Show No Fear Read online

  SHOW NO FEAR

  Also by Perri O’Shaughnessy

  Motion to Suppress

  Invasion of Privacy

  Obstruction of Justice

  Breach of Promise

  Acts of Malice

  Move to Strike

  Writ of Execution

  Unfit to Practice

  Presumption of Death

  Unlucky in Law

  Case of Lies

  Keeper of the Keys

  Sinister Shorts

  Pocket Books

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2008 by Pamela O’Shaughnessy and Mary O’Shaughnessy

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  O’Shaughnessy, Perri.

  Show no fear/Perri O’Shaughnessy.

  p. cm.

  1. Reilly, Nina (fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Legal assistants—Fiction.

  3. Single mothers—Fiction. 4. Criminal investigation—Fiction. 5. Carmel

  (Calif.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3565.S542S56 2009

  813’.54—dc22

  2008015155

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-9409-3

  ISBN-10: 1-4165-9409-4

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  Dedicated to Nancy Yost and Maggie Crawford,

  with our deep appreciation

  SHOW NO FEAR

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  Monday, November 26, 1990, 3:45 p.m.

  I NEEDED TO TAKE CONTROL OF A DANGEROUS, TUMBLING SITUATION. She presented the worst threat I have ever experienced.

  I waited for her to return to the run-down little cottage where she lived. Her old car struggled up the hill. While she parked, awkwardly, too far from the curb, I assumed a bland expression, getting out of the big white rental car to approach her. She turned around, arms full of groceries, her strangely impassive face pale.

  “Why are you here?” Her voice sounded interested, although I heard an underlying suspicion.

  I couldn’t answer, naturally. All hell would certainly break loose on this quiet street, so I lied, trying to keep that exterior calm of hers going long enough for me to get her into the car. Ideally, I could somehow convince her to come along with me, but she was too smart, onto me somehow, spooked but not sure.

  She jabbed her key in the lock with her right hand. “I’ll just drop my groceries inside.” And drop them she did. Glass shattered, and some clear liquid pooled on the worn wooden floor. She tried to close the door in my face, but she’s relatively feeble and I’m not. I shoved my way in behind her.

  I showed her the gun. “We’re going for a ride. There are things we need to discuss. No need to get worked up.”

  She eyed the phone, asked to make a phone call. I felt the urge to laugh.

  “I’m a mother,” she said. Her otherwise clear eyes clouded.

  But I knew for a fact nobody needed her at home that afternoon. “Out the door,” I said. “Now.”

  She had guts. She definitely caught me off guard, taking off like a young and nimble runner, dashing for the kitchen. By the time I overcame my surprise at her ability to move so fast and followed her, she held a big butcher knife. “Get out of my house!”

  I could shoot her right then and there, but I had a better plan. If she was going to make things harder for me, I’d make things harder for her. I stepped straight toward her, slapped the knife away with the butt of my gun, slapped her face, not too hard, just letting her know where we stood, and watched her wince at the pain.

  She locked up carefully. We walked down the steps, me following her, gun hidden but present. She climbed into the car without another word.

  We drove in silence past Carmel on Highway 1. I kept one hand on the wheel, the other on my gun. The only sign of her fear was the way her hand gripped the dash as we took the curves. I glanced sideways at her, watching her look out the car window to her right. Carmel Highlands lay behind us now, and she scanned the gray sea off Garrapata Beach.

  “I didn’t think my life could get any worse. Just goes to show.”

  “Keep quiet.”

  “Are you going to shoot me?”

  I didn’t bother to answer.

  “Where are you taking me? At least tell me that.”

  “To a beautiful place.”

  Just then we swung around a sharp curve. Bixby Creek Bridge lay ahead of us. I saw the scenic turnoff on the cliffside where tourists stop and admire the view of the old Depression-era bridge between two cliffs. It’s steep by the turnoff, several hundred feet, a vertiginous drop to a confluence of Bixby Creek and the Pacific Ocean. I pulled over and stopped the car.

  A stiff wind harassed the low brush on the hillside on the other side of the road. The ocean glittered far out and I could see cloud shadows racing down from the north. The hairs on my skin stood up like tiny needles, irritated by the weather. I waited for a good long break in the occasional line of cars.

  “Get out.”

  “No.” She stared straight ahead.

  “Get the fuck out!”

  Slowly, laboriously, she took her seat belt off, adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder, and buttoned her jacket. She emerged too slowly, blinking in the cold breeze. I took her arm and led her the few feet to the edge.

  We both looked out into the radiation from the horizon and down across the solid ocean flecked with whitecaps. She opened her mouth to shout something into the wind.

  A wayward sports car passed, swerving along the curve. I ducked behind the car so that anyone in that car would see only one person. She had no chance against me. She stoo
d about three feet in front of me, right at the edge. I found her back insulting. She had no right to hide the mortal fear she must be feeling.

  I rushed at her, hitting her with my shoulder like a linebacker, with a whump, hard. She toppled away while I caught myself, fell to my knees.

  She disappeared.

  Her last shriek, animalistic, harsh, and loud, startled me. But she had time only for that one final sound, heard only by the two of us, muffled by the sound of distant surf. I jumped back into the car and turned around and headed north again. A semi roared south as I rounded a turn and I almost sideswiped him in my excitement. For the rest of the way, I made an effort to drive extremely carefully, hugging the mountain side of the road.

  Yes, first, this fast breathing, this feeling that I had been very close to the edge myself.

  Then—I don’t know. Some glee. Ruefulness. Regret, I guess.

  And finally—relief. The worst was over.

  CHAPTER 1

  September 20, 1990

  THE LAW OFFICES OF POHLMANN, MCINTYRE, SORENSEN AND Frost surrounded a courtyard in a low, white-painted adobe building in the town of Carmel-by-the-Sea, California. Lush flower bushes, pines, and succulents bedecked the hilly front yard where steps led to the main door. In the bright sun of mid-September the building looked overexposed, bleached like the sand on the beach at the foot of Ocean Avenue. Now, at ten in the morning, streams of Lexuses and Infinitis already cruised this side street, hungry for parking spaces.

  Nina Reilly grabbed a pile of mail on the receptionist’s desk. She had worked as a paralegal at the law firm for the past year, having snagged this coveted job simply by submitting a résumé. Her mother called it Irish luck, but Nina suspected it had more to do with another Irish character trait. Her father, Harlan, knew Klaus Pohlmann because he hobnobbed with everyone, but he would never confess to having pulled strings with Klaus.

  Nearing eighty, Klaus was a legend in the community, the most daring and successful lefty lawyer south of San Francisco. He only hired the best, and that included Jack McIntyre, Nina’s latest crush. Jack was over at the Monterey County Superior Court at a settlement conference.

  Nina called out to the receptionist, “Back in an hour, Astrid. I promise.”

  Hurrying down the walk, she caught her sandal on the edge of the stone steps and stopped herself from falling by dropping the mail and raising her arms for balance. She dusted the letters as she picked them up, then tossed them through the car window to the seat, counting to keep track in case one fell between the seat and gearshift.

  Could mean the difference between a future and no future at all, getting every one of those envelopes to the post office. If she was going to be sloppy about details, she might as well slit her throat today and skip the stomachaches and nights of worry altogether, because in the legal profession, as in medicine and architecture, a minor oversight could be lethal.

  Nina had finished college a few years before with a degree in psychology, studying film, art, and people in the luxurious fashion of a girl-child awaiting her prince. She wished now that she’d had better guidance from the adults in her life, who should have known—what? The future, what real life held for a single mother in her late twenties entering a slow economy? Her psych degree had not even prepared her for service positions in the restaurant business.

  But she was making up for that now, between law classes, paralegal work, and Bob, not in that order. Fog murked its way in front of her. She scrutinized the hazy road for patrol cars, then executed a swooping, illegal U-turn, arriving at the post office in downtown Pacific Grove, heart pounding. She shoved the letters into the metered-mail slot.

  Relieved to be rid of her latest emergency, she fired up the MG along with the radio. Moving out into the street, she narrowly missed a waiting Acura. She swung onto Pine Avenue, drifting toward the middle line as she rummaged in her bag for the address for Dr. Lindberg. She located his card, swerved to avoid a jaywalking tourist family, and turned left onto Highway 1. The pines loomed on either side as the fog drizzled over the Pebble Beach road. She drove swiftly the few blocks to her mother’s cottage, parking in front of the huge Norfolk pine in the front yard.

  Honking, she reminded herself about the miserable people she saw every day at work, injured on the job, alone and poor. She conjured these images to steel herself for the sight of her mother carefully locking up, pausing every few steps, looking down as if she weren’t sure where the sidewalk was. Her mother had ordered her not to come to the door. She didn’t like being reminded of the changes in her health.

  In the one minute she had to herself Nina leaned back and closed her eyes. Breathe deep. In. Out.

  Let’s see, Wills and Estates tonight. Professor Cerruti made it her favorite class, but she also liked what lawyers called the “settled” law of that ancient and noble subject. Unlike environmental law, for instance, which fluxed through revolutions every time a new president came in, with Wills one could learn rules that had stuck for centuries. How nice if she could apply a few firm rules to the tatty loose ends of her own life.

  I’ll read the cases while I eat dinner, she decided. So much for school. As for work, she had all afternoon to obsess about how much she was falling behind there. Deal with it when she got back to the office.

  As for friends, ha ha, they must think she had moved to Tajikistan, for all they ever heard from her; a boyfriend was not an option, she didn’t have time, though she had fallen into some casual overnighters a while back that had left her feeling worse than lonely. But she did feel warm whenever McIntyre came into her office. Her mind began bathing in a certain bubble bath—but right now here came her mother, struggling down the concrete walk.

  Today, the skin on her mother’s face looked tighter than usual. Nina opened the passenger-side door from the inside. Ginny paused to remove her right glove, uncovering a hand scrimshawed in pale blue lines. She leaned in and touched her daughter’s hand. “Honey, why not let me take a cab? You’re a busy woman.”

  “God, Mom. You’re like ice.”

  Nina’s mother had changed so much. Always a handsome woman with sparkling eyes and a daunting energy, she had gradually seemed to lose all color and character. Her skin stretched as tight as a stocking mask over her cheekbones, even pulling her lips back as if they were shrinking. Her once mobile face now looked somehow both flat and puffy, due to both the illness and the steroids used to treat it. Still she tried to smile.

  “You always look so cheerful,” Nina said, giving her a brief hug after she had maneuvered into the low-slung car. “How do you do it?”

  “The right attitude makes me feel stronger. You know how much you hate it when people condescend to you, ‘Oh, poor Nina, raising a boy on her own, working so hard’?”

  “Oh, come on. I don’t pity you.”

  “Sure you do. Anyone with half a brain would.” Ginny patted her shoulder. “Let’s just admire how delightful the leaves are at this time of year, okay?”

  Maybe it had been better, those days of not knowing what was wrong, because of the hope they’d had then. Did her mother still hope?

  Nina drove quickly to Dr. Lindberg’s Monterey office on Cass Street. Would she have time later to run by the school library for that book on reserve? She had a mock trial coming up in a week in her Advanced Civil Procedure class and a paper due for Gas and Oil Law that demanded lengthy research. If she hurried, she could pick up Bob at nursery school, drop him with the babysitter at home, stop by the library, and be back at the office by two. Would Remy notice she had been gone longer than her lunch break allowed?

  Gritting her teeth, she thought, Remy would notice.

  She parked at a meter and ran around to the side of the car. “Need help, Mom? Those stairs are pretty steep. Let me help you up them at least.”

  Her mother let her help her out of the car, then shook her off. “I rise to all occasions. That will never change. Please don’t fuss so much, Nina.”

  “If Matt doesn’t
show up to pick you up, promise me you’ll leave a message for me with Astrid. I’ll come get you.”

  “You’re a worrywart.”

  Her mother trusted Nina’s brother, Matt. Nina hoped she would call if Matt didn’t show up. Again.

  A few blocks north of Dr. Lindberg’s office, Bob attended a preschool chosen after Nina had looked at a dozen of them and settled on this one as the least of all evils. The playroom walls were covered with outsider art Picasso would have envied, committed by three-and four-year-olds who were never given fill-in-the-blanks coloring books. Children were making collages at each table, and she spotted Bob, dark hair fallen over his round, delicious cheeks, smearing a magazine tearout onto gluey paper à la André Breton or Max Ernst.

  Seeing her, he called out, “Mom, look!” Resisting an impulse to check her watch, she pulled up a tiny preschooler plastic chair and sat next to him, nodding at the collage.

  “Finish up, honey, we have to go.” Thank God he loved the place and was reluctant to leave. “What’s this?” she asked, pointing at a tray of wooden puzzle pieces alongside the collage.

  “My job.” He reached over and with startling dexterity stuck the pieces into their slots to complete a duck puzzle.

  “Oh. A duck! Cool!”

  “But now watch this.” He dumped the pieces onto the table, then stuck them across the middle in a snaggletooth row. “My keyboard,” he said with a grin. “Like at home.”

  “But this one you can’t play.”

  “Huh?” He ran his fingers up and down the wood pieces, humming. He was playing a sea chantey CD at home these days. “‘Way haul away, we’ll haul away home—’”

  “But you ruined your puzzle.”

  “We can go now.”

  Taking her son’s backpack and his hand, Nina ushered him to the door. Bob currently loved the cheap battery-operated keyboard she had found at a discount store. He didn’t want to learn real songs yet, just loved making noise, but sometimes she caught him fingering the same notes over and over with a thoughtful expression on his face. She would have to find a way to pay for piano lessons when he was older. Never squelch potential talent, Ginny always said.