Читать книгу In Hot Water - Mary Baxter Lynn - Страница 9

Keefe Ryan looked like what he was—a socially inept attorney. He was short, bald, wore black-rimmed glasses and there was nothing attractive about him or his personality. Maci had always considered him to be the most boring man she’d ever met.

Yet when he walked into the police station, she had never been so glad to see anyone. She would never think ill of Keefe again.

In the process of being led out of the house by the two officers, Seymour had barked an order for her to call his attorney. She had waited until she was on her way to the station to do so. By then her mind had cleared somewhat, and she could punch in Keefe’s number on her cell phone.

He appeared now as composed as ever, dressed as impeccably as ever, though she knew he wasn’t. Maci had observed a little tick in Keefe’s right cheek when he was under stress and that tick was present as he made his way toward her.

Maci had been told to take a seat in the outer lobby and that the chief would be with her shortly. So far, shortly had not come, giving her plenty of time to observe the police station. This afternoon there was a lot of activity. Phones rang while officers and other personnel scurried about. Although she had received several curious glances, no one had bothered to speak to her or ask if she wanted or needed anything.

She couldn’t believe she was here. The horrendous circumstances made the situation even more demoralizing.

When the press learned of this…

“Maci, what the hell is going on?”

She turned her attention back to Keefe. She had never heard him say anything that resembled a curse word. But then she’d never seen him this flustered. His features were pinched and he was out of breath.

Despite the fact that Seymour could be overbearing at times, he and Keefe seemed to have a genuine friendship. While Keefe handled mostly taxes, he had at one time practiced some family and criminal law. So he wasn’t completely out of the loop when it came to helping Seymour. Maci never doubted Keefe had Seymour’s best interest at heart. If he wasn’t the one for the job, he would find someone who was.

“Seymour’s been arrested,” Maci said, hearing the tremor in her voice. She hadn’t bothered to tell Keefe what was going on beforehand. She had simply told him that Seymour needed him and to meet them at the police station. She’d hung up with Keefe still asking questions.

Keefe’s face now drained of its remaining color. “That’s preposterous.”

“It’s a fact,” she countered flatly.

“Are you all right, my dear?” Keefe cleared his throat, then peered down at her, concern mirrored in his eyes. “Of course, you’re not. Forget I asked that.”

“I’m fine,” she said, which was a lie. She was anything but fine. She was sick all over. She clutched at her stomach.

Homicide?

Her wealthy, charismatic husband accused of such an abominable deed was not possible. Only it was possible, or she wouldn’t be sitting in an obscure corner of this godforsaken place.

“You just stay put while I get this mattered straightened out,” Keefe said without further ado. “Then we’ll all be on our way home.”

“Thanks, Keefe,” Maci said, fighting back tears. How could this be happening to her well-ordered world?

Hopefully Keefe could indeed make this nightmare go away.

Moments later Keefe returned, his face as grim as hers. Her heart faltered. Perhaps gaining her husband’s immediate release wasn’t going to be as easy as Keefe had thought.

“The chief wants to see us both.”

Maci stood on unsteady legs, yet when she walked into the rather austere room, she held her head high and her shoulders back. She intended to conduct herself with dignity, and she expected the same from the tall, thin-faced man who was looking at her through narrowed eyes.

Chief Ted Satterwhite introduced himself, then beckoned for both of them to sit in the leather chairs in front of his desk. “Can I get you something to drink?” he asked in a deep, hoarse voice indicative of bad sinus drainage.

Both Maci and Keefe politely declined, then Maci asked, “Where is my husband?”

Satterwhite pulled out a big handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped it across his nose before answering, “Waiting to be questioned by the detectives. He’s been read his rights, and has requested that his lawyer be present.”

“Is that necessary?” Maci asked, thankful he didn’t outright blow his nose. She tried to keep her disgust from showing.

“That’s procedure, ma’am.” He pushed back from his desk and crossed a leg over his knee. “That’s how we do things in this department. By the book.”

“I’d like him to go before the judge this afternoon,” Keefe said in a huffy tone as though he resented being talked down to.

“All in good time, Mr. Ryan.”

“Chief—”

“The judge will hear the doctor’s case in the morning.”

“That’s unacceptable,” Keefe declared with a flare of his hand.

Maci groaned, especially when she saw the chief’s features tighten.

“Acceptable or not, that’s the way it is.” Satterwhite’s tone had gone from cool to cold.

His face suffused with unnatural color, Keefe opened his mouth as if to argue, but ultimately ground his jaws together. Maci felt him look at her.

Ignoring Keefe, she faced the chief. “May I please see my husband?”

Satterwhite took his time unfurling his gangly frame to full height. Bastard, Maci thought. He was in his element, lording his control over them. Maci fought the urge to lash out at him, to ask him if he knew who he was toying with.

After all, everyone knew the Ramsey name carried weight in this town. While that hadn’t always been the case, it was now. Her husband was no longer thought of as the downtrodden boy who had defied the odds and made good, but rather as a renowned surgeon. He’d built a stellar reputation in the medical community throughout the entire state of Louisiana. And here in his hometown of Dayton he’d used his wealth and power to the greater good.

Seymour wouldn’t tolerate this method of treatment. But that was before he’d been accused of causing his patient’s death, Maci reminded herself. A negligent homicide charge could relegate him to the bottom of the scum barrel in a heartbeat.

“That can be arranged,” Satterwhite said at last, coming from behind his desk. “Follow me.”

When they walked into the room where Seymour was held, Detective Johnson acknowledged their presence, then left. The chief followed shortly, leaving Maci and Keefe alone with Seymour.

For a moment, a thick, heavy silence prevailed.

“Are you all right?” Maci asked in an unsteady voice.

“I will be, when I get the hell out of here.” Seymour’s eyes darted to Keefe. “I’m assuming you can do that.”

Keefe blew out a long breath. “I can’t until morning.”

Seymour swore.

“Keefe’s doing all he can, Seymour,” Maci pointed out in a calm, soothing tone, hoping to defuse the volatile situation.

“Then it’s not good enough,” Seymour shot back.

Another awkward silence fell over the room. Maci bit down on her lower lip and looked at Seymour. He appeared tired and drawn, yet restless and hyper. Control was what fed him, what made him the man he was, and now that he wasn’t in control, Maci knew he’d be jittery.

Or was he simply acting like a common street junkie who was in the throes of coming off a drug high?

Maci’s stomach hated the path her mind had taken, but she couldn’t avoid the hard cold facts, not when they were being rubbed in her face.

Her husband was a drug addict, and according to the law he was accused of homicide.

“Satterwhite is not someone we…you want to tangle with right now,” Keefe said. “You have to know that.”

“I refuse to stay in this stinking hole overnight.”

Maci crossed to her husband and touched him on the arm. “Don’t do this to yourself. Spending one night—”

He shook off her hand. “I’m not some common criminal, and I resent the hell out of being treated like one.”

“They are accusing you of homicide, Seymour,” Keefe said in a low, even tone. “What do you have to say about that?”

“Dodson’s death was not my fault.”

Maci eyes widened.

Seymour’s smile was humorless. “See, my own wife doesn’t believe me.”

“That’s not true,” Maci snapped, feeling her face flush. “If you tell me you’re not responsible—” Her voice faltered, and she cleared her throat.

Seymour stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he focused on Keefe. “What are the exact charges against me?”

“I haven’t had time to read the report,” the attorney responded. “I only know what Maci told me.”

Seymour hit the palm of his hand on the tabletop. “Go talk to that prick Satterwhite then read the report. I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him. That redneck’s got it in for me, and he doesn’t care who knows it.”

“I sensed the same thing, Keefe,” Maci said, easing down into a straight-backed chair at the table.

“I’ll be right back.” Keefe’s tone was clipped.

Once he had left the room, Maci stared at her husband, noticing the strain weighing heavily on him. “I’m so sorry about this.” Her thoughts jumped to Jonah and she ached to hold him tightly right now.

“Tell me you believe me.”

“I want to, Seymour,” she said, feeling her eyes mist with tears, “but remember I’ve seen you high and it’s not a pretty sight.”

“Okay, so I was using when I operated on Grant, but I had full control of my faculties, for god’s sake. I would never do anything that asinine. You have to know that.”

“I do, but—”

Keefe interrupted her when he reentered the room.

“The charges stand as Maci described them,” Keefe said, tossing the folder down on the table, then sitting down. His gaze settled on Seymour. “Suppose you sit down and tell me your side.”

Seymour didn’t sit. He just began talking. “There’s really no side. The man bled to death through no fault of mine.”

“So you’re taking no blame at all?” Keefe’s tone was incredulous.

Seymour’s hard gaze didn’t waver. “None whatsoever.”

“Are you denying you were on drugs at the time?”

“No. Like I was telling Maci, I admit I had taken some pills, but I knew exactly what I was doing with that knife.”

“Passing out and slurring your words in front of the family doesn’t support that, Seymour,” Keefe said with low-key honesty, “especially since they know exactly the level of drugs ingested.”

“I agree with Keefe,” Maci said, her gaze also un-flinching on her husband, watching closely for some glimmer of remorse or something that would indicate he was the least bit sorry.

Nothing.

She flinched. When had Seymour become so calloused to the loss of human life? Had she been so caught up in her own life and that of Jonah that she’d failed to notice yet another dark side of her husband?

Maci couldn’t believe this was the same man she had married, who seemed to adore both her and Jonah, who lavished them with time and attention. Something was terribly wrong somewhere.

“How long have you had this nasty little habit?” Keefe asked.

“Since I had the accident that tore up my back.”

Maci sucked in her breath. That accident, which had been a car wreck, had happened several years before she married him. Surely, he’d hadn’t been addicted for that long.

“You mean you were hooked before you married me?” Maci barely choked the nasty words out of her mouth.

“Hooked is hardly the right word, my dear,” Seymour said with disdain. “Was I using drugs to help my back? Yes, and I still am. But I’m in control of the situation, not the other way around.”

Maci didn’t know how to respond, so she didn’t say anything. She felt like she’d been hit in the stomach with a brick. Apparently so did Keefe as his face seemed to have taken on a greenish tint.

“Make no mistake, Keefe,” Seymour said with conviction, “I’m not going down for this.”

“If that’s the case, then I’m certainly not your man. I suggest you find the best criminal attorney possible and hire him.”

“I agree.”

Keefe’s gaze didn’t waver. “Do you have someone in mind?”

“Yep.”

“Tell me who to call,” Keefe responded, “and it’s a done deal.”

“My oldest son.”

Maci stared at Seymour in shocked silence.

“Holt?” Keefe asked, clearly taken aback.

“That’s right,” Seymour said. “You told me I needed the best, and he’s the best.”

“But, Seymour, that doesn’t make any sense,” Maci pointed out, her mind reeling. “You haven’t seen your son in years.”

And she had never seen him. Not before she married Seymour or after. In fact, it was hard to remember that Jonah wasn’t Seymour’s only child. She had no idea what Holt Ramsey looked like. No pictures of him appeared anywhere in the house.

She knew very little about what had caused the estrangement between father and elder son, but she suspected a lot. Seymour had refused to discuss the issue with her, which she could understand. Suicide was a tragic and touchy subject.

What she did know was that Holt was a single attorney who rarely practiced his profession, choosing rather to spend his time on his sailboat. She had gleaned this information from the housekeeper who had been in the family when Seymour was married to his first wife. Annie had also told her that Holt blamed his father for his mother’s suicide. Since the housekeeper doted on the elder son, she still bemoaned the breach between her favorite men.

“Maci’s got a point,” Keefe said in a strained voice. “With all the bad blood between you and Holt, what makes you think he’ll help you out now?”

“He’ll come, all right.” A strange glint appeared in Seymour’s eyes. “If nothing else, he’ll use it as an opportunity to exact his pound of flesh.”