Trust Me

would find it – on the Right Touch computer. Everyone, including Tate, knew that Tony was on Desdemona’s computer all the time.
    The correct conclusion was inescapable. At the very least, Tony was Vernon Tate’s mysterious “client.” If one concluded that the killed-in-the-course-of-a-burglary hypothesis was a little too convenient and too much of a coincidence under the circumstances, one could take it a step further. One could make a damned good case for casting Tony in the role of murderer.
    Tony had a solid motive for killing Vernon Tate. Tate was trying to blackmail him. The casting of Tony as the bad guy would also explain why Desdemona had escaped with her life. Shooting his own stepsister had probably been a little too much for Wainwright.
    Tony had probably had a bad case of nerves after the murder, had panicked, and jumped on the first plane out of Seattle. He had covered his tracks by leaving a message on Bess and Augustus’s answering machine.
    “We’re making real progress here, Stark,” Desdemona said. “We’re going to solve this thing.”
    “You think so?”
    “I feel certain of it. See you at dinner tonight. Tell Kyle and Jason that the restaurant does pizza.”
    Stark replaced the phone gently in its cradle. He sat quietly for a moment, contemplating the screen. After a while he rose and walked to the window. He stood looking out over the city and the sweep of Elliott Bay.
    He was a fool to hope that Desdemona would someday come to feel the kind of bone-deep loyalty to him that she felt toward her stepbrother. How did a man even begin to compete with a woman’s childhood hero? Stark wondered.
    There would be no hope at all if he got Tony sent off to prison, Stark thought. Desdemona would never forgive him.
    With a supreme effort of will, Stark forced himself to stay focused on the logic of the situation. This was no time to get dragged down into the chaos of emotion. There was too much at stake. At all costs, he had to make Desdemona see the truth about Tony. If Wainwright had become a killer, he was more than just an annoying screwup, he was genuinely dangerous. A man who had killed once could kill again.
    Stark knew what had to be done, and he told himself that he would do it. But he also knew that Desdemona would not thank him for forcing the truth upon her.
    No one ever thanked the messenger when the news was bad.

    Desdemona finally got her key into the lock on the third attempt. She sighed with relief, pushed open the door, and let herself into the haven of her loft apartment.
    She closed the door quickly, dropped her purse on the nearest table, and hurried across the room. She collapsed into the big red armchair in front of the high windows.
    She was still shaking. She had been struggling to control the tremors ever since she had taken Stark’s call at Exotica Erotica.
    Stark believed that Tony was Vernon’s client. He believed that Tony had killed Vernon.
    True, Stark had not actually made the accusation aloud yet, but Desdemona knew that it was only a matter of time. She had heard it in his voice.
    She had rushed to give him an alternative scenario, but she knew her logic had been flawed. There was great, gaping holes in it, and if she could see them, it was a cinch that Stark had seen them.
    Desdemona took several deep breaths. She splayed her fingers wide across the plump arms of the red leather chair and willed herself to stop trembling. She had to stay calm. She had to think clearly and rationally. This was no time to give in to the natural Wainwright tendency to succumb to emotion.
    She made herself think about the situation clearly. She had to rely on her intuition and her knowledge of her family.
    The first and most important fact was that Tony was not a thief. He could not have been Vernon’s client.
    The second fact that she understood in her bones, even if she could not yet prove it, was that Tony was not a murderer. Desdemona told herself that she was realistic enough to acknowledge that anyone, Tony included, could kill under certain circumstances. But for Tony, or any other Wainwright for that matter, murder would have to be committed in the heat of intense fear or rage or in self-defense. It wasn’t an act that could be cold-bloodedly plotted out beforehand.
    And whatever else one could say about Vernon Tate, he was simply not the kind of man who inspired a great degree of passionate rage, not even if he was trying to blackmail you.
    Her logic was