Sleight of Hand - By Phillip Margolin Page 0,5

and I don’t see all that much of each other,” Carrie said, her speech still slurred.

“So the bloom is off the rose?”

“The fucking rose died years ago,” Carrie answered bitterly, her tongue loosened by the drug Benedict had slipped into her drink.

“That’s too bad. I remember reading about your romance and thinking how fairy-tale it was.”

“Yeah, a Grimm’s fairy tale. Very grim. Never marry for money, Charlie.”

“You don’t have to worry about me marrying. I learned my lesson a long time ago. One bad experience with wedlock and several stiff alimony payments taught me a lesson.”

Suddenly Benedict was sitting beside her on the sofa and Carrie couldn’t remember seeing him leave the kitchen. She shook her head to try to jump-start her brain, but it was definitely on the fritz.

Benedict slipped his arm around Carrie’s shoulders. “What do you do for companionship?” he asked.

“Nothing with Horace, if I can help it. We haven’t fucked in ages.”

Benedict’s fingers stroked Carrie’s neck and brushed her earlobe. It felt nice. Then they were kissing and alarm bells went off. Carrie pushed him away with muscles that barely worked.

“I can’t,” she said.

“Horace will never know,” Benedict whispered as he nuzzled her neck.

“You don’t understand. I really can’t.”

Benedict was genuinely puzzled. “Do you mean that you can’t make love?”

Carrie laughed but there was no humor in it. “I ain’t menopausal yet, Charlie. I just can’t fuck you.”

“Why not? Horace may not be able to satisfy you, but that won’t be a problem once we’re in bed.”

Carrie laughed again. “I have no doubt you’re a stud, Charlie. I’ve heard the rumors around the courthouse. But getting laid would cost me millions, and I’m sure you’re not that good.”

“I don’t get it.”

“It’s the prenup. And don’t ask me anything about it because it’s a secret.”

“Don’t worry. A gentleman knows what ‘no’ means,” Benedict said gallantly. “And I think the coffee you so desperately need is ready.”

Benedict walked over to the coffeepot and poured a cup for Carrie. Then, with his back shielding his hands from her, he laced the coffee with Rohypnol, familiarly known as “roofie,” or the date-rape drug. The pharmaceutical was colorless, odorless, and tasteless and it induced drowsiness and impaired motor skills. Best of all, from Benedict’s standpoint, amnesia was a side effect, so his victims never remembered what he’d done to them.

Benedict brought Carrie her cup. Then he smiled when she took her first long taste of the strong brew.

Charles Benedict estimated that Carrie Blair would wake from her drugged sleep around 6:30, so he set his alarm for 5:45. He had brewed a fresh pot of coffee for breakfast and was pouring himself a cup when the door to his bedroom slammed open. Benedict looked up in time to see Carrie stumble on the stairs. Her stocking feet had slipped on the smooth hardwood and she grabbed the banister to keep from falling. As soon as she regained her balance, the prosecutor saw her host looking up at her with a bemused smile.

“What did you do to me?” Carrie demanded, her panic barely under control.

“Relax. Your honor is intact. I was a perfect gentleman.”

Benedict extended the cup he was holding. “Here, have some coffee. I just made it, and I think you can use it.”

Carrie ignored the cup. “What time is it?”

“Six thirty.”

“Oh, God. You mean I’ve been here all night?”

“Yes. You passed out and I put you in my bed. All I removed were your shoes and jacket. Then I slept in my guest room. You know, you’re not the first person to lose an evening to booze, but you might want to see someone if it happens again.”

Carrie ignored Benedict and looked around the condo.

“Where are my things? I’ve got to get home,” she said.

“Are you sure you don’t want breakfast or a shower?” Benedict asked as he walked over to a closet and took out Carrie’s shoes and jacket.

“I can’t believe this happened,” Carrie said, ignoring Benedict’s offer. She pulled on her jacket and slipped into her shoes.

Benedict held out her car key. “If you hurry, you can get home, change, and be in your office at your usual time.”

There was a mirror by the front door. Carrie stared at her image and ran her hand through her hair, trying for some semblance of order. Then she walked outside. Benedict followed her. On the street in front of Benedict’s condo a man in a tracksuit was jogging at a steady clip.

“Be careful driving,” Benedict cautioned. Carrie turned toward him