by Norah Wilson
Chapter 7
The next day was a busy one for Suzannah.
She’d woken at six to a persistent pawing of her leg through the blankets. Bandy. He obviously needed food or water, or maybe to take a whiz. While she was debating what to do, John had stuck his head in the door. At the sight of his leash, her devoted companion of the previous night leapt off the bed and trotted after his master.
In John’s absence, she hurried to the bathroom, completing her toilette before he returned with a much happier looking Bandy. She’d taken the risk of putting coffee on herself—did he like it industrial strength or merely strong?—and they danced around each other in the kitchen. John fed the dog; Suzannah edged past him in the narrow kitchen to get to her wheat toast, which had popped. Around and around they circled, the awareness between them as palpable as a third person. Eventually, he’d driven her to work, leaving her with firm instructions not to go home alone. If she needed to go back to the house before end-of-shift, he’d arrange to be there.
She’d since called her insurance company, arranged a substitute car, and attended court to make an election for one of her clients. She closed two real estate transactions (as her partner Vince so often said, you gotta make up that Legal Aid and pro bono stuff somewhere), and called her mother, who’d asked if she were still seeing that sartorially-challenged policeman.
Now, after capping her day with the news that the Crown intended to appeal a recent acquittal she’d earned for a client, she was more than ready to go home.
On that thought, Vince stuck his head into her office. “Quigg’s here. Says you’re traveling together tonight.”
Quigg? Quigg? Since when had her partner and John Quigley become nickname pals? “Thanks.”
“No problem. Oh, and here.” He stepped forward and dropped several files on her desk.
“What’s this?”
“DeBoeuf needs to reorganize, incorporate another limited company or two, shuffle some stuff around. I need you to read these files so we can put our heads together over the best course of action.”
Gilles DeBoeuf. A charming rogue, and easily the firm’s biggest client. Vince had remodeled his kitchen on the last fee he’d collected from the handsome Frenchman for securing a corridor authority for his small trucking company. She picked up the files. “What’s our time line?”
Vince grimaced. “Yesterday.”
“Yikes.” She thumbed through the files. Four of them. “Mind if I take these home? I’m gonna have to burn the midnight oil on these, and Quigg,”—she let the name rest there for an extra beat—“hates to see me work alone here after dark.”
“Can’t say I blame him under the circumstances. Which reminds me, why didn’t you tell me what was going on? I mean, I can’t believe you didn’t say anything.”
“Hey, old man, you’ve got enough to worry about, what with the twins coming and Marly having such a hard time of it.”
Vince, whose forty two year old wife was into the twentieth week of a tricky pregnancy, went for the bait beautifully, launching into a description of Marly’s latest tests. Suzannah half expected him to produce a wallet sized version of the ultrasound images. She was stuffing the files into her briefcase by the time he wound down.
“So,” he said, gesturing to her briefcase, “you okay with this? I know Gilles isn’t your favorite guy.”
“He’s an amoral pig.”
Vince blanched and she laughed.
“Relax, Vince. It doesn’t matter what I think of Gilles DeBoeuf. You’re the one who has to deal with him, not me. I just do the grunt work behind the scenes.”
“That’s my girl.” There was no disguising the relief in his voice. “Now, go put your detective out of his misery.”
“Misery?”
“I believe Candace was quizzing him about the size of his weapon when I left them.”
