I popped a squat before the bottom row of supplies, reading the laminated labels aloud. “Padded envelopes, paper clips (organized by their size alphabetically rather than physically), pencils, ahh—pens, comma black.”
I selected a box and shuffled the others forward to fill in the gap. I had no doubt Judy would eventually notice the theft, anal-retentive supply nazi that she was, but there was no need to make it obvious.
I was just about to flick off the light when I heard a sniffle.
This was the part of the horror movie where Judy popped out from behind something, a letter opener clutched in a bony fist overhead. No, not a letter opener. Scissors. The s’s were on her side of the bookcase.
“Hello?”
Another sniffle.
A peek around the corner revealed not Judy, but Kristin Flickner, sitting on the floor with her back against the wall and her knees pulled into her chest. She looked a little like the “before” person in NyQuil ads. Red-rimmed, puffy eyes. Pink around her delicate seed-shaped nostrils. Her skin pale beneath her golden freckles.
“Hey,” I said. “Are you okay?”
“I’m a partner at Denver’s most prestigious law firm, and I’m crying in a goddamn closet. I am the reason patriarchal stereotypes of women in the workplace exist.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. I’m sure lots of people are overcome by the sight of well-alphabetized office supplies.”
My heart leaped like a trout when her mouth tugged to one side. Shared DNA had made Kristin and Valentine both smirkers.
“A client of mine died last night.”
Here’s the thing about misanthropes. Just because we usually choose not to engage in social contracts with other humans doesn’t mean we’re incapable of recognizing the signs when one is being offered.
With this one sentence, Kristin had extended me an invitation.
She wanted to talk.
Self-interest snuffled ahead like an eager beagle. It just so happened that there were lots of things I wanted Kristin to talk about.
“I’m so sorry to hear that. How long had you been working together?”
“Two years. We were getting so close. So close to bringing the case to trial.” The red of tear-swollen capillaries in the whites of her eyes turned her irises a ridiculous shade of green. Fire burned behind them.
“What kind of case was it?”
“Medical malpractice. She fought so bravely.” Her mouth turned downward.
“May I ask what she died of?”
Kristin’s pretty face crumpled as fresh tears polished her eyes. “That’s the insane part. She was . . . burned.”
Goose bumps rose on my arms and prickled my scalp.
“You’re not talking about Carla Malfi?”
“You know her?” Surprise replaced the animal misery on her face.
“I only met her yesterday. She came in to talk with Sam about a matter relating to Archard Valentine’s divorce case.”
“Oh.” A small bitter chuckle. “That.” Kristin didn’t offer up any information about their familial relation, and I didn’t ask. I wouldn’t necessarily go around advertising that Valentine was my brother either.
“She didn’t mention that she was involved in another case at the firm.”
“No,” Kristin said, a small sad smile softening her features. “She wouldn’t. She was part of an indeterminate plaintiff group in a medical malpractice suit I’ve been working on for two years. Privacy is a key factor for many clients in this case. Not that it matters for Carla now.” She pulled a fresh flounce of tissue out of the open box on the T shelf and dabbed her eyes with it.
My mind chewed on this new information.
Valentine was having an affair with his therapist, who also happened to be part of a medical lawsuit his half sister was prosecuting. My mother had known about the affair. Had she known about the lawsuit as well?
“Does this have anything to do with the medical malpractice case Sam was working on?” I asked. “He mentioned something about one of his cases getting reassigned to you this morning.”
Kristin’s gusty sigh displaced the wisps of copper hair from the sides of her face. “I believe Sam has my mentee, Melanie Beidermeyer, to thank for that.”
The casual mention of her name had all the organs south of my belly button trying to crawl up into my chest cavity. “Oh?”
“I guess she got wind of the case and somehow managed to convince Gary Dawes it would be especially beneficial if the case were reassigned to me. Well, to us.”
“Sounds like she’s very . . . determined.”
“That’s a nice word for it.” From the sly way Kristin looked at me from beneath her feathery lashes, I got the feeling that we both suspected Melanie of blowing Dawes’s baloney pony.
I heard the supply closet door open, followed by the unmistakable tracheal whistle of Judy’s mouth breathing. “Who’s in here?”
I didn’t entirely succeed in keeping the look of panic from my face.
“I am.” Kristin got to her feet, casting off her vulnerability like a cloak. She snatched the pens from my hand as she passed, holding them up for Judy to see. “I needed these for a jury panel this afternoon.”
Judy was in fine form today, dressed in coordinated pantsuit separates of eye-frying electric blue. She looked me over with the delight one might reserve for cold piles of cat vomit. “And why are you in here?”
“I asked Jane to show me which kind of folders Sam had been using for the Koontz case files, since it was reassigned to me this morning,” Kristin said. “She was kind enough to oblige.”
If I had been a hunting dog, my ears would have pricked to attention. Koontz case files? Surely not Dean David Koontz. There had to be some sort of law of the universe that limited how many times someone whose junk you’d accidentally grabbed could wander back into your sphere of influence. Didn’t there?
Kristin slipped me the pens as soon as we were out in the hall.
I sent her a grateful look and brought them to Sam, who was waiting by his office door with his laptop bag in hand.
“Question,” I said.
“Certainly.”
“The medical malpractice case that was reassigned to Kristin Flickner this morning. Who’s the plaintiff?”
“Actually, it’s someone I believe you might know. David Koontz and his late wife.”
Chapter Twenty
Shepard was going to kill me.
And I don’t mean that in a metaphorical way.
The next time I saw him, he would most likely wrap his hands around my throat and squeeze until my eyes bugged out and my tongue turned purple.
I really hoped I wouldn’t soil myself when the time came. Somehow, this always felt like the least dignified part about dying to me. Good thing I hadn’t eaten much of the dinner I’d cooked that night. Not because it tasted like burned-ass muffins, which it likely did because grilled cheese was about the only thing I could make successfully, but because I hadn’t really cooked the dinner for me in the first place.
No, the unfortunate target of my gustatory machinations was Babysitter #3—whom I’d christened Dave after he refused to tell me his name but objected to my suggested call sign, Gunsablazin’. He’d been assigned the unenviable task of keeping me installed in the safe house for the evening when Shepard had taken the night off, citing urgent business that needed attending to.
I understood exactly what this meant, of course, because I had some urgent business of my own and a guy dubbed Dave standing in the way of my being able to attend to it.
The wheels had been set in motion much earlier that day when I’d received a phone call from Paul informing me that the cause of Carla Malfi’s death had been liver failure, and Sam Shook conversationally informed me that this had also been to blame in the death of Dean David Koontz’s late wife. This revelation had been the straw that broke the burro’s back.
I had to talk to Valentine.
If we’re looking at evidence to s
upport the conclusion that I tried to do things the “right” way first, I would like to point out that I texted Shepard no less than three separate times to make him aware of my discoveries, as well as to suggest, then request, then insist that he arrange a meeting with Valentine.
And Shepard said?
Yep, you guessed it. No. No. And no.
I believe my issues with this word have been well established by this point.
So it was with much provocation that I resorted to plan B. Which is what would most likely result in my untimely (at least to me) death.
But before I shuffle off this mortal coil, dig, if you will, the genius of this plan.
Picture it: Evening. The apartment filled with the scents of cooking. Spotify playing some hipster dinner party music mix. Me, barefoot in the kitchen, fetchingly attired in cutoff shorts and tank top, hair in the kind of domestically disheveled bun you earned by slaving over a hot cooking implement. Dave staring at a laptop split screen of surveillance camera feeds, back straighter than a honeymoon dick, about 10 percent of his actual ass on the loveseat. I was beginning to suspect that, despite their multitude of “other” qualifications, not a single one of Shepard’s men knew how a couch worked.
I did a quick scan and located his phone, sitting faceup on the coffee table.
Good.
“Dinner’s ready!” I called from the kitchen doorway.
Dave looked at the pan clutched in my oven-mitted hand like it might contain a pipe bomb instead of warm rolls. Actual rolls with motherfucking yeast.
Estate attorney’s note: if I do die, I want this on my headstone.
“My dinner break is at twenty-two hundred hours.”
“I’m sorry. But, whatever it is you guys eat from those pouches can’t be considered dinner. I’m not even sure it can be classified as actual food.”
“MREs are a safe and sustainable nutrition source.”
“Ahh. Safe.” I glanced at the table where a large bowl of mushroom and sausage risotto whispered parmesan-scented steam into the air. “It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Not that I hadn’t thought about it, but slipping someone a Mickey isn’t easy. I don’t care what the stalkers say.
“See?” I spooned up a goodly chunk of rice, marveling at the glorious parmesan threads stretching from the bowl like the strings of some heavenly harp. I managed to keep the expression on my face largely delighted even when the uncooked center of the kernels went chalky between my insulted molars.
No matter.
Dave wouldn’t actually be eating it anyway.
“Negative.” His mouth hardened into a resolute line. “I have my orders.”
“But I made it especially for you.”
I’d been worried about this part. I’d never been good at fake crying despite my mother’s many attempts at teaching me the finer points. Her suggestion for summoning tears? Think about your favorite pet dying. Trouble was, we’d never had any pets. So instead, I thought about having spent an entire hour of my life spooning ladlefuls of chicken stock into a pot of stubby rice only to have it turn out like parmesan-flavored chalk. I’d actually tried for once.
My face fell. My lower lip began to wobble tremulously. My throat contracted over a single, sucking sob.
Through the scrim of my tears, I saw a look of abject terror begin to take over Dave’s face.
“Oh, no,” he said. “No, no, no. Don’t do that.”
But it was too late. Every lady knows the chin wobble is the official floodgate opener.
The rolls slid from my outstretched tray and hit the floor more like bricks than baked goods. Estate attorney: on second thought, scratch the yeast epitaph. My shoulders began to shake as I brought the oven mitts up to cover my eyes. Given the gale-like force of my wailing, I was almost surprised that tears didn’t squirt sideways from behind them. I commenced with that awful double-pump inhale common to romantic comedy heroines and slapped orphans.
“But, but, I had the groceries delivered special and—” Half of the words made it out, the other half were swept down my throat.
“Okay, okay. I’ll eat with you. Jesus Christ. Just please stop doing that.” Gunsablazin’ Dave had risen from the couch and was standing next to me, trying to figure out where to put his hand. It landed on my shoulder, staying long enough for a couple of pats before staggering across my back like a drunken parrot and seeking refuge in the pocket of his fatigue pants. It was pleasing on some level to encounter another human as bad at this consolation shit as I was.
My crying snapped off almost as quickly as it had started. “Great! Will you grab the salad? It’s in the fridge.”
Instead of setting the silverware out, I followed him into the kitchen, feeling a distinctive stab of fondness for the gait common to Shepard and the men he employed. A strut I could only describe as “which piece of furniture should I break tonight?”
I was still smiling when the handcuffs clicked closed over Dave’s wrist and the refrigerator door handle simultaneously.
This may be a good time to point out that I use the term handcuffs loosely.
Dave stared down at them in horror.
I saw what he saw. Felt what he must be feeling, albeit with a lower level of distress. Misanthropy isn’t synonymous with a complete lack of empathy, after all.
The handcuffs were pink. Furry and pink. Furry and pink and, unfortunately for Dave, completely functional. And it was for this reason I was pretty certain Shepard would likely crush my windpipe like a cardboard flute.
“Yeah, I’m really sorry about those,” I said, making sure to stay well out of arm’s reach. “They were the best Rhonda could do on short notice. Of course, what can you really expect when you call a prostitute and ask if she wants to make a quick hundred bucks that doesn’t involve sucking a dick?”
“But how did you—we had eyes on you all day. There’s no way you could have—”
“Ah, but I could, and I did.”
I knew I needed to be on my way, but couldn’t resist a very small brag about my own ingenuity. No wonder James Bond villains were always going on about how they set in motion their plans for world domination.
Nefarious plotting is a seriously underappreciated art.
The difference between me and a Bond villain was that I had no intention of leaving him under the not-so-watchful eye of one inept guard. I figured the refrigerator was at least that smart.
“It happened at the courthouse. Rhonda was kind enough to leave me a pair of handcuffs in the feminine hygiene disposal box in the third stall. She’s at the courthouse a lot, as it turns out.”
Dave glanced down at the cuffs, something like horror creeping across his face.
“Oh, don’t get your boxers in a bunch. They were in a plastic bag. Perfectly sanitary, I assure you. Well, I guess I can’t speak for what bodily fluids they might have acquired before Rhonda dropped them off in the tampon disposal box, but since then . . .” Here I paused, clicking my cheek and pointing at him. “Totally jizz free, you have my word.”
Dave jerked against the restraints, maybe trying to figure out how much pressure would be needed to break the fridge handle or cuffs or both.
“Surprisingly durable, right? I took the liberty of testing them out earlier.”
“Shepard was right about you.” Dave opened the fridge, then the freezer. A half-hearted attempt to see what comestibles would be available for the duration of his imprisonment.
I smashed the butterflies attempting to take wing in my stomach. “In what respect?”
“You’re like a cross between a doughnut and the devil. Tasty on the outside. But on the inside, pure evil.”
At this, all I could do was nod and smile.
A more perfect description, there never was.
“All right,” I announced. “Time for me to bounce.” I picked up my phone, studied it, and dialed.
It was answered on the third ring.
I took a deep breath and for
ced the sentence out of my mouth, one odious word at a time.
“Hi. It’s Jane. I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Melanie looked like her car.
Or Melanie’s car looked like her. It was one of those bizarre chicken-or-the-egg things that I had neither the time nor the patience to work out.
Both were sleek, powerful, and probably worth more money than I’d see in a lifetime.
She pulled up in front of the safe house and bleated two quick honks, the prearranged signal. I walked down the sidewalk at a pace I decided to be appropriate for hurrying out to meet a friend but not necessarily fleeing from a man I’d cuffed to the fridge with furry pink handcuffs.
Never look guilty, Janey. Guilt gets people caught.
Once inside, I shifted uneasily in the buttery leather seat and tried to figure out what to do with my hands.
I didn’t know what it was about luxury that turned me into an oversize toddler who had just discovered her extremities for the first time.
Folding them in my lap seemed to be what the car wanted, so I did it.
“So,” she said, once we were safely away from the apartment. “You want to tell me what all this is about?”
“Not especially.”
“Will you at least tell me why it is you need me to get you into the country club?” She slid me a sideways glance but immediately returned her eyes to the road. Her manicured hands stayed precisely at ten and two.
Because I got a tip-off from one of the small army of people who work at Valentine’s regular haunts seemed like maybe not the best answer.
“There’s someone I need to talk to there, and I’m not a member.”
“Who do you need to talk to?”
“Look, details were not part of the bargain, okay? You pick me up and get me to the country club, I get you a date with Bixby. That’s it, and that’s all.”
Her silence was politeness personified. Had it been me, I would have surely belabored the point until Melanie, or whomever else I happened to be pestering, gave up the information I wanted.
This chick had no idea how to badger.
Private Lies (Jane Avery Mysteries Book 1) Page 18
