by Camy Tang
Chapter 7
They were being followed.
And not by very intelligent pursuers, either. Tessa completed a fourth right turn in a row and saw the same gray Nissan Sentra follow suit. Then again, this was San Francisco and some tourists got so lost they finally emerged twenty years later from the Lombard Street time warp.
So she did a U-turn at the next light.
The gray Nissan followed.
Her heartbeat tapped against the base of her throat. Who were these guys? How had Heath found Elizabeth? It had to have been a fluke; maybe he saw them on the walk from the parking garage to the coffee shop or the opposite direction.
Or was she just being paranoid? She’d imagined zombie attacks when she was younger — why not conjure up a car tailing them now that she was in her thirties?
“Tessa,” Elizabeth said, “I feel like those ballerina dolls on those music boxes, going around and around and around. Please tell me we’re just lost.”
“Okay. We’re just lost.”
Elizabeth twisted in her seat to look out the back window, a difficult feat considering how cloudy the glass was. Tessa actually heard her swallow.
“Can you see who it is? Is it Heath?”
“If it is, the man dyed his hair black and grew a full beard in the week since you last saw him.”
“So it might not be Heath.”
“It could be because of me,” Tessa said softly. Except that she’d been out for three months, and no one had tailed her before today.
Plus, with the exception of a rather unhinged Greek banker named Pollux, most of the people who might want to ensure she never again applied to be on Survivor were Asian, and this guy was definitely not Asian.
“Can you see a license plate number?” she asked Elizabeth.
“He doesn’t have one on the front.” Elizabeth turned back in her seat and said firmly, “We’re not calling the police, regardless.”
Well, she was the boss. Sort of. If she paid Tessa.
The problem was, this wasn’t the best car for doing any fancy maneuvers — not with the Corolla’s putt-putt engine — and because of its age and decrepitude, it also wasn’t exactly the most inconspicuous car on the road, even in San Francisco’s eclectic streets.
Still, she had to try something.
She signaled to make a left turn, but when there was an opening in traffic, she didn’t go.
Cars behind her started honking furiously, and Elizabeth shifted in her seat. “What are you doing?”
“Relax.” A wave of cars was fast approaching from the opposite direction. “And hang on.”
Tessa threw it into first gear, revved the poor, abused engine, and whipped the little car into a U-turn directly in front of a black Porsche.
Elizabeth screamed and grabbed at the hole in the ceiling upholstery.
The Porsche’s tires screamed too.
Tessa screamed with pure adrenaline and slammed her foot on the accelerator.
The car responded, guttering and screaming in a tantrum that would have ripped the tail lights off if they hadn’t already been missing. Tessa could have sworn the mulish Corolla slowed down instead of sped up. The Porsche loomed large in her rear view mirror despite the cloudy glass.
Okay, maybe she’d timed that a little too close.
She wanted to wince but didn’t want to close her eyes, expecting the sports car to ram their rear bumper — what was left of it — any second.
“Lord God Almighty!” Elizabeth shrieked.
Then with a gagging cough, the engine popped out a short burst of speed and the car hopped forward. Clouds rose up behind them — from both the Corolla’s exhaust and the Porsche’s burned tires.
They puttered down the avenue, safely embraced by a chorus of car horns.
Elizabeth had sunk down in her seat, one hand grabbing the top of the car, the other twisting the seatbelt. “You. Are. Crazy.”
“Yup,” Tessa said cheerfully. “I took an extra course of Insane. Got my PhD in Nutty.”
Elizabeth began hyperventilating.
“Cover your mouth and one nostril,” Tessa told her. “It’ll help you take in less oxygen and raise the carbon dioxide level in your —”
“Shut up!”
“So what did you promise God?” Tessa asked, not at all offended.
“What?”
“When we were about to get slammed by that Porsche. What did you promise God if we survived?”
Elizabeth grew still, then pale. “Oh, no.”
“Come on, it can’t be that bad. Your firstborn son into a monastery means he’ll always have job security.”
“No, nothing like that. Worse.”
“What?”
“I promised to give up Dr. Pepper,” Elizabeth moaned.
“Oh.” Tessa pressed her lips together and gave Elizabeth a sidelong glance. “Good luck with that.”
Elizabeth started to cry.
“Is there some crazy virus going around or something?” Rick Acker demanded as he stalked into Charles’s office.
Charles looked up from his desk, not entirely surprised to see Rick but a bit confused by his ranting. “What?”
“First some psychotic driver in an ancient Corolla in front of me in a left turn lane deliberately stalls, then pulls a U-ey practically up the nose of the sweetest Porsche I’ve ever seen — I almost wept, I tell you — and now I hear you’re giving the Butler case to Randy McDonald. Randy? Really?” Rick leaned against Charles’s desk. “You’re going to give me an ulcer.”
“You already have an ulcer.”
“That’s because my eldest wants to go to Stanford instead of Cal. Travesty. You, on the other hand, are causing me a second one. Randy McDonald?” Rick demanded.
“The only reason you don’t like Randy is because he can beat you stupid at soccer.”
“He didn’t beat me, I had a cold.”
“Every week for the past month.”
“It’s a long-term illness,” Rick said with a sniff.
“Look, Rick, the Butler case is going to be open and shut, and I felt like an errand boy doing it.”
“So now multimillion-dollar corporations are beneath you.”
“They are when their CEO drops fifty large at a horse race and writes a company check.”
“Sure, John Butler’s an idiot, but he’s only a puppet king, you know that. We’re working for the Jedi High Council, not the little apprentice Jedi.”
“Which means Randy McDonald will do fine. I have another case.”
“It better involve lots of supermodels and Dom Pérignon.” Rick gave him a hard look.
“It involves a wife-beater and an old Southern family’s inheritance money.”
Rick rolled his eyes. “Sounds like a Nancy Drew mystery.”
Charles hadn’t expected Rick to understand — the man had the compassion of Norman Bates, and might even be less sane — but he had to admit that Elizabeth’s case sounded a bit insignificant compared to his normal bill of fare. And yet the Butler case had the lowest number of anticipated billable hours out of his entire caseload.
“Look, Charles, you work a lot harder than even I do and you’re not a bad soccer player either, but —”
“Was that a compliment? I think I’m going a little deaf …”
“Don’t screw this up, man.” Rick rose to his full six foot height so that his now serious blue eyes could meet Charles mano a mano. “You are so close to making partner.”
Partner. The magic word that drove him through the early hours, through two hours of sleep a night, and two-hour meetings. Was he really screwing things up by doing this? Couldn’t he just refer Elizabeth to a divorce lawyer? He knew a few. Granted, they were all as overworked as he was, but she’d eventually get her money back.
Except for her, it wasn’t about the money. It was about her son. She needed to feel grounded again after being numb and adrift for so many years.
The bruise stamped on her face made his gut clench even i
n remembrance. He’d seen worse. And at the time, he’d been too scrawny and scared to do more than cower.
Never again.
“I’m submitting the memo for this pro bono case, Rick,” Charles said.
“It’ll annihilate your career. You think that taking this nothing case isn’t going to hurt you in the eyes of the senior partners, but it will.”
“Like the Butler case isn’t a nothing case?”
“The cases involving the idiots always make you look good.”
“Well then, this will make me look like Superman, swooping in to rescue the damsel.”
“Yeah.” Rick turned to leave. “Superman … or Braveheart, stabbing at men with big swords.”
Charles felt like a circus clown.
It was his maroon button-down shirt. It was his favorite — most days, it made him feel powerful and yet understated.
But not today, and not in front of a senior partner.
Charles had received the phone call at four o’clock, and he presented himself in Mr. Greer’s office promptly at 4:05 p.m.
Manchester Greer was entirely shades of gray, from his steel-colored head to his Italian leather shoes. The only spot of color was a topaz ring on his right hand.
He regarded Charles under bushy flint brows, and an arctic wind swept through the room. Why would the venture capital and private equities lawyer need to see him? He didn’t have any cases with Mr. Greer — the man dealt with the big guns. What had Charles done to get his attention?
He thought of Elizabeth’s case, which the pro bono coordinator had approved, but she said he needed one of the firm’s partners on it. She had sent out an email to all the partners to ask if one of them would be lead on this case. Charles thought Rick would have grudgingly agreed, or one of the other newer partners in the firm. Was it possible Mr. Greer was taking him on?
No, why would he? This was far beneath him.
Then again, if he had agreed to be the lead partner on this case … Charles stilled his suddenly racing pulse. If Greer was the lead partner for Elizabeth’s case, and Charles did a good job, he’d be on the fast track to partnership.
“How do you know Elizabeth St. Amant, Charles?” The deep voice sounded like gravel chugged around at the bottom of the man’s throat.
“She’s a family friend through my mother’s side.”
Dark gray eyes pierced like a lance, trying to probe his soul, maybe draw blood and see what color it was. “And why does she want to separate from her husband?”
“He beats her and their son. He’s also holding onto her funds right now.”
Mr. Greer frowned and stared at a corner of his massive mahogany desk. “It’s not a normal case for you.”
“She’s a close family friend.” But how would family ties matter to a man like this, a senior partner in one of the most elite law firms in San Francisco?
“Do you think you could do a good job with this?”
“Yes, sir.” He clenched his teeth. His nervousness was showing if he was resorting to “sir” like a proper Southern boy.
“I have to admit I was surprised when I saw you were taking this on.”
He had to sell this. He could sell this. “My pro bono work so far has been for struggling companies, a few underdogs to generate sympathy, and one or two favors for a legislative official. This case, however, could create positive media buzz.”
“Yes, that media buzz concerns me.” Mr. Greer toyed with a Montblanc fountain pen, his long fingers caressing the gold finish. “You can’t embarrass us, Charles.”
“The media buzz wouldn’t be embarrassing. On the contrary, it’ll polish our sterling reputation.” Sell it, Charles.
“That’s dependent upon how you handle this.” Mr. Greer gave him a hard stare. “I need to know you are going to take care of Elizabeth St. Amant.”
“Sir?” What was going on? He felt like he’d been having one conversation and his boss had been having another. Just don’t act like it, dimwit. Nod and smile.
“I’m sure you’re already aware that the St. Amants are one of the oldest and most powerful families in New Orleans,” he said. “This type of service to one of their own would make them extremely grateful and bring prestige to this law firm.”
The St. Amants. Mr. Greer didn’t know Elizabeth’s father’s family had cast her off. But there was a good chance that Charles’s working on Elizabeth’s case would make the St. Amants grateful.
Mr. Greer almost — almost — smiled. “That’s why I decided to agree to be lead partner on this case.”
The magic words floated through the air. Charles would be working with Manchester Greer on Elizabeth’s case.
“I expect only the best from you,” Mr. Greer said. “I think we will work very well together.”
It was only a formality — in reality, Charles would probably be doing most of the work and Mr. Greer would get the credit, but the tradeoff was that he’d be able to demonstrate his abilities to a man who had strong influence over the other partners in the firm. When the time came for all the partners to vote on which rising lawyers would be able to become partner, having Mr. Greer in his corner would make Charles almost a shoe-in.
“You won’t be disappointed, sir.”
Mr. Greer nodded, then picked up a stack of papers on his desk, signifying their discussion was coming to an end. “Oh, and whatever you do, don’t give the Butler case to Randy McDonald.”
Oops.
Chapter 8
The street went straight up into the sky.
Tessa peered out the front window of the Corolla at the sheer wall of asphalt. She knew Lombard Street was supposed to be the steepest street, but this had to be a close second.
And Karissa lived about two-thirds of the way up.
After the incident in the restaurant, Tessa hadn’t expected Karissa to call at all, much less to ask to go to church with her, so Tessa wasn’t about to balk at a vertical street now. She grit her teeth, threw the sticky clutch into first gear, and rammed it.
The Toyota coughed and stalled.
Not driving for seven years really put a cramp in her style. She restarted the car and punched it up the hill. The engine roared so loudly that she had a moment — a small moment — when she wondered if it might possibly explode into a million pieces in her face.
But the car slowly made its way up the hill until she could turn into a parking space, perpendicular to the street because it was so steep. Karissa’s house, one of the Edwardian stick houses all along the street, was white with trim in shades of blue. It wasn’t as nicely renovated as several other houses on the street, and the faded paint screamed “renters” as opposed to “mortgage-payers.” Another clue was the four names on the wall next to the front door, kind of like an apartment house.
Tessa rang the doorbell and was immediately rewarded with pounding feet. Rapidly pounding feet. Which weren’t slowing down.
Maybe she should get out of the way of the door —
She hadn’t stepped aside enough when a young Asian American man swung open the door and barreled out while throwing on a wool coat. He clipped the side of her body and immediately turned with apologetic eyes. “Oh, sorry about that! I didn’t see you. Are you okay?”
He was tall and stocky, which would explain why he looked so anxious about hitting Tessa’s smaller frame. “I’m fine.”
“Are you here to see me?”
“Only if your name’s Karissa.”
He grinned. “No, it’s Josh. Hang on.” He opened the door and called inside, “Karissa! Someone’s here to see you.”
“I rang the doorbell,” Tessa said.
“It sticks.”
“My name’s Tessa, by the way.”
He shook her hand with a hearty grip. “Josh Cathcart.”
They heard softer footsteps from inside. Karissa opened the door, already wearing a warm winter coat and holding her purse. “Hi, Tessa! Thanks for picking me up.”
“Don’t thank me until Grandpa ge
ts us to Wings.” Tessa gestured to the Corolla, which she thought might have glared at her in protest at the nickname.
“Josh, I thought you were late for church,” Karissa said to him.
“I didn’t want to leave Tessa standing on the front porch. I’ll walk you guys to the car.”
“Thanks.” Karissa locked the front door, and when they’d gotten into Grandpa, he gave them a friendly wave and bounded down the street, pulling car keys out of his pocket.
“He’s a really nice guy,” Tessa said. “I feel bad — now he’ll be late getting to wherever he was going.”
“Oh, Josh is always late for his church down in San Jose.” As Tessa fired up the engine, Karissa said, “I’m … I’m really glad you asked me to the Sunday service at Wings.”
“You didn’t go when you were there?” Tessa winced as Grandpa chugged loudly.
“No, I was only there for a night.”
“Have you gone to Josh’s church?”
“It’s friendly and all, but there aren’t many people my age there. It’s mostly older couples.”
There was another moment — a small moment — when they were nearing the base of the hill and Tessa wondered if Grandpa’s brakes would be able to stop them at the stop sign, but the car jerked to a halt rather than sending them careening into cross traffic.
Karissa winced, then patted the dashboard. “Good Gramps.”
Tessa loved how a big city always had activity — people on the streets, cars zipping here and there, shops or restaurants or clubs open at all hours. But Sunday morning seemed to have less traffic than 2 a.m., and they got to Wings domestic violence shelter in record time.
Parking, on the other hand, was like a game of Tetris. Further down the street, Tessa finally found a space and they started to walk toward the shelter.
When they were still about a block away from the renovated Victorian house, a man in khaki trousers and a polo shirt approached them with a friendly smile.
Tessa recognized him immediately from pictures Elizabeth had shown to her — Heath.
