by R. J. Jagger
Three of the walls were inundated with bookshelves.
Yardley pulled a worn leather briefcase out from under the table and set it on top. She opened it just to be sure everything was inside and undisturbed even though there was no reason to think otherwise.
Everything was there.
She closed it, grabbed the handle and locked the vault behind her.
Deven was at the counter reading 5280.
Yardley approached her from behind, wrapped her arms around the woman's stomach and nibbled her neck.
"Did you get screwed this weekend?"
Deven turned and grinned.
"You can't even believe."
"Oh, really? By who?"
"Someone named Brittany."
"You going to see her again?"
"Don't know," Deven said. "She has a powerful little tongue though, I'll tell you that much. Are you jealous?"
"I'm always jealous," Yardley said.
"No you're not. Brittany was a kinky little thing. She had toys I didn’t even know existed.”
Yardley cocked her head and said, "Remind me again why I employ you—"
"Because you're secretly in love with me."
"Trust me, that's not it."
"Okay, lust then. Not love, lust."
Yardley shook her head.
"Keep an eye on things. I'll be back some time this afternoon."
A hour later she was in a Grob Aerospace SP jet, the only passenger, heading west over the Rockies with the briefcase on the seat next to her. Three hours later she touched down at LAX where she rented a black 5-Series BMW.
She punched the home address of disbarred attorney Richard Blank into the GPS and studied the map.
Then she merged into traffic.
4
Day One
July 18
Monday Morning
Beacher, Condor & Lee, LLC occupied floors 40, 41 and 42 of the cash register building on 17th Street in the heart of Denver's financial district. For years it was the city's second largest law firm. This year it muscled into the top dog position as a result of the continuing decline of Holland, Roberts & Northway, thanks to the Michael Northway fiasco last year.
Pantage scurried through the reception area intent on making up the lost part of the day to the extent possible. Before she got past the glass walled conference rooms and into the hallways, the receptionist waved her over.
"Did you hear?"
No.
She hadn't.
Hear what?
"Jackie Lake got murdered last night."
Pantage studied the woman's face, waiting for the punch line. Then her chest pounded.
"You're serious," she said.
"It's so freaky."
"What happened?"
The woman shrugged.
"No one knows yet other than it happened and it's being investigated as a murder, not an accident or suicide."
"Is it on the news?"
"It started to break an hour ago," she said. "I'll bet dollars to donuts that the cops will be around here today asking questions. Condor's already put out a global email telling everyone to be around as much as possible."
"I'll be here," Pantage said.
"We're having lunch catered," she said. "The big conference room at noon."
"Okay."
In her office, Pantage closed the door and locked it. She left the lights off and slumped into her chair. She had one thought and one thought only, namely that she was the one who killed Jackie.
That's how she got the wound.
They must have had a fight.
It must have been traumatic.
That's why she couldn't remember.
Her brain was trying to protect her.
The cops could be here any second.
Sooner or later, probably sooner, they'd get their hands on Jackie's cell phone records. They'd have the text messages and know that Pantage went to Jackie's house last night. That plus the head wound would be all they'd need to hold her as a prime suspect. Then the forensics would start to get matched up. She unquestionably left prints, DNA, fibers and who knows what else.
Think.
Think.
Think.
As wrong as what she did was, she didn't want to get carted out of the firm in handcuffs. She couldn't take the stares and the whispers and the wide-eyed looks of surprise. She couldn't take watching the news tomorrow from a jail cell and hearing one of her co-workers tell a reporter, "It really doesn't surprise me. There were rumors that she had a secret side."
"What kind of secret side?"
"I don't know, it was just gossip."
"Gossip about what?"
"I've already said too much."
Taylor Sutton was a good defense attorney and her office was close, just a couple of blocks down the 16th Street Mall. Maybe Pantage should go over there right now and tell her what happened. If nothing else, the woman could negotiate her surrender and get it done privately.
What to do?
What to do?
What to do?
Her head pounded.
The Aspirin was working but only halfway.
Suddenly a knock came at the door.
Pantage stared at the sound, frozen, and said nothing.
The knob jiggled but didn't turn.
"Pantage are you in there?"
She recognized the voice.
It belonged to Renn-Jaa Tan, the associate next door.
5
Day One
July 18
Monday Morning
Teffinger parked the Tundra in the underground lot, bypassed the elevators, took the stairs to the third floor and pushed into the homicide department. His desk was over by the windows, a cubical, open and exposed. His predecessor had an enclosed office down the hall, quiet enough to sleep in. Teffinger could have it if he wanted but elected to stay right where he was when he got promoted to head of the department three years ago.
"Closer to the coffee," he said.
Actually that wasn't true.
Three people paced it off to prove it.
He dialed the cell phone of Dr. Leigh Sandt, the FBI profiler from Quantico, Virginia, and pulled up an image of a classy, 50-year-old woman with Tina Turner legs.
She actually answered.
"Your caller ID must not be working," Teffinger said.
She laughed.
"Long time," she said.
"Too long. I have a situation."
"An angry husband?"
"Not funny," he said. "I have a victim of last night, an attorney, single, attractive, repeatedly choked while being raped. Her wrists were tied to the headboard. Here's the unique thing. The guy cut off her left ear."
"Did he take it with him or leave it there?"
"Took it."
He let the words hang.
He knew that she knew what he wanted, namely to check and see if any similar murders had taken place across the country over the years.
"Personally it doesn't ring a bell but I'll check," she said.
"How soon?"
She exhaled.
"You know what your problem is, Nick? You never stop being you."
He smiled.
"I'm writing something down," he said. "It says, Send Leigh flowers."
"Nick, you're the cheapest guy on the face of the earth. It's never going to happen. You know it and I know it."
"That's why I told you I was writing it down," he said. "That way you at least know I thought about it." A beat then, "Remember when you stayed at my house? The towel malfunction—"
"Stop. I'm still in therapy over that."
"Good."
He hung up and found Sydney Heatherwood sitting in one of the two worn chairs in front of his desk. She was the newbie to the department, stolen out of vice personally by Teffinger last year. She wore a pink sleeveless blouse that showcased strong arms and contrasted nicely against her mocha African American skin.
"Do you want me to send Leigh flowers
for you?"
He pictured it.
"Yes," he said. "That will totally flip her out."
She held her hand out.
"Give me thirty bucks."
He checked his wallet.
There was a five and three ones.
He picked up a pencil, wrote Send Leigh Flowers on a piece of paper, and handed it to Sydney. "Tell you what," he said. "Just fax her this."
Sydney gave him a look.
Then she pushed a stapled set of paper across the desk.
"That's the victim's cell phone records," she said. "Just came in."
"That was quick. I'm impressed."
He studied them starting with the most recent and going back three days.
Sydney pointed to the most recent pair, which was a text from the victim asking someone to cover a court hearing in the morning
"That was to a number registered to Pantage Phair," Sydney said. "She's an attorney in the same firm as Jackie Lake."
"Okay."
The entry before that was a phone connection, not a text, lasting about two minutes. Sydney pointed to it and said, "That call was to Grayson Condor. He's an uppity-up in the firm."
Those were the only entries from yesterday, the day she got murdered.
Teffinger stuffed the records in a manila envelope and said, "You feel like taking a ride?"
"To where? The law firm?"
"I'll give you a hint. I'm either thinking of that or the flower shop."
"Well it's not the flower shop."
"Bingo."
6
Day One
July 18
Monday Afternoon
The disbarred lawyer, Richard Blank, lived in a contemporary mansion in Beverly Hills. Yardley pulled the BMW through the wrought iron gate past the stone lions, up the cobblestone driveway and next to the water feature, where she killed the engine and stepped out.
The air was more humid than she expected.
Cotton-ball clouds swept overhead.
When she knocked on the door, a man answered. It was him. She recognized him from the pictures and, seeing him in the flesh for the first time, began to work on how to best change his face.
"Yes?" he said.
"How would you like to be a lawyer again?" Yardley said.
The man wrinkled his brow.
He was 45, six-one, with blond surfer hair and a manly face with a dimple in his chin, the epitome of what a good trial lawyer should look like.
"Who are you?"
"I'm someone who can change your life," she said. "Before I say more, I need your assurance that our conversation will remain personal."
He sized her up.
Then he swung the door open and said, "Come in."
They ended up in the back by the pool in the shade of a cabana with a pitcher of iced tea.
"This is nice but it's not a courtroom," she said. "You're bored here." She looked around. "I would be too. There's no fight, no action, no conflict. There's no one hanging on your every word." She looked him in the eyes. "You miss that. That's not the question. The question is, how much do you miss it? Do you miss it enough to do what it takes to get it back?"
He cocked his head.
"What's your game?"
"No game," she said. "I'm someone who can get your license back. It's that simple."
"No one can do that."
"I can."
"How?"
"I'll explain," she said. "But first answer my question. Do you miss it enough to do what it takes to get it back? The reason I ask is that if we go forward, you're going to have to do things. Some extreme things. So, here it is again, do you miss it enough to do what it takes to get it back?"
A pause.
His face got serious.
"Yes."
"Good," she said. "In that case we may be able to do business together. Let's find out."
He took a sip of tea.
"Let's."
She studied the pool.
"The water looks nice," she said. "Is it warm?"
"Warm enough."
She walked over, scooted down and felt it with her hand. It was almost the temperature of a hot tub. The sun reflected into her eyes.
It felt nice.
"Have you ever been to New York?"
Blank shook his head.
"No."
"That's where you'll be practicing," she said. "New York. It's nice there. You're going to like it. You're going to be a freaking rock star again. You won’t have a pool though. No one in New York has a pool."
7
Day One
July 18
Monday Morning
Pantage waited until Renn-Jaa stopped knocking, then opened the door a crack, stuck her head out and looked up and down the hall. No one was in sight. Her plan was to slip out of the firm but that changed just before she got to the elevators. Instead, she took the spiral staircase up to 41 and went to Jackie Lake's office. The door was closed but not locked. She slipped in and closed it behind her.
She sat down in the woman's chair and shut her eyes. Her head spun as if she'd just chugged a glass of wine.
What happened last night?
What got so important that it escalated to murder?
Something grabbed her attention on the floor under the desk. It turned out to be a picture of Jackie straddling a man's lap as if giving him a lap dance.
It was jagged but sensual.
The man was enjoying it.
So was Jackie.
Pantage stuffed it in her bra next to her heart and closed her eyes.
The darkness was a drug.
She needed more.
Suddenly the door opened and Xavier Zarra walked in, one of the senior partners from the top floor. The shock on her face was palpable.
"What are you doing in here?"
"I don't know. Saying goodbye, I guess."
"This office is off limits," she said. "There was a global email sent this morning to that effect."
"I'm sorry, I—"
"Did you touch anything?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
The woman gave a mean look, then let it transition to a smile.
"We're all upset," she said. "Let's just try to handle it."
"Okay."
She walked back down to 40 and headed for the elevators, only to spot a man and woman in the reception area. The man was about thirty-four, six-two, with a solid body and a drop-dead gorgeous face that belonged on the cover of GQ. He had longish brown hair that tended to flop over his eyes. He wore jeans, black leather shoes, a blue cotton shirt and loose blue tie. He was engrossed with one of the oil paintings on the wall, the Delano.
The woman was younger, African American, with a gym build.
The man turned to Pantage as she crossed.
Their eyes met.
There was something wrong with his, no, not wrong, different. It took a heartbeat before she figured it out. One was blue and one was green.
He looked at her, first as one stranger looking at another, then as something more.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi."
She continued.
He grabbed her arm.
"Hold it a second," he said.
"What's the problem?"
He brought his face close to hers and whispered, "I looked for you, after that night. I went back to that bar six different times."
She pulled her arm free.
"You have the wrong person."
"No I don't."
"I've never seen you before in my life," she said.
"Why are you saying that?"
"Because it's true."
He wrinkled his forehead.
"You really don't remember me?"
"You can't remember someone you've never met," she said.
"If we never met, then tell me one thing," he said.
"And what's that?"
"How come I know you have a yin-yang tattoo on your right cheek?"
> The words startled her.
They were true.
"I have to go," she said.
"Then nothing's changed," he said. "That's too bad."
She headed for the elevators. Halfway there she turned and came back.
"I'm sorry I don't remember you," she said.
He shrugged.
"It's okay. I'm a pretty forgettable guy."
She paused, not sure if she was actually going to say what she was thinking of saying, and then said, "Not really." A beat then, "When was it that we knew each other?"
"Last summer, late August," the man said. "For two days."
"Two? Are you sure?"
He nodded.
"I'm sure. Well, let me take that back. Friday night to Sunday morning, whatever that calculates to be."
"That's a long time," she said. "You must have made an impression."
"I do what I can."
She smiled and walked away.
"Hey, wait."
She turned.
"Yes?"
"What's your name?"
She shook her head.
"No names."
8
Day One
July 18
Monday Morning
When the raven-haired beauty left, Sydney got in Teffinger’s face and said, “You never told me about that one. Why not?”
“You want the truth or lies?”
“Whichever you have handy.”
“That would be the latter,” he said. “She picked me up in a bar one night. We spent some time together. She left while I was sleeping. That’s it.”
Sydney made a face.
“No, that’s not it, because if that was it you would have told me about it back when it happened,” she said. “You kept her from me.” Her face brightened. “You actually liked her.”
He shrugged.
“Maybe.”
She punched his arm.
“You dog,” she said. “You’re in love.”
“Was,” he said. “A little bit, maybe.”
She studied him.
“No was about it, Teffinger. I know that look. It’s the same one a wolf has when it sees a rabbit.”
“Nice comparison.”
“So what are you going to do now that you know who she is?”
“Nothing.”
She shook her head.
