by Rachel Brady
“Huh?” I dropped into the chair next to him and checked my watch. It’d be nice if he left before household conversation turned to dinner ideas. I didn’t want shop talk to extend into mealtime.
“This e-mail from FastCruzn in your Inbox. The subject line says ‘No favors for Claire.’”
I took the mouse from him. My browser had opened to my webmail account as usual but, unlike Jeannie, Richard had been too decent to read my messages without asking first. “Is this somebody helping with the case?”
“No.”
I clicked to open the message, another one-liner: I know where you were today.
We stared at the screen. I wondered how to explain.
“Where were you today?” Richard asked. “Who’s FastCruzn?”
When I didn’t pull my eyes off the screen right away he snapped his fingers in front of it.
“I don’t know who that is,” I finally said. “I got an e-mail like that yesterday too. It said to go back to chemistry.”
He looked appalled. I knew he was worried about whoever had sent the notes, but a quick study of his eyes told me that the person he was most disgusted with was me. “You didn’t say anything.”
“I wasn’t keeping it a secret,” I said. “There’s been so much going on today that—”
“That you’re not telling me.”
“That I forgot to bring it up.”
“Somebody threatened you and you forgot to bring it up.”
Annette returned to show us the collection of rings and bracelets she’d used to adorn her tiny hands. Jeannie trailed behind wearing what looked to be every necklace I owned. She reminded me of Mr. T.
Richard stood to leave and looked pointedly at Annette, who was busy admiring her new accessories, before returning his gaze to me. It was the kind of stare that bored into me and he was clearly holding back for her benefit.
“No more poking around without me,” he said. “That worked for a while, but now all bets are off.”
I nodded.
He walked to the door. “I’ll call you tonight. This isn’t the time to be coy. I need to know exactly what happened today.”
I disagreed, but to avoid having that discussion in front of my daughter I simply waved goodbye and let silence misrepresent my intentions.
He caught the door behind him before it closed. “This is against my better judgment,” he said. “I’m meeting with Mick Young tomorrow at nine.”
“What’s against your better judgment? Meeting with that slime ball or telling me you’re doing it?”
He didn’t answer, simply raised his eyebrows to communicate the obvious question.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll be there.” Before he could voice more protests, I shut the door.
***
“I had to tell her.” I took a final swipe at my lips with a new wine-colored gloss Jeannie had brought me the night before. I checked myself in a compact mirror and then dropped it back into my purse. “There’s this antiseptic cleanser she has to put on the piercings three times each day. I had to tell Betsy about that.”
Richard shook his head. “She give you grief?”
“No. I think she was just thankful to get Annette for the rest of the week.” I screwed the lid back on my lip gloss and put that away too. “In fact, she was even more excited for Annette than I was. No wonder Annette likes her better.”
“That’s not fair,” he said, a little distracted. He checked his watch, compared it to the one hanging on the wall behind Mick Young’s receptionist. I smoothed my hair for what might have been the tenth time.
“What’s with you?” Richard said.
I wished I knew. I wasn’t aiming to look attractive so much as put-together and professional. The only other time Young had seen me was at his previous trial and I’d been a mess throughout. “He’s late.”
Richard stretched his legs, careful not to knock over his briefcase, and crossed one ankle over the other. He’d chosen dress slacks and a long sleeved button-up—a masochistic choice in the summer—and finished the look with a plum-colored tie. The ensemble worked, but it bothered me that Richard had put forth extra effort.
For my part, it was worse. In a fitted pantsuit and dress shoes, with full make-up and neatly arranged hair, I felt like a candidate waiting to interview for the worst job ever. Fact was, the job was already mine and I didn’t expect Young to be very happy to find that out.
He opened the door and waved for us to join him in his office, no discernible surprise on his face upon seeing me there. The men shook hands. I nodded and took a seat. Young studied me a little longer than was comfortable.
“Something’s different,” he said. “Change your hair?”
“Yeah,” I said. “That, plus not having been recently stabbed and shot at by your psychopath client like last time we saw each other.”
“Emily.” Richard’s voice was low and sharp.
Young let it go and dropped into the chair on the other side of his desk. Richard joined me on the visitors’ side. It wasn’t even nine thirty and Young already looked like he’d worked a full day. Probably in his early forties, he had a slender, athletic build and a deep tan. I figured he spent his fat lawyer salary on watercrafts and beach excursions. Like Richard, he’d dressed crisply. His designer spectacle frames and nice clothes were attractive enough, but he needed a trim.
A nearly invisible scar from his top lip to the outside of his nose surprised me. I hadn’t noticed it at the trial. In my recent dealings with Claire, Diana, and their elitist compatriots at Tone Zone, I’d lost sight of the value of plastic surgery as a reconstructive option.
Young lifted a shiny little pen from his desk and flipped it smoothly through his fingers in the tricky way I’d seen some kids do back in college. “I have news,” he said, “But let’s hear what you have first.”
Richard opened his briefcase, extracted a legal pad, and skimmed the haphazard notes he’d scrawled. “We’ve been keeping an eye on Diana.” He glanced over the top rim of his cheaters. Young nodded. “Nothing out of the ordinary there. She goes to work, runs her errands…” He shrugged. I wondered if he’d mention Diana’s visit to my apartment or the envelope she’d left on my car. He didn’t. “It looks like Platt left his share of the health club to Diana.”
Young tipped his chin, apparently catching Richard’s suggestion, and then turned to me. “What do you think about that?”
“I don’t think Diana had anything to do with this.”
There was a snotty, involuntary edge in my voice and I avoided looking at Richard. He’d have something to say about it later.
Young gave no indication of having noticed. “Ms. Gaston says you’ve been to see her.”
I nodded. “A couple times.”
“She’s a tough nut to crack.”
I inhaled, fought the urge to say too much. “Yep.”
Young shifted his weight. “Said you went to her house?”
I nodded.
“Wanted a look at her e-mail folders?”
“Yes,” I said. “I heard she’d been in touch with Platt via e-mail. She denied it and offered up her e-mail username and password to placate me.”
“And?”
“The account was clean.”
With no apparent effort, he flipped the pen across his knuckles again but didn’t take his eyes off me. “When I heard you’d been to see her, and why you’d gone, I asked for the same privilege but she refused.”
His words hung for a moment. I wondered if he expected me to explain her behavior.
“She’s weird like that,” I finally said.
The faintest trace of amusement flashed in Young’s eyes.
Richard broke in. “Let’s not read too much into this.” Facing me, he added, “We’ve been over the possibility that she could have multiple e-mail accounts.”
I didn’t argue.
Young slid his gaze to Richard. “Do you agree that Diana King isn’t a likely factor?”
“Not ne
cessarily,” he said. “She’s openly hateful toward Claire. And Platt left her a sizable stake in Tone Zone.”
“That’s not verified,” I said.
“It’s as good as verified,” Richard said, quickly enough to be terse.
I tried to force a professional, impassive expression but I was pretty sure my face had Sour written all over it.
Young spun his pen, studied me. To Richard, he said, “What about Diana’s husband? The surgery center?”
Richard shook his head. “King will buy Platt’s interest in the practice from the elderly uncle. The buyout price from an estate or from heirs is set by a third party. No chance of King low-balling the old guy.”
“Perhaps low chance,” Young said. “Can’t be sure about no chance. I know from this practice, for example—” he opened his hands to indicate the room in general—“that there are multiple ways to structure business exit and succession plans, not to mention tax and estate planning.” He paused, tapped his pen once on the table for emphasis. “But I’m inclined to agree with you. King’s a visible member in the community. Has a large client base at stake. It’d be difficult, if not impossible, for him to acquire Platt’s interest in the center for less than its fair market value and not draw attention. And even if he could pull it off…what a risky way to get a discount, no?”
He pulled a sticky pad from his top drawer, wrote something down. Then he looked up at us again, letting his eyes flit from one of us to the other before finally settling on Richard. “Anything to suggest someone we haven’t considered?”
Richard tapped his thumb on the arm of his chair. Its thumping, noticeably severe, reminded me that despite middle age, Richard was still a solid guy. He stopped suddenly and surprised me.
“Emily thinks we should have a look at Daniel Gaston.”
Young smirked. “Interesting you should bring him up.”
Richard’s cell rang and he pulled it from his belt holster. “Excuse me.” He read the display. “It’s about the case.” He motioned that he’d be a minute and slipped out the door before I could fully register the awkwardness his absence would leave in the room.
The door clicked shut behind him and Mick Young and I were left alone to stare at each other over the wide expanse of his shiny, intimidating desk.
Young folded his fingers together and rested his chin on top of them, evaluating me. His fancy glasses, I noticed, had been upgraded with the nice, no-glare feature. It occurred to me he probably kept spares all over the place for convenience. I imagined an extra set in his desk at that very moment, another in his Jag, maybe an old pair at the beach house…all framed by Versace or Dior. It irritated the hell out of me that Young paid for his stupid frames, annoying pen, and Presidential, double podium, high-gloss desk with money earned from defending my husband’s killers.
“Nobody’s looked at me that way since Jimmy Basso,” he said.
“Am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?”
“Riff-raff we put away years ago when I worked in the D.A.’s office.”
“Before you sold out, you mean. When you still worked to put criminals away instead of set them free.”
“That’s what you think of Ms. Gaston?”
“I’m not talking about Claire and you know it.”
He held my gaze a moment, started over. “Anyway. I’d just finished questioning Basso at trial. I took my seat at the plaintiff’s table. Basso was excused from the stand, but he didn’t move. He was excused again. Same thing. I looked up then. He was staring at me hard. I knew right then, no doubt about it…if we didn’t put that guy away he was coming for me.”
I crossed my own hands in my lap. They were sweaty and I felt my face growing warmer too. It took everything I had to fake the appearance of being unaffected. “I’m not sure what the point of your story is, but I have no intention of coming after you.”
He chuckled. “A relief. Still, you don’t care for me much.”
“That’s right.” My voice, quieter now, nearly caught but I forced myself to continue and even managed eye contact. “There are few people I hold in lower regard, actually.”
I was surprised at my boldness and complete lack of shame, but despite how it had come out, I hadn’t meant the remark as a dig. Rather, now that I could finally confront Young personally, the overwhelming feeling he elicited was not rage or disgust, but supreme disappointment that one human being could so completely fail another. It seemed to me that somebody should point that out.
“Your client,” I said, “had my husband murdered and almost got me too. Twice. My little girl is five years old and doesn’t understand why she suddenly has three parents. Why does she have to live with the strange, new mother now instead of the one she’s known since infancy? She’s too young to remember her dad and she has no idea what to make of me. You did everything in your power to restore the liberties of the monster that did this to us. That makes me sick.”
I was prepared for a scathing response, perhaps a reminder that I worked for him, but Young said nothing. Instead he lifted a tissue box from the corner of his desk and offered it to me even though I wasn’t crying. What to make of that? Was he giving me permission to cry or was he insulting me? When I didn’t move for the box, he dropped it on his desk, not in its original spot, and it landed with a punctuated thud.
“It’s not my job to decide guilt or innocence,” he said. “Everyone deserves the best defense I can present. Understand, your specific circumstances were not part of the charges that we—”
I motioned for him to stop talking. “Spare me.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Don’t talk to me about fair.”
I started to absently read the diplomas and certificates on his wall, wishing Richard would come back.
“While we’re on the topic of jobs,” he added, “Yours is to collect evidence. Since you have such strong feelings about working for me, quit if you’d rather. Although, I asked for you specifically and would regret seeing you go.”
I turned back to him. He wasn’t watching me anymore, just scribbling something on the same pad he’d used before.
“Excuse me?”
“When I hired Richard. The work you did last spring was impressive, particularly with no experience. I knew he’d picked you up after your move to Houston.” He glanced up from his writing for a moment.
“But that was against your client.”
“That’s not the point. Ms. Gaston’s my client now. A strong defense requires apt investigators. If you were accused, wouldn’t you want the best defense you could get?”
“I’m not a murderer.”
“Again, not the point.” He set down his pen again in the same decisive way. “You showed that you were capable in March. Sharp reasoning, observation…maybe intuition. Your skills were a problem for me in that case but I’d like to capitalize on them this time. I hope Richard’s paying you enough that you’ll stick around despite our differences.”
I wanted to scoff at his assumption that my decisions, like his, were motivated by money. Instead I studied him and grew a little uneasy with his flattery. If he were dirty like his recent clients, in cahoots with their collaborators, maybe he was trying to get close to me because he wanted to avenge pals I’d helped send to the state pen.
He switched gears. “You’re more confident than Richard about Diana King’s lack of involvement.”
I took a moment to refocus. “Richard’s not convinced because he doesn’t know everything. It’s not in his best interests, or yours, for me to elaborate.”
Young grinned and drummed his knuckles twice on the glossy desk. “A delightfully coy presumption.”
“It’s your case,” I said. “Say the word.”
He leaned back into his chair and it squeaked. Richard burst through the door.
“Sorry to be so long.” He took his seat again. “Got some interesting news.”
“The husband?” Young asked.
Richard’s eyebrows sh
ot up and gave away his surprise. “Yeah. How’d you—”
“I got the call right before you arrived. It’s why I was late to meet you.”
Catching my annoyance before it ballooned, Richard filled me in. “Daniel Gaston was murdered last night.”
Chapter Twenty-four
So much for my hunches.
“Murdered?” I said. “What happened?”
“He was shot in an apartment. Rice Village.”
“I heard it was in the carport,” Young said.
“Whose apartment? Does Claire know?”
Inside his dark frames, Young’s eyes narrowed. It was enough to tell me that he hadn’t considered how she’d take the news. “I’ll tell her.”
I feared his delivery might leave something to be desired. “No,” I said. “Her mom should probably do it.”
He nodded. “Of course.”
I wondered how that exchange would go. Upon hearing the news, she’d be equally capable of smug satisfaction or inconsolable grief. “This is nuts.”
Young continued to scrutinize. I couldn’t tell if he wanted me to shut up or continue.
I didn’t care. “Claire says she and Platt didn’t know each other, yet crime scene evidence points to her. Diana has a plausible motive to frame Claire but she and Platt were close. It doesn’t make sense that she’d be involved. In fact, I think Diana’s more affected by Platt’s death than she’s letting on.”
Young leaned forward, drew a breath.
“That’s all I can say,” I added, before he could question me.
I felt Richard’s eyes on me but didn’t turn. Young, I thought, deserved to know about the strange e-mails I’d received, but Richard hadn’t offered them up so I refrained. It seemed unlikely that the crazy person threatening me would be the same one to provide a key to Platt’s house. Presumably, one of those people wanted to stop the investigation and the other wanted to move it along. In my book, this was compelling evidence of Diana’s innocence but I couldn’t openly share that without compromising Richard’s professional ethics. Or Young’s, if he had any.
“So Daniel’s dead and Diana’s off the table,” I said. “Frankly, I’m glad Claire’s in jail. It proves we’re overlooking someone.”
