I entered the offices and sat on a nubby tweed couch in a lobby that was empty except for a desk with nothing on it but a newspaper and a small handbell in the center. The newspaper sat face-up and fully assembled, like no one had read it. Of course, the top story was still the assisted topple of New Mexican Spike Howard into a hotel swimming pool, midwedding revelry, courtesy of the sexy señorita with the smoking gun.
I walked over to the desk and smoothed my hand over the picture of her standing on the balcony, then left the paper to peruse the rest of the lobby. Remington-like prints of cattle drives and buffalo hunts adorned the two full-sized walls, and a black iron, cursive Williams & Associates sculpture hung behind the desk. I listened carefully for a few moments, but only heard the ticking of a clock somewhere out of sight. My foot scrubbed against the Berber carpet. It was brand new, and very nice.
“Excuse me,” I called out. “I’m Emily Bernal. Here to interview for the legal assistant position.”
A clinking noise sounded from the interior of the offices, moving closer at a rapid clip. A tiny fluff of white dog bounded down the hall. Pomeranian. When it reached me, it stood on its hind legs and placed its front paws against my shins. It couldn’t have weighed more than five pounds.
“Hello, you little sweetie pie. What’s your name?” I set my handbag on the desk and reached down for the pink rhinestone collar and shuffled through the tags that had given away her approach. “Snowflake. That fits.” I crouched down lower and massaged behind her ears. “Where’s your owner, Snowflake? Or am I interviewing with you?”
“No, that would be my job,” a familiar voice said.
“You’re not Williams,” I accused.
I tamped down the flicker of humiliation I felt at seeing Jack Holden and his damn dimple. This man knew all about my trials and tribulations and wasn’t afraid to mention them in a less-than-complimentary way. Though maybe I’d deserved the way he’d said them to me. I wasn’t at my best that night. I stood up, sucking in my stomach and straightening my posture until I reached my full height of five-foot-nine-and-five-eighths in my modest two-inch pumps.
“I’m ‘and Associate.’ Williams retired. I run the place for him.”
I shook my head. “Did you do this on purpose?”
“Do what?”
“Lure me in here under false pretenses?”
His dimple puckered and the left side of his mouth rose. His jacket was gone, and so was his hat, revealing what appeared to be sun streaks in his dark hair. Otherwise, he looked about the same as he had on Saturday night. Pressed Wranglers, lived-in boots, and a vintage, red plaid Larry Mahan shirt.
“I’m pretty sure I placed an ad in the Sunday edition of the Amarillo Globe News. Not in a special message sent only to you.”
I tapped the paper on the desk with my forefinger. “But the ad said litigation paralegal.”
“Yes, we spend a lot of time in court.”
“You left out the criminal part.”
“Look, I didn’t force you to come in today. If you don’t want to interview, no hard feelings.” He shrugged.
I realized I’d lost my manners, as my dear mother liked to say. “No, no, of course not. I’m glad to be here.” I gestured toward the empty chair behind the desk. “I think I must have spoken with your secretary to set up this interview. Is she out or something?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
The skin around my eyes tightened in confusion. Was that an answer to my question? It didn’t feel like it.
He beckoned me with a wave of his hand. Snowflake fell in behind him and I followed the two of them down a long hall lined with wainscoting and more Western art. We passed a door on the right. He gestured toward it, turning and walking backwards for a few steps. “Kitchen. Bathrooms are back past the elevator.” He reversed course again and we kept going, entering a door on the left. “Williams’s old office. Mine now.”
I drew in a ragged breath. The rectangular room we entered was easily a thousand square feet with windows all along the outside wall. The other walls were paneled, as were the floor and the ceiling. A picture gallery hung on the long interior wall beside me, with what looked shockingly like a real Remington in the center. Around it, lesser—but still magnificent—photographic pieces were carefully interspersed with framed diplomas and certificates. A large, arresting black and white of an old, abandoned mine stood out. Above the mine entrance, a lopsided sign read Sacramento Silver Mine. In the bottom right, the photographer had scrawled Old Dreams at the Wrong Turn Ranch – Lena Holden. A relative of Jack’s? A framed photo of an old Indian hung there, too—one I couldn’t fail to recognize, what with my Indian infatuation in my younger years: Geronimo. Below his picture was a quote of some kind, but I wasn’t close enough to read the small print.
A round conference table with six cushioned leather chairs on casters stood in the near side of the room. In the center was a giant desk, and its natural wood beauty was marred only by a maelstrom of papers. Picture frames lined up on the near edge of the desk, their backs to the door. The far side of the room featured built-ins: cabinetry on the outside edges and shelving in the interior. Beautiful volumes of the South Western Reporter in tan, red, and black stood back to front to back along the shelves. A piece of fabric stuck out from the left side of the cabinets, like toilet paper on a shoe. Otherwise, the room was perfect.
“Have a seat at the table.”
I lowered myself into the sumptuous dark brown leather and let my hand run across it. “Wow.”
Jack sat in the chair across from me and Snowflake settled at his feet. “Williams spared no expense. I got it for pennies on the dollar. What he cared about most was that I carry on his legacy. He did a helluva job preserving human dignity and constitutional rights for decades, from right in this office.”
“So his practice was . . .”
“Criminal law.”
“Criminal defense?”
“Absolutely. Somebody has to make sure our rights are protected. Mr. Williams had a passion for due process—for privacy, for innocent until proven guilty, and for liberty.”
A flicker of something patriotic stirred within me. When put like that, criminal defense sounded like a noble calling. “Is that why you do it?”
“I agree with him.”
My flicker died in a wave of irritation. Jack had a way with not answering a question. Well, I wasn’t going to beg for it. I pulled a pen from my handbag and a yellow pad from my briefcase.
“Can you tell me more about the job?” I asked.
“I have far too much work, and I need help, but help that doesn’t require a law degree. We do a lot of legwork for our clients, and we’ve got a bunch of them.” He chuckled. “Oh, and you were right about the woman in the hotel, by the way. Her name is Sofia Perez, and she did need a lawyer—the court-appointed one. Me.”
I blushed. Ms. Diplomatic, that was me. But to think he now represented the killer I’d seen Saturday night, the perpetrator of the murder that was the talk of the town, was a little bit titillating, in a smarmy, reality-TV kind of way. And I wasn’t above watching an occasional episode of The Real Housewives of Orange County.
“Holy cow, really?”
“Really. And she’s an illegal immigrant, and the sole parent of a six-year-old girl no one can find. Sofia is a bit . . . distressed. Can’t figure out heads from tails with her.”
My heart lurched. I felt something in my gut and realized it was empathy. For the missing child, of course, but also for the killer, which surprised me. Maybe Jack was piping some brainwashing chemicals in through the vents. I tried to refocus on what he was saying.
“And besides all of our existing clients and their cases, we’ve got some high roller who wants to set me up on a retainer to defend his employees and associates. Could be a lot of work, because they’re in a line of business that often puts them at risk for misunderstandings with the law.”
“What, the mafia?”
“Night clubs and impo
rting from Mexico. Anyway, I need help. I need it immediately. You told me everything I needed to know about you in the application you sent in with your resume. I assume that if I match your old salary at Hailey & Hart that would be sufficient? Plus, I have a little benefit program for my employees—standard stuff, medical, 401k, paid time off. I can give you a copy of all that paperwork.”
Employees? What employees? I hadn’t seen or heard a peep from anyone but him. The benefits and his offer didn’t make sense, but it was far more generous than I’d expected in Amarillo where the cost of living was so much lower than in Dallas. And, boy, did I need the benefits, with a baby on the way.
“I’m, that’s, I mean, thank you,” I said. “That gives me a lot to think about.”
He bounced his pen tip against the glass table and it made a sharp clack noise. “So that’s a no?”
“It’s a maybe. But I do have a question, if you don’t mind.”
“What’s that?”
“Is Snowflake your dog?”
It had bugged me since I walked in. A big cowboy and a little white dog in a pink collar?
His face grew very still. “I’m responsible for her.” He put down his pen and stood up, walking over to his desk.
Another non-answer. Had I touched a nerve? Ex-girlfriend? Ex-wife? Did Snowflake come with the office? God, this recalcitrant man was enough to drive a woman mad-cow crazy.
“Alrighty then.” I stood up and wiped my sweaty hands on my skirt.
Jack returned and thrust a business card at me. I was accumulating quite a collection today.
“When can you give me an answer?” he asked.
I read the card. R. Jackson Holden. “Um, tomorrow morning?”
“How about by the end of today? I could really use your help with the Sofia Perez case tomorrow.”
My throat felt constricted. The thought of working on Sofia’s case excited me, but this was all really fast to make a decision so much bigger than he realized. I couldn’t just say yes. A few things about Jack rang alarm bells with me. The office with no employees, the overly generous offer without asking me any questions. And the way he made my palms sweat. Especially that.
“I’ll try.”
I stuck my semi-dry hand out toward him. As his fingers touched mine, tiny shocks rocketed up my arm. We shook, his yellow topaz eyes boring into me as we did. I looked down at our clasped hands. No wedding ring.
***
The rest of my morning was busier than you’d expect for a woman with no life. I’d brought my walking clothes and made two laps around the minilakes of the Medi Park loop on the northwest side of town, enjoying the fall air and pondering my options. None of them seemed good, and my mind returned to Sofia’s plight: a young mother far from home, facing possible life in prison, whose child had disappeared. I didn’t know which was worse. And why had she shot that guy anyway? How could Sofia—or any mother—risk a life without her daughter unless she had no other choice? If she was here illegally, that probably meant she didn’t have much support either.
I had always turned up my nose at criminal law, but this woman tugged at my heartstrings. Surely the police were looking for the little girl. I sighed. I really shouldn’t let myself get caught up in this case when it was unlikely I’d take the job, but thinking about it calmed me in a strange way, in a “You think you’ve got it bad, Sister—what about her?” way. Because I didn’t, even if I was about to become a single mom. Not compared to Sofia.
Or to my friend Katie, although at least Nick had returned home safely. Time to suck it up and write that email to her. I typed as I walked, my eyes darting back and forth from the path in front of me to my screen, like I was in REM sleep.
Katie – SOOOO happy to hear Nick is safe. When you have a chance, let me know what happened, and I’ll fill you in on a few developments around here.
What I really wished was that I had the money to jet off to paradise to visit her. That I could cry on her shoulder for a change. Lord knew she owed me. She’d cried mine soggy for years before she and Nick got together, before she quit drinking. Looking back, it was an odd dynamic. She’d sort of been my boss, and was seven years older than me, but I’d been the one who was married and centered. Now the roles had reversed, only she didn’t know it yet. I hit send.
When I’d finished walking the loops, I was queasy and craving veggie curry. Better than craving pickles or fried jalapeños, but it called for an emergency lunch stop at nearby My Thai. I hid in a corner in the back and ate quickly, hoping not to be recognized.
“Ma’am, are you ready for your check?”
I looked up at a waitress too old for her jet-black dyed hair and nose ring. She wasn’t the waiter who’d taken care of me so far, but maybe they’d had a shift change. She wore a short-sleeved top, and her arms were covered in tattoos from wrist to elbow. Really, I thanked God regularly that I had resisted extra piercings and tattoos.
“Yes, thank you.”
“I know you.” She nodded and my shoulders stiffened. Not again. “You’re the one who ran your car through the Taco Villa when we were in high school, right?”
I exhaled the tension away with breath I hadn’t realized I’d held. “Guilty.”
Her words took me back to my Oldsmobile Toronado, which I’d inherited when my father never came back to claim it. The thing was huge, truly defining the “full” in “full-sized,” so I’d called it The Boat. The Boat ejected oil like Spindletop and only turned to the left. What it lacked in drivability it made up for in space, though. One time I crammed eleven of my closest friends in it for the drive to Dick Bivins Stadium for the homecoming football game. Memories. And, yes, I had accidentally left it on and in drive when I dashed into the Taco Villa for a bean burrito (mild, extra sour cream) over lunch during school one day. It had ended up marooned on a pile of demolished bricks that used to be the front wall, engine revving.
“I was there. I’d just finished with a dentist’s appointment and was ordering at the counter with my mom. Scared me to death.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Oh no, it’s okay. You got me out of fifth period.”
We both laughed. I stuck out my hand. “I’m Emily.”
We shook. “Nadine. I was a few years behind you at AHS.”
“Well, it’s been a pleasure running into you, Nadine.”
“Do you live here?”
I paused. “Just moved back.”
“Things are pretty much the same. If you ever need help settling in, though, I could reintroduce you to the Hummers crowd.”
Hummers had been the hot hangout before I moved away, and still was.
I liked this woman, and not just because she didn’t seem to know a thing about my recently sordid past.
“Thanks. That would be great,” I said.
We traded phone numbers, then she held out the check, and I slipped in a twenty and handed it back to her. She smiled and moved on to another table.
My phone notified me of an incoming text. I didn’t recognize the number. I opened it to find a picture of Stormy modeling one of my red silk nightgowns at my condo. And looking better than I did in it. My blood simmered. Another text followed it: This is mine, too.The simmer escalated to a rolling boil.
I attacked my iPhone with angry finger darts as I forwarded the photo to Rich and said: Your boyfriend is a witch. While he’s invading my privacy, tell him to make himself useful and box up my things and ship them to me.
I stared at the phone, waiting. Seconds passed, minutes passed.
I felt Nadine’s eyes on me and she mouthed, “Do you need anything?”
I pretended to smile, and shook my head no. I stared at my phone again. Still, no reply. Well, in the decision of whether to return to Dallas or stay here, this dropped a few lead weights on the staying here side of the scales. I’d liked my condo and job, but the only thing I’d truly miss in Dallas, besides anonymity, would be Goldie, the horse I rode a few weekends a month. She’d feel abandoned. May
be someone could show her this picture of Stormy so she’d understand.
I saved the photo in case I needed it for the divorce, or as a reminder of why I was really, really pissed off at my soon-to-be-ex-husband.
Feeling like I deserved a good spoiling after that little nasty, I headed straight for a mani-pedi splurge at Top Ten Nails, which I put on my rapidly expanding credit card tab. I settled into the pedi chair with hot water bubbling over my feet and shoved my sunglasses on. I stuck my headphones in my phone jack and turned on some old No Doubt, then laid back and closed my eyes. One hour quieted the voices of the nosy noo-noos and their ilk in the bathroom at the wedding, and banished the memory of Stormy’s picture—somewhat. When I was done, I left my sunglasses and headphones on while I made a trip to Natural Grocers for me, and the Walmart Supercenter for Mother. By the time I’d loaded the last of the bags in the car, I’d churned through my life and job options again and decided to hold out for a better fit on a job, with a less dangerous boss than the mysterious Jack. I just didn’t need any more problems. Sofia’s or his.
I pointed Mother’s 2002 Honda Civic west on old Route 66—better known these days as I-40—and headed for home, passing the ten upended and graffiti-covered cars at the world-famous Cadillac Ranch. Technically, I’d grown up mostly in Bushland, a whopping fifteen miles from downtown Amarillo. Now it was barely on the outskirts of the city sprawl. Yes, at nearly 200,000 people, Amarillo was considered a city, thank you very much, but my dad had wanted a place for livestock. Our little white three-bedroom/two-bath house had fifteen acres and a barn, which he’d deemed just right. The barn had fallen into disrepair, after he left when I was sixteen, and the entire property screamed neglect. He’d taken the horses with him, and Mother had sold the three cows to a chop shop, one by one—much to my dismay—long ago, including even Sir Loin, whom I’d helped bottle-feed when he was an orphaned calf. Other houses, nicer houses, had sprung up around us.
I wished she’d let go and move closer to Panhandle Believers, where she worshiped and also worked as a church secretary, but she was stalwart. She had never divorced Dad, and she wasn’t going to leave their home, either. She just lived her life here like it was Madame Tussauds and she was a wax figure, refusing to mention him. It killed me.
Heaven to Betsy (Emily #1) Page 3
