The Cards of Life and Death (Modern Gothic Romance 2)

by Colleen Gleason

  Through it all the black-armored Death rode slowly and steadily through her nocturnal images. His flag snapped dully in a nonexistent wind, ominous in its incessant rhythm. Like the sound of an army approaching, or that of a death knell. Thwack, snap, thud… thud… Di-an-a… Di-an-a….

  “Diana?”

  Her eyes peeled open and she saw that the world was light once again. Someone was pounding on her door. Jonathan.

  She couldn’t answer; her brain was still fogged, smothered by the dreams. She looked at the clock. Two. In the afternoon?

  “Diana,” Jonathan said again, and this time he cracked the door.

  “What?” she croaked.

  “I’m—leaving for awhile. Thought you might want to know.” His gaze traveled the room lighting on her suitcases. “I hope you’re still here when I get back,” he added, looking at her hopefully.

  She didn’t respond with more than a little wave. Her hand trembled noticeably and her head still thudded. Mercifully, the door closed and moments later, she heard Jonathan leave the house.

  Only then did she feel able to pull herself from the bed on shaky legs and make her way to the kitchen. Coffee didn’t appeal, but she had juice and then went to retrieve her BlackBerry from its pocket in her purse.

  No missed calls. No texts.

  Not that she’d expected any from anyone. Ethan didn’t even have her cell phone number … did he? Not that he’d call her.

  Why would he call her? She was nothing more than a summer fling who also happened to be a subject. The nausea returned in full force and she directed herself back into the kitchen to find something on which to nibble, realizing she hadn’t eaten since yesterday on the road.

  With a few crackers in hand, Diana sat herself firmly down at the kitchen table with her laptop and the intention of working. Tomorrow was Monday, and she’d be back in the office bright and early, ready to get back to her normal life.

  No more thoughts about Tarot cards, no more worries about someone breaking into her house, and certainly no more daydreaming about a handsome, dog-loving parapsychologist.

  ~*~

  Two weeks after her return from Damariscotta, Diana was in her office trying to concentrate on a brief when her assistant poked her head around the door. “Got a minute? It’s the Merkovitz case,” Mickey said.

  A twinge of unease shivered over her. She’d been avoiding spending any time on the case, justifying it by the fact that she had months before the hearing. But she couldn’t ignore it and its difficult client forever. “Of course. Come in.”

  Mickey, who was, as always, dressed at the height of trend, clomped in on her chunky-heeled shoes and proffered her boss a stack of manila folders as she took a seat.

  She was as close to a best friend as Diana had had in a long while—next to Jonathan. They were the same age but their lives leading up to their current positions were completely different.

  Raised in the North End among the Italian Catholics, Mickey had married at age seventeen immediately out of high school, bore her first child at eighteen, her second at twenty, her third at twenty-one, and got her tubes tied shortly thereafter over the vehement protests of her mother Salem. Now, her children were in school—the youngest was eleven—and she’d decided to pursue the career she’d never had a chance to start before. Her husband, Dominic, had been surprisingly supportive. Mickey maintained it was because she was such an awful cook, and that with her at work, his mother could cook for them.

  Regardless of how or why she’d come into this position, the fact was she was the best assistant, confidant, and friend Diana had ever had working for her … even though Mickey tended to be a bit too outspoken.

  “What’s the update?” Diana said from her seat on the other side of the mahogany desk.

  “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you’ve been avoiding this case. And Merkovitz’s calls,” Mickey said, tossing a cloud of frizzy blond hair behind her shoulder.

  Diana bit her lip. She couldn’t hide much from Mickey. “That obvious, huh?”

  “Not that I blame you—the guy’s still the biggest dickwad I’ve ever met, and that’s saying a lot, coming from the North End. And having five brothers.”

  “Your brothers aren’t that big of jerks,” Diana protested, remembering many a dinner overrun by the big, loud, Italian-Catholic family. Except maybe Leo, who’d once stuck his hand up her shirt after too many glasses of Chianti.

  “No, but they have a lot of friends who are.”

  Both of them chuckled and then Diana returned her attention to the matter at hand. “So tell me the latest. You met with the CNA and the nurse?”

  “Right. They were in the surgery that Merkovitz allegedly screwed up—Jenkson is the patient’s name. They were only willing to talk off the record, but I’m sure they’ll be subpoenaed. They both stated, independently, that they were certain he was intoxicated during the surgery. Slurred words, a bit of a stumble, shaking hands—the whole nine yards. But they didn’t smell anything on him, so ….”

  “Damn,” Diana breathed, placing her hand softly, firmly on the desk. What had always been a prickling annoyance about the previous case, one that she’d forced herself to ignore, expanded into full-blown comprehension. “I knew it.” Anger and disbelief warred inside. He’d lied to her. She’d even asked him point-blank if he’d been under the influence of any drugs or intoxicants, and he’d lied.

  No, she’d allowed him to lie to her.

  Diana rested her head in her hand, feeling as if blinders and shutters were falling away. Now all she saw was cold, empty realization. “I suspected as much in the last case. I knew something was wrong. And I got him off then—dammit. And someone died.”

  She sat there for a moment, furious with herself and with Roger Merkovitz, and stunned that she could have been so blind—or allowed herself to be. This was what gave attorneys a bad reputation.

  “What are you going to do?” Mickey asked after a long moment.

  Standing, Diana shoved her chair away from the desk and it rolled back into the credenza. Her heart was pounding, her world in flux … but she knew what she had to do. “I’m going to call him and tell him I can’t represent him in this case.”

  “You’re his attorney—you have to defend him even if he’s guilty. And you don’t know that he was at fault in the previous case. You could get disbarred for saying otherwise,” Mickey said. Her expression was serious, but not condemning. There was no judgment in the woman who’d worked closely with her on the previous case. She knew just as much as Diana did.

  “I won’t be his attorney any longer.”

  “He won’t like that. He’s our biggest client.”

  Diana’s stomach pitched. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t do this. I have to have some integrity.” She looked at her friend. For some reason, an image of the High Priestess flickered into her mind. “Even if I can’t pay the bills.” Her heart was pounding, her palms going slick. But she’d made her decision. She was listening to her instincts.

  “Word,” Mickey said, softly vehement. “I’m a hundred percent supportive. It’ll work out.” She stood and started to leave, then paused, her hand on the door. “Jonathan’s not going to be very happy.” Her steady gaze was both challenging and filled with question.

  “It doesn’t matter what Jonathan thinks,” Diana said shortly. She’d moved out more than two weeks ago, but hadn’t mentioned anything to Mickey. Although, clearly, her assistant suspected something was up—particularly since several bouquets of flowers had arrived at the office in the last few weeks. All from Jonathan.

  “It doesn’t?” pressed her friend. Her eyes had narrowed and were looking at her sharply. “Anything you want to tell me? Li-ike … the fact that you moved out?”

  Diana sighed. “Fine. I moved out. I told him it was over.”

  “Hot damn, woman! I knew it!”

  Diana blinked and looked at her. “You sound very pleased.”

  “You know I was never that crazy abo
ut him. There’s just something … off about him. Something that bugs me. And of course the fact that he’s a cheating asshole doesn’t help.”

  Diana didn’t even ask how Mickey knew about Jonathan’s indiscretion. She just gave her friend a look and said, “Get Merkovitz on the phone so I can end this.”

  ~*~

  Late in the afternoon three days later, the intercom on Diana’s desk blared, interrupting a meeting with Mickey.

  “Diana, Jonathan’s on line three for you,” said Corey, the receptionist. “He says it’s urgent and he’s been trying to get your on your cell.”

  Damn. Yes, she’d been avoiding him. She sighed and capitulated. “I’ll take it.” Diana picked up the phone, and looked up just in time to see Mickey’s eyes roll. She shook her head and pushed the button for line three. “Diana Iverson,” she said in a businesslike tone.

  Jonathan didn’t even greet her. “I just got off the phone with Roger Merkovitz and he was so irate I could hardly understand what he was saying. It sounded like he said you’d dumped him.”

  Faintly surprised that he wasn’t calling about all of texts he’d sent, and the notes with the flowers, she replied calmly, “That’s correct. I had to drop his case. As you can imagine, he wasn’t pleased.”

  “You did?” Jonathan’s voice rose to a volume she’d never heard before. “Why would you do such a stupid thing? What’s going on?”

  Diana pulled the receiver away from her ear and stared at it. “I had to drop his case,” she repeated, falling back on her calm, emotionless persona that served as a thick shield in such situations. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.” Her voice remained steady and cool, but inside, she was shocked and bewildered. Jonathan had never raised his voice in this manner—she knew he had a temper, but it had never yet, in the last year, been directed at her.

  “Why?” As if realizing his irrationality, Jonathan calmed his tones. “Diana, do you know what this will do to you? To your reputation? Merkovitz will have it in shreds. You won’t be able to practice law in this town—”

  “Stop it, Jonathan,” she interrupted. “Roger Merkovitz does not make or break my career or my practice. And if I make the decision to drop a case, it’s my decision, not yours. I’m sorry you’re friends with him, but I can’t represent the man. And might I remind you that we’re no longer a couple anyway, so it really shouldn’t reflect poorly on you—if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “But why?”

  Diana gripped the phone tighter. “Ask him. I was very up-front about my reasons. If he wants you to know, he can tell you himself. Now, I really have to get back to work. Good-bye.”

  ~*~

  Ethan had been back in Princeton for more than three weeks. He didn’t mind being on campus so much, but he’d come to prefer Damariscotta. There weren’t any young fresh-faced, manipulative students trying to trick him into bed up there, nor the undercurrents of gossip related to Meghan and Bruce—but nor were there many other prospects for a man who’d been sleeping alone for much too long. Much as he loved his cabin tucked away in the woods, he was lonely.

  He’d left for New Jersey the Monday after Diana rushed back to Boston, looking for a change of scenery and to take care of some business regarding his latest co-published journal article. Aside from that, he didn’t want to have to be answering any questions from Helen Galliday or avoiding Joe Cap’s meaningful looks about Diana Iverson.

  He got back to his office after a long lunch with some of his friends and found the voice mail light blinking on his desk phone. And then he heard a soft buzzing sound, and realized he’d left his cell phone in his jacket pocket, and his jacket slung over his chair.

  Someone was trying to get in touch with him. A faint, derisive, ridiculous hope that it was Diana, begging to see him again, was quashed when he pushed the buttons to access his office voicemail and Helen Galliday’s sharp, unmistakable voice pierced his ears over the phone lines.

  “Ethan? Ethan Tannock, is that you? …. I tell you, I don’t like these confounded machines, you know …. Are you there? … Young man, I don’t know where you’ve been off to for the past few weeks, but there’s trouble brewin’ up here and you need to do something about it! …. Can you hear me? …. The autopsy’s come back an—”

  Something cut her off at that point, but the indomitable Helen was not about to be stopped, for the second message was the same strident voice. “ … Ethan? … Ethan, this blazin’ voicemail of yours is abominable! Why can’t you answer your phone yourself? It turned off on me last time! … And I was tellin’ you somethin’ important! … You best get back here right away … They’re saying Belinda was murdered! Murdered in her bed! … D’you hear me? … I was going to say that in the last message but that infernal machine turned off … you come home right now!” And that second message had been terminated by the unmistakable sound of a phone receiver being slammed into its cradle.

  The third and final message was short and to the point: “Where the hell are you? Call me.”

  It was Joe Cap.

  ~*~

  Boston’s on the way back here from Princeton, Joe had said. Cady’s having a great time here with me and Penny. You can stop off and give Diana the news. It’s better that she get it in person, Ethan.

  Yeah, right. And since when was Ethan a member of law enforcement, and required to deliver such bad news? But here he was, against his better judgment, standing in the hallway in a high-rise in Boston’s financial district. It was just before five o’clock, later than he’d anticipated thanks to Friday afternoon traffic, but here he was. He knew she’d be there: a dedicated, workaholic lawyer like her wouldn’t be turning off the lights until she’d hit her 70-plus-hour a week billable time.

  Diana’s office suite was separated from the hall by a large, mahogany door and a discreet gold-lettered sign: Diana M. Iverson—Medical Malpractice. There was a narrow band of window running along one side of the door, and Ethan could see an efficient-looking receptionist busily answering phones. Of course—Diana would suffer nothing less than efficiency.

  He still couldn’t believe he’d agreed to help Joe. When Diana had driven away in her shiny gold Lexus, he told himself he’d be happy to never see her again. Manipulative, secretive, frosty Diana, who’d shut him down with a cool, lawyerly argument right on the front porch of Belinda’s house.

  But now, here he was, and he was already regretting it. He supposed he could just leave without seeing her, and tell Joe that he’d not been able to connect with her … then he stopped. Why should it bother him so much to talk to her? And he owed it to Belinda.

  That was the real reason he was there, he told himself. And that was the last twist of Joe’s knife that had convinced him to agree.

  He’d purposely chosen to come late in the day, and not to make an appointment. Since he had no desire to be there himself, he didn’t want to give her any choice in the matter either.

  Strangely nervous, he opened the heavy door and the young woman looked up with a pleasant smile. She was wearing a headset obviously attached to the phone, for she was talking with someone, and she nodded in greeting at him, holding up a pink-manicured finger to let him know she’d be right with him. Corey Geisoff, read her nameplate. She was seated at a desk behind a high counter that almost hid her face, but was of the right height for someone to stand at and rest one’s briefcase or planner atop it.

  While he waited for Corey to assist him, Ethan scanned the small waiting area, noting two black leather armchairs separated by a small mahogany table and a matching loveseat. A telephone, a calla lily, and several daily newspapers were within easy reach of anyone waiting to meet with Diana or her coworkers. Several old maps of Boston decorated the walls, and other than that, the area was comfortably plain.

  By the time he’d finished assessing the room, Corey had finished her phone call. Just as she looked up at him, a whirlwind of blond, neon green, and jangling silver bracelets shot around the corner from the back of the suite.
“Corey—oh, excuse me!”

  The streak stopped short and Ethan smiled at the bundle of energy topped by an incredible mass of frizzy blond hair.

  “No problem,” he said as he flashed a charming grin, knowing he had to get them on his side if he was going to get in to see Diana without a fight. The woman returned his smile, slapping a stack of manila envelopes onto the counter. “Go ahead,” he offered, “I’m in no hurry.”

  She was wearing a suit of neon green, silver bangled earrings and bracelet, and chunky white shoes. Despite her state of activity—which equated, Ethan thought, to that of a tornado—she was the picture of trendy professionalism and efficiency. “Thanks,” she said, and he saw the hints of crow’s feet at her eyes and the lines in her cheeks and realized she was not the young, recent college graduate he’d assumed. She turned to Corey and gestured to the stack of envelopes. “Can you get these couriered over to the court a-sap? And let me know if Gerald Deets calls back—Diana wants to talk with him.”