The Trophy Hunter

by J. M. Zambrano

  “No thanks,” replied Diana. “I’m going to stay for a while.” She hefted the file she’d received from Jess. “I’ve got some material to go over on the Flannigan case. Were you able to set up an appointment with his wife and grandkids?”

  “I’ve entered it on your calendar,” replied Tamara as she put on her hooded winter coat and gathered up her handbag and gloves. “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you home? You could read the file there.”

  Diana smiled and shook her head. “I’m going to stay and bite the bullet. Then when I get home, I can relax.” Bite the bullet meant calling her mother. She didn’t expect Tamara to pick up on that. “Actually, there is something you could do for me, but tomorrow would be fine.”

  Tamara nodded, her young face reflecting concern.

  The words backed up in Diana’s throat, but she pushed them forward. “Could you … call a charity for a pickup at my home? I have some furniture … I thought maybe a needy family … could … could …. ” Diana felt tears coming.

  “Of course. I’ll take care of it.” Tamara gave her arm a little squeeze; then hurried out the door. Diana knew she didn’t have to tell her that it was the nursery furniture.

  At her desk, Diana sorted through phone messages, placed to one side the three from her mom. Greg had called. So had a family law attorney they both knew. Hmmm. Could be that Greg had retained him for the divorce? Two clients had called regarding the progress on their respective cases. Diana was glad she had some answers for both of them. Getting up-to-speed. Slowly, but getting there.

  She paused as the name of the next caller prickled her brain. Darren Rogart. Why would Joe Flannigan’s son-in-law call her before a custody suit had even been filed? How did he know Flannigan had retained her?

  The apparent answer set her temples pulsing. Sometimes Jess could really be a pain in the ass. In this frame of mind, Diana picked up the phone, punched in her mother’s number and braced herself for the bullet.

  “Hello.” Neutral tone. Her parents didn’t have caller ID.

  “Mom?” said Diana in the tentative voice she hated. The one that always came out then she talked with her mother.

  “Thank goodness. We’ve been worried sick. Why haven’t you returned my calls?”

  This bullet was going to taste like shit. “Mom, I … ”

  “Why is your voicemail message changed? Both your home and your office messages are different.”

  Greg’s name had been deleted. Where would she start? With the Greg thing or … or ….

  “Has something happened to Greg?” Panic cranked her mother’s voice up a notch.

  Diana ground her teeth, her anger so hot that she no longer felt any physical pain. “Yes, Mother. Something happened to Greg.” She could hear a little hiss of breath on the other end of the line. “I caught my secretary giving him a blow job, so I kicked his ass out.” There. That should either shut her up or give her a coronary.

  “Well … that’s not exactly … ”

  “If you tell me that’s not having sex—not the same as fucking her, I’ll hang up.”

  “Diana, you know how I feel about strong language.”

  “I guess it depends on who’s using it, Mother.”

  Several little hisses this time. Then, “But the baby. They say what babies hear from the womb—”

  “Mother, stop it. I lost the baby.”

  Silence. Then, “What?”

  “You’re not hard of hearing. And you’re not going to make me repeat it.” Tears flowed hotly down her cheeks. The feeling of having screwed up again in her mother’s eyes weighed on her heart. So much for dignity and self-assurance.

  “No baby?” A long-suffering sigh from her mother’s end of the conversation. Diana was not about to answer. She was not going to say it again. Her worth on this earth had just evaporated.

  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” The whine of the self-righteous. “Now I can’t get a refund on the plane ticket.” She’d insisted on coming out for the baby’s birth.

  Mother, I had surgery. You could come out and take care of me. The need for nurture had crept in, unbidden. She could even have used a few words of pity—not to wallow in—just some comfort.

  “Diana,” her mother’s voice took on an accusatory tone, “you didn’t do something to lose the baby?”

  Do something? What kind of mind would ask a question like that? What kind of mother?

  Diana hung up. Let her think whatever it was her sick brain conjured up.

  Through the ringing in her ears, another sound surfaced: the door to her office suite opening and closing. She was sure she’d locked it after Tamara left. Then, a soft knock before her office door opened.

  Diana looked up through her tears at the man who stood in the doorway. Handsome seemed a trivial adjective. He wore an open leather jacket over a black western shirt. Her eyes dried as they met his—startling gray-hazel in a tan face. A massive turquoise belt buckle topped tight jeans, pulling her eyes to a place below that made the color rise in her cheeks. She willed her eyes back up toward his face.

  Before she could stammer a word, he said, “I called earlier. I’m Darren Rogart.”

  Chapter 7

  “Calling first doesn’t give you the right to barge into my office.” Anger mounted in Diana, fresh from the phone conversation with her mother, augmented by the audacity of the man.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. His eyes left hers and traveled around the room, much as Joe Flannigan’s had on his first visit, taking in the wildlife art on the walls. “When I didn’t hear back from you, I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “You should have waited, Mr. Rogart. My return call would have informed you that this meeting … this conversation is not appropriate.”

  He ignored her words as he proceeded into the room and took a seat across from her. Diana noticed that his dark hair had a generous sprinkling of silver—premature, from the look of his face.

  “Are you listening to me, Mr. Rogart? You must leave immediately.” Diana aimed for her ball-busting bitch voice, but what really came out diluted her message.

  Rogart looked down, shook his head slightly, and she saw a faint, lopsided smile tweak his lips. “When you’re desperate, you do whatever it takes.” Looking back at her with that same intense glance that she was starting to find disconcerting, he continued, “My children are in danger, and no one is listening to me. I hoped you’d be different.”

  “I represent your father-in-law. You’re aware of that. I can’t talk to you. You need to get your own attorney.”

  He sighed deeply. Diana watched his shoulders sag; then square up as he arose from the chair. “You’re right,” he said. “I apologize.”

  As he retraced his steps, Diana got up and followed him. He turned back toward her and appeared on the verge of saying something. Then his glance fixed on the eagle painting by the door. “I think I know how they feel.” His voice was a husky whisper.

  “What do you mean?” she couldn’t resist asking.

  “So close to extinction.” The wispy smile made his face appear sadder.

  “They’re protected,” countered Diana.

  As they proceeded into the dimly lit reception area, she heard a sound escape his lips. Then he turned back toward her, sober-faced, and said, “There are some things laws can’t protect against.”

  She remembered Jess’s revelation: this man was a poacher who had done time. “You should know,” she replied recklessly.

  The look that crossed his face made her regret the words, especially in such a vulnerable setting—after hours, empty building.

  But when he spoke, there was no anger in his voice. It was as if he didn’t connect her words with his past. “My wife was molested as a child. The law couldn’t protect her. Now the same man has my daughter. Somebody’s gotta do something.”

  “Mr. Rogart—”

  “I know. We can’t have this conversation. Just give it some thought … Diana … before you write me
off as some nutcase.” He paused in the doorway; then looked back at the eagle painting and shook his head.

  Before she could comment, he was out the door. Out of sight. She heard his boots clicking a measured beat down the hallway.

  Diana. In her head she heard his voice speaking her name, stirring something she didn’t want stirred. Diana.

  She slammed the door, threw the deadbolt in place, and then walked back to her desk. As she passed the eagle painting, Diana saw Rogart’s eyes in its face.

  Chapter 8

  After several unproductive minutes, Diana conceded that she couldn’t concentrate on the Flannigan/Rogart file in her office. She’d had it for the night and called a cab. She tucked the file into her briefcase; then exited the office, thinking maybe she’d have better luck at home. At that moment, everything in her life seemed out-of-focus.

  As she left the building, Diana saw that the snow had intensified. She was glad when the cab appeared after only minutes. The ride home was of relatively short duration in spite of the weather. Something ominous seemed to follow her as she paid the cab driver; then hurried up the walk to her door as new snowflakes piled upon the earlier accumulation.

  Once inside her house, Diana immediately locked the door behind her. Lights that she’d put on a timer were already glowing in the foyer and living room. Diana paused in the dining room, flicked on the wall switch that lit up a crystal chandelier; then dumped the contents of her briefcase—the Flannigan/Rogart file—on the dining table. Her gesture had all the ceremony of dumping the garbage. Bad attitude, Diana, she could almost hear her mother’s comment.

  Piss on her. Diana kicked out of her taupe suede boots and walked into the kitchen, flipping the switch for the island light. Her glance crossed the stainless steel refrigerator, but her late lunch with Jess still sat heavily inside her.

  From the adjacent laundry room, a faint sound drew her attention. The cat door flapping shut? “Tigger?” She heard a thump as the cat’s feet hit the wood laminate floor. Tigger was no lightweight. “There you are,” she said as the yellow tabby strolled in and proudly dumped a dead starling at her feet. He then rubbed against her leg in a bid for praise or a handout.

  “You really didn’t have to wait dinner on my account.” Diana picked up the bird. It was cold to the touch and stiff. “Couldn’t you at least have warmed it up?” Diana shuddered as she deposited it in a plastic bag. It would smell if she put it in the trash canister. Their usual routine was to exchange the bird for a saucer of milk; then Diana would take her “gift” outside to the big Dumpster.

  She wavered by the back door. Something in the night, apart from the snow, made her shiver. Then she turned and placed the bird in the kitchen trash, making mental note to take it out in the morning. In the emotional chill of her empty house, Diana doled out Tigger’s milk and cat goodies and stroked his thick fur, brushing off a dusting of snow from his coat.

  The need to hear another human voice filled her. She punched in Jess’s cell number on the kitchen phone.

  Jess answered on the second ring. “Edwards and Associates.”

  That answer mode always amused Diana, since Jess operated her business solo. She gave her stock response: “Edwards is a flake. Give me one of the associates.”

  “I see you got home okay,” said Jess. “Have you had a chance to look at the file?”

  “I intended to, but I was interrupted.”

  Silence. Then, “Oh?”

  “Jessie, you’ve got one hell of a nerve sending that man to my office.”

  “What man?”

  “What man?” she mimicked. “You know what man. How else would Darren Rogart even know I was involved in the case?”

  “So, what do you think of him?”

  “I’ll reserve judgment for now. He did bring up something that had crossed my mind. Even before you brought it up at lunch.”

  “Spit it out already.”

  Diana put the phone on speaker, got a mug from the mug tree and set herself up a cup of tea. She placed it in the microwave and hit the minute button.

  “Diana?”

  “Does Flannigan have any kind of record?”

  “A couple of DUIs,” replied Jess. “A speeding ticket and a breach of contract civil suit. He was the plaintiff on the civil suit.”

  “No domestic violence or child abuse?” asked Diana, frowning as she removed the mug of tea from the microwave.

  “Nothing in that category. And the DUIs are ten years old—before he joined AA,” replied Jess.

  “So, you did a comprehensive background check on both Flannigan and Rogart?”

  “You apparently haven’t even looked at the material I gave you.” Annoyance crept into Jess’s voice.

  “What did I just say? Hello.” Diana set the steaming mug of tea on the granite-topped island. “I was about to when Rogart just walked in.” Diana thought again about the locked office door. Or had Tamara forgotten to throw the lock before she left?

  “He does tend to do in one’s powers of concentration.” Jess’s voice had a little lilt in it again, pissing Diana off immensely—disproporionately, in fact.

  A growl escaped Diana’s lips—not unlike the voice of Tigger.

  “Animal attraction?” asked Jess.

  “Damn it, Jessie—”

  “Aw, you talked to your mom, didn’t you?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Darren couldn’t do that much damage. Want a ride in the morning? You can dump it all on me then.”

  “I’ve got a doctor’s appointment. I’m supposed to be cleared to drive, so I thought I’d drive to the appointment.”

  “Brilliant,” said Jess. Diana could imagine her rolling her eyes.

  “Probably not,” mumbled Diana through a gulp of warm tea.

  “Hey, I gotta go.” Jess’s voice tensed up, volume decreased to a whisper.

  Diana recognized her surveillance tone. “Be careful, Jessie.”

  “I always am.” Click. She was gone.

  The blue and white kitchen was suddenly cold and unwelcoming. Diana shuddered as she absently patted Tigger; then thought of the files that lay on the dining table.

  Fatigue washed over her as she walked past her “homework.” Instead of picking up the file, she climbed the stairs. Warm shower—that should help. Then, bed … sleep … attack the beast in the morning, with a fresh mind.

  The oversized master bath had his and hers basins. A shower for him. A sunken tub for her, with shelves for bath oils, perfumes and pretty wildlife figurines. Diana’s eyes hovered over an empty bottle of L’Air du Temps that she’d kept because of the pair of white doves on top.

  Diana glanced tentatively at her image in the long oval mirror. The angry redness of her scar waited under her clothing although she continued to harbor the hope that some miracle independent of time might erase it. Tired of being revolted by her own image, she entered the shower after removing only her outer clothing. Irrational. So what? I’ve got the right. She pitched her bra and panties over the shower door, turned on the water and let the pulsing warmth wash away the icky feeling.

  As the warmth lulled her, Diana began to unwind. Then something she couldn’t identify heightened her senses. Some sound outside the room. Vague, but enough to command her awareness.

  Diana turned off the shower and stood listening, trying to identify what had interrupted the moment of relaxation. She remained motionless, dripping water, hearing nothing but the plop-plop of drops and the gurgle of water down the drain. Tendrils of wet hair clung to her neck like fingers.

  What had she heard? Slowly, Diana opened the shower door, grabbing a fluffy towel, drying herself as she stepped out into the steamy room. She’d purposely not turned on the ceiling fan, so that the steam would hide her reflection when she exited the shower.

  Leaving the shower door open, Diana stepped soundlessly across the turquoise-colored rug, grabbed her favorite dark green velour robe from its wall hook, and wrapped herself in it before slowl
y turning the handle of the door to the hall.

  There it was again. A creak, a tap, as if someone was moving around downstairs. Repairing the security system had seemed a low priority item. Mistake!

  Diana inched open the bathroom door and peered out into the hallway. Then she remembered the nearest phone—if she needed one—was in the bedroom, through the other door from the bathroom.

  As she quietly closed and locked the bathroom door, she heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Diana dove for the door to the master bedroom. The sickening sound of that bedroom door being opened from the hall stopped her, jamming her heart up into her throat.

  Gathering courage, she inched open the door to the bedroom. A man in a tan overcoat was opening the closet door on the far side of the room. His back was to her, but instant recognition turned terror into rage—partly pent-up from the day’s events, but mostly built-up from the days that went before.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Greg?”

  “I have a draft of our property settlement for you to go over,” replied Greg, turning toward her.

  No intimacy surfaced in the looks that passed between them. They could have been strangers caught up in an inconvenience, thought Diana.

  “You could’ve mailed it,” she snapped.

  “I left some things in the closet.”

  Diana clutched the green robe more tightly around her, as if its folds could insulate her from this unwanted exchange. “You’ll find the rest of your things in boxes in the garage,” she said, glaring at him. “I’d like the keys, please. Do I really need to change the locks?”

  Greg backed toward the door to the hall, looking as if their meeting was just as distasteful to him as it was to her. “I’ll leave them on the table downstairs after I get my boxes,” he said, dripping sarcasm.

  Diana noted that he’d also dripped slushy residue from his overshoes all across the off-white carpet.

  “For your information,” he continued into her angry silence, “I did ring the doorbell. When you didn’t answer, I was going to use my key, but I didn’t need to. The door was unlocked.” He turned curtly and hurried out of the room.