“What’s the cab company out here?” I ask, striding over to dig out my phone.
“I’ll call ’em for you. I’ve got it here somewhere.”
I turn to say that that’s not necessary but Dean is already out of sight, returning seconds later with a phone pressed to his ear. “Yeah,” he’s saying. “First one on the left. Fine.” He hangs up. “Ten minutes.”
I nod awkwardly, gaze darting around his apartment. In addition to the main open area which houses the kitchen, pool table, couch and television, there’s a hallway off to the side, most likely leading to a bedroom. Three of the walls are red brick, the floor is polished concrete and the ceiling is exposed pipe work. It’s cold and functional, and when I spot Dean watching me, I decide it suits its occupant.
“I’ll wait outside,” I say, when I simply can’t stand here anymore.
Dean nods brusquely and follows me down the hall to the front door. I expect him to stay behind and close it after me, but instead he trails me downstairs and out to the curb, waiting silently in the darkness.
I feel the inane urge to ask why he wasn’t out celebrating, but don’t want him to ask me what my plans were, so I purse my lips and remain silent. He stands far enough back that I can’t hear or feel him, I just know that he’s there, like a guilty conscience. I wonder then if he feels like he’s “fucked me out of his head.” If the angry weight he’s been carrying with him for ten years will have lifted, and he’ll feel different, lighter.
I don’t allow myself to consider how I’ll feel. Not while I’m standing here, panty-free, party-dress wrinkled, makeup smudged, guilty as sin.
Finally the cab arrives, pulling up to the curb. To my surprise Dean steps forward and tugs open the back door, holding it as I slide inside, careful to keep my knees together. I hide a wince as my freshly bruised skin meets the seat, and glance up to find Dean watching me as he closes the door. He doesn’t move as the cab pulls away, and I feel his gaze lingering, long after we’re out of sight.
Chapter Six
“And what did your supervisor say when you presented him with the note from Dr. Cortez?”
“That he’d pass it on to his superiors.”
“Did you know to whom he was referring when he said that?”
“His bosses, I guess.”
“Did they work in the plant with you?”
A snicker. “No.”
“Do you recall what the note said?”
“Yeah. It said that Dr. Cortez believed I was being exposed to something at work that was causing my headaches.”
“Just the headaches?”
“No, the other stuff too.”
“The disorientation, the dizziness, the eye irritation?”
“That’s right.”
“When did you give your supervisor the note?”
“Mother’s Day, that year. I remember ’cause my wife was pissed I had to work overtime. Again.”
I make a note. “Just a few more questions, Mr. Nunes. Is that okay?”
I watch Hector Nunes struggle to remain upright in his wheelchair. His eyes are drifting closed, but he’d warned at the beginning of the hour that that sometimes happened whether he was tired or not.
“Yeah.”
“When did you have your first seizure?”
Hector blinks, unfocused eyes roaming around the room as though trying to remember. But when he answers, the words are clear. “The day before Father’s Day.”
“That same year?”
“Yes.”
“And that was when doctors did tests and found three milligrams per liter of perchlorodibenzene in your blood? More than three times the amount known to be fatal?”
“I don’t remember. You got the reports.”
“I do. How long were you in the hospital that time?”
“Just two days.”
“And what advice did the doctors give you when you were discharged?”
“Take some time off work.”
“And did you apply for sick leave?”
“Yeah.”
“And what happened then?”
“They fired me.”
Ten minutes later Hector’s insisting he’s not tired, but I assure him we have no more questions and are leaving because we’re finished, not because he’s drifted off twice midanswer. I snap open my umbrella as I leave his small bungalow the Monday after the Fourth of July.
“Watch yourselves on the ramp,” he calls, eyeing us from the door.
I smile at him over my shoulder. “Thanks. We’ll talk again soon.”
“Whenever you want.”
Parker’s in court all week so I’m conducting interviews with Adrian Cartwright, an eager-beaver second-year associate whose primary job has been to listen and take notes. I stifle a yawn as I pick my way down the slippery wheelchair ramp that leads from Hector’s front door to a cobbled pathway to the street, slipping on the wet stones.
Because Adrian’s here—and because he’s a bit of a pompous kiss-ass—Jose is already out of the car and holding open the back door. Adrian reaches him first and slides in wordlessly as Jose and I exchange bland gazes—the closest the ever-professional Jose will come to an eye roll.
We drive back in relative silence. I hold my breath as the elevator whisks us past the seventeenth floor of the King Building, but Todd doesn’t magically thrust his arm through the doors to stop the moving car. I haven’t seen or heard from him since the Fourth, though I did send a text the following day, apologizing for not turning up and not calling to say as much. Lame, I know, but I’ve done far worse recently.
I shake my head as though that will rid me of the memory of my night—or rather, my hour—with Dean, but the gesture only earns me a weird stare from Adrian. I glance at my watch: quarter past six.
“Grab some dinner if you’re hungry,” I tell him as he steps off and onto the thirty-first floor. “Come to my office at seven to go over the notes.”
“What about the new questions?” he asks.
“What are you talking about?”
“The ones Caitlin—Ms. Dufresne—”
I roll my eyes.
“Put together in North Carolina? I noticed you weren’t following the script—”
“I’ve interviewed Hector Nunes three times, Adrian. Caitlin’s questions are for first time—”
“But some of them—”
“Don’t interrupt me. If I want to ask Caitlin’s questions, I will. If I want to answer yours, I will. Right now I don’t.”
His mouth opens and closes for a moment, then he wisely clamps it shut. Caitlin’s the one with the reputation for being rude to junior associates—well, everyone, really—and while I’d hate to have anything in common with her, I just don’t have the patience for this.
The doors slide shut and I close my eyes to absorb the five whole seconds I’ve had all to myself today. All too soon the doors open on thirty-two and I attempt to beeline it to my office.
“Miss Moser,” Belinda, one of the secretaries, calls. She’s short and no-nonsense, having worked with lawyers her entire thirty-year career.
I groan inwardly and pretend not to hear.
“Miss Moser!”
My office is so close. Just a few...more...
“You have four messages.”
I stop. Only four? Maybe today’s looking up.
“From the same man,” Belinda continues.
My hope fades.
I turn to accept the small collection of green paper on which Belinda has carefully written the same message, only the time of the call changing: Reginald Howard, urgent, followed by an unfamiliar phone number. Not Dean’s number.
I feel relieved.
Right?
“Thanks, Belinda.”
She smiles, reading my lack of enthusiasm. “You’re welcome.”
I finally reach my office, close the glass door, drop my bag and slump into my seat. What I really want to do is curl up on the floor and go to sleep, which is no doubt precisely what
the glass walls were intended to prevent.
I switch on my computer and while I wait for it to boot up, my nose twitches. It takes all of one second to spot the source of the smell: a tiny white box, familiar vintage label, tied in a pink string.
He didn’t.
I open the box.
He did.
It’s a donut.
I love Parker.
I glance around to make sure no one’s watching, then duck down, somewhat masked by the computer monitor, and eat the raspberry-filled pastry. It’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.
After last week’s cherry Popsicle overload I’d promised myself I’d stay away from sugar, but this is exactly what I need. I lick raspberry filling from the corner of my mouth, powdered sugar from the tips of all ten fingers and check myself in a compact for telltale signs of covert donut eating. I’m clean.
And just in time, because when I next look up, there’s a one-eyed man at my door, and he looks batshit crazy.
I squeal like a stuck pig, shooting straight up in my chair, fingers fumbling for the phone. What’s the number for security? Who is that man? How did he get up here? Oh dear God, he’s coming in.
Belinda’s storming up behind him, looking livid.
Tackle him, Belinda. Take him down!
The one-eyed man shoves open the door, pushes it shut behind him and turns the lock, trapping us inside.
My jaw drops. Am I about to be murdered?
He’s clad in a green tracksuit and has a yellow raincoat slung over one arm, dripping water on the floor. Beneath his other arm is a battered manila envelope, paper peeking out the end. My heart is pounding so hard I can barely breathe, but when I look at his face, he doesn’t look mean. Scary? Yes. Angry? Maybe...not?
He looks to be about sixty-five, with wiry gray hair sticking out in every direction and an eye patch covering what would be his right eye. He’s a little on the stocky side, and when I stand to confront him, I realize he’s shorter than me, maybe five foot five.
Behind him, Belinda and two other secretaries peer through the glass, trying to gauge the risk level. I don’t know what to do, but at the moment my guest and I are separated by my large oak desk, and he doesn’t seem intent on launching himself across it and killing me.
“Can I help you?” I finally utter, pleased my voice doesn’t squeak.
“This is you, right?” He pulls something from his pocket and extends it toward me. It’s my business card.
“Yes. Do I know you?”
He shakes his head and carefully returns the card to his pocket, then makes himself at home in one of the two chairs on the opposite side of the desk, draping his wet jacket over the other. “Name’s Reginald Howard,” he says, crossing his legs. “From Camden.”
Ugh. “Okay.”
Belinda, who had briefly disappeared, returns with the master key for my office and one of the male fourth years. She holds up the key and I nod, indicating that she should unlock the door lest I need to make a sudden run for it.
Reginald turns in his seat at the sound of the lock clicking open, then turns back, apparently unconcerned. “I own Titan’s Boxing Gym.”
Cue the doomsday music.
“You know Dean Barclay?” he asks.
Another reluctant nod. Please don’t tell me Dean filmed what happened and showed it to people and now you’re here to extort me.
“I got your card from him.”
I sit back down and cross my feet at the ankles, trying to regain some sense of composure and professionalism. “Do you have a legal issue?”
“You bet your ass I do. I’m being harassed, and I need a lawyer.” Reginald smacks the manila envelope onto the desk, making me jump.
“And Dean recommended me?”
Reginald laughs, a raspy sound that makes me reach for my water. “Oh God no,” he finally snorts. “He didn’t want to tell me a damn thing about you. But I’d seen you talking at the gym—” He taps his good eye “—and I’d heard about you interviewing people ’round town, and I put two and two together.” Reginald leans forward to study me. “What kind of legal business you got with Dean?”
I shake my head, about to say “None,” then instead answer, “I don’t discuss my clients.”
Reginald studies me for a moment, then nods, satisfied. “Works for me. Now how much is this going to cost? A hundred dollars?”
Ha. Yeah, for twelve minutes.
“I don’t even know what your case is, Reginald.”
“I told you, I’m being harassed.” He nods at the envelope, as though it should be obvious.
I sigh. “Tell me about it. Briefly.” Our audience has fled, though there is an uncommon amount of foot traffic passing by my door, no doubt keeping an eye on things.
Reginald tells me he’s the sole owner of the boxing gym and the vacant lot behind it, which he lets his fighters use as an outdoor training area, parking lot, and place to hang out and smoke. The lot backs into a formerly vacant warehouse which, six months ago, was rented out by a Chicago artist named Ruthie Block.
For the past five months Ruthie has been asking Reginald to keep his fighters out of the vacant lot because their commotion interrupts her artistic process. When he pointed out that he owned the lot and the fighters weren’t making excessive noise, she threatened to sue him for being a public nuisance. He received three personal letters of complaint from Ruthie, then three additional letters from her Chicago-based lawyer, all pointing out public bylaws preventing him from using his space as he saw fit. When he ignored the letters—burning one out on the back lot and blowing the ashes against her building—little things began to happen. One morning he arrived to find the entire paved lot covered with gasoline. Another time the picnic bench had been hacked up with an axe. After that one of the windows on the gym was broken.
“She’s a psychopath,” Reginald concludes, tapping the envelope. “I got evidence.”
I know I shouldn’t, but I pick up the envelope and sift through its meager contents: Ruthie’s three original letters, handwritten on unlined paper, requesting that Reginald keep his fighters out of the lot and use it for parking only; two of the letters from her “lawyer,” who, if my inner Sherlock Holmes is correct, is Ruthie using a typewriter; and black-and-white photos of the vandalism.
“Why are these pictures in black-and-white?”
Reginald shrugs. “I thought it looked better.”
“Did you file any police reports?”
Another shrug, followed by the tiniest shake of his head.
I purse my lips. “What is it you would like me to do?”
“Tell her to fuck off! Legally.”
I look at Reginald closely. He seems to be having trouble meeting my gaze, and it’s not because of the eye patch. “Something’s missing,” I say, watching him.
He shifts imperceptibly. He may be surrounded by fighters all day, but right now he’s uncomfortable, in a guilty way. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I tap the manila envelope with a nail, making a dull click on the desktop. Reginald squirms. “There’s a lot of stuff in here about Ruthie,” I begin. “But what have you done?”
“Absolutely nothing,” he replies instantly.
“Uh-huh. So if I write Ruthie a letter, telling her that it’s your property and you can use it how you see fit, within reason, and she needs to stop with this alleged harassment—”
“I know what ‘alleged’ means, and there’s no alleged about it. It’s real.”
“...then I’m not going to get a letter back from a real lawyer detailing your wrongdoings?”
Reginald looks offended. “If running a legitimate business is a crime, lock me up.”
I roll my eyes but pull out a notepad and uncap a pen. I’ll write a note for Reginald, off the books. Just a firmly worded missive, warning Ruthie against further vandalism. I’ll print it on thick stock paper with the firm’s letterhead to let her know it’s for real, and consider it my good deed for
the day. Also, it’s probably the only way I’m going to get him out of my office without a scene or security.
“How has Ruthie negatively impacted your business?” I ask.
Reginald reads off a litany of complaints, most having to do with paying to clean up her messes out of his own pocket.
“Have you lost business? Fighters going to other gyms?”
He sticks out his chin. “Some, yeah. But they weren’t any good to begin with.”
“How about Dean?” Where did that come from?
“He’s good. Won’t fight for real much, just comes for the workout, but he’s good.”
“He didn’t switch gyms?”
“Nah. He’s loyal. Been coming five days a week since the day he moved in.”
I think of his huge body, biceps I couldn’t get both hands around, the scars and calluses on his palms. Stop.
“All right, Reginald, I’ll tell you what. I’ll write Ruthie a note—”
“You tell her—”
“I’ll decide what the note says. It’ll warn her against any more vandalism, clear up her misunderstanding of local bylaws and hopefully get her off your back. In the meantime, install security cameras on the back lot to keep an eye on things. And if anything else happens, call the police. You need a record of harassment.”
“I got a record!” he exclaims, eyeballing the black-and-white photos.
“An official record. Is this Ruthie’s address, on the top of the letters?”
“Yeah.”
Adrian has appeared at the door and is peering, confused, at the back of Reginald’s head.
“All right, I’ll write a letter and mail it tonight.” I stand and Reginald does the same, taking my cue and gathering his things, leaving the “proof” on my desk.
“You promise?” he asks.
I stop, halfway around my desk to open the door for him. I look at Reginald, suddenly seeing the tiredness in his gruff features, realizing he likely made the long trip into the city on public transit and is gearing up for the return journey.
“I promise,” I hear myself say.
“Good. Thank you.” He reaches out a hand to shake, and when I extend mine I see that he’s holding a hundred-dollar bill.
“It’s on the house this time,” I tell him.
Time Served Page 7
