“Never happens.” He laughed again and this time she was looking right at him.
Generous to a fault, Lassiter reserved his affection for himself—and maybe the old man. There had never been another man made like him: one who physically lacked for nothing yet needed so much. It was a need she understood.
“Lauren hasn’t got the time of day for you,” Edie reminded him flatly. He colored. Edie lowered her eyes. She hadn’t meant to hit so hard, but sometimes hitting below the belt was the only way she knew how to get his attention. She covered her discomfort with something typical, a comment he would expect from her. “Lassiter, your lust is as transparent as your ambition.”
“And your ambition is as unfulfilled as your libido,” he shot back. That was the kind of relationship they had. That wasn’t the kind Edie wanted, but there was the rub.
“I’d rather you help me take care of the ambition, Allan.” She took another drag of her cigarette. This time tears came to her eyes. It was probably from the smoke. “I can always handle the libido on my own. Most women can, you know.”
The bantering was tiring, so Edie turned away. The flickering images on television held more allure for her at the moment than even Allan. Channel Two had their cameras trained on an IRS annex that was burning downtown. It was a wonderful fire that threatened the entire shabby block. But there was even something more intriguing. Edie recognized Mark Jackson and two of his FBI cohorts, before the cameras closed in on a beautiful Asian newsreader obliterating the rest of the scene.
“…Just eight-thirty when the explosion occurred. One woman is confirmed dead, a man is severely injured and in critical condition at USC Medical Center. Fire units were on the scene within minutes and it appears that they have the fire under control; A fire department spokesperson refused to comment on how long it will take to determine the cause of the explosion, but speculation is running high that this might, indeed, be linked to the rash of bombings that have plagued government offices across the country in the last eighteen months. Witnesses say…”
The set went black. Edie’s prayers had been answered. Here was the key to her quite modest ambition. She tried not to think that this opportunity would lead to any spectacular change in her position, for to do so would be to tempt fate. She’d learned a long time ago you only fooled with Fate when it was a sure thing she would take the bait.
Edie tossed the remote on the bedside table and leaned after it. Her cigarette was stubbed in a crystal ashtray she liked to think Allan kept there for her. The brass lamp was switched off. She climbed atop Allan Lassiter. The room was warm and her imagination on fire. He was ready and she lowered herself carefully before angling her body over his.
In the dark of Allan Lassiter’s immense condominium high above Century City, Edie Williams, Chief of Special Prosecutions for the U.S. Attorney’s Office of Los Angeles, whispered.
“You know what I want?” She lowered her head toward his chest, lips parted. Allan sighed beneath her, his hands roaming over her back. He didn’t bother to ask what it was she wanted. Edie answered anyway.
“I want just a little more than I’ve got.”
***
Lauren Kingsley was foaming at the mouth. She brushed her teeth the same way she talked: with vitality, style and a great sense that she knew exactly what she was doing. Tonight she walked and talked while she brushed her teeth so that the words were garbled and the toothpaste foamed into big, blue gel bubbles. She went back and forth between her bedroom and bathroom practicing her closing arguments.
“Forgery is the altering …” a quick up-and-down on those two front teeth, “… legally significant instrument…” to the back teeth, “… intent to defraud … no one disputes … the defendant must …” a final flourish along the gums, “Your Honor!”
She paused in the bathroom doorway, her toothbrush resting on a molar as she considered the intent, content, and inflection of the argument. All of it was passable, but passable wasn’t good enough. Her argument needed to be perfect. Perfect. Up and down that brush went as she envisioned the word perfection in her mind. And while Lauren was considering just how to reach such a goal she couldn’t help but notice the news on the television. In the dark bedroom it flickered like a nickelodeon. Fire, cops and more fire. The sound was down but she knew there weren’t many script choices. The anchor was either lamenting the fact that they didn’t have any details, was trying to make up details, or was speculating that a downtown fire was just a prelude to a riot that would tear the city apart. Of course, everyone would find out in the morning that the fire was nothing more than a faulty electrical connection. A drop of blue foamy gel falling at her feet reminded Lauren that she had bigger things to worry about.
She rushed to the bathroom and turned on the water. Bending over the sink, she rinsed her mouth. Lauren had a cup but couldn’t quite remember where she’d put it— probably in the dishwasher waiting until there were enough dishes to actually run a load. She was too busy to find it, too busy to cook, too busy doing what she’d been called to do. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t named this wondrous goal. It was personal, it was out there, it was waiting for her and she’d know what to do when the time came.
Raising her head, Lauren looked at herself just long enough to see that everything that needed to be done was done. She turned off the bathroom light, cleaned the toothpaste off the carpet, slipped off her watch and put it on the bedside table as she climbed under the down comforter and turned on her side. The television still flickered, so one of Lauren’s arms snaked out, grabbed the remote and shut it off. She missed the shot that Edie had seen. Lauren didn’t know that the FBI was on the scene or that the destroyed building was an IRS annex. That would have given her pause. But now it was dark, and the apartment was silent save for the sound of Lauren Kingsley’s voice. She practiced her closing arguments over again not knowing that what she was really doing was talking herself to sleep, finding elusive comfort in the sound of her own voice.
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AUTHOR’S NOTE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
THE MENTOR by Rebecca Forster
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AUTHOR’S NOTE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
THE MENTOR by Rebecca Forster
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AUTHOR’S NOTE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
THE MENTOR by Rebecca Forster
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