Wearing the Spider (A Suspense Novel) (Legal Thriller) (Thriller)

by Schaab, Susan

  “Yes. Sure. That would be fine.”

  “Really,” he said reading the concern in her face. “Don’t worry.”

  She thought for a moment. Paul was going to be out until next week and she wouldn’t be able to pursue these matters with Hanover until he recovered from his illness. Should she take advantage of the situation and spend a few days with Joe in California?

  “Actually, Paul,” she said, “I was thinking of taking a couple of days off early next week, but I’ll be back in the office by Wednesday morning at the latest.”

  “Excellent. I know you’ve been working very hard. By the way, how did that negotiation go in Florida?”

  “It was unusual, but I think Martini Investments was happy. The deal closed.”

  “Good for you. Thanks for stepping in. I know Jack will be pleased.”

  “Thanks, Paul. Talk to you next week.” She offered a guarded smile and walked past him in the direction of her office. Steve Buniker’s accusations in the Sangerson matter seemed to follow like the smell of an approaching fire. Don’t worry. Yeah, right.

  Well, telling Paul she was going to take a couple of days off seemed to insure that she would actually allow herself to do it. Maybe distance would provide a fresh perspective. Why not let Joe take her to California for a couple of days? Even if he turned out to be a passing presence in her life, at least he represented a respite from the entanglements of the firm. And, there might be some way to enlist his help with the technological barriers she faced. Her presence in the city would not exactly stop Alan’s plan from progressing.

  She perused her email and composed a message that she would be out of the office from Saturday through Wednesday, sending it to all the clients on whose matters she was currently working, to give them almost a week’s notice. She sorted through the mail on her desk. The stack contained mostly State Bar notices of continuing legal education programs.

  A voice message informed her that Joe would not be arriving in New York until Saturday for the charity ball, but would come by her apartment to pick her up at seven o’clock that evening.

  ~~

  Elsewhere in the offices of Howard, Rolland & Stewart a cigar glowed in an ashtray. The telephone next to it buzzed and a secretary was told to put the call through.

  “Alan Levenger.”

  “Alan, Dave Shilling, Spellbound! Magazine.”

  “What’s the good word?”

  “We’re running a story on the model, Vi, and your name was given as her counsel.”

  “Yes, I represent a number of models.”

  “Are you also her significant other?”

  “Absolutely not. I don’t date my clients.”

  “No, just grope their wives.”

  “If you’re referring to that photo you guys ran a while back, that was just a bit of harmless fun among friends. C’mon, man, her husband was right there.”

  “I remember the photo.”

  “What’ve you got?”

  “I have a source who said that you have a lot of knowledge about Vi’s—shall we say—‘preferences.’”

  “Well, I could say that about a lot of my clients. It doesn’t necessarily mean what you’re implying.”

  “And what am I implying?”

  “I’ll leave that to your readers to figure out.”

  “Is it true that you had a fight with her in a restaurant and ripped her blouse off?”

  Alan chuckled.

  “On the night of July 17th at Bacci. You were seen with a group of people—”

  “No comment.”

  “We’re running the story.”

  “I thought you said you had ‘a’ source … as in ONE. Are you sure it’s a credible one?”

  “There were many people there that night. You didn’t leave a good tip. People talk.”

  “Well, before you print anything, you’d better be damn sure you got good info. I’d love to put you guys out of business. Clean up the journalism in this city. I’ll file a lawsuit before the ink’s dry on your morning edition.”

  “So, your official response is ‘no comment?’”

  “No comment.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Levenger.”

  “Where the sun don’t shine, asshole.”

  “Now, is that any way to talk to a reporter who’s responsible for generating business for you?”

  “I don’t think you want to go there, but hey, you know what? I gotta lead for you. I know the identity of a woman who is having an affair with Senator Arbeson.”

  15

  Moments after the doorman called to announce her visitor, Joe stood in Evie’s apartment doorway in a custom-made tuxedo holding a sweating bottle of champagne, a lock of his wavy hair disobediently falling down over one eyebrow as if announcing he had been rushed in his efforts to arrive on time.

  “Sorry I haven’t called. I flew in this afternoon. Later than I planned.” He nodded toward the bottle. “This is nicely chilled courtesy of Amelio on Ice,” he said, dimples in full view. “I thought we’d have a private drink if you like.”

  “Joe, that’s so … that’s perfect. Please come in.” She gestured toward the interior of her apartment.

  Joe took a look around. Turkish area rugs covered much of the hardwood floors and an odd array of small oil paintings adorned the walls. There was a gold paisley sofa in the style of Queen Anne and an old tattered royal-blue velvet chair that was Victorian. A mahogany coffee table sat in front of the sofa.

  “Nice place,” said Joe walking toward the window. “Nice view.”

  “I could never afford such a view except for the largess of a very nice landlord,” she said.

  Joe handed the bottle to her and she disappeared behind the kitchen’s swinging door.

  She heard the door rotate open and twisted around to smile at Joe.

  “I only have these old estate-sale flutes,” she held up the mismatched Waterford knock-offs.

  Joe stood in the opening, arms outstretched and hands grasping the casing on each side. After a moment, his eyes rested on Evie’s back.

  “Did I mention that you look absolutely amazing?”

  Evie was wearing a fitted black crepe gown with a v-neck and draped back with only a pair of pearl earrings.

  “Thank you.” Evie looked briefly over her shoulder at him, smiled and pulled back the wire covering the mouth of the bottle. She started trying to pry the cork out, but felt Joe come up close behind her. He gently took the bottle out of her hands, took a step away from her and dislodged the cork, freeing a short spray of fizz in the direction of the sink. He poured the champagne and handed a glass to Evie.

  “Shall we sit down in the other room?” she said accepting the glass.

  “Yes,” he said as he followed her into the living room, taking a seat next to her on the sofa. They toasted and sipped. “Interesting collection of furniture and art.”

  “A friend of mine calls my decorating style reminiscent of a renegade museum that’s lost its funding.”

  “You seem to have a definite preference for things of the past.” Joe stood and walked around the room sipping champagne. “Ever notice the artistry in common objects … like this?” he asked, picking up a tiny Dutch-style stone-carved windmill positioned on Evie’s bookshelf. “I was looking at the design for a patent the other day and I was thinking. At what point does design produce art instead of just a utilitarian object? I mean … like those classic automobiles—Duesenbergs, Packards, Auburns …”

  “Or even petroglyphs—communications between early Native Americans. One historian whose article I read insisted it was not politically correct to characterize them as art. As if calling a method of communication creative would somehow be … a bad thing.”

  Joe returned to sit beside Evie on the sofa. “I think you can find art in the most unlikely places,” he said. “We tend to be too busy to notice.”

  “I really want to apologize for my abruptness the other night,” she said suddenly.

  “Not neces—�
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  “I want to explain. You were right. I do have a wariness where men are concerned. I’m sure I’ve turned people off with my uhh … whatever you want to call it … my remote attitude.”

  “Mmmm. I can imagine that such an attitude comes in handy at times,” he said, taking a sip from his glass. She watched as he tipped the glass a bit too far. Champagne droplets glistened on his lapel.

  “You’ve spilled a bit of champagne on your jacket,” she said leaning toward him and dabbing at the moisture with a napkin. She smiled. “You may have spoiled your grand entrance.”

  “What’s my punishment?”

  “You don’t want to know,” she said and stood to open a window.

  He glanced down at the lapel. “It took me years to actually tolerate wearing a tux,” he said as he leaned against the back of the sofa.

  “I’m the same way,” she said from her position by the window. “Much more comfortable in jeans. Heels make me terribly clumsy.” She was looking down at her ankle strap.

  He rose from the sofa and stood next to her, turning toward the window.

  “So where did you read about petroglyphs?” he asked.

  “In a magazine at the doctor’s office. I think it was American Southwest or something like that.”

  “Enlightened doctor.”

  “He’s got a great collection of magazines,” she said. “That’s actually a terrible sign—means you can count on a long wait before he sees you.”

  He studied her. “So, Evie, have you considered my proposition?

  “Spending a few days in California? Mmmm. Well, if I go, do I need to make a hotel reservation?”

  “No. I’ve got three bedrooms in my house.”

  “Other than yours?”

  “Including mine.”

  “And these extra bedrooms have single beds?”

  “No, they have queen size beds, but you can select the one with a lock on the door if you like.” He grinned.

  “When would we leave?” She suppressed a smile.

  “If you’re not too tired, we could take a late flight tonight. Or if you prefer, we can fly out tomorrow.”

  “I have to be back in the office by Wednesday morning, so I would need to take a Tuesday return flight.”

  “Done.”

  The black car stopped in front of the Lexington Avenue entrance to the Waldorf Astoria. They walked together, Joe holding Evie’s hand around his escorting arm. They walked up the stairs from Lexington Avenue to a branch of the lobby. Elegant stores lined the hallways … Cellini, Elliot Stevens Ltd., St. John, and ball gowns and tuxedos were abundant.

  They walked around to the left and entered the elevator. On the third floor, they exited and followed the tuxedo trail toward the four-story Grand Ballroom, with its dramatic crystal chandeliers and spacious interior. There were elegant four-foot posters just inside the entrance, depicting the faces of women and children who had benefited from the efforts of Women and Children First. A silky looking banner swayed above the hostess desk announcing the Lollipop Lace Ball. A trio of designer-dressed women stood behind the wide desk accepting invitations and offering greetings.

  Joe and Evie exchanged their invitation for a white linen envelope tied with lace ribbon. They nodded at the hostesses and joined the waves of people sliding toward the interior of the ballroom. The cacophony of voices in the ballroom resounded like an insect chorus on a summer evening. There were ice sculptures lining one wall and waiters weaving through the crowd carrying trays of hors d’oeuvres under their smiles. Joe placed his hand on Evie’s lower back and gently held her as they slowly made their way through the clusters. Evie opened the envelope.

  “We’re at table twelve,” she said, gazing out over the seventy-plus tables. The dueling perfume fragrances in the room served as a fitting backdrop to the ornament-laden table layouts. Each table was lavishly decorated with floating orchid flower arrangements illuminated by a wreath of small lavender candles at the base of each sculptured crystal bowl. The water in the bowl was tinted a pale lemon color. At each place setting was an enormous lavender-colored lollipop with lace ribbon matching the ribbon from the envelope.

  He’s very gallant to tolerate this for his sister. This is definitely not an event designed for male sensibilities. Joe began to guide her toward the table adorned with a yellow flag marked “12” when a beautiful blonde woman glided toward them, reached up and encircled Joe’s neck with her arms. She completed her greeting with a peck on his mouth. Then she turned to Evie with a welcoming smile.

  “Hello! Evie, it’s very nice to meet you,” greeted Ariel. “I’m Joe’s sister.”

  Ariel had dressed for attention, it seemed. She had the same intense eyes as her brother, except that hers were a greenish color. Her makeup looked professionally done and the effect was stunning. Her thick, highlighted blonde hair held perfectly still in a dramatic upsweep do. She was wearing a fire engine red gown with rhinestone straps that moved with a subtle sheen over satiny-looking shoulders. Her ruby and diamond earrings radiated the soft lights and her white satin gloves left only inches of arm exposed below the shoulder.

  “Evie, is your first name Evelyn?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you have a Central Park West address?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought so.” Ariel turned to Joe. “Evie was sent her own invitation. I thought I recognized her name when you told me. She’s one of our benefactors and in fact is one of the largest donors from among the category of single women under forty.” Ariel turned back and smiled broadly at Evie, resting a gloved hand on her arm.

  Joe looked at Evie, a mixture of questions and admiration on his face. “Evie, you amaze me. What other secrets are you keeping?”

  “Oh, probably a few more.”

  Joe smiled and escorted the two women to their table.

  “Evie,” said Ariel. “Sit next to me. I’ll tell you anything you want to know about Joseph.” She laughed and kissed Joe on the cheek as she sat down at the table.

  “I have lots of questions,” said Evie as she took a seat next to Ariel.

  “Did he tell you about his patent?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Well, that’s a perfect example of how resourceful he is. He’s—”

  “Okay, Ari, I’m not running for office,” Joe interrupted.

  Joe took a seat on the other side of Evie and sat back in the chair, obviously mindful of the futility of preventing the sisterly ambush. Evie glanced at Joe and returned her gaze to Ariel.

  “What was he like as a child?” asked Evie.

  “He was a bit mischievous. We used to hide in a woodshed in the backyard. We called it ‘The Safehouse.’” She looked over at Joe and then back at Evie. “He fought with our dad a lot. Actually, we both did.”

  “Your father … mmm. Why was he so difficult?”

  “Well, he had a number of bad habits. None bad enough to prevent him from functioning. He did keep a roof over our heads. When he slowed down a bit as he got older, I think Joe finally had some quality time with him on some trips they took together.”

  “And your mother?”

  “She died in childbirth. Mine actually.” She nodded at Evie anticipating Evie’s thoughts. “I know. Hardly ever happens anymore. Anyway, Joe and I sort of raised each other.” Ariel’s expression portrayed no sadness, only pride.

  “And now you’re raising your son.”

  “Oh, he told you about Bradley?”

  “Yes, Joe is very fond of Bradley.”

  “Joe delivered him.”

  “Really? He did?”

  “Yes.”

  “So … you were … unable to make it to the hospital?”

  “Yes. My husband was out of the country, as usual. I was due around the middle of January. There was an enormous nor’easter on a Monday.”

  “How scary to be going into labor during a blizzard.” Evie watched Ariel with obvious interest.

  “I started having labor pai
ns on that Monday night. Luckily Joe was in New York and he came out to Connecticut when I called. By the time he got there, my contractions were a minute apart and my water broke. He said the snow hadn’t been completely cleared off the main roads and it had started snowing again pretty hard, so I called my doctor and told him I wanted to deliver at home. He stayed on the line and talked Joe through it. Joe kept me calm. He was incredible.” Ariel beamed at Joe and returned her gaze to Evie.

  Evie looked at Joe with approving eyes and smiled. “So … Joe, your secret life as a midwife. I want to hear more.”

  Joe laughed. “We were just lucky that Bradley was so cooperative making his entrance. There were no complications.” He lifted the wine bottle and poured liquid into Ariel’s and Evie’s glasses. As he poured, he said in a low volume almost to himself, “I have to say though, it was thrilling to be the one to help Bradley take his first breath. Humbling.”

  “So, Evie,” said Ariel, “why are you so generous to my charity?”

  “A little French girl I know. She has this rare hemoglobin deficiency called porphyria. If that wasn’t bad enough, something happened between her and her uncle. Some kind of inappropriate behavior on his part. I never could prove it, but I know something happened. And I couldn’t help her. Supporting this cause is my way of dealing with a situation over which I had no control.”

  Joe and Ariel looked at each other and nodded at Evie in understanding.

  The awards presentation ensued and they were served salads, followed by a somewhat bland poached sea bass. After the presentation concluded, Ariel dutifully walked the room greeting guests, but returned to the table out of discernible fascination with her brother’s new girlfriend. The woman on the other side of Joe offered him her asparagus and began to tell him about a trip she had taken recently to Turkey. Joe listened politely, with occasional glances back to confirm that Evie was still conversing with Ariel.

  After some period of time, Joe turned away from the woman and watched Evie take a final bite. He leaned over to her and said in her ear, “Dance with me?”