White Hot

by Elise Noble

  While Mack did her thing, I went off to change. Luckily, I kept a full closet at Blackwood. It was my second home.

  When I emerged from the shower in the bathroom just along from my office, wrinkled because I’d stayed under the near-boiling water for almost twenty minutes in an attempt to block out the Ghost and all his baggage, I wrapped a towel around myself and checked my emails. Mack had come through. Or had she?

  A public defender?

  The Ghost had to have a fat bank account—why hadn’t he hired himself a fancy high-priced lawyer?

  Lyle Rogers, according to Mack’s bio, graduated from law school three years ago in the bottom half of his class. Career highlights included holding the office record for successfully plea-bargaining the most shoplifters in six months and getting held in contempt for arguing with a judge. He hardly looked like a good candidate to win what could be the trial of the year.

  Unless the Ghost wasn’t planning to fight.

  Keeping my fingers crossed Lyle wasn’t gay, I selected an outfit I hoped would get me results. A skirt suit with a split at the back that stopped just short of being indecent teamed up with a fuchsia pink silk blouse. I checked my reflection in the mirror then popped open another button. Yeah, that made the most of my assets.

  Lyle spent his working life at the Virginia Indigent Defense Commission on East Franklin Street, and it was just after seven when I reached their offices, my stilettos clicking on the sidewalk. But I didn’t stop there. I carried on down the block until I reached The Gavel, a nondescript watering hole that normally wouldn’t have warranted a second glance. Elevator music played in the background, and dishes of peanuts and pretzels had been lined up on the polished wooden bar by someone with OCD, perfectly equidistant. Not my type of place at all.

  So why was I there?

  Well, when Mack had gotten hold of Lyle’s credit card statement, she found he stopped off every night at eight thirty for a beer, as regular as a geriatric with a prune juice habit.

  I’d settled on a stool at the bar with a glass of Coke when he walked in at nine. His rumpled suit and the dark circles under his eyes suggested he’d spent more than one night working late. Busy with the Ghost? I double-checked the photo Mack had emailed me from his driver’s licence just to be sure. Lyle had lost a few pounds and his hair was longer, but it was definitely the right guy.

  Now I just needed to fathom him out.

  Although The Gavel wasn’t busy, most of the seats in front of the bar were occupied. But I’d left my purse on the vacant stool next to me. As Lyle paid for his drink, I picked it up and pretended to rummage through it. Condoms, lipstick, a Beretta Nano.

  “Is this seat taken?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  I returned to my pointless search and found the key to Mack’s pickup that I thought I’d lost six weeks ago lurking behind a packet of tampons. Oops. Still, no time to dwell on it. I slumped over the bar, studying the melting ice cubes in my drink, and let out a long sigh.

  “Rough day?” Lyle asked, taking a sip of his Bud Light.

  According to his bio, he’d previously lived in Wisconsin, Iowa, and Alabama, and he spoke with a hint of a Southern accent.

  “Worse than usual. How about you?”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “A nightmare doesn’t even begin to describe it.”

  What do you know? We had something in common.

  I reached over and touched his shoulder. “You poor thing. You look as if you could use a break. What do you do to relax?”

  He smiled sheepishly. “I like to play computer games.”

  “Oh, like Call of Duty? Grand Theft Auto?” I couldn’t say I’d ever been into those. I preferred the real thing.

  “Fantasy Farm’s my thing at the moment.”

  I turned my snort of laughter into a cough and made my eyes go big. “I’ve never played—what does that involve?”

  “Well, each player has a virtual farm, and you have to plant crops and raise animals and barter with your neighbours. Each time you go up a level, you gain a specialty. Mine’s breeding chickens, but what I really want is a tractor repair shop…”

  My expression glazed over, and I stopped myself from falling asleep entirely by reliving this morning’s adventures with my temporary friends. Tattoo guy and his buddy. They’d given me their numbers, but I wouldn’t call. I never did. Eventually, Lyle paused, and I realised he’d nearly finished his drink.

  “Sounds fascinating. Perhaps I’ll give it a go?” I motioned at his glass. “Can I get you another?”

  “Awesome. We could be farming neighbours.” He returned my smile. “Let me buy the drinks.”

  Two beers became three, then I ordered Lyle a double vodka and lemonade. He looked like the kind of guy who’d drink lemonade. As the alcohol filtered through his system, I returned the conversation to work.

  “So, what do you do all day?” I moved a little closer until our knees touched, and he choked on his beer. “You okay?”

  “Fine…” Cough. “Fine.” He swallowed hard and puffed out his chest. “I’m a lawyer.”

  “You’re kidding? What, over at the public defender’s office?”

  “You know it?”

  “I tried to visit somebody there this afternoon, but the receptionist wouldn’t let me in.”

  He chuckled. “LaWanda? She makes me nervous, and I work there. Who were you supposed to visit? Maybe I could help out with that.”

  “Lyle Rogers. Do you know him?”

  His eyes widened. “No way! I’m Lyle Rogers.” Then his eyes narrowed. “Wait, you’re not a reporter, are you?”

  I bet his phone had been ringing off the hook today as the vultures circled. After all, he’d listed the number on his Facebook page.

  I quickly shook my head and shuddered for effect. “I can’t stand those assholes.”

  His scowl relaxed, but he stayed wary. “So why were you looking for me?”

  “A lost cause, I guess. I hear you’re representing the Ghost?”

  He gave a wry laugh. “How did I know that was coming?”

  “I’m kind of in that position too.”

  He raised an eyebrow, but his eyes wouldn’t quite focus. “Another poor sailor on the sinking ship?” he slurred.

  “Something like that. I’m an investigator. An old friend of his hired me to review the case, but it’s not looking good.”

  Poor Lyle. His shoulders slumped, and he looked as if his team had lost at football, his pet dog had died, and his girlfriend cheated, all on the same day.

  “I’m trying not to think of the details.”

  “Tell me about it. I mean, I’m going through the motions, but everything I’ve seen says it’s pointless.”

  Lyle drained the last of his vodka and signalled for another. Since tonight was quiet, it arrived right away. Or maybe every night at The Gavel was quiet. The clientele didn’t look like the type to party into the early hours. The only patron not wearing a suit had on Gucci jeans, and he kept glancing at his leather briefcase as if it contained state secrets.

  “I still can’t believe the court assigned me this case. I’m gonna embarrass myself in front of the world’s media.”

  “You don’t believe the Ghost’s innocent either?”

  He laughed again, a little hysteria creeping in. “Even he thinks he did it. I said we should at least try for bail, but he said if he’d done what they said he did, they should throw away the key. How am I supposed to defend that?”

  “A guilty plea, then?”

  Lyle shrugged. “Who knows? Since that day, he’s refused to speak to me.”

  Hmm. If Ethan White refused to speak to his lawyer, the chances were he wouldn’t be too keen on chatting with little old me either.

  “What will you do?”

  “I don’t know. I’m thinking of quitting. Maybe I could work as a cab driver? I love the idea of dropping off my last passenger and going home for the night without work hangi
ng over my head.” His head lolled to the right, where the barman chatted with a perky blonde. “Or I could do what he does. Serving drinks and chatting all night. It can’t be that hard, can it? Anything’s better than this.”

  He drained his glass and waved his hand to get the barman’s attention, easier said than done when the dude was focused on the blonde’s tits. I resorted to whistling and got myself a dirty look.

  “Whishky, shtraight up.” Lyle turned to me, eyes rolling in their sockets. “You want one?”

  I shook my head. One of us had to stay sober, and it seemed I’d be the designated sensible person for once in my life.

  “Why did you become a lawyer, Lyle?”

  “My mom wanted me to. Well, actually she wanted me to be a doctor, but needles make me faint.”

  “She must have been real proud.”

  “When I passed the bar exam, she threw this huge party. I didn’t go because my boss made me work late, but she saved me some cake and a whole bowl of corn chips and these itty bitty things with sausages, and…”

  Lyle downed his Johnnie Walker in one and motioned for another. The barman raised an eyebrow at me, and I laid a hand on Lyle’s arm.

  “Do you think you should stop?”

  He tried to shake his head and swayed alarmingly. “Nope. Thish ish the besht thing ever. I should do thish every day. I feel so happy and free and…”

  Lyle reached out for a pretzel and fell clean off the stool. The barman and I both winced as he hit the floor, the crack of his head on the tile echoing over the quiet chatter. All heads turned to look at us.

  Well, I couldn’t exactly leave him there, could I? And it was kind of my fault. I hauled him up and half dragged him to the door, one loose shoelace trailing along behind him. Good thing I went to the gym every morning.

  A cab drove towards us, its light glowing in the darkness, and I flagged it down. The driver peered out, not a hint of a smile.

  “Is he drunk?”

  “No, not at all. He’s just sleepy. It’s been a long day.”

  “He looks drunk. I don’t want nobody vomiting in my cab.”

  “Tell you what—I’ll pay you a hundred dollars to drive us home, and if he pukes, I’ll pay for a valet too. Deal?”

  “Okay.”

  You’d better believe Emmy would be getting that bill. Once I’d heaved Lyle into the backseat, he slumped against the opposite door, eyes closed.

  “Where do you live?” I asked him.

  No answer.

  I tried shaking him. “Lyle? Where do you live?”

  Nothing.

  I fished around in his pockets until I found his wallet. Thirty dollars, a couple of credit cards, no driver’s licence, and nothing else with an address. There were no family photos either, which fitted with Mack’s belief that he was a bachelor.

  What now?

  I could call the control room and find out where he lived, which seemed a little stalkerish, my earlier efforts notwithstanding. Lyle began snoring, and I came to a decision.

  “Can you take us to Alba?” I asked the driver.

  The building I lived in was named after the Italian word for sunrise, and I’d seen some spectacular ones from my penthouse. An extravagance, yes, but I’d clawed my way out of the gutter, and now I liked to sleep as far from it as possible. Tonight, I’d dump Lyle in one of my spare bedrooms. We could finish our conversation over breakfast after he’d sobered up.

  When the cab pulled up outside, I grabbed Lyle under the armpits and hauled him up the front steps. The nighttime concierge rushed out to help, taking Lyle’s feet and helping me to shove him into the elevator.

  “Thanks, Bernard. Uh, this isn’t as bad as it looks.”

  “I’m not sure I want to know, Miss di Grassi.”

  This was why I liked Bernard—he didn’t ask questions, and in return, I bought him an outrageously expensive bottle of Scotch every Christmas.

  Lyle’s mouth dropped open and he began snoring the instant his head hit the pillow in one of the guest rooms. I backed out, holding my breath because his reeked of alcohol. Even with two closed doors between us, I could still hear a quiet rumble. Thank goodness for earplugs. Although when I thought back to where I’d been this time last night, the earplugs were of scant consolation. Two hot naked guys versus a drunk lawyer? No contest.

  When I checked my email last thing, Mack had filled up my inbox with news articles, music videos, and best of all, the details of a handful of the Ghost’s acquaintances here in the city. Literally, three—the guy who helped to run the record label he owned, his manager, and the owner of a grocery store three blocks from White’s house who delivered food once a week. How could somebody so famous know so few people?

  How could a man go through life like that? I valued my friends more than anything. They celebrated with me in the good times and lifted me up in the bad. I couldn’t begin to imagine how lonely the Ghost must have been. How lonely he still was.

  A green-looking Lyle stumbled out of the bedroom at nine the next morning.

  “Where am I? What time is it?”

  He caught sight of the clock over the fireplace in my living area, a burlesque dancer with one nipple tassel for each hand. I’d nicknamed her Dita, because she bore more than a passing resemblance, and she’d come courtesy of Emmy’s assistant, Bradley. If you want to get an idea of Bradley’s style, pop some acid then take a trip around MOMA. On a unicycle. Wearing 3D glasses.

  “Holy crap, I’m late for work!”

  I took another bite of my bagel. Toasted with cream cheese, salmon, and cracked black pepper. “It’s Saturday.”

  Lyle sagged back against a pillar. The apartment was open plan, and I had a clear view of him from my perch at the breakfast bar.

  “Thank heavens.” He took a wobbly step forward. “Although I should probably go into the office later anyway. Read over my notes, cry into my legal pad, redraft my resignation letter, that sort of thing.”

  “Case getting to you?”

  “How much did I say last night?”

  “Enough.”

  Let him make of that what he would.

  A low groan escaped his lips. “I shouldn’t have said anything. My boss is trying to have me fired as it is.”

  Sheesh, the Ghost had really lucked out with this one. “Why do you think that?”

  “Because last Thursday, he said, ‘Lyle, I’ll make sure your next career move has you asking whether they’d like fries with that.’”

  “Sounds like a nice guy.”

  Lyle made it as far as the stool next to me and sat on it, head in his hands. “I reported his son for cheating in the second year of law school. He pulled the overprotective father move and sabotaged my degree, although I could never prove that, and three months ago, he transferred in as my new supervisor.”

  Lyle’s luck… Well, it didn’t quite rival White’s, but it certainly complemented it.

  “I’m not gonna talk. In fact, I think we could help each other.”

  His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What exactly did you have in mind?”

  “You want the Ghost to walk free, and my client’s convinced he didn’t do it.” I refrained from adding that it wasn’t a sentiment I shared. “If you help me, I’ll help you.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “I’m gonna be working the case anyway. If we team up, it’ll make things easier for both of us.”

  “I can’t break attorney-client privilege.”

  “I’m not asking you to. We could just bounce ideas off each other, talk hypothetically.”

  Lyle stared out of the bank of glass that overlooked my terrace for a long minute, thinking. A pigeon perched on the railing at the edge, bobbing its head before it flew off. Oh, to have that freedom. Birds didn’t have to waste time on impossible murder cases.

  “How do I know you’re not a reporter in disguise?” Lyle asked.

  I took my PI licence out of my wallet and flipped it over to him. “
You want references?”

  He studied it then shook his head. “The fewer people who know about this arrangement, the better.”

  I kept my face expressionless, but inwardly, I was grinning wide. I had him! “We’d better get started, then.”

  A couple of hours, a packet of aspirin, and a gallon of coffee later, Lyle had fetched his files from the office and spread them out on my fancy glass dining room table. It wasn’t like I used it for eating. I was too busy to throw a dinner party, and there hardly seemed any point in going formal when I lived alone.

  I added my notes to the pile, at least the ones I wanted Lyle to see, and we both read through each other’s thoughts. Lyle had given me everything it seemed—so much for a hypothetical discussion. Was he dumb or desperate? The latter, I soon found out. By the time I’d skimmed what he’d gathered, my head was pounding, and I’d learned one important thing: it was worse than I thought.

  CHAPTER 4

  I DROPPED THE yellow legal pad filled with Lyle’s chicken scratches onto the dining table. My coffee mug was still half full, but what I needed was a shot of tequila, preferably served up by a man with abs hard enough to distract me from the task at hand.

  “Jay Skinner’s prosecuting?”

  “The rising star of the Eastern District of Virginia?” Lyle gave a hollow laugh. “Yep, I found out just before I left last night. You know him?”

  Oh, yes, I knew Jay. Intimately. Jay had been the solitary exception to my “never more than one night” rule. First Emmy had settled down, then Mack, and Jay had come along at exactly the right time. Or, as it turned out, the wrong time. Asshole.

  We’d both been busy and career-driven—still were—but a couple of times a week, it had been unexpectedly nice to come home and find the same warm body waiting for me. Jay understood about my long hours and my need to be on-call twenty-four-seven because he worked in the same way. But ultimately, I’d had to choose between him and Blackwood, and in that contest, there would only ever be one winner.

  “I’ve met Skinner a few times,” I told Lyle.

  I wasn’t about to rake over my disaster of a personal life with a virtual stranger. Nobody knew the full story, not even Emmy. It was bad enough to admit my lapse in judgement to myself, let alone anyone else. As lapses went, it had been a big one. Huge. And I wasn’t referring to the size of his equipment because that had been average at best.