Go figure.
With that bracing thought, she pushed the door open and went for it. Even with the room better lit than it had been before, due to the changed position of the sun and more light filtering in through the half-closed blinds, she reached immediately for the light switch and flipped it on. The overhead fluorescent flickered once, twice. Then the office was suddenly brighter than the Beltway at noon.
Her eyes shot to the window behind the desk. No one was there. The space in front of the window was absolutely empty. There was, however, a potted ficus tree just on the other side of the window, bushy and green, its top reaching higher than Jess’s head.
How did I not notice that before?
Frowning, Jess moved around the desk toward it, toward the window, taking in everything from the pristine expanse of well-vacuumed carpet to the texture of the half-closed vertical blinds. Reaching the window, still looking warily around, she groped for the beaded chain that operated the blinds, found it, and pulled the blinds all the way open with a rattle loud and unexpected enough to make her breath catch. More light flooded in. Across the street, blue-tinged office buildings shimmered in the heat like a row of melting ice cubes. The street below was clogged with traffic, the sidewalk with pedestrians: all perfectly normal. Transferring her attention back inside, Jess looked down at the carpet, a plush pine green with beige diamonds and no hint of footprints. She looked around at the polished paneled walls on either side of the window: no fingerprints. She looked at the blinds, which were beige like the carpet diamonds, with each slat the approximate width of her hand. She looked at the plant that stood almost in the corner, a live plant, well-watered and dusted, in a big, blue-and-white ceramic pot.
There was nothing whatsoever to indicate that anyone had been standing in front of the window earlier.
Was it possible that in the uncertain light she had somehow mistaken the plant for a woman?
It was the only explanation.
A woman in black slacks and a striped top? With shaggy auburn hair? Who looked around at me?
Remembering, Jess felt her heart start to beat faster. The woman she had seen had looked so real. True, she’d suffered a blow to her head, but what blow to the head does that?
Get over it. Get it together.
“Knock, knock.” The cheerful voice, accompanied by a light rap on the open door, made Jess jump.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Lenore advanced into the room carrying a large cardboard box, which was stuffed with files. “Pearse asked me to give these to you. They’re the case files Allison was working on. He’s hoping you can pick right up where she left off on these. Also, on her pro bono work. The details and a schedule are in the box. If you have any questions, just come ask me. Oh, and there’s a meeting with a client, Mrs. Shively, at three, in Pearse’s office. He wants you to sit in on it.” Lenore’s voice dropped conspiratorially. “You’ve heard of Camilla Shively? The stripper—oh, pardon me, exotic dancer, Pearse doesn’t like us to call her a stripper—who married the billionaire who died of an insulin overdose six months ago?”
Jess nodded. She had, indeed, heard of Camilla the Thrilla. Who hadn’t? The story had been tabloid fodder for months.
“Pearse got the inside word that she’s about to be indicted for murder. He wants to have you in there with him when he breaks the news to her. Another woman, you know.”
Jess felt excitement lick through her veins. The case of Camilla the Thrilla was tabloid fodder worldwide. And now she was going to be a part of it.
Lenore’s voice lowered still more, until it was scarcely louder than a whisper. “Pearse doesn’t like to be alone with her, because she, well, she’s very touchy-feely with men. And very …” Lenore broke off, shaking her head. “When you meet her, you’ll see.”
“Three in Pearse’s office,” Jess corroborated. At least she was getting more comfortable using her new boss’s first name. Probably because so much was being thrown at her at once, she was quickly getting over sweating the small stuff. If this was sink or swim, she was damned if she was going to sink.
“I have a doctor’s appointment, or I’d do it,” Lenore confided. “And Mrs. Shively hates Hayley.” She changed the subject without taking a breath. “Pearse wants a brief on possible defense angles on the Lyman case. All the details are in the file”—she patted the side of the box—“before you leave today. Everything else can wait until tomorrow.”
“Brief on the Lyman case.” Since she’d never heard of it, Jess was hoping the answers she needed would be in the file. “To Pearse before I leave.”
“That’s right.” With a big smile, Lenore headed for the door.
“Um, I hear that there’s a party at Mr. Dunn’s on Friday night. Am I expected to go?”
With her hand on the knob, Lenore looked around at her, nodding vigorously. “We all go. It’s actually a lot of fun. No dates required, so don’t worry about that. A lot of us go stag. A lot of politicians show up. So do a lot of clients. The idea is for all of us to meet the clients, you know, create goodwill, build the business, et cetera. Mr. Dunn has the most fabulous mansion, and he really pulls out all the stops. You need to wear a long gown. Nothing too wild. Mr. Dunn’s pretty conservative. At Christmas, Andrew showed up in a red-and-green plaid suit with a red shirt and a bolo tie with jingle bells on the end. I thought Mr. Dunn was going to fire him on the spot.”
Remembering Pearse’s homily to Andrew about the importance of a black tux, Jess smiled. A series of chimes had Lenore pulling a cell phone out of her pocket. Glancing down at it, she said, “Oh, my goodness, emergency. I have to run.”
Then Lenore was out the door, closing it behind her.
Jess looked at the closed door in some dismay. She hadn’t been on the job an hour, and already she was feeling swamped—and unnerved. A quick, involuntary glance at the window behind her reassured her: nothing there but the plant.
If she’d been thinking properly, and if she’d been able to get a word in edgewise, she might have mentioned the disappearing woman to Lenore.
Yeah, and have her think you’re a nut.
Okay, there was that.
It was the plant, Jess told herself firmly. Of course it was. Coupled with the thump on the head.
With a glance at her watch, she realized she didn’t have time for such mental dithering. If she was going to meet Mark in the lobby at ten, she had to get a move on. She was dying to dive into Allison’s files, but at the moment there wasn’t time. Sitting down at her new desk—her wonderfully big mahogany desk with the multitude of brass-handled drawers and the deep cubbyhole for her knees—she rolled back and forth in her cushy leather chair once or twice, allowed herself a moment to marvel, then powered up her computer, pulled up Tiffany’s information again, and called Tiffany’s cell.
And tried not to look over her shoulder more than once or twice.
After four rings, voice mail picked up. No surprise: if Tiffany screened her calls, the chances of her answering this number had to be about nil.
“Hi, you’ve reached Tiffany. I’m busy right now, but I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”
Jess had already decided what to say. She figured if she told the truth—I saw you last night, and I’m just checking to make sure you’re alive and well—she’d never hear a thing.
“You dropped something yesterday. I picked it up, and I’d like to give it back to you. Please call me as soon as you can.” Jess gave her name and phone numbers, office and cell, and hung up. It was a lie, but the important thing, for Jess’s peace of mind, was that Tiffany was physically able to call back.
She couldn’t rid herself of her conviction that Tiffany was somehow in trouble.
Jess spent the last few minutes of her available time eagerly flipping through the files Lenore had left, but when she headed down to the lobby she left her blinds open wide and the overhead light on, and to heck with the company policy on conserving energy whenever possible. No way was she comin
g back into a gloomy office. Too much scope for the imagination that way.
It had to have been the plant.
Whatever, she wasn’t going to think about it anymore. She wasn’t going to think about the fact that someone had tried to kill her last night. She wasn’t going to think about Tiffany. She wasn’t going to think about Leonard Cowan’s suicide.
She was going to dismiss the knot of dread that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in her stomach, and get out there and do her job.
Looking sexy enough in his suit and tie to make a nonagenarian think impure thoughts, Mark waited near the revolving door. Two of the young women security guards searching purses and bags not far away were eyeing him with scarcely veiled interest. As a result, the look Jess gave him by way of a greeting was less than friendly. The Suburban was already parked out front, she discovered as she preceded him out the revolving door into the baking heat of the noisy street.
A beep told her he’d unlocked it. She got in.
“You know, you could have given me a heads-up before you showed up at the meeting this morning,” Jess said when they were underway.
“If I’d given you a heads-up, what would you have said?”
Jess didn’t even have to think about it. “No way in hell.”
“There you go. See, I saved us a futile argument.”
Jess didn’t reply, but the look she shot him expressed everything she wasn’t going to waste her time putting into words. After a moment, in a carefully calm voice, she asked, “Where are we going?”
“The Criminal Justice Center. For the Whitney case. What, you didn’t know?”
“Since I was just brought in on the case today, no, I didn’t. Maybe you can fill me in.”
“Being a lawyer, because lawyers are the only people he’s allowed to meet with, you’re going to get me in to talk to Dustin Yamaguchi. That’s his voice in the background of the 911 tape where Roger Whitney’s business partner’s wife is reporting finding her husband’s body. There’s a lot of static, but once that gets cleared away he’s there.”
“And that matters because …?”
“Dustin Yamaguchi is a contract killer. A pro. If he was still at the scene talking in the background while Mrs. Keeler was hysterically reporting the discovery of her murdered husband, then Whitney didn’t hire him. Mrs. Keeler did. Otherwise, she’d have been found dead alongside her husband.”
“That makes sense.” The logic of it smoothed some of the sharp edges off Jess’s morning. “I take it we’re defending Mr. Whitney on a charge of murdering his partner, Mr. Keeler?”
If it hadn’t been Mark, she wouldn’t have asked. She would have just kept her mouth shut until the facts became clear.
“Now you’re getting up to speed.”
“Like I said, first day. I’ve never heard of Mr. Whitney or Mr. Keeler. My question is, how have you?”
“Ellis Hayes came to us for help analyzing the 911 tape a couple of weeks ago. Since then, I’ve made it a point to get familiar with the case.”
“Why?”
“Part of the job.”
Knowing that Mark certainly had a full load of high-level investigations that dwarfed the Whitney/Keeler murder in importance, Jess digested that blatant piece of stonewalling in silence, then looked at him consideringly. “I take it Pearse knows you’re babysitting me?”
Mark slid her a glance. “I don’t think the word ‘babysitting’ was ever used. But, yes, he knows the Secret Service has you under its official protection. And I’m part of that.”
“Who told him?”
Mark shrugged. Jess’s lips thinned. She knew Mark well enough to know that was as much as she was going to get.
“Does he know why?”
His lips curved into a half smile. “If he knew why, somebody’d have to kill him.”
“Funny.”
“He knows enough not to ask.”
“So now I know why he stuck me with you for the day. But why are we going to see this Yami-whatever guy? Why isn’t Pearse, for example?”
“I know Yamaguchi. You might say we’re old friends. That’s one of the reasons they brought me in to listen to the tape. He’ll trust me when I tell him prosecutors have got him by the balls and his best bet is to take the deal that’s shortly going to be offered to him. And like I said, I need you, Ms. Lawyer, to get me in.”
“You know a professional killer?” Jess looked at him, aghast.
“I know a lot of people.”
Jess decided she didn’t really want to hear the details. One thing she’d well and truly learned over the course of the last few months was that too much knowledge could be a very bad thing. Besides, Mark probably wouldn’t tell her anyway.
“So you really are consulting for Ellis Hayes.”
“Did you doubt it?”
“Absolutely.”
“You’ve got some real trust issues, you know that? How about I make you a deal: you politely, pleasantly put up with me until we find out how Leonard Cowan died and who attacked you last night, and then I get the hell out of your life again and everything goes forward just like none of this ever happened. What do you say?”
Like she really had a choice. “Fine.”
“Good. So, you want to know what’s going to go down once we get to the jail or not?”
“Yes.”
By the time he had finished filling her in, Mark was pulling into the underground parking garage that adjoined the Criminal Justice Center.
“But as the defense we have a legal obligation to tell the prosecutor’s office that we’ve isolated and identified what’s-his-name’s voice on that tape,” Jess protested as he parked. “For one thing, it’s part of discovery. If we don’t, the case can be thrown out. It might open up grounds for a Brady motion. It—”
“You don’t have to tell them today,” Mark interrupted as they both got out of the car. “Yamaguchi was just picked up early this morning. They have evidence that he was the triggerman, that he was paid. According to Collins’s sources, they’re sending over an assistant DA to offer Yamaguchi a chance to cut a deal if he’ll tell them who hired him. Yamaguchi makes the deal, fingers Mrs. Keeler instead of, as they expect, Mr. Whitney. On the strength of Yamaguchi’s testimony, Mrs. Keeler gets charged with her husband’s murder. Your Mr. Whitney is off the hook without ever going to trial. That makes it a slam dunk for Ellis Hayes.”
“What happens when the prosecutors hear Yama-guy’s voice on the tape for themselves and realize they don’t have to cut him a deal because they can prove he’s the triggerman and Mrs. Keeler hired him?”
“Once the deal’s made, it’s made. The DA can’t go back on it without jeopardizing the whole case.”
That was true. It was also diabolical, and probably at least borderline unethical. It was, however, undoubtedly in their client Mr. Whitney’s best interest. And doing what was in their client’s best interest was why Ellis Hayes got the big bucks—and the glowing reputation as the firm to call when the proverbial shit hit the proverbial fan.
“Truth and honor,” Jess bitterly quoted a key phrase from the lawyer’s oath.
“Plus a couple of dollars will buy you a cup of coffee. Maybe. Unless you’re at Starbucks. By the way, I’m your assistant, if anybody asks,” Mark said in her ear as they entered the basement door of the vast, windowless, redbrick structure. “And the name of the guy you’re going to be asking for is Dustin Yamaguchi.” He spelled it for good measure, and Jess carefully repeated it. They went through the usual security without a hitch, then along a hall to a long, dingy rectangle of a chamber with all the charm of a dentist’s waiting room. There were easily a dozen lawyers already there, sitting, reading the paper, looking over files, playing games on their iPhones, whatever, as they waited to be taken back to talk to their clients. Jess went to the sliding glass window to ask to speak to Mr. Yamaguchi, show her credentials, and sign the register. The woman clerk on the other side of the window barely looked up. Jess retreated to
sit beside Mark on one of the uncomfortable molded plastic chairs that lined the walls until, some fifteen minutes later, her name was called.
Mark followed her as a uniformed corrections officer led them into a visiting room. It was a long space designed for the simultaneous use of perhaps two dozen inmates and their lawyers, who were separated from one another by a wall of thick Plexiglas. The room was further divided into three-sided booths, which provided little in the way of real privacy but offered two more of the molded plastic chairs and a laminated counter on which to rest briefcases or papers. The partitions on either side were tan laminate, the floor was speckled terrazzo, the back wall was puke green concrete, and the smell was institutional. About half the booths were already occupied. The steady rise and fall of a number of hushed conversations was broken only by the scraping of the chairs across the floor and the occasional tramp of feet as somebody entered or left.
When another uniformed guard escorted a muscular, black-haired, faintly Asian-looking man in an orange jail jumpsuit toward them, Jess realized he had to be Yamaguchi even before he sat down.
Hard-looking black eyes met hers through the Plexiglas. He was close enough that Jess could make out faint acne scars on his lean cheeks and see that the whites of his eyes were bloodshot. He had a thin, mean mouth, a swarthy complexion, and forearms as thick and hard-looking as baseball bats.
Jess was already battling a shiver of distaste as she picked up the black plastic phone that was the only means of communication from her side of the booth to his. On his side, Yamaguchi followed suit.
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