by Libby Howard
I laughed in response. “Henry would restore that sucker and be the envy of the whole school. That boy marches to the beat of his own drum and I love him for that.”
Judge Beck glanced my way, an unreadable expression on his face. “Really?”
I felt a warm glow—the same warm glow I felt every time I thought of my roommate and his children. “I love both Madison and Henry. I’d do anything for those kids, you know that. I hope that when you eventually get your own place and move away they’ll come by and visit me, invite me to their special events, maybe even friend me on Facebook or Snapchat or something. I can’t imagine going through the rest of my life without them in it.”
“I’m…I’m glad you feel that way about them.” His voice was soft, full of some sort of meaning I couldn’t discern.
“Get Madison a reasonably priced used car. Something safe, but cool in a chic, retro kind of way. She’ll love it, in spite of what Heather says.” Part of the reason she’d love it was because it came from her father. Madison adored her dad. It was understandable. There was a lot about the man to adore.
“What about Henry?” I added. “What does he want for Christmas?”
A warm smile creased the judge’s face. “A snowboard with boots, bindings, and appropriate clothing. Oh, and a season’s pass at Wildwood Mountain.”
Henry loved antiques, online gaming, and cats, but he did participate in the occasional sport. He wasn’t quite as skilled as his sister, but he’d been on the track and field team this past spring. Snowboarding? I could see him enjoying that.
“I’ve got a surprise for the kids this Christmas. I’m thinking about a family trip out to Aspen in January. Henry can still snowboard here locally, but it’s time for us to have a family vacation—our new family now that Heather’s and my divorce is nearly final.”
“How are you going to manage the time off work?” I waved my hand at his outfit. “Plus we’re going to this party because you’re being considered for an appellate judgeship at the state level. Won’t taking a week off next month interfere with your…campaign or whatever it is you need to do?”
“As for my current responsibilities, I can make sure my schedule accommodates a week off. It’s not like I can’t take briefs and summaries with me to review in the evenings.”
I frowned at that. “Seriously? On vacation with your kids?”
“I know, I know, but if I have to do it, I will. I’d prefer to do nothing but ski, enjoy some time with my children, drink wine in the hot tub, and sit by the fire.”
It sounded ideal, and I longed to go with them. I hadn’t hit the slopes in decades, but I’d be willing to blow the dust off the old skis in the basement and give it a try. I envisioned laughing with Madison and Henry on the lifts, big clouds of powder rising from the ground as I flew down the hills, drinking wine in the hot tub with the judge, sitting by the fire with the judge.
And other things that I didn’t want to acknowledge I was thinking about.
“I think they’ll both love that.” I tried to keep the yearning from my voice. They would love it. Both kids clearly cherished every moment they spent with their dad.
“And the appellate judgeship…” Judge Beck shrugged. “I’m not sure that I’m even a serious contender for that position. There are other older, more qualified candidates who have been able to rub elbows with the right people for decades. Tonight is a long shot. After tonight I’ll know if I’ve got a chance at getting this position or not.”
“And if you do?” I asked, eyeing him.
His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “If I do, well then I’ll need to think about whether taking a week to go to Jackson Hole would be feasible or not.”
Chapter 2
We pulled up to an eight-story building that looked more like a posh hotel than an office. A man in a bellhop-style uniform jumped forward to open my door, another opening the judge’s and handing him a paper slip for his valet parking. Judge Beck met me around the front of the SUV and once again put a hand on my back as we climbed the marble stairs that lead to a landing then up to a huge set of glass double doors.
Two armed security guards stood on the landing, their eyes sweeping over the us as we approached. The judge gave them our names and one of them consulted his cell phone while the other murmured something into a small walkie-talkie device.
The guard with the cell phone nodded, while a voice on the other end of the walkie-talkie confirmed we were indeed on the invitation list. I’d been to some fancy parties before, but never one with quite this level of security.
“Is the president here or something?” I whispered as we moved past the guards and continued to climb the stairs.
“I doubt it. The governor might be here, as well as state senators and representatives, mayors, delegates. It’s a big deal to be invited.”
“What sort of law do these people practice?” I asked, hearing the noise of conversation and violins as another pair of armed guards opened the heavy glass doors for us.
“All kinds. They have a division for criminal law, one for patent applications, one for contract law. You name it. Most of their fame has come from a few well-known class action suits.”
“Like the long-distance carrier lawsuit?” I’d read articles on the Cresswell settlement a few decades back, and remembered that Sullivan, Morris, Stein and Callahan was the firm involved in that case.
“Yes, that was one of their most well-known lawsuits. Class action is a long game with potential big wins, but more often moderate losses. It’s other divisions that make SMS&C the majority of their money.”
“Isn’t one of their attorneys up for the appellate position?”
I’d done some research knowing that Judge Beck had invited me to this party because I was smart and savvy, and that I could network and potentially help him in career advancement. It would be easier for me to do that if I knew who the movers and shakers were, as well as Judge Beck’s competition for the appellate seat.
“He’s the forerunner for the opening,” Judge Beck murmured, cutting off the conversation and nodding to the two gentlemen wearing the same uniforms as the valets.
They checked our identification, and once more consulted an electronic guest list as the buzz of conversation, the sound of violins, the clink of glasses, and the occasional laughter swirled around us. Judge Beck took my arm as we walked toward a coat check.
I unclasped my wrap and Judge Beck handed it to the coat check woman, passing the ticket over to me. It all seemed so old fashioned. I hadn’t attended an event like this since before Eli’s accident, and even then I’d managed my own coat check. I eyed the judge, wondering if he would be fetching drinks for me, communicating my order to waitstaff, pulling out chairs for me and standing every time I returned from the restroom like a hero in a nineteen forties movie. I wasn’t sure how I felt about all this. In some ways it was charming, but I still felt uncomfortable, as if I were suddenly transported back sixty years and considered the weaker sex.
Thankfully I didn’t have much time to think about it because seconds later we were in an atrium-type foyer that had been converted into the party room. It was a huge space, connected to the second floor by a wide marble staircase. Looking up I could see a walkway lining the edges of the atrium with glass-walled office spaces that I assumed would be filled with expensive furniture and expensive limited-edition artwork.
“How many floors does SMS&C have of this building?” I asked the judge as we both looked around the room.
“Second and third,” he replied. “They rent the atrium for this party, but the offices down those halls belong to some tax accounting firm. At least they did the last time I was here.”
I looked around, wondering how the tenants on the upper floors got to their offices. Stairways besides this marble-and-gilt one in the atrium were probably at the far ends of the building behind gray steel doors, but there had to be an elevator somewhere.
I couldn’t see any elevator, but the ostentatio
us staircase was roped off with velvet cord, confining the party to the atrium. The room was plenty large enough, even though it looked as if nearly a hundred people were milling about, chatting in groups and drinking an assortment of what I was sure were alcoholic beverages. I saw a small bar set-up off to the side, and a host of people in catering uniforms setting up chafing dishes full of food. In the rear near the staircase was a small stage with a string quartet who were currently playing “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen”.
The security seemed confined to the outside of the building, but I was sure a few of the tuxedoed and suited gentlemen here might be unobtrusively carrying weapons as they watched the crowd for threats to any of the political bigwigs in attendance.
“Is the governor here?” I asked, pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to recognize the man if I saw him.
“I don’t see him.” Judge Beck did another quick scan of the room. “Katherine Nguyen is over by the staircase talking to Mayor Buchenheimer though.
I glanced over at the lieutenant governor and the mayor of the capital, noting a stern-faced, muscled man standing nearby.
“Shall we?” Judge Beck extended an elbow toward me. I entwined my arm in his, feeling a twinge of nervousness as we descended into the crowd.
“I don’t know some of these people, so if I don’t introduce you, assume that I either don’t know them or can’t remember their name,” Judge Beck murmured into my ear. “The key people I’ll want to talk to tonight are those from SMS&C since they’re our hosts, the state appeals court judges, those who are also candidates for the opening, and some of the local judges.”
I glanced around as the sea of unfamiliar faces and spotted one I knew. “There’s Judge Sanchez.”
Judge Beck’s eyebrows shot up and he grinned. “You know him?”
“I know of him. I killed some time as a spectator in his courtroom a few months back, and of course I see his name on paperwork here and there. I’m sure he’s got no idea who I am.”
“Well, he’s about to.” The judge steered me deftly through the crowd. It put us practically against each other. His jacket brushed my side as we walked, his shoulder nudging mine with each step. It felt intimate and completely natural.
We never made it to Judge Sanchez—at least not then. Twenty steps forward and someone called Judge Beck’s name. He halted, greeting the approaching group, and I realized that Judge Sanchez wasn’t the only person here I recognized. I didn’t know these people’s names, but I’d seen them before. Specifically I’d seen them on the golf course at the fill-the-food-bank charity golf tournament that Matt had put on this fall.
Judge Beck shook hands and slapped shoulders, then turned and introduced them to me.
Clifford Dorvinski, Damien Smith, and Horace Barnes, all partners at the local law firm Smith, Barnes and Dorvinski. Better known on the golf course as the Legal Eagles Team.
I smiled and found myself making small talk with Horace Barnes while the judge spoke with the other two. Horace was bald, his face full of wrinkles and brown spots that told me he’d enjoyed a whole lot of his life outside without sunscreen. His shoulders had narrowed and drooped with age, but something about their set made me think he’d once been a strong and fit man. There was a gold signet ring on the hand he extended to shake mine, and I wondered if it was a family antique or from his college days.
“Enjoying the party, Mrs. Carerra?” The man’s light blue eyes blinked at me from behind thick, black-rimmed glasses that looked as if he’d been wearing them since 1960.
“We just got here.” I glanced over at the string quartet. “It’s a beautiful venue, though. Lovely music.”
He sniffed. “Music. Food. Booze. That’s about it. It’s a party where the main purpose is to see and be seen, to brown-nose your way up the legal, political, or judicial ladder. That’s why Nate’s here, no doubt.”
I shrugged, thinking the man was terribly doom-and-gloom given the holiday season. “I don’t see any reason why we can’t enjoy ourselves at functions that mix work and social time. Besides, networking is a vital part of every career. When I was a journalist, who I knew was sometimes more important than what I knew. It got me information that others didn’t get, and sometimes gave me the scoop on breaking stories. Yes, sometimes business functions can seem unsavory, but making connections does provide additional opportunities.”
He frowned. “You’re a journalist? I thought Nate told me that you were an internet detective or something.”
Judge Beck hadn’t mentioned what my career was when he’d introduced me just now. It startled me a bit to realize that not only had the judge mentioned me before to these local lawyers, but that Horace Barnes had remembered. Although I got the impression not much escaped Horace Barnes’ notice.
“I used to be a journalist. I had to go freelance about ten years ago, then this past year I joined an investigative agency doing skip tracing. I just received my PI license.”
He nodded sagely. “Journalism doesn’t pay much anymore unless you can turn it into a political exposé novel. Huh. Maybe you can write true crime novels like that famous woman. What agency do you work for?”
“Pierson Investigative and Recovery Services.”
“Good Lord! Don’t tell me you work for that ridiculous man with the internet video channel. What’s he call himself? Crocodile or something?”
I bit back a retort. My boss’s YouTube nickname was Gator—Gator Pierson. But I wasn’t about to bother correcting Horace Barnes on that, when there was something far more important I needed to set him straight about.
“Gone are the days when a business could market by just a listing in the Yellow Pages and possibly an ad in the local newspaper. Potential clients are on the internet. If a business wants visibility and growth, then they need have an online presence in a variety of social media sites which include YouTube.”
“I think that’s what my grandkids would call a ‘burn’, Horace,” Clifford Dorvinski joked. I looked around and noticed that the other two lawyers as well as Judge Beck had overheard my statement.
Drat. He’d brought me here because he’d thought I’d be socially savvy around a bunch of cutthroat lawyers, and the first one I met I ended up in a disagreement with. We weren’t throwing punches or anything, but still I really didn’t need to hurt Judge Beck’s chances by being combative. Glancing over at the judge, I expected to see a horrified expression, not a barely suppressed grin.
“Get your law degree and we’ll hire you,” Damien Smith said with a nod.
“Heck no. Hire her now as our marketing manager,” Clifford replied. “Maybe we’d get a few new clients that weren’t on the other side of sixty.”
I was sixty and hated the stereotype that anyone my age couldn’t figure out technology newer than a flip phone, but I decided I’d done quite enough arguing for tonight.
“I’m not doing YouTube videos,” Horace complained. “Or that Instagram stuff either. The only reason I’m on Facebook is because it’s the only way I can see pictures of my grandsons playing baseball. Otherwise all I’d get is a few school photos with the annual Christmas card.”
“I think we need to dress Horace up in a shark costume and run video ads,” Damien announced. “Give that Gator Pierson a run for his money. He might have murder, repossessions, and bail jumpers, but we’ve got land title disputes, insurance fraud, and inheritance lawsuits. Far more interesting stuff, in my opinion.”
Everyone laughed—me as well even though I personally thought there probably was interesting stuff in land title disputes, insurance fraud, and inheritance lawsuits. I guess it was the journalist in me as well as the newly licensed detective, but I saw all sorts of intriguing possibilities for investigation in those crimes.
Conversation turned to something about recent court decisions regarding intellectual property. After a few minutes, Judge Beck leaned down and mentioned something about food and a drink. We excused ourselves, but encountered Judge Sanchez and a woman he introduced as his
wife Justine before we could make it to the buffet line. I immediately hit it off with the pair, loving the judge’s dry humor and finding a common interest in gardening with his wife. Justine and I ended up showing each other pictures of our cats, exchanging numbers, and promising to meet for lunch on Tuesday before Judge Beck once more attempted to get us to where the food and drink were being doled out.
I had absolutely no idea what the little tiny hors d’oeuvres contained, but put half a dozen of them on my plate and moved on to take a glass of wine from the bartender. It wasn’t going to be easy juggling a drink in one hand and trying to eat from a plate with the other, but our hosts had sacrificed space for all but about five dining tables for standing room, so there was no other choice. I was regretting my white dress and hoping none of the little canapés I’d grabbed had mustard or anything that might stain the silk when we encountered another group whom the judge seemed to know.
After a few greetings and handshakes, the judge turned to me. “Let me introduce my friend Kay Carrera, who is a private investigator specializing in skip traces and internet research.”
Seven pairs of eyes turned to me, all of them filled with respect. It was then I realized that the judge had referred to me as a friend, and that he’d made me sound like I was the female version of a modern-day Dick Tracy. Suddenly, I realized that this evening wasn’t just a networking opportunity for him, it was one for me as well.
Each of these lawyers, judges, and politicians was a potential client. J.T. had quite a few local lawyers who contracted investigative work to him on behalf of their clients. If any of the people I met tonight ended up calling us, not only would we have more business, but I’d also get a finder’s fee. Immediately my thoughts strayed to the furnace, the roof, my old sedan that I started every morning with hope and a prayer.
Judge Beck made introductions, and I struggled to remember the ten names being thrown at me at once. Several were partners at Sullivan, Morris, Stein and Callahan, and thus our hosts for the evening. To those lawyers I expressed my admiration for the venue, the food, drink, and music, knowing that partners in such a huge multi-divisional law firm were unlikely to need to call on a small-town private investigator. The others were Judge Rhett Reynolds and Ruby Reynolds, Irene O’Donnell, and Judge Sonny Magoo.