“What?” “You heard me. Take them. I got them from a friend, and I figure the person who could do the most with them is you. They’d make a great pair of earrings, wouldn’t you say?”
Poetry plucked the stones from his hand, trying to contain her excitement. Her reverent sigh betrayed her. “Stones this gorgeous,” Poetry choked on her heart, “are so rare. They must have been expensive. Are they Baltic?”
The breeze from Hugh’s chuckle tickled her ear and Poetry glanced up to find him sharing her space as they leered over the gems like a pair of pirates. The visual seemed so absurd she almost burst into a Spongebob Squarepants sea shanty but Poetry squelched her laughter. She didn’t want to come across as immature or ungrateful.
“I have connections in high places near Sweden,” Hugh said with a wink. “Mutual back scratching, that kind of thing.” The semi-precious spheres glittered, even under the harsh fluorescent lights. They reminded Poetry of their ancient beauty and future potential. An unwelcome thought occurred to her. “Why give them to me?” Was it a gift or was she working on commission? Poetry caught his startled expression before he could replace his mask of grim cynicism.
“No reason. You’ve had a hard time of it lately and I thought you could use some cheering up.” He grasped one of the jewels between his fingers and brought it next to Poetry’s head. “They’d make lovely earrings.”
“You mentioned that. Not a bad idea.” Suddenly, Hugh’s intimacy lost its appeal, and Poetry couldn’t explain why. She took a subtle step away.
Hugh seemed to detect the change and also moved for greater distance. His features never changed from their brooding stoicism. “Thank you,” she said. “I don’t know what to say.” “Just make something great with them. Something for yourself.” He pivoted on his good foot and hobbled away. Alone once again, Poetry slumped. The strain in her muscles no longer had anything to do with how hard she’d worked. Since when did she react like that to Hugh? Shame warmed her cheeks. After all, they were friends and he was just trying to help.
But the expression on his face suggested something she didn’t want to think about. He didn’t expect me to ask that. He had to think up a lie. Poetry pushed the thought from her mind. Hugh was like a father to her. Why would he lie to her about anything? She gave her head a shake and returned to her bench, rolling the amber around in her palm.
Her silver rope waited to be completed. She had a lot of work left to do before she went to visit Adrian. Poetry placed the round stones on the surface next to it, careful not to let them spill to the floor. As she lifted the dowel, she noticed the circumference and an idea struck her. Grasping one of the jewels, she placed it on the end of the stick where the daisy anchor began.
A perfect fit. Didn’t it make sense to use Scandinavian stones on Viking necklaces? Nothing else would do. These glistening fossils would never become the earrings Hugh hoped for, but once he saw how she’d used them, Poetry knew he’d understand.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Adrian suppressed a grimace as Frank Fleisher used a toothpick to flick gunk from his teeth to the charcoal carpet. His client slouched in a chair with one knee crossed and an arm draped along the back. The arrogant body language brought Adrian’s hackles up.
Why had he taken the case again? Right. To further his career. At first he’d been flattered when chosen for the high profile case. Especially with him being one of the youngest at Bailey, Bailey & Wallace. It was a credit to his knowledge of law and quick thinking. Or so he thought.
But when he got to know the rancher from Grey, Adrian realized he got the job solely based upon his appearance. Frank Fleisher had probably hand picked him from a sea of Indian, African, and Asian faces. In a quilt of diverse cultures, he had the whitest skin in the firm. Pure Caucasian.
The idea left the rot of resentment in his mouth. Adrian believed racism to be an idea for the uneducated, uninformed, and close-minded; a refuge for those who flatly refuse to think for themselves in favor of antiquated dogma.
“So you had no prior knowledge of the bombings?” Adrian’s head hurt, but not from the previous night’s beer. The bright white walls seemed to close in; the relentless clacking of keyboards outside his office tapped at his temples. Reporters had harassed him all night. After a few terse ‘no comment’ statements he’d turned off every ringer. Still, he’d dreamed of hounds that bayed for blood. He awoke to sheets damp with sweat and a throbbing brain.
And here he sat, cooped up in the air-conditioned chill of his office on a beautiful day trading lies with the man whose bail he’d negotiated, while reporters camped outside his building.
“I give you my word,” Frank said, “I can assure you I didn’t put the folks of my town up to this.”
That didn’t mean much to Adrian. “There have been arrests, police interviews,” Adrian pointed out. “Suspects have openly admitted to doing this in protest of your charges.” Frank shrugged, dipping his head so Adrian couldn’t see his eyes under the cowboy hat.
“There you have it. But I can swear on a stack of bibles that I knew nothing about it. I was in custody at the time, as you might remember.” Adrian dignified Frank’s answer with a snort. It was most likely the truth. Leading a mob took more organization than could be done over the phone from a jail cell. But Adrian couldn’t dismiss the itch telling him Frank Fleisher took pride in the savagery his community performed.
Adrian’s first impression of the man had been fine. Frank’s nononsense attitude and rugged quality reminded him of Rick Simon from Simon and Simon. And he wore Brut 33, just like Adrian’s dad.
But after weeks alone with him, listening to his racial and homophobic slurs while he proclaimed his innocence, Adrian had his doubts.
“Fucking faggots were there to siphon gas and God knows what the hell else,” Frank had ranted. “Not enough for them doin’ each other up their assholes. No telling what other perversions they had in mind. Man’s gotta protect his property and livestock.”
The prosecution disagreed. A Toyota Camry registered to one of the victims had been located not two miles from Fleisher’s property with an empty gas tank. One of the men had been carrying a jerry can, but there wasn’t any evidence to prove Fleisher’s claims. No cutting instruments or makeshift tools were found on the bodies. Since that area was a cellular dead zone, it seemed more likely they’d approached the ranch for help.
Thinking about his client murdering innocent people for seeking assistance made Adrian’s stomach curdle. He no longer liked Frank. He loathed him. Representing Frank Fleisher made him feel unclean.
“Fine, I believe you,” Adrian said. “But this is going to make the jury less sympathetic.” He rubbed his aching eyes. This is stupid. I can’t work like this. “Look, why don’t we call it a day? It’s almost lunch time anyway.” “If you think that’s best,” Frank said.
“For now. I’ll escort you to the door and we’ll see to it you get to your truck without being eaten alive.” He stood and forced himself to shake Frank’s calloused hand. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
The walk to the main desk was awkward. Staff stared openly and the hum of cooler talk ceased. Even the keyboard clatter tapered off. Some gave Adrian sympathetic looks. Other sneered and whispered, glaring at Frank, who clomped along in his shit kickers without shame. No one envied Adrian the plum case anymore.
Once in the lobby, flashbulbs blinded them and the din of shouted questions built to a crescendo, driving new spikes of pain into Adrian’s head.
As soon as I get home I’m taking a twelve hour nap. A displaced patch of blue moved at the corner of his eye.
“Adrian. Adrian.” Poetry jostled her way to the front of the surging crowd, using her ivy-covered elbow on other people’s chests. Adrian shook his head. He didn’t want to meet her in a mosh pit. “Let me in.”
What was she doing here? Poetry squeezed inside. “Hi,” she said, her teeth gleaming in a smile meant to sweeten the unexpected surprise, no doubt. “Are you busy?”
“I wasn’t really expecting you,” Adrian said, trying not to grind his teeth. Her timing sucked. “I came to bring you treats.” She hefted a Kokanee beer bag that bulged and clinked, then directed her attention to Frank. “There’s enough food and beer for three.”
“Well, aren’t you sweet,” Frank said. Poetry didn’t notice, but Adrian had enough experience with Frank to recognize condescension coming from his client.
“I’m Poetry.” She extended her hand. Adrian stole her away before Frank could soil her with his touch. “Poetry, can I talk to you for a second?”
“Sure, what’s up?” He took her by the arm and led her back to reception. He dragged her around the corner away from the curious staff before hissing in her face. “What are you doing here?” “It’s noon. I thought it would be fun to have lunch together. You know, sort of like a date.”
“Couldn’t you have let me know ahead of time?” he asked. “It’s supposed to be unexpected,” she said. “A real girlfriend would do that kind of thing. And maybe you should tell me I look nice. That’s an appropriate boyfriend response.”
Adrian wiped a hand down his face in exasperation. He took a quick glance at her sapphire bangs and Wal-mart sundress with her personal ink poking out from under the straps. It wasn’t the kind of outfit he imagined her wearing, and it didn’t suit her. Maybe she’d borrowed it from her roommate trying to be something she wasn’t in order to be pretty. Adrian didn’t know if he should be flattered or embarrassed for her.
“You look nice,” he said, and changed the subject. “You know, I haven’t even drawn up the paperwork for this project yet.” “Paperwork? Oh my God, you are such a lawyer.” Her robust laughter echoed down the corridor, drawing attention. “You’re so lame.” “I’m not kidding. We need to set boundaries and establish rules. It’s not just for my protection but...” The pungent perfume of garlic slapped him in the nostrils. It smelled so delicious his stomach ached with longing. “What is that?” he asked.
“Homemade hummus. And pita bread, some salad. Oh, and some cold chicken. I thought we could find a park somewhere.”
Adrian’s stomach agreed so audibly he placed a hand on his torso as if to shush it.
“Fine. You win.” He didn’t want to be there anyway. “Just wait here, and let me finish up.”
“Rule number one, Adrian.” Poetry grinned and batted her eyelashes. “I’m a girl. That means I always win.”
Adrian didn’t bother answering. Why did women always assume they were in charge? He‘d work that out later. First, he had to get rid of Fleisher. Summers in Edmonton were too short to spend indoors. Besides, he loved hummus.
The rancher hadn’t moved. He waited with that same smug posture Adrian had grown to loathe. “Listen, our security guys will escort you out. I’ll call you later.” Frank tossed his head in Poetry’s direction. “Got plans with the lady?”
Not that it’s any of your business. “Just a quick lunch.” Adrian checked his watch, demonstrating his impatience. Go home already, buddy.
Frank made no attempt to hurry, even though a security staff member huffed behind him. “You’re not seeing that girl, are you?”
“Poetry?” Adrian tugged at his silk tie. It seemed he tied it too tight this morning. “No. We’re working on a…project together.” “Well, that’s fine. Just you make sure to be careful,” he said. Adrian paused to make eye contact. “Careful of what?”
“Her kind, you know.” The rancher crumpled his face into a maze of distasteful crevices. “Spics. They’re dirty. Just look at her, she’s got more tattoos than a whore.”
Adrian swallowed a lump of rage. With measured words he said, “She’s not Spanish, she’s Greek.” “Spic, Greek.” Fleisher waved a dismissive hand, seemingly unaware how his offensive words carried. Or Adrian’s flinching. “Pretty much the same if you ask me. Point is they have no sense of hygiene, if you know what I mean. Dirty.”
Adrian’s stomach did a slow, hot, roll and his appetite waned. He only thought of Poetry as an acquaintance, but a sense of honor burned in his ears. Someone needed to tune this asshole in to reality. Lucky for Frank nobody here was dumb enough to try it.
Instead, Adrian kept his composure. “It’s not that kind of relationship.” “Didn’t think so,” Fleisher said. “You’re a smart lad.” He clapped Adrian on the shoulder and meandered out of the building with two guards in tow.
Adrian eyed the sanitizer on the front desk. He resisted the urge to slather it over the tainted body parts Fleisher touched, and instead stormed away.
Poetry waited where he’d left her. “Your client seems very nice,” she said. Adrian thanked God she didn’t catch that exchange, but when anger burbled to the surface, he tempered it yet again. He shook with the effort, hiding his hands behind his back. “Can we just get out of here?”
“Sure.” From the corner of his eye Adrian noticed her studying him while they walked. “How’s Hawryluk Park sound?” “Don’t be ridiculous.” He straightened and softened his tone. It wasn’t her fault his client was a slime ball and the media wouldn’t leave him alone. “I mean, there’s nowhere we can go that they won’t follow us.” He gestured to the dense throng of men and women packed outside the entrance.
“Aw, that sucks.” She slumped until her arms went slack but her dejection didn’t last. “Guess we’ll have to go with Plan ‘B’.” CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Poetry congratulated herself. Thanks to quick thinking, she’d saved their lunch plans. As Adrian predicted, the press dogged them at every twist throughout downtown, into alleys and one way lanes. Now she knew how Princess Diana must’ve felt; freaked out and cornered. No green peace in a park today.
At Poetry’s suggestion, Adrian drove to his condominium. They darted inside before anyone could catch up and barge their way through, pulling the security door shut and racing for the elevators. They made a quick pit stop so Adrian could shed his suit for a tank and shorts, grabbed a spare blanket and sound dock, and headed for the rooftop.
Now they basked in the unrelenting heat of the sun. “This was a good idea,” Adrian said. “I never would have thought of this.” He sounded much calmer.
Poetry surveyed the tar-striped concrete surrounding them. Nothing interrupted the vista but wide expanses of blue sky beyond. “It’s not the best view,” she said. “But it’s private.” “I’ll take it.”
Poetry popped open two beer and handed one to Adrian. She took a greedy pull of the crisp lager before assembling their lunch. “Ahhhhh…” Adrian nodded. “This is much better than wasting the day in an office.” He shot a grateful smile in Poetry’s direction. “You’re welcome,” she said. “But I’m just getting started.” She placed foil-wrapped chicken on a paper plate, along with homemade pita bread, still soft and fresh. She fanned the lid to the hummus at Adrian’s dilating nostrils with a flourish.
“Oh, wow.” He blinked in pleasure. “And,” Poetry plucked two small Tupperware containers from the bottom of the bag, “Greek salad.”
Adrian gave her a goofy smirk. “I love Greek salad.” It looked and sounded so unlike him Poetry giggled. She straightened self-consciously and covered her mouth with a plastic fork. “It’s the genuine thing too.” She unfastened her container and scooped a forkful of tomato, feta, and olive into her mouth. The salty tang of the Mediterranean exploded in her mouth and she sighed.
“No fake ingredients.” Adrian opened his and dipped his nose close to inhale the food. “Smells like fresh basil and oregano.”
“It’s how my dad does it.” Adrian took a bite that made his eyelids flutter. She laughed and almost spat on her knee. “This is the best salad I’ve ever tasted.” “That’s nothing. Try the hummus and pita bread.” “Son of a bitch.”
Frank Fleisher got tired of holding binoculars up to his lawyer’s balcony. He could smell his own stink so he let his arms drop. He couldn’t see shit anyway.
He’d seen Olsen go in with that tramp, and he ain’t been out yet. That meant
only one thing. Adrian Olsen was balling that dirty spic and he’d lied about it. Come to think of it, that meant two things. Frank had seen the mean in Olsen’s eye when he’d tried to set him straight. Offended in that way a man gets when somebody puts his woman down. He was surprised the boy didn’t jump him. Had to see it for himself though. Ditched the press first and found his lawyer’s fancy building with his fancy loft and his fancy balcony.
Sure as shit. Olsen ran through those doors like a jackrabbit with his harlot trotting behind. No movement by the windows or veranda meant they weren’t standing. Playing hide the salami, that’s what they were doing.
Frank’s bowels curled like a coiled snake ready to strike. He tuned out the din of traffic surrounding him as rage simmered like all-day stew. He’d thought Adrian Olsen was different, not like these bleeding-heart Liberal types. The boy was smart but soft.
But that was just fine. He knew how to deal with guys like him. He’d play it cool for now. Frank put the truck in gear. He had an errand to run. Frank sucked hard on his dentures until he tasted breakfast. No, he hadn’t planned that bombing, but he sure wanted to shake the hand of the guy who’d done it.
Strife couldn’t remember when she’d had such a good time. Playing human had advantages. Like the simple pleasure of exploring a new city with a learned escort. Ranjan treated her with respect: opening doors and paying for lunch at Tony Roma’s.
He almost charmed her into forgetting her true intentions. She should have absorbed the rich history of the Aviation Museum or the splendid decadence of West Edmonton Mall. Instead, she took stock of the military impracticality of the airport and the casualty potential of the world’s largest mall.
Standing over the performing sea lions, Strife surveyed the mortal throng. So many people from all over the world. And she’d kill them all. The thought of work almost spoiled her date.
But she’d already chosen her target. In the T & T supermarket, where her senses were overwhelmed with the abrasive shouting of Cantonese and the briny odor of live seafood, she placed her ammonium nitrate surprise. Feigning a strap adjustment on her sandal, she’d been sure to tuck it below a busy sushi counter, knowing it wouldn’t be discovered before noon tomorrow.
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