I.L. Wolf - Her Cousin, Much Removed

by I. L. Wolf

  Dane, of course, could have overridden the password. They were both system administrators on their tiny network.

  She should have reported him to the attorney disciplinary committee, she knew she should have at the time, and yet she couldn’t do it. And here she was. For all she knew, he was holding Marlene.

  ***

  It was about seven when the call came in, she remembered it because she’d had a standing hair appointment, one she always blocked out six weeks ahead on their shared office calendar. On her way out of the salon, her cell phone rang.

  “Venetia Shipman?” said the voice.

  “Yes,” she said, trying to find a spot on the sidewalk where the reception was clearer.

  “I’m calling from the Metro area police station. Brenna Chale was found dead about two hours ago. She had your business card on her, You’re an attorney, is that correct?”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “You’re an attorney?” said the caller.

  “Yes. Did you say Brenna Chale is dead?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How?”

  “We’re trying to figure that out.”

  “Was it her husband?” she said.

  “Why would you say that?”

  “They were in the middle of a divorce. I’m her divorce lawyer.”

  “Would you know how to get in contact with her next of kin?”

  “Pardon?” She stood still, her left arm under her right elbow.

  “Her next of kin. She only had your card when we found her.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “No wallet, no phone.”

  “How did you know it was her?”

  “Ma’am, would you know how to get in touch with her next of kin?”

  “I’d have to check,” she said. “At the office.”

  The officer gave her the number to call back. She had to press her wrist against the building to steady it enough to write it down.

  Brenna was dead. Dead.

  She fumbled with her keys, unable to get her thumb on the unlock button on the fob, the rest of them rattling in her hand. Dead. She’d had clients afraid of their spouses before, but never like this, never in this calm way. There’d been rage in those cases, sometimes simmering, sometimes invisible, but rage.

  Not in this case.

  Finally inside her car, she managed to get the key into the ignition. She sat and breathed, slowly, her hands trembling on the steering wheel. Damn it. They’d planned it so carefully, in such detail. Of course she only had her card, he’d gotten her while she was traveling to the apartment Venetia had waiting for her two towns over. No cell phones, they’d decided with the security expert, no credit cards. No ID.

  Nothing until she was safely away from him. A lot of good that did.

  Brenna was instructed to tell no one, and they’d even gotten a car to take her from the penthouse apartment she’d gotten during the divorce proceedings to the tiny one bedroom waiting for her in a commuter suburb. The security company hired the driver, Shane Palint, checked him out completely. It was prearranged, all of it.

  She’d joked about picking out the drapes.

  Closing her eyes, Venetia rested her head against the steering wheel. Brenna had known, she said it wouldn’t work. Maybe Venetia was foolish to think she was wrong, maybe it was all hope. But she was right. He’d gotten her.

  That last afternoon in her office, after the hulking security consultant left, looking always like he was conducting a sweep of something or another, they’d sat together, her door closed, a large black-and-white floral bag at Brenna’s feet.

  “I appreciate the effort,” Brenna said. Her eyes were dull and tired, her color low. After all these months, it was the first time Venetia had seen her look any discernible age, the wispy roots near her hairline more of a gray than her overall blonde.

  “It’s not an effort,” Venetia said. “We’ll get you through this safely.”

  “I’m not sure you will,” she said, “but I’ve lasted longer than I thought I would.”

  A tangle of cold threaded its way along Venetia’s spine. “Don’t talk like that. We’ve covered our bases, we’ve taken every step. He hasn’t even made a threat, so it’s all precautionary.”

  Brenna sent a rush of air out in something wry enough to be a chortle, yet soundless. “Men like him don’t threaten,” she said. “They never threaten. They just do.” She rested her arm on the chair, her gaze far off and distant. As if sparked awake, she spoke again. “I nearly forgot. I got you something.”

  “You didn’t have to do that,” said Venetia. “All I want is for you to get your new life, clean and clear.”

  “It’s something I wanted to do,” she said, her expression unreadable. “To remember me by.”

  “I’m not liking the way that sounds,” Venetia said. “You’ll be fine.”

  “Perhaps,” she said, bending to pick up the flowered bag, “but probably not. Regardless, I want you to know that I know you have done what you can do, and that I also know that you will always do what you can do to help.” Holding one hand on the black ribbon handles and the other underneath, she passed the bag over the desk.

  “Should I open it now?”

  “Please do,” she said.

  Shifting aside the heavy black tissue, she pulled out the enormous square glass platter. “This is lovely,” she said, putting it on the desk.

  “It’s one-of-a-kind,” said Brenna. “Handmade.”

  “You really shouldn’t have,” said Venetia. “Honestly. But it’s beautiful.”

  “So glad you like it.” Brenna pulled her purse into her lap and adjusted her jacket. “Hold on to it. Maybe when things are a bit calmer, you’ll throw a party.”

  “I think that would be great,” she said. “Thank you for it.”

  “Venetia,” she stood, her hand resting on the doorknob, “even if it doesn’t go our way—”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Even if he gets his way and I don’t survive this—”

  “That’s not going to happen, Brenna.”

  “If it does, at least you’ll have that.”

  That was the last time she’d seen her, her thin, ramrod straight spine walking out of her office, after everyone else had gone, striding through the partially-lit hall, her designer shoes hollowly echoing away.

  Still reverberating with the news of Brenna’s death, Venetia turned the key to start the car. She had to get back to the office for contact information for the police, she knew that Brenna had a brother, but not much else. The radio yammered away, left in the middle of its monologue.

  “Earlier today, Local 9 News exclusively reported that Brenna Chale Sway, the estranged wife of financier Alden Sway, has been found dead. While their sources confirm that her body was positively identified, no further details are available at this time.”

  With a sharp punch of her index finger, Venetia turned the radio off. Vultures, already circling the story, with Brenna only hours dead.

  Hours dead. She slammed her brakes, her mind so far off the road she nearly didn’t notice the red light. It couldn’t be true, not after all they’d done to prevent it.

  But Brenna was adamant, if Alden wanted her gone, she’d be gone. It was strange, what some of these women lived with until the day they realized they couldn’t live with it a moment longer. Or wouldn’t live, like Brenna.

  The small professional building was mostly dark when she pulled in, the streetlamps of the parking lot throwing round, overlapping circles over the empty pavement. She swiped her ID at the front door, the inside lobby lights turning on with her motion. They’d debated with the other offices about them, safety versus energy savings, and at the moment, Venetia wished she’d come down the other way. She keyed the elevator, but it was taking too long, she couldn’t sit still. It was as though getting the information about Brenna’s brother to the officer would somehow make it better, would somehow help Brenna.

  She remind
ed herself it was too late to help her. She thought of her expensive, tailored clothes, the quiet waft of perfume that you noticed only when she left the room. She wondered how she died. She hoped it was with dignity, because a woman like Brenna deserved dignity.

  The elevator still didn’t come, so she went for the stairs, it was only four flights. She swiped her card again at their floor and headed for the office, middle lights echoing the partial lighting that last time she saw Brenna alive.

  She opened the door and turned on the front lights, doing a double take at Dane’s mostly closed office door. Usually he left it open when he went for the night, his desk a clean, minimalist contrast to her generally cluttered one.

  She heard something, somewhere between a giggle and something else. There were low whispers, more giggling. Unable to stop herself, she took a quiet step closer and then another.

  “Is this coming out of my retainer?” a woman’s voice said, a flirty edge to the sound.

  “I think there’s money going back into it,” she heard Dane say.

  She froze. “Uh, hello?” she said.

  There was no response. Steeling herself, and looking the other way, she knocked firmly on the door. “Hello,” she said again. She heard the sound of clothes rustling.

  “Venetia. What the hell are you doing here? Is this about that client of yours?”

  Forgetting she was trying to keep her eyes averted, she looked straight at Dane, who was doing up his belt. A few feet away, a tall, thin blonde stood with her back to Venetia, but she could tell she was hastily buttoning. “What do you mean?”

  “Your client? The one who was killed?”

  “You heard about that?”

  “Yeah,” he said, glancing at the woman who was apparently, judging by the back of her head, looking nowhere but forward, “it’s on the news.”

  “That’s one heck of a way to deal with it,” she said. “Can we have a word?”

  “Of course,” he said easily, tucking in a loose shirt tail, “excuse me,” he told the woman, “I’ll be a minute. You can go back to writing down the details for me. There’s a pad in the top left drawer.”

  He closed his office door behind him.

  “So she is a client?”

  He shrugged.

  “Dane, I caught you having sex with a client in our office?”

  “I didn’t say we were having sex,” he said.

  “I think that’s the only thing you don’t have to say. It’s pretty obvious. Are you out of your mind?”

  “I’m not getting the big deal. I think you need to sit down, though, you don’t look great.”

  “Gee, I wonder why that is. And you heard about my client and didn’t tell me?”

  “You were at your hair appointment.”

  “You don’t think a murdered client is more important?”

  “Not to sound crass, Venetia, but it wasn’t going to make a whole lot of difference when you heard about it.”

  “Unbelievable. Unbelievable. You understand that I have an obligation to report you to the disciplinary committee, right?”

  “Why?”

  “I caught you having sex with a client in your office. In our office, may I remind you.”

  “You didn’t see anything.”

  “That is not an accurate statement of reality, Dane.” She started for her office and abruptly turned back. “Wait. Tell me this is not the retainer you put into the account on Tuesday.”

  “I could tell you that,” he said.

  “How? How on earth did I think I could go into business with such a sleaze?”

  “Hey, take it down a notch. You’ve always found me roughish and charming.”

  “No, you’ve always found you roughish and charming. But your cases are a mess, and seriously, this is it. I can’t take it anymore.”

  “You’re upset,” he said, “you lost your client today, you’re not thinking clearly.”

  “I’m not thinking clearly? Are you kidding me with that?”

  “No.”

  The woman slowly opened the door, her stilettos in her hand. Venetia watched her as she walked past, diving for the door as though opening it could save her life.

  “Was that?”

  He raised his eyebrows and nodded slowly. “Tipsy Nightingale. Yes, indeed.”

  “So you not only slept with a client, you slept with a client who’s a reporter?”

  “I didn’t sleep with her.”

  “You disgust me. I have to tell you, for the first time—and I know a lot about you, Dane—I can’t even look at you.”

  “What? She’s hot. You have to admit she’s hot.”

  “No, I don’t. I also don’t care what you say, what story you spin. I’m getting what I need from my office, and when I do that, we are done.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I should report you. I know I should report you—”

  “Won’t do any good anyway, I’ll just deny it. You’re hysterical. And it never happened.”

  “I’m getting what I need,” she said again, “and that’s it. Partnership’s over. I’ve had it with you and your irresponsibility.”

  “Hey, I’m not irresponsible.”

  “You’re incredible, you know that? After what I walked into. And you knew my client died.”

  “What can you do? It happens, Venetia. Stop taking everything so seriously.”

  “Don’t talk to me,” she said. “I don’t want you to talk to me. Ever.”

  She went into her office and slammed the door behind her.

  Chapter 17

  It was so typical of Dane, she couldn’t believe she didn’t see it coming. Screw her over before she could report him. At the very least, it would set up a questionable situation; at the best, he’d have the disciplinary committee thinking she was the problem, not him.

  And of course she hadn’t reported him, but he’d stuck her with that ShamCorp anyway. And good for him, it had worked out better than he hoped, she guessed, given that Detective James was wondering about whether she could have killed Delenda.

  It seemed weird, though, even now, that he’d known about Brenna before she did. She’d never thought to ask about it. After that, she’d never wanted to be in the same room with him again.

  Apparently the feeling had been mutual, only she never knew it. Could he have kidnapped Marlene? There was a time that her answer would have unequivocally been no, but that time was long ago.

  She pulled out her phone and stared at the picture of Marlene, sitting in a plain office chair, hands tied, not much around her. She made the picture larger, hoping she’d see a detail she missed, even with the blurring. To Marlene’s right, there was a plant.

  She knew that plant. She watered that plant every other week.

  By the time she drove the Water Me Green lot to get the key, the darkness had settled solidly over everything, broken only by the big floodlight at the front and the streetlights leaking into the parking lot She got to the gate. Padlocked. Darn it, she forgot he padlocked it. She was acting irrationally, she knew it. But where had rationality gotten Brenna?

  Besides, she knew how she could get in. The big fence and locked gate were mostly for show, there was an entrance around back. Though the persistent gloom of the deserted industrial park wasn’t all that inviting.

  Using her phone for light as she headed toward the side of the building, she thought about calling Cadby. Maybe it was a temporary fit he’d had. Or maybe there was more on that thumb drive than she’d seen.

  She moved carefully along the wood chip path, her footsteps muted in the soft material. The pines planted between Water Me Green and the next property loomed large, their spindly bones reaching into the night like accusing fingers. Julian had offered, time and time again, to help the guy next door get those trees into healthier shape, but the owner didn’t much care.

  Using one hand along the fence as she went, a little for comfort, a little as a guide, she’d made it nearly to the back side. She st
opped.

  There were voices.

  With a single hand, she turned off her phone, leaving herself in nothing more than the remnants of the floodlight that managed to get back this far, and whatever light made it through the scraggly trees. She couldn’t make out what they were saying, or even genders, but there were definitely voices.

  She considered her options. She could dart toward the fence, or she could back up toward the trees. Liking neither, she crept toward the back, the voices growing louder. She couldn’t see anyone.

  Carefully, as quietly as she could, she lifted the latch on the door and hoped as hard as she had ever hoped that the hinges wouldn’t squeak when she pushed it open. There was a quick rubbing of metal on metal, and she held still, but the voices continued, unabated.

  She slipped through the narrow opening, finding herself on the grass bordering the concrete curb behind the building. Over the back door, the single-bulb fixture buzzed dully to itself, and she silently thanked Julian for not yet switching it out for another floodlight. The back entrance led to all the materials, the pots, the dirt, the tools. It was the greenhouse before Julian built out the front, and the windows were old and streaked, nearly translucent. From somewhere deep inside the office, a low light shone.

  With as little jingling as she could muster, Venetia sorted through her keys, mostly going by shape in the murkiness. The voices became a bit clearer, but she still couldn’t make out anything in particular.

  Finding the right key, slowly she slid it into the lock, holding her breath as the other keys on her ring clicked forward against the steel door. The muffled conversation continued, uninterrupted.

  This would be the hard part. The back gate might squeak, but this door tended to groan with all the weariness of an industrial building with its better days long behind it. She held her breath and pushed as slowly as she could. As soon as it started its lament, she stopped, and the constant drone that had been the voices stopped as well.

  Uh-oh.

  She exhaled as they started up again. She only needed a few more inches. Using her shoulder to get the door away from the frame, she opened it enough to slip through. The talking went on uninterrupted.