Beach Lawyer (Beach Lawyer Series)

by Avery Duff

  “No surprise there.”

  She settled down, missed a hard bank shot but left him buried behind the eight. He circled the table, looking for a shot.

  “Nice leave,” he said.

  “Brian had a table in his living room. He said eight-ball is half strategy.”

  He settled down to his shot. She leaned her jeans’ button-fly into his target pocket, innocently chalking her cue. More strategy.

  “Now what?” she asked. “You’ll call him at the law firm?”

  “Nope.” She was definitely distracting him with that button-fly. “Would you mind?” He motioned her away from the pocket.

  “Oh, sorry.” She moved. But not much. It didn’t matter. He had no shot.

  “You’ll go see him at the firm?” she asked.

  “Nope. I’m trying to shoot, Alison.”

  “You’re running out of time, you know? Tomorrow’s the twenty-sixth—that big deadline you keep talking about.”

  “I’m about to run the table,” he said. “If you want to concede, I’ll let you save face.”

  “Please, take your time.”

  “Do me a favor while I’m thinking. Get that envelope out of my jacket, please.”

  She went to his jacket, found the envelope. Ivory card stock, heavy like it might be a wedding announcement. She brought it to him. “This?” she asked.

  “Mind opening it?” he asked.

  She opened it and pulled out an engraved invitation.

  “Do me another favor and read it.”

  So she did: Dorothy and Jack Pierce request the pleasure of your company at their Bel-Air home on Stone Canyon Road. Catering by Bistro Fresco of Beverly Hills.

  “You gotta be . . . what?” she said.

  “Your game,” he said. He set his cue on the table. “I kept my invitation to the firm party. Read the date.”

  She read it and looked up. “The twenty-sixth? You’re going?”

  “My best suit’s already laid out on the bed. You want maximum leverage, don’t you?”

  “I guess so . . .”

  “Me, too. If you can handle it, I want you to come with me.”

  “What, to his . . . to their home?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  She thought about it. “God. I don’t know if . . . I don’t know . . .”

  He said, “Last time he dealt with you at the firm, it wasn’t your best day, was it? Same thing goes for me, and it left a bad taste in my mouth.”

  She nodded. “Both those guys.”

  “Oh, Chase, he’ll be there, too. I want to take it to Pierce, right at him, right on his home court.”

  “You think it will help if I go, too?”

  “Seeing you? My date? Behind his big gates, inside his house? The law, it’s half strategy, too. What do you say? You want to nail him, right?”

  She thought about it some more. Then she looked right at him and said, “I’m in.” Then without Robert asking, she said the same thing again.

  CHAPTER 18

  Expensive breasts were treated to a last-minute fluff inside a skimpy cocktail mini. Chase and his braless wife stepped from their Range Rover, handing it over to the valet in the Brightwell mansion’s porte cochere.

  The couple walked toward the open front door, where Dorothy greeted them. “Good evening, Mrs. Pierce. Chase Fitzpatrick,” he said.

  “Of course, Chase. You’re my husband’s favorite.”

  “And my wife, Meridian,” Chase beamed.

  “Meridian? Do come in, Meridian, and hurry,” she said, eyeing the younger woman’s cleavage. “I can see that you’re chilly.”

  “Should’ve worn a sweater, right?” Meridian said.

  “Oh, no, dear, that would spoil the whole effect.”

  Dorothy handed them off to a server with hors d’oeuvres. Looking outside with a brittle smile, she softened when Philip stepped from his BMW sedan. Once he reached the door, he handed her a bouquet. It was nothing showy.

  “Ah, Philip, my favorite Fanelli in the world. Are these for my husband?”

  He smiled back at her. “They say bringing flowers to a party distracts the hostess from her duties, but these were so lovely, Dorothy, I hoped you would grant me an exemption.”

  “They are lovely, Philip. And it’s lovely to see you, too.”

  Philip looked outside. No other cars were pulling up, so he closed the front door. He shook her hand, and she whispered, “If you’d just shoot me, I could miss all the fun.”

  “It will be fine. You’re among friends.”

  The Bronco’s windows were open, its air conditioner blowing full out. Robert had parked fifty yards down Stone Canyon from the Brightwell gate. Alison sat beside him in a black shift. Tanned now, she was athletic and slender, a brunette with long, sun-streaked hair. Every bit of five ten in heels, she fanned herself with a Johnny’s Pizza menu and asked, “Why can’t we go in now?”

  “Not yet. It’s all right to be a little late.”

  “Who is this guy who’s supposed to call you?”

  “Rolando. He works for Bistro Fresco.”

  “For the caterer? You know him?”

  “Not well. I met Rolando yesterday, paid him two hundred bucks.”

  “To do what?” she asked.

  “To keep tabs on the man of the house.”

  No time for a more elaborate answer—a head-miked security guard started closing the gate. Robert dropped the car in gear and drove up to the driveway.

  “Afternoon,” Robert said. “Running a little late. Robert Worth and a guest.”

  Robert showed his invite to the guard, who checked him against the guest list and peered inside at her.

  “Sure thing. Robert Worth and guest. They’ll take your car up top.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  Driving in, Robert was relieved. His educated guess proved right. Showing up. Him? It never crossed Jack’s mind, and his name was still on Dorothy’s list.

  Halfway up the drive, his cell phone rang. He stopped. Checked the screen: Rolando.

  “¿Roberto?”

  “¿Sí?”

  “¿El Macho? Está en la cocina.”

  “¿Con su mujer?”

  “No, con otra chica. Ayy . . .”

  “¿Que pasó?”

  “Su Mujer. Aquí. Shit.”

  “Gracias, mi chico.”

  He clicked off, turned to Alison. “We’re going in through the kitchen. You mind?”

  In the kitchen, caterers scurried around, assembling dinner. It was a large room, larger than four of Robert’s apartments. Near the pantry doorway, Jack huddled with Meridian, standing a little too close to be talking sports. Across the room, unaware of them, Dorothy opened and closed custom cabinets, searching for the best vase for Philip’s flowers.

  Once she found a small one, she slid them in, arranged them, and went to one of four custom sinks to add water. Right then, she spotted her husband and Meridian. Jack didn’t see her. Not until she was ten feet away.

  “Excuse me?” Dorothy said.

  His expression gave nothing away when he turned to her and said, “Ah, dear, you know—”

  She cut him off. “May I borrow my husband—Meredith?”

  Chase’s wife didn’t have the sense to leave and said, “Lots of people make that mistake—it’s Meridian.”

  “No, it’s not. Meridian isn’t a name. It’s goddamn geography.”

  “Oh, of course, Mrs. Pierce,” she said, her pumps clattering away on one-of-a-kind floor tiles.

  Dorothy told him, “If I ever catch you with another woman, Jack—”

  “Don’t act that way, Dorothy. She’s my partner’s wife, my go-to guy. I introduced them, remember?”

  “Certainly, I remember. What I don’t recall is how you met such a lovely young woman in the first place.”

  “Please, this is crazy, darling, and we have a house full of guests.”

  He kissed her cheek, gave her a hug, and left. She set down the flowers and picked up a
vodka bottle from a serving table, then poured four fingers over ice and splashed a breath of tonic on top.

  “Lemon or lime, Ms. Pierce?”

  She looked over at a nearby prep table. It was Robert, standing with Alison, and holding a paring knife.

  “Lime, please. What in the world are you doing back here?”

  “I was late,” Robert said. “Hoped we could slip in without anyone noticing, but . . . this is Alison Maxwell, a friend.”

  “Hello, Alison.”

  Robert handed Dorothy a slice of lime on a cocktail napkin. She dropped it into her drink.

  “Mrs. Pierce,” Alison said, “you have a beautiful kitchen.”

  “Oh, thank you. I’d planned to use it more myself, but Jack and I, we’re both so busy that entertaining winds up being a great challenge.”

  “Your counters, are they Carrara?” Alison asked.

  “No, Thassos, but the two are similar.”

  Alison paced around the clean, white counters and cabinets. Stainless-steel accents everywhere, Miele appliances, two gleaming commercial refrigerators with glass doors, double ovens, Gaggenau serving tables, and heat lamps.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this. The level of finish, the workflow . . .”

  Dorothy joined her, and they took a walking tour. “It was a mess when Father bought it, the kitchen, that is. The rest of the house, we didn’t need to change it structurally, except for the heating and air conditioning.”

  Alison stopped at the range. Eight feet long, red enamel with stainless trim, it looked like a work of art. “La Cornue?” Alison asked.

  “Yes, you’re familiar with it?

  “Only from magazines. I had a client who ordered one, but his check bounced when he was arrested.”

  “Arrested?”

  “I’m from Florida. He was a drug dealer, I think.”

  Dorothy smiled. “Are you an interior designer?”

  “No, no, my family installed kitchens back east. We had a showroom, but nothing—I mean, nothing at all like what you did here.”

  “Thank you so much, dear.” She took a swallow of her drink and turned to Robert. “I make it a point not to follow firm business, but I couldn’t help but notice that Mr. Fitzpatrick became a partner. That cannot have been good news for you, and I’m so very sorry.”

  “That’s kind of you to say, Ms. Pierce.”

  “Dorothy, please, each of you.”

  Robert said, “Thanks, Dorothy.”

  Then he gauged this woman. Intelligent, talented, pretty without any outside help. Drinking too much because . . . He could only guess what she went through married to Jack and recalled her tight reaction when she saw Gia in the firm garage. All of it made him decide to take a chance.

  “Actually, I haven’t been truthful. The firm let me go a while back, and I need to speak to your husband about some loose ends. I still had my invitation, and this was the only way I knew to reach out to him.”

  “Oh, that law business is so brutal. Capable as you are, I’m certain you’ve already landed on your feet.”

  “Very close to it. Any way we could surprise your husband now?”

  “Well, Robert, Alison, I can only say this.” She set down her drink, finally having fun at her own party. “If Jack isn’t expecting you, we mustn’t keep him waiting.”

  The Brightwell living room went dead. And it went dead fast. Jack’s face hardened when he saw Dorothy walk into the room, arm in arm with Robert and Alison. Harder still when his wife said, “Jack, we have a special guest. He desperately needs to have a word with you, so I obliged him.”

  From a quilted couch, Chase bolted upright when he saw Robert and Alison. One of his suede loafers swiped a glass of Bordeaux off the coffee table, and as wine cascaded onto a Persian carpet, Meridian gave him a hard elbow shot. In a nearby wingback chair, Philip settled in to watch as Robert and Alison approached Jack.

  “S’up, Jack,” Robert said. “Believe you’ve met Ms. Maxwell, haven’t you?”

  “Hi, Jack,” she said.

  He hated the Jack thing. Somehow he kept his cool. “In my study, Worth. Right now.”

  Robert ignored him. Looked around till he found Chase on his hands and knees, blotting that wine stain with cocktail napkins.

  “Chase,” Robert said, walking over to him, “read all about you in the Times. Congratulations, man. You earned it.”

  Chase was mumbling something. Robert could barely make it out: “Was that: Go fuck yourself, Worth? Great material, another winner.” He looked at Meridian. “Must be a ton of laughs living with Chase.” Looked to Robert like she was about to toss her wine in his face. “Go ahead, do it,” he said, patting Chase on the back. “Make it even worse for your boy.”

  She backed down.

  Across the room, Mr. Brightwell had whirred up to Alison in his wheelchair. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” he asked.

  “Alison Maxwell.”

  He shook her hand, then held on to it.

  “Lionel Brightwell. Call me Lionel, makes me feel eighty again.”

  “Sure, Lionel, I’d like that.”

  Now Jack moved in on Robert and gripped his forearm. “Let’s go, sport, outta here.” Rolling his arm into Jack’s thumb, Robert broke the hold and returned to Alison’s side.

  “Alison, will you be all right out here for a little while?”

  Lionel butted in and growled, “Hell, yeah, Worth, she’s all right. She’s with me.”

  She gave him a good-luck wink, and he gave her one back.

  “Okay, Jack,” he said, “let’s do it, bro.”

  They walked past Philip. He nodded to his protégé, but Robert ignored him and left the room with Jack.

  Lionel was digging Alison and motioned her down, whispering to her, “All of ’em are vultures, waiting for me to die so they can pick over my bones.”

  “Young stud like you?” she whispered back. “They’re dreaming.”

  He roared at that and beckoned a roving server, who came right over. Lionel took a glass of wine. Alison noticed the server’s name tag: Rolando.

  “Well, then, Alison, you’re driving. It’s nursie’s night off. Over there.”

  He pointed at Chase and Meridian. She was spritzing the carpet with soda, too, almost in tears. Chase desperately blotted wine with a bar towel.

  As the wheelchair pulled up, Chase told Lionel, “The stain, it’s definitely coming up, sir. I don’t think it will be a problem at all.”

  “Brought this rug back from Italy after the war. After my beloved Forty-Fifth took Salerno and Anzio. Know what that carpet’s worth, son?”

  “No, sir, I don’t.”

  “Appraiser didn’t, either. Must be why he said it was priceless. Know what priceless means, boy?”

  “It’s coming out, sir. See?”

  “It comes out, podnah, or you’re cuttin’ my lawn the next two hundred years.”

  Alison knelt down, tapped Chase on the shoulder, and pointed at another stain.

  “What?” he said, seething.

  “Missed a spot. Right under your nose, you ass-kissing, a-hole . . .”

  CHAPTER 19

  It wasn’t the study’s twenty-foot ceilings, walls of bound books, or paneled gun cases Robert noticed first. It was photographs of Jack—scuba diving, mountain climbing, sparring with a trainer. Several more framed shots showed him in the LA Marathon or last leg of the LA Ironman, digging deep to finish.

  The moment Jack closed the door, he took off his jacket and said, “Rodney?”

  “Sir?”

  The Maybach driver rose from one of two facing couches centered on the fireplace. But Jack kept his eyes on Robert while he spoke: “Out, Rodney. Check on Dad.”

  “I’m not dressed for—”

  “Check on Dad, thank you.”

  Twenty seconds later, Rodney was out another door, far end of the room. The entire time, Jack stayed focused on Robert.

  Once the other door closed. “One-shot deal, Worth.
Grab the tart, get her out of my house, and we call it day.”

  “Checked the records, Jack. It’s not your house—it’s Dorothy’s.”

  “Dorothy’s,” Jack repeated.

  Then he feinted a left jab and threw a hard right cross into Robert’s face. Caught him on the cheekbone and sent him over a couch, breaking the coffee table as he crashed to the floor.

  Robert lay there, trying to clear his head.

  “C’mon, Worth, let’s see what you got. That’s what you wanted when I fired you, wasn’t it?”

  Robert struggled to his knees, knowing now he had guessed right gaming this out—good chance he’d have to take one for the team today. Guy hit harder than he figured, but there was one thing he knew when he made it to his feet. He wasn’t throwing a punch in Bel-Air. Not inside this house, Jack’s or not, where technically he was a trespasser. With Bel-Air security involved, he could go to jail, and with the right Beverly Hills judge, he could be worrying about making bail, not working this case.

  “No, thanks, Jack. Enough flexing for today.”

  “What I figured,” Jack said, making a call on his cell phone. “Benny, it’s Jack Pierce. A trespasser refuses to leave my residence. No, nothing I can’t handle. Send a car, I’ll be waiting.”

  Trespasser. Robert heard it and was meant to. Jack wasn’t using the private head-miked guys outside, going instead through formal channels that would jail him on Jack’s say-so.

  “Have it your way, but remember—I tried to settle before we filed suit.”

  “Settle what? Her brother’s case is shit. If you had really reviewed his file, you’d already know that.”

  Robert thought about it: talking about Brian Maxwell’s case was a detour, but it might be a nice avenue to the main event.

  “Estate of Brian Maxwell vs. Consolidated Construction? The case you told Chase and me was worth three, four hundred thousand? The case you told your client was worth ten grand? That case?”

  “You’re gonna second-guess me? Based on casual remarks, speculation about the size of her brother’s verdict?”

  “Dunno, you were pretty clear about it.”

  “Wonder how Chase remembers that conversation? Seriously, Worth, all this wasted motion, that’s it? You’re coming up here, coming at me with that?”