“Yes. You can. I know it.” The detective stood and put his open hand on the remaining files in the stack to stop her. “And you know the San Francisco police composite sketch is not enough.”
“That’s not my problem.” She stared at his large hand paper-weighting her files down.
“That’s debatable.” The detective took his hand off Sophia’s files.
“Is that what dinner was really about?”
“Not entirely.” Detective Rutger walked by Sophia to the window. “Nice view up here.”
There was silence.
He turned around to Sophia.
“I need you. I can read people, you know. That’s my job. I know you’re rethinking your choices as we speak.”
“You do, huh?”
“Yeah, I can see it in your eyes. Either you can be honest, and place Roger at that intersection, or you can close ranks and make me do it the hard way. That truck did not jump the curb and Frank didn’t slip. Roger is a murderer, pure and simple, and I will take him down, regardless of your concern about your big paycheck.”
“So that is what this is about? Our big paychecks?”
“No it’s not and you know it. It’s about you playing a dangerous game with dangerous people.”
The detective was right. She didn’t like the scene in Taylor’s office and was re-evaluating this three-dimensional chess game, yet again. It was ever changing.
Sophia replayed the last four years of her life in her head. She had sacrificed everything for this job and wanted a man like Taylor. But she felt closer to the detective’s kind. She liked him. Hers was a kindred spirit to his. He was ethical, He thought in black and white, good and bad. He thought like she did, but she was trying not to do that now.
“And if he’s not a murderer?”
Sophia so wanted the right answer to come out of this man’s mouth at this moment to validate the choice she had already made not to identify Roger and to stay out of it. She wanted some show of neutrality and objectivity from the detective, but she didn’t get it.
“But he is. I guarantee it.”
The detective was matter-of-fact and arrogant. Although Roger could be an opportunistic, angry man and a possible murderer, the detective’s attitude did not validate Sophia jeopardizing her career and new life. She was convinced Detective Rutger was not even-handed or objectively analytical and could be wrong. If so, he could not rehabilitate her position at the firm. It was clear to her that he did not understand what he was asking of her.
Sophia took a long look into the detective’s eyes and thought hard. She recognized the detective’s very “black and white” simplicity because she had followed it in her life many times, like she had just done with Toak. She thought back to what Paul had said about the detective wanting to make a name for himself. She didn’t know him well enough not to believe Paul’s take on him. She also worried about the detective’s obvious and rabid “take him down” posturing at the firm.
Part of her hesitancy was timing. She had to admit to herself that she regretted exercising her pure ethics with Toak, who was far angrier than she had imagined. Becoming a willing witness for the prosecution could bring even more regret. She wished she hadn’t gone to San Francisco. No—she wished she had never even interviewed at Thorne & Chase. But it was too late for that now.
“I don’t know . . .” Sophia whispered, barely audibly to the detective.
“You don’t know what?”
“I don’t know . . .” She stalled and calculated her options.
Sophia could have completed the sentence honestly with “what to do.” But she didn’t.
“I don’t know anything,” she intoned without conviction.
“I can subpoena you. Besides, you know, my boss is looking at more than Roger here and I don’t want you swept up in that. Accessory after the fact is a serious charge.”
As Detective Rutger continued looking at her, Sophia’s heart sank. Accessory after the fact? Now she had something else nonbillable to research. This was like a sinkhole for her career. There weren’t enough hours in the day for all this intrigue.
Sophia knew what nonbillable intrigue had done to firms and careers. After one L.A. firm split up, both new firms destroyed each other by nonbillable litigation and fighting with each other about clients, finances, and insults that turned into baseless but filed lawsuits. She was beginning to think of her nonbillable problems as a parallel path to destruction and a precursor to the premature implosion of her professional career.
“I need to bill.” Sophia hit her fist down on the desk hard. “Leave now.”
After the detective left, she rubbed her hand. “Ow! Damn that hurt.”
⌘
Chapter 60
The Hunt for Roger
Sophia restacked the files as they were before she had used them to distract the detective. She then opened the pleading file and started to bill to Super Vacuums again, but she was billing for nothing, literally. Her mind was minced and her evening was shattered with doubt about her decisions concerning both Toak and Roger.
The detective’s words “looking at more than Roger” kept rattling around in her mind. She was worried for herself for the first time and also for Taylor, even though he had behaved badly.
Sophia charged her useless time to the client anyway, this time without a rationalization. She was on survival autopilot.
Interoffice mail delivered the federal practice books from the librarian. She put them on her bookshelf. When she turned back around, Taylor was standing in her office. He shut the door.
“Sophia, we do need to talk.”
“Yes.”
“I need to explain. I was not blindsiding you. They were . . . and I let them. I let them stay. I’m sorry.”
“It was more than that and you know it. You led me in. You sat me down. Then you were silent when they were grilling me.”
Sophia took a long breath, sat in her chair, and looked quietly at Taylor. She had started a free-fall love affair with Taylor, which had been suspended in mid-air after last night.
“I was just trying to help.” Taylor sunk into a chair opposite Sophia.
“Yes, I know. Help your friends.”
“No. Help you. I talked to Roger after you left. I coated everything over. I told him even though you thought you saw him at first, you realized now that you hadn’t.”
“But you did tell him that I saw him.”
“Before!”
“That’s just great, Taylor. You tell Roger, a suspect in two murder cases, that I am the only witness who can put him at the scene of one? And why would you say that helps me?”
“I never thought of it that way. Besides, you didn’t tell me you thought Roger was a murderer. I . . .”
Sophia was horrified. “I didn’t have to say the word murderer. You know he is the only person Detective Rutger is looking at. Whether he did it or not, he’s the prime suspect. You should have kept what I told you to yourself.”
“I didn’t think.” Taylor paused for a long moment. “Roger is not a murderer. I can’t believe it. I’d bet my life on it.”
“But you didn’t bet your life on it. You bet mine.”
The full impact of what Taylor had done came to life with that sentence. Sophia hid her face in her hands and rested her elbows on the desk. She couldn’t catch her breath.
“And now, I have Detective Rutger coming in here and thinking he can threaten me.”
“Threaten? What the hell do you mean? Threaten what?”
“He wants me to place Roger at the intersection where Frank died . . . or more. Paul says bringing down an educated high-earning professional, instead of the usual degenerate gang-banger, would make his career.”
“Paul’s right. But, wait, back up . . . how did he threaten you?”
“With a subpoena and maybe a charge of being an accessory after the fact, if I refuse to be a willing witnesses.”
“Accessory after the fact?”
“Ye
s.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“I hope so.”
“What did he say, exactly?”
“That I was playing a dangerous game. But I wasn’t. You made it dangerous by talking to Roger. Now Roger thinks I can destroy his life.”
“I’m sorry, Sophia.” Taylor walked behind the desk, took her by the shoulders, and guided her gently into his arms. “But the detective is playing you. Keep away from him. I’ll handle Roger, if he scares you.”
She looked up at Taylor. He leaned down and kissed her softly.
“I will make this better.” Taylor wrapped his warm strong arms around her. “Let’s go to dinner and talk. I can’t tonight, but our Italian restaurant? Tomorrow?”
“What about Frank’s funeral?”
Taylor gave Sophia a quick kiss and started for the door.
“We’ll make it work.” Taylor left.
She sat down feeling handled, not loved.
Sophia remained sitting for the longest and shortest time in her life. She knew this day was over and wondered about the tomorrows. Finally, she shut down her computer and started for the elevator to go home early. Then, she changed her mind and headed to the stairwell leading to Tricia’s office. She needed to talk to her.
* * *
The stairwell was dimly lit and got darker as Sophia descended. She passed a bulb, which was out, grabbed the rail, and double-timed down toward the lights below.
A door shut above her. There were heavy steps. Sophia thought of Judith and paused to listen. The steps above stopped, too. No door opened or shut. Whoever had entered the stairwell was still there but not moving. Sophia peered up into the darkness.
“Is someone there?”
There was no answer.
Sophia held her breath. No sound. The person was still there. Sophia sensed it. Her heart pounded. Quickly, she turned and ran, high-heel inhibited, down the stairs toward the landing below to get out.
Suddenly, the heavy steps were coming down at her. Her hands shook and her knees felt weak. She grabbed the rail harder and again thought of Judith as she descended.
When Sophia reached the landing, she pulled at the door handle. She had forgotten to slide her card to get out. She fumbled to find it in her pocket where she kept it, slid the card in the slot, and then grabbed the door handle again. It didn’t budge. She pulled at it and then frantically ran the card through again. The steps stopped on the landing behind her. Then silence.
Sophia banged on the door with her fists. She was trapped.
She opened her mouth to scream just as she heard Detective Rutger’s voice from behind.
“Here, let me help you.”
She whipped around, out of breath, with her back against the door. Detective Rutger stood over her.
“You son of a bitch! You scared me to death.” She hit him hard and two fisted on the chest with her purse swinging wildly.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Stop.” The detective grabbed her wrists.
He looked at Sophia and she looked up at him. His touch was electrical, exciting, and sensual. She stopped struggling. He did not let go of her wrists. He leaned down and kissed her gently, tenderly. She didn’t move. He kissed her again, released her wrists, and slid his arms around her waist. It was so different than Taylor. So safe. So nice. So tender. Sophia slipped her hands up his massive chest, laced her arms around his muscular neck, and pulled him into her. She kissed him back with a slow, yearning burn. Her whole body quivered as it melted into Steve’s. Her lips parted. Steve’s lips parted strong and sure. Their tongues intertwined with softness and hunger as Steve pulled her into him.
Unexpectedly, the door opened and slammed against them. They caught their footing and pushed apart, but not before Roger’s head squeezed through. He stopped pushing, startled when he saw the detective and Sophia fumbling from their embrace. Before the two could extricate themselves, Sophia caught Roger’s wicked gaze.
“What’s going on here?” Roger pushed at the door.
“Hold on.” Steve held the door in place until Sophia could slip under Roger’s arm and scurry out.
“What the hell?” Roger watched her rushing down the hall.
He then glared at the detective, who was still cornered by him on the stairwell landing. Roger stood his ground and blocked the detective’s exit. The detective advanced. The two stood face-to-face, chest to chest, and neither budged until Roger zeroed in on the detective’s lips, wet with Sophia’s saliva.
The detective reached up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“You have something to say?” Detective Rutger cocked his head and smiled.
“So that’s how it is.” Roger sneered, baring his yellowed, crooked teeth uninhibitedly and viciously at this white-toothed Adonis.
He slammed the open door into the detective and hurried up the stairwell, two steps at a time with his long lanky legs.
⌘
Chapter 61
Freewaying
Sophia was at work early Saturday, dressed for Frank’s funeral. She billed questionable hours to Super Vacuums. Slamming through her mind, as it had all night, was the question whether Roger had told Taylor about her and Detective Rutger in the stairwell. Or was he saving it to use as a trump card against her?
The more she replayed the incident, the more she convinced herself that there was nothing to tell. The detective had pursued her in the stairwell. Roger had simply slammed the door into them and Detective Rutger caught her fall. That was her story and would be her story. The rest she would relegate to Roger’s imagination and manipulation of the facts.
Sophia called Tricia’s cell and then her office to talk, but Tricia didn’t answer. Tricia barely got to the office in time to leave for Frank’s funeral, so there was no time to talk. The three rushed down to the garage for Paul to drive. As they walked through the well-lit garage, Paul’s Jaguar beeped and its lights blinked as Paul pressed his key.
“That’s a beautiful car,” Sophia said.
“Thanks.”
“Take shotgun,” Tricia offered.
Sophia did.
“I’ve never been in a Jaguar. It’s so roomy.”
“The lease is up in three months. Then I’m going back to Mercedes. There is nothing like a Mercedes. That German engineering can’t be beat. And I miss the Mercedes’ small turning radius.”
“Someday I want to experience that turning radius!” Sophia exclaimed as Paul took the turns to get out of the garage. “But this doesn’t seem so bad to me.”
* * *
The three headed to the funeral, twenty-five minutes away from downtown to the Westside in light Saturday traffic
To shorten their daily commutes, most firm partners ended up buying houses nearer downtown in Hancock Park or the Westside for a quick freeway commute. The Westsiders’ secret was that their commute on the 10 freeway was counter to the heavy traffic going west—housekeepers, gardeners, contractors, subcontractors, retailers and techies who could not afford to live on the Westside. The Valley contingent of the firm over the hills from downtown had to commute off-hours, especially if they lived in Sherman Oaks or Studio City. But the Valley-ites loved it: the heat, the lifestyle, and the people. Some of them regretted the choice and the commute, but had families too ensconced to move.
As they drove, Tricia analyzed the pros and cons of bringing Jay to the firm retreat. Sophia joined in the debate to avoid any dialogue about Taylor, Taylor’s group of four, or the detective. She didn’t trust Paul to keep his mouth shut with Doug.
“For God’s sake, Tricia,” Paul exclaimed. “Bringing Jay is not that big of a decision. He’s a personable guy. He fits in. Last year, you were miserable alone. Remember? Besides, Jay would have a great time golfing for free.”
“That’s true. He loves to golf. It’s just that he’s an Assistant U.S. Attorney, so I worry that some of the partners won’t feel comfortable.”
“Screw them. They can have their private little huddles about questionable activities in their rooms,” Paul said. “Away from Big Brother’s prying eyes.”
“Bring him,” Sophia urged. “I want to meet him.”
Paul added, “If you don’t invite him, Tricia, I will. There, it’s done.”
“Fine,” Tricia laughed and agreed. “He’s coming.”
“So what really goes on during this retreat?” Sophia asked.
“Drinking and more drinking and then drinking again,” Paul reacted quickly.
“That’s not true,” Tricia protested.
“Okay. There are dinners, golf and tennis trophies, and rah-rah meetings. But the fun part is the drinking and then playing like a kid again, golf, tennis, bicycling, swimming, horseback riding, croquet. That’s how they suck you into actually wanting to go to this bonding thing.”
“I’m going to ride,” Sophia announced. “I used to have a horse.”
“Really?” Tricia looked wide-eyed at Sophia.
“Sure. Want to ride with me?”
“No thanks. I’m dumping Jay on the golf course for eighteen holes and going to the spa. Come with me. We’ll do massages, mud baths, body scrubs, mani-pedi’s. I’m in heaven just talking about it.”
“Thanks, but I’d rather ride. And I know you don’t want to go, Paul. I heard about your horse mishap from Joe.”
“Are you kidding? Well, I guess my ride is famous. Boy, I’ll never get on a horse again. They’re too big, too stupid, and too dangerous. The minute I got on him the damn horse put its head down and tried to roll over with me on him. The stable guy yelled ‘pick up his head.’ What the hell? Why didn’t he say what he meant . . . pull the dumb head up with the reins? Even that was stupid. How could I do that with hundreds of pounds of muscle jerking them back down? I would have needed a crane.”
Laughter filled the car.
“Poor Paul,” Sophia consoled. “Your horse had a ‘hard mouth’ from being a stable nag and couldn’t feel the pulling. If he had a tender mouth, he would have raised his head.”
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