Compromising Positions

by Beverly Bird

  He accepted the mug she slid across the breakfast bar at him. He watched her hands shake a little. He took a deep, fortifying swallow, then reached for his suit coat from the stool where he had left it the night before.

  He held the mug high in a sort of salute. “I’ll return this to you.”

  She nodded. She wondered what he would do if she told him she didn’t want him to take it. Such a possibility had obviously never occurred to him. It was just a mug, and he could probably buy the factory that had made it. She was more bemused than annoyed.

  “I’ll be in touch before eleven or so,” he informed her, “as soon as I know what’s gone on with those investigations I mentioned last night. We’ll take things from there.”

  She didn’t like it, but didn’t know what else to do. Every instinct she possessed urged her to get rid of that damned machine as soon as possible.

  “I feel so helpless,” she whispered. And she wondered if he could possibly understand that for her, that was the worst feeling in the world. “There’s nothing I can do to fight back,” she added hopelessly.

  “We’ll think of something.” He saw the torment in her eyes and his voice was hard now, angry, a threat against whoever was doing this to her. “In the meantime,” he advised, “sit tight.”

  “Sit tight? I’m going to work.”

  “I meant emotionally.”

  “Oh.” And then, before she could react, he stepped around the breakfast bar and kissed her.

  Shock and panic and denial flew through her. Her hands jerked up halfway to stop him. Instantly. Reflexively. Then they hovered.

  His kiss was fast, defiant, planted squarely on her mouth. And even as brief as it was, everything inherent in his personality was there. Control. He had the upper hand. Power. Touching her had been his decision. Arrogance. She didn’t think he would allow her to push him away.

  She should have been terrified, but there wasn’t time.

  Her hands finally found his chest, but her fingers only curled into his shirt. Then, as quickly as it had started, it was over. Something flashed inside her at the contact, then lingered. Her mouth still tingled. She stumbled backward a quick half step when he released her, but even as she did, everything inside her kept stirring. She stared at him. She pressed her fingers to her mouth, shaken. “What...why did you do that?”

  “I’ve never spent the night with a woman I’ve never even kissed. And last night it just didn’t seem appropriate.”

  “Appropriate?”

  “I thought about it.”

  She swallowed carefully. “So this was...planned?”

  “No. It didn’t seem appropriate this morning, either.”

  “But you did it anyway.”

  “I like to break out now and again.”

  Her eyes widened. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  And with that he was gone, striding up the hall. Before she could fully recover and go after him, she heard the front door click shut behind him.

  Shaken, Angela sat at the breakfast bar, trying to regain her composure.

  She wanted to feel the terror now, needed to feel it. She floundered for it and couldn’t find it, despite the fact that one thing had just become abundantly clear. Despite that veneer of civility, those upper-crust manners, Jesse Hadley was all man. And she had allowed him to get close enough to want her. Hadley or not, genteel or not, he would do something about it.

  Finally, her pulse began rioting. But it was as much with wonder as panic.

  Jesse was late for work. A good number of his staff were already at their desks when he got off the elevator. It was twenty after eight.

  The district attorney’s office claimed the entire sixth floor of a stately, redbrick building on Arch Street. The department was cramped. His trial deputies had private offices, but the Trial Division was crammed into one large room chopped up by prefab dividers. The Investigations Division had another chopped up section on the east side of the floor.

  It was to this end of the building that Jesse went. As he passed his secretary’s desk, Libby jumped up to make sure his coffee was waiting for him when he returned.

  Jesse found Eric Zollner on the telephone, his own mug already drained, indicating that he’d been at work for a while. It was one of the things Jesse liked about him.

  “Five minutes,” Jesse said when the investigator hung up. “My office. I want to know what you found out about the Shokonnets.” Then he stepped around Eric’s desk to find Jeanette Peckett. “How are you doing with that peek into the M.E.’s office I asked you for?”

  “Right here,” she said, rummaging through the papers on her desk before holding up a wad of them.

  “Good. Come to my office in twenty minutes.”

  He went back to his own desk. His coffee was waiting for him. He took a mouthful and shrugged out of his suit coat, and by the time he hung it up, Eric was standing in his office doorway.

  “Come in,” he said. “Sit down.”

  The young man looked like he’d rather stand. “You’re not going to like this. Those kids were in for emergency treatment twelve times.”

  Jesse swore violently enough to make Eric jump.

  “The mother doesn’t work,” he rushed on to relate. “The father is employed at a gas station down on Catharine and Broad. At present, they have a total of ninety-two dollars and sixteen cents in their checking account, no other savings accounts or investments. No credit cards, no auto loan. No hospitalization, either. They’ve left open medical accounts all over the city, so it was relatively easy to track the emergency visits. The father was treated once two years ago for extensive lacerations and contusions of the right hand. Records show he was quite inebriated at the time.”

  Jesse sat down, already tired. “You’re right. I don’t like it.”

  “It gets worse. Melissa Shokonnet is pregnant again.”

  Jesse snarled. “That bastard ought to be castrated.”

  “I thought of that,” Eric said uncomfortably. “She’s never been in for treatment. But the neighbors say Melissa pops up with new bruises at least once a week.”

  Jesse closed his eyes briefly. “There’s nothing we can get him on now.”

  “Not unless we can get her to file a complaint.”

  “She won’t,” Jesse stated flatly. “Not if she’s crying SIDS to cover up what he’s been doing to her babies.”

  “No, probably not. But given their history, we’ll get them eventually, sir.”

  Jesse nodded, his stomach working again. The newborn would show up at some emergency clinic somewhere—at least the mother seemed to get them treatment. And when it happened, he would nail Harry Shokonnet.

  “Do me a favor,” Jesse said. “I know you’re overworked and underpaid, but keep an eye on them. When is the baby due?”

  “September.”

  “Well, starting September, post a reminder to yourself to check the hospitals, say twice a month or so. Until it happens. It’s the best we can do for now,” he conceded, almost to himself. It wasn’t going to help Angela.

  He couldn’t see how Harry Shokonnet could have a grudge against her, not unless she had charged him with child abuse, and she hadn’t. No, he thought, little Lacie’s body had just been in the right place at the right time, and someone had used it.

  Eric left, and Jesse’s anger simmered. There would be yet another victim because someone had released Lacie Shokonnet’s remains. A defenseless, as-yet unborn infant was going to have to take at least one blow before he could do anything about it. He popped an antacid tablet, and it wasn’t even nine o’clock in the morning yet.

  Jeanette Peckett’s news wasn’t much better. She knocked tentatively on his opened door mere moments after Eric had gone.

  “What do you have, Jeanette?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? You just waved the contents of a whole damned file at me a few minutes ago!”

  “Full of nice, clean people. The city screens the employees over there. The bes
t I could find was a guy who had a drug problem about eight years ago. He went into detox, and he’s been clean ever since.”

  “What’s he do?” Jesse asked.

  “Night watchman.”

  “Did you check the janitors, the secretaries?”

  Jeanette nodded unhappily.

  “And nobody has an ax to grind,” Jesse muttered.

  “Well, it would help if I knew what kind of ax you were looking for. I know a couple of her deputies are irked that they didn’t get promoted to her job.”

  Jesse shook his head. “I’m not sure what I’m looking for.”

  But actually, he was. Jeanette had just hit the nail on the head. He wanted to know who over there might resent Angela Byerly enough to try to bring her down.

  “Which deputies?” he asked.

  “Specifically, Ed Thackery and Brigid Cross. They’ve both been pretty vocal about it. Thackery has been working in the M.E.’s office for twenty-two years, and Cross is one of those highbrow, silver-spoon types who thinks she should have everything she wants because she wants it.” As soon as the words were out, she flushed. She had just described her boss’s background.

  Jesse waved a hand to dismiss her remark. “Good work. Keep digging.”

  When she was gone. he went to find his secretary. “Did you ever get those logs I asked for?”

  “Right here. The past four weeks’ worth. Six now.” She dropped two more binders on top of the pile.

  Jesse took them. “Thanks.”

  “I could look through them myself if I knew what you were searching for.”

  “I’m not sure myself,” he said yet again, then slammed his office door.

  An hour later, he had a throbbing headache.

  No one appeared in any of the log books who didn’t have a perfectly legitimate reason for being in his offices. No one from the M.E.’s office had visited, except Angela on the Thursday when all this trouble had started, but she hadn’t signed in because Libby had been gone for the day.

  Then again, he reflected, stealing tapes wasn’t legitimate. And it was entirely possible—even probable—that the break-in had occurred after hours, as well, or while Libby had been away from her desk. Someone in his office, then? His stomach clenched.

  “Oh, hell,” he muttered aloud. “Not again.”

  He tried calling Angela. He had nothing good to tell her but he knew she’d be interested in—if infuriated by—the Shokonnet information. And he wasn’t adverse to hearing her voice right now.

  Her secretary said she was unavailable. He tried not to imagine what she might actually be doing and left a message for her to call him back. Which, he supposed, she might or might not do. If his head wasn’t hurting so much, he might have smiled at that. No one could accuse her of jumping to salute.

  He touched a finger to his lip and thought about kissing her. He had lied to her. He liked to break out? He gave a hoarse laugh. Not until recently, he realized. Generally, he marched along with the program, with rules both unspoken and carved in granite.

  Nor was spending the night with women—with or without kissing them—much in his repertoire. More often than not, after an hour or so in their company, he had no desire to kiss them or sleep with them or anything else. Caro had been a rare exception.

  And he hadn’t thought about Caro in weeks now.

  He got up and stared out his window at the busy street six floors below. He went back to his phone and tapped in a three-digit extension number.

  “Eric, I need to see you again,” he said when the man answered.

  It took Eric less than two minutes to get down the hall to Jesse’s office. By the time he did, Jesse’s headache was slamming, and his stomach swam in acid. He’d eaten another two antacid tablets.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Close the door.”

  The man did as he was told and waited expectantly.

  “There’s something else I need you to look into. I want it kept quiet.”

  “Of course.”

  “I mean very quiet.”

  “It won’t leave the D.A.’s office.”

  “It can’t leave this room. You’ve got to look into something for me, then forget you ever did it.” Just in case, he added silently. Just in case something wild turns up.

  Eric swallowed noticeably. “Okay.”

  “I need you to go back over all my uncle’s dockets.”

  “Which uncle?” Eric’s jaw dropped. “Glowan?”

  “That’s right.”

  “He’s been on the bench for twenty-five years! There have got to be thousand of cases!”

  “I know it’s daunting,” Jesse allowed. “If you want to do it after hours, I’ll see that you get the overtime.” He knew Eric and his wife had just bought a house.

  Eric brightened at that. “Any particular place I should start looking?”

  Jesse thought about it. “With his work right here in the city.”

  “That was at least fifteen years ago. I mean, he’s been on the superior court for a while now, right?”

  Jesse nodded absently. He was remembering something Angela had said about children last night at dinner. I haven’t really considered it in a very long time...maybe fifteen years. Was there a connection?

  “What exactly am I looking for this time?” Eric asked.

  “The name Angela Byerly.”

  “As in the medical examiner?”

  “Mum’s the word here. Eric,” Jesse warned again.

  “You think she did something illegal?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe something illegal was done to her. Find out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jesse sat back in his chair when the investigator had gone. He swigged cold coffee and grimaced. So he would find out what had happened between her and his uncle. None of the other avenues were panning out. Hell, for all he knew, it could be pertinent. No stone unturned, he vowed, and every day that passed was another day that they were running out of time before that DNA testing came back on his hair. At this point, he was more worried about that for her sake than his own.

  But it was more than that. He really had to know what had happened now, for his own protection and self-preservation.

  He was falling hard for this woman. And fast. She had him on an emotional roller coaster, when he’d always preferred the sedate ride of a luxury car. He had every right and reason to check up on her.

  Why, then, did he feel as though he was betraying her in the worst possible way?

  Chapter 9

  Angela wore violet. She chose a suit, professional enough except for the color, and the slender bracelet she fastened around her right ankle. And instead of a crisp blouse, she let a hint of lace show between the lapels.

  A woman had died, and somehow it was her fault. A man had kissed her, and she had enjoyed it. She was bordering on desperate, and, as always, she fought it with color and clothes.

  She didn’t actually get to the morgue until eleven. On her way out the door, she was paged. An employee at the university library had found a periodical she needed for a lecture she’d agreed to give there. She swung by to pick it up, and in the meantime she heard on the scanner that a ninety-six-year-old man was found dead in his living-room recliner, his television still shouting bursts of canned laughter.

  Angela suspected that his heart had simply given out, but since he had died alone and no one could say why for certain, he was a case for the medical examiner’s office. Normally, she wouldn’t have picked him up herself, but she was already out on the street, and she still had one of the office’s six vans from collecting Lisette Chauncy’s body yesterday. Trusting that one of the cops on the scene would help her load him, she went by the old man’s apartment first.

  By the time she got to the morgue, her offices were bustling and all the autopsy rooms were full. She parked in the rear, backing the van into one of the bays to deliver the deceased. She glanced absently at the red bio-hazard warning on the roll-up garage door, and even that made her t
hink of Jesse again. He seemed so squeamish about the trappings of her job.

  Remembering that morning kiss, she touched her fingers to her mouth as she went inside, passing two orderlies who rushed to meet the van. She never heard them when they called out good-morning.

  Brigid Cross was seated at the receptionist’s desk.

  “Where’s Candace?” Angela asked, surprised to see her there.

  “Out sick. You need to fire her, Dr. Byerly.”

  “Well, it’s entirely possible she just needs a flu shot.”

  “This time of year?” Brigid waved a hand at the computer.

  “You know I’m not one to squeal, but...”

  Her voice trailed off. Angela didn’t answer. In fact, Brigid had squealing down to a fine art.

  I “These data bases are weeks behind,” Brigid accused.

  “I’ll talk to her about it.” Angela was almost glad for the innocuous problem. “In the meantime, I need you to do Mr. Ponterelli.”

  “Who’s Mr. Ponterelli?”

  Angela told her about the elderly man who had just come in. Brigid brightened. This job would be one of lesser evils. An old man dying naturally beat the devil out of the Lisette Chauncys of the world.

  Angela went to her office and found the message from Jesse. She called him back. He was out to lunch.

  “Must be nice,” she muttered. It was a rare day when she didn’t brown-bag it and eat at her desk, although that was largely by her own choice. She hated taking time for lunch, and she hated spending money on something she could just as easily fix at home, no matter how much she earned now. And she never broke at eleven o’clock for an extended break.

  She stared at her office wall and considered again the vast differences between them. She couldn’t help wondering why a man like him would want to spend time with a woman like her. She flinched at the mental image of him asleep on her sofa and refused to wonder if he had ever slept on anyone else’s sofa. More likely in their beds, she suspected, then went to check the autopsy rooms.

  She collected the protocols from the completed weekend cases and took them back to her desk to glance over and sign. She came to Lisette’s halfway through the pile. She stared down at her meticulous mention of the single black hair caught in the woman’s fingers, and her heart pounded.