John Stone Law

by Dave Derin

  “Thanks again, John. I really mean it. You’re the best,” she replied softly and hung up the phone.

  I leapt from my car, clicked the key fob to lock it, headed toward the elevator, and smashed my thumb against the call button. The doors immediately opened, and I stepped inside and pressed the circle for floor fourteen.

  The doors slid closed slowly, unhurried, as I pressed the door close button repeatedly. I knew it wouldn’t do any good, but childhood habits die hard. The tiny suspended prison finally lurched upward toward my floor. I leaned against the cool, slick silver metal of the back wall and rubbed my face with both palms.

  What on Earth could Claire be so worked up about? She’s always so stoic. I used to call her C-4 in jest, for Cool, Calm, Collected Claire. She pretended to hate it, and would often give me a swift punch in the shoulder whenever I called her C-4, but I saw her smile at the ground every time I called her that term of endearment.

  The elevator doors creeped open far too slowly, so I pushed my way through the sliver of an opening and unlocked the door to 14B. I kicked off my shoes, galloped down the hall, and undressed as quickly as I could.

  She couldn’t be in some sort of financial trouble, could she? Claire was always so good with money.

  I threw on a pair of my most comfortable relaxed fit blue jeans and a navy blue t-shirt with Yale in bold white letters across the front, then grabbed my blue and white Adidas running shoes from the rack. I pulled my wallet and phone from my suit pants and slipped them in my jeans pocket, then sat on the bed and laced up my athletic shoes.

  I mentally routed the best path to take to Claire’s place, scooped up my keys, and headed for the elevator once more. Luckily, it was still on my floor, so I hopped in and pressed the garage floor button.

  I pulled out my phone and searched for an easy dinner option.

  Chinese? Nah, I’d just had that.

  KFC? No way in hell would Claire put that fried chicken in her temple of a body, but I sure would.

  Sushi? There we go. Perfect. We have a winner.

  The metal elevator doors slid open as I dialed the number listed for the sushi restaurant on the way to Claire’s loft and placed my order. The sun had just started to dip below the horizon. I turned left out of the garage and took the back roads toward Paradise Sushi to avoid traffic.

  Even though Claire and I were just friends, well, technically friends with benefits, I was genuinely worried about her. She didn’t seem like her usual cheerful self on the phone.

  Fortunately, the sushi joint had a drive through, so I whipped around the small, yellow building and pulled up to the window.

  “Pick up for John Stone,” I announced as an obese Asian woman opened the drive-through window.

  “Twenty seven ninety-two,” she grumbled.

  I pulled my VISA from my wallet and handed it to her. She jerked it from my hand, swiped it through a card reader out of sight, and then handed me a large white plastic bag filled with our order. It smelled incredible.

  I set the bag down in my passenger-side floorboard and turned to retrieve my card.

  “Sauce is in the bag,” the grouchy cashier mumbled, handed me my card and receipt, then roughly slammed the dingy pickup window shut.

  I tossed the card and receipt in my cup holder and headed toward the restaurant’s exit. This place couldn’t have been at a worse location. Every time I thought I had a clear entrance point, another car would speed around the corner.

  After what seemed like an eternity, I finally turned left out of the parking lot, hopped on the highway, and sped toward Claire’s downtown apartment.

  Claire lived in one of the most luxurious lofts I’d ever personally stepped foot in. She came from old Texas oil money, and Daddy Gingrich spared no expense when he set her up in this sweet living space.

  Granted, now that Claire was a responsible adult and had worked for Tranquility Air, the second largest airline company in the nation, for the better part of a decade, she paid her own bills. Still, her downtown loft was something to be admired.

  When I was about five miles away, I hit traffic merging off the highway and crawled at a snail’s pace for the next four miles. I texted Claire, Almost there. Traffic is a bitch. She responded with a simple thumbs up emoji. Uh oh. Claire used an emoji? Something was definitely wrong.

  How long had it been since I’d seen Claire?

  Claire and I had been close since I first moved to Dallas. I’d accepted a junior position with Swinger and Ames right out of college and relocated from Connecticut to Dallas after I graduated from Yale Law about a decade ago.

  We met for the first time at Ciao Bella, a swanky nightclub downtown. She wore this incredible red dress that fell above the knee and showed off her athletic legs. It fit her perfectly everywhere else, and she knew it.

  The enchanting blonde sat by herself at the bar and ordered a pickle gin martini. I furtively watched as she stirred her cocktail slowly with a small clear plastic stick after she’d delicately sucked each pimento-filled green olive from it. Five in all.

  She turned down several guys’ drink offers with a sweet smile and a wrinkle of her cute button nose. A few other particularly persistent men received a quick head shake no instead.

  I could tell she wasn’t there to find a date.

  A few minutes later, three young women pranced through the door of Ciao Bella, the tallest of which, a brunette, shouted, “Claire,” and waved a small black clutch in the mysterious blonde’s direction.

  Claire’s eyes lit up when she saw the crew of ladies, and she gestured for them to join her. A cacophony of giggles and girl talk erupted from that corner of the bar.

  At that moment, Claire looked across at me between her girlfriends, caught my gaze, held it for a split second, winked, and then turned around and continued her conversation with the tall brunette.

  Now was my chance.

  I left a twenty-dollar bill on the bar, grabbed a business card from my wallet, took a deep breath, and approached the increasingly intoxicated group of women just as one of them yelled, “Fireball,” and they all threw back shots of the cinnamon liquor.

  Perfect timing.

  I swooped between two of the women and placed my business card in Claire’s hand. She looked down, startled, then looked up at me with round emerald green eyes.

  I leaned in and whispered in her ear, “You ladies look like you’re about to get in a bit of trouble. Call me if you ever need anything.”

  She leaned back and gave me a confused look, then glanced down at my card and grinned.

  “Oh. You’re an attorney,” she said with a curled lip.

  “I am, but please don’t hold that against me,” I held out my hand and prayed it wasn’t sweaty. “John Stone.”

  She hesitated for a moment, then gently grasped my hand in hers, her skin soft and warm.

  “Claire. Claire Gingrich. Would you like to join me for a drink?”

  She shot her friends a knowing look and moved her purse from the stool next to her as they moved down the bar a bit to give us privacy. I sat down, and we chatted all night. I honestly can’t even remember what we had talked about. All I remembered were those gorgeous, sparkling eyes as she laughed at all my stupid lawyer jokes, and her soft hands as they lightly stroked mine beneath the bar.

  Back to reality, the congestion finally cleared up when I reached the block before Claire’s loft, and I cut to the right early to avoid the light. I figuratively crossed my fingers as I drove down the narrow street packed with cars and pedestrians, my eyes peeled for a parking place.

  Lady Luck smiled down on me, and someone pulled out of a street space directly in front of my date’s massive gray stone building. A weathered sign next to the parking meter read, “Free After 6 p.m.”

  Sweet.

  I whipped into the spot with a perfect three-point turn, gathered my phone and credit card, scooped up the bag of food, and made my way to the double glass doors of her loft building.

  Cl
aire lived in the penthouse of the historic Davis Building in downtown Dallas, a thirty-six thousand square foot space that contained three bedrooms and two bathrooms. The twenty-story structure’s imposing exterior projected vivid red and blue spotlights that illuminated the sides and top of the building at night and made it appear stately. During the holidays, they would often decorate with red and green lights to keep it festive. At the highest point of the magnificent structure, a brilliantly lit dome sat atop a circle of white stone columns.

  The ornately carved stone above the entrance read, “The Davis Building.” It was originally constructed as a bank in the 1920s and maintained the powerful yet elegant style of that era.

  I shifted the sushi bag to my left hand, grabbed the decorative brass handle of the large glass door, and strode into the entryway. Another set of embellished oak doors that must have been original to the building blocked my path.

  I made my way to the small intercom system on the right wall and pressed the button for the penthouse.

  “Hey sweets, it’s me,” I announced into the small round speaker.

  A high-pitched buzz sounded, and the door clicked open. I swung open the door and walked across the green marble tile floor toward a set of four elevators. I pressed the call button on the elevator farthest left; the only elevator that went all the way up to the penthouse.

  I nervously bounced on my toes as the elevator descended quickly, and the shiny brass doors smoothly slid open. I pressed the penthouse button and paced a circle around the elevator as it glided toward Claire’s loft.

  Why was I so nervous? I’m never like this around her. It’s probably just because she’s worried, and it rubbed off on me.

  The elevator dinged and opened to reveal a dimly lit circular foyer. Espresso colored bamboo hardwood floors glowed under the recessed lighting. A round maple table sat in the center of the room and had three beautifully carved legs that supported it. A breathtaking original Chihuly vase in striking red, green, blue, and white stood over two feet tall and claimed the center of the table. Beneath the table an eight foot, light teal, cream, and gray hand-knotted Persian rug completed the sophisticated entryway.

  A dark doorway was barely visible past the ornamental display. I stepped around the table and knocked on Claire’s door. My heart started to pound a little faster as I heard her softly pad toward the door.

  The door opened, and the exquisite blonde beauty I’d met all those years ago looked back at me with tears in her eyes. She wore a black silk robe that fell right above her knees and was tied around her small waist in a simple bow. Fuzzy black bedroom slippers concealed her dainty feet, and she had a glass of white wine clutched in one hand. Her other hand covered her face as she started to tremble.

  I dropped the plastic bag of food and enveloped her in a warm hug. She shuddered in my arms as she tried not to cry. I wrapped my thick arms around her tighter as she whimpered and sniffled. I stroked the back of her head gently, her golden hair like silk between my fingers.

  “I’m so sorry,” she finally managed to squeak, turned away from me, and walked into the gigantic open-concept living space of her loft that flaunted fifteen-foot ceilings and massive, floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall that overlooked the bustling city.

  She collapsed onto her cherry red velour couch and took a large sip of her wine. I picked up the bag of food and then set it on the coffee table, a five-foot-long piece of petrified wood that had been masterfully shaped to hold a clear glass top, and sat down beside her.

  I pressed my palm against her back and rubbed it in gentle circular motions as she leaned forward and rested her head in her left hand, her right hand preoccupied with her nearly empty wine glass.

  I glanced behind me and noticed a half-empty bottle of Chateau Montelena Riesling sitting on the butcher block kitchen island. The label was so distinct I could pick it out from fifteen feet away, plus I knew it was her favorite brand of riesling.

  “You should probably get some food in your stomach before you drink any more,” I warned as I stood up and started to remove the styrofoam containers of sushi, rice, and soup from the plastic bag.

  “I know, I know,” she groaned and set her wine glass down on the table.

  I walked to the kitchen, retrieved two plates and silverware, and returned to the sofa. Claire had already opened a box of sushi and stuffed an entire California roll in her mouth. She grinned up at me, and her cheeks poked out like a little chipmunk’s.

  I let out a raucous laugh, and she swallowed the roll and gave me a quick wink before she grabbed a plate and spoon from my hand and began to dish out large portions of the rice and sushi.

  “I’m starving,” she admitted as she flopped on the couch and chowed down on a large spoonful of fried rice. “I don’t think I’ve eaten all day.”

  “Well, eat up. There’s plenty of food here.”

  I let her eat in silence for a few moments. My mind spun with what could possibly be wrong with her, but as she sat in front of me and shoved food in her face, she appeared to be perfectly fine.

  Her cell phone, which sat on the table in front of her, lit up bright white, and she stopped mid-bite and turned to face me, her eyes wide with fear.

  She set her plate down on the coffee table and pulled one leg under her as she twisted her body toward mine and patted the cushion next to her. I sat sideways so that I could look directly at her as she took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and released it in a rush.

  She took my hands in hers and said quietly, “I don’t know how else to tell you this. You’re probably going to think I’m crazy or jumping to conclusions or something.”

  I shook my head and started to speak, but she put her pointer finger across my lips to shush me.

  “Just let me tell you before you decide you believe me, okay?”

  I nodded slowly, my eyes locked on her round ones that glistened eerily in the dim light. She grabbed her wine glass, tossed back the last sip, and placed the glass back on the table before she looked me straight in the eyes.

  “I think my boss is the terrorist.” Claire stated firmly, her eyes locked on mine.

  I blinked a few times quickly as I recalled my meeting with Dodson the day before, and her insistence that Susanna and Cooper were involved with the attacks, and Roland’s passionate denial of her involvement.

  She waited for a moment to see if I would respond, but when I remained silent she continued. “We were in a meeting late this afternoon. It was almost 5:30 and most everyone else had left. You know how George can be, a total creep. We were heading out of the conference room, and he stopped to show me a picture of his new suit.”

  Claire put ‘new suit’ in air quotes and scowled in disgust. Then she glanced at her empty crystal goblet before she gracefully lifted herself from the couch to retrieve the dark amber colored bottle from the kitchen island. I watched as she poured herself a sizable portion, then turned and asked, “Would you like anything to drink?”

  “Sure,” I answered and joined her in the collosal kitchen area. I pulled open the pale green frosted glass cabinet, reached in and grabbed a tumbler glass, and closed the cabinet door. When I turned around, Claire had already grabbed a bottle of Tito’s vodka.

  “You know me so well,” I smiled, wrapped my arms around her waist, and pulled her body against mine.

  “You make it pretty easy on me,” she said as she set the vodka bottle on her white Calacatta marble countertop and leaned in close to my face; her supple lips barely brushed mine. “You’re so predictable. I don’t think you’ve changed your favorite drink since college.”

  “You know, I think you’re right,” I agreed with a grin. “But hey, if it’s not broken, don’t fix it, right? I think that applies to getting a buzz, too.”

  She laughed softly, then took the clear glass tumbler from my hand, filled it with ice from the fridge dispenser, and poured in a hefty shot of vodka. She walked behind me, careful to press her body against mine as she passed, and removed a b
ottle of vermouth from a lower cabinet beside the fridge. As she added the vermouth, she apologized, “I don’t have any fresh limes, but I do have one of those little plastic green lime juice things?”

  “Eh, that’s okay,” I grimaced. “No thanks, but I appreciate that you remembered it. This is fine the way it is.”

  I took a sip of her vodka concoction and gave her a pleased expression even though it was a bit strong. She flashed me a flirtatious grin, spun around on her little fuzzy slippers, and grabbed her remaining riesling as she shot me a sultry glance over her shoulder. We returned to the living room area, and she set her wine glass on the coffee table as we both slouched back down on the couch.

  “Anyway,” she continued after she took a long sip of reisling, “Ol’ Georgie Boy did show me a picture of his new tux, then swiped right to show off a picture of him in his new yellow Speedo as well.

  She rolled her eyes as I made a revolted face. She held up her hand to silence me before I launched into a heated protest.

  George Erikson, a chubby, balding man in his sixties, was the president of Tranquility Air and Claire’s direct supervisor. Technically, her title was Executive Administrative Assistant, but she did far more than that for old beady-eyed George. Most assistants handled scheduling, paperwork filing, and coffee orders. Claire managed all of those tasks plus everything from public relations to internal communications and executed it all like a champ. George was not the best communicator and regularly turned to Claire to take the lead when crises hit.

  She deserved so much better than that pervert.

  “Listen, that’s not even the bad part,” she explained, with a frightened look on her face. “When he turned his phone toward me, a text message popped up on the little top bar thing, you know?”

  I nodded slowly.

  “I didn’t see who it was from,” she continued, and twisted her hands together nervously. “All it said was Operation Northwoods is a go. Then there was a string of numbers: seven, three, and then four numbers together. I remember those because it reminded me of military time. Zero nine ten, so 9:10 a.m.”