The Brutal Heart

by Gail Bowen

  “Don’t we all? So you’d like us to stay with the girls Friday night?”

  “If you can. Sean’s picking me up at seven.”

  “We’ll be there,” I said.

  Jill must have read my number on call display because she started in before I even said hello. “Okay, here’s the pitch. My boss wants Ginny Monaghan as the lead segment on this week’s Here and Now. Problem is Ginny’s not talking to the media. Can you get her to talk to us?”

  “I won’t even try,” I said. “Ginny’s a friend, and she’s been through enough.”

  “She’s also an adult,” Jill said testily. “Why don’t you let her decide for herself?”

  “I’ll call her and give her your number. She can take it from there.”

  “Tell her that I’m a terrific person and that we’re not planning to exploit her.”

  “I’ll tell her that you’re a terrific person,” I said.

  There was a long silence. “Or used to be,” Jill said. “Did I sound like a maniac just now?”

  “You sounded like somebody who’s headed straight for the top at NationTV.”

  “That bad?”

  “That bad,” I said. “Jill, why don’t you quit? You don’t need the money. You hate your new boss. Bryn’s in university. The world’s your oyster.”

  “I’m allergic to oysters,” she said. “By the way, your proposal for another instalment of Issues for Dummies has been green-lighted. How soon can you get something to me on your ‘Women in Politics’ piece? We have a listening with marketing Friday afternoon.”

  “I take it that a listening is what we used to call a meeting.”

  “You take it correctly.” Jill said. “So how soon can I have something to pitch?”

  “Friday noon,” I said. “And it’s not going to be great. There’s been a lot going on.”

  “Give that lady a cigar. Guess why you got green-lighted? We’ve got some dynamite footage of Ginny.”

  “That’s what I figured.”

  “But you’re okay with using Ginny because it’s your project?”

  “No, I’m okay with using material about Ginny because she understood from the outset this program was going to be about how women in politics were treated differently from men.”

  “Strike two,” Jill said.

  “Actually, that was strike three,” I said. “When I called, you didn’t even bother to say hello.”

  “So, are you counting me out?”

  “Never,” I said. “Jill, remember what you used to say to servers who gave us lousy service in a restaurant?”

  “ ‘Why don’t you try to find a job you actually enjoy?’ ”

  “It’s still good advice,” I said. “I’ll have the story on Ginny to you by Friday noon.”

  Zack and I had our breakfast on the deck alone. Taylor was on the decorating committee for the Farewell, and they were meeting that morning to scope out the gym. When I carried the breakfast tray out, the papers were stacked neatly by my plate. “Let’s ignore the news.” I said.

  Zack reached over, took the three newspapers in hand, and dropped them on Taylor’s empty chair. “What news?” he said.

  He chortled when I told him about Lena’s cinnamon toast but frowned when I mentioned the babysitting Friday night. “I’m in Saskatoon,” he said. “I’ve got that dinner for Morton Lamb, the judge who’s retiring from the bench at least ten years too late. I thought I told you.”

  “You did,” I said. “I forgot. Anyway, it’s not a problem. I’m fine with the girls on my own.”

  “I’m not fine,” Zack said. “I’d rather be with you and the kids than listening to poor old Mort bleat on about back in the day.”

  “It’s only one night,” I said. “If you get back early enough Saturday morning, we can go to the lake.”

  Zack poured us coffee. “I’ll get back early enough.”

  “Hey, guess who Mieka’s going out with Friday night?”

  “Jack the Ripper.”

  “Sean.”

  “I thought that was off.”

  “This is just a friendly dinner to celebrate Sean’s junior partnership.”

  Zack sipped his coffee. “I’m glad that didn’t end on a sour note. Delia and I were talking the other day about trying to get some of the fun back into Falconer Shreve.”

  “You could start a bowling team. Join a league.”

  Zack raised an eyebrow. “A bowling team of lawyers? Now that’s a scary thought. Wouldn’t you feel guilty putting me in a situation where Margot could aim a fourteen-pound bowling ball at me?”

  “Not if I could watch,” I said. I poured cream on my porridge. “So how does your day look?”

  “Not bad. I’m in court this morning, then I’m going to meet with my client, the gynecologist, who is suing her gynecologist over a tubal ligation that ended up with my client giving birth to the nastiest baby I’ve ever seen. I have three-quarters of an hour to scare the shit out of the fifteen-year-old son of the president of Peyben because his dad thinks the kid is headed for serious trouble and he’d rather pay up front than foot the bill when the kid is tried as an adult. After that, I’m going to try again to find Francesca Pope, then come home and work on my speech honouring Morty Lamb.”

  “Zack, do you think you should get the police to look for Francesca? She brought those bears over last Thursday. It’s been five days.”

  “Too long,” Zack agreed. “But the cops are the last resort. Francesca’s terrified of authority figures. If I can’t find her myself, I’ll get the investigators Sean hired to look for her. They must have women working for them.”

  “Francesca doesn’t like men?”

  “She’s easier with women.”

  “But she reacted so badly to Ginny.”

  “Guess Francesca just doesn’t like Ginny,” Zack said. “Oh, one other tidbit: Debbie Haczkewicz called when you were on the phone.”

  “Have the police come up with something?”

  “Not that they’re telling me. Debbie was pretty tightlipped, but she didn’t press me at all about Ginny so I have a feeling the cops may be closing in on someone.”

  “But you don’t know who?”

  “Don’t know and don’t care, as long as it’s not my client. And more good news: the reason Debbie called was to tell me Bree Steig is back in the land of the living. She doesn’t remember anything about the circumstances of the beating. That’s not unusual with head injuries. In a way, it’s a blessing. Anyway, Bree’s going to be all right.”

  “Can she have visitors?”

  “I’m sure Debbie will put you on the list. Do you want to talk to Bree?”

  “I just thought I’d take her some flowers.”

  “You’re probably the first person who ever has.”

  “That’s why I’m going to take them,” I said.

  Zack pushed the dish of cashews towards me. “Have a fistful, on the house. One good deed deserves another. So what else do you have on the agenda today?”

  “I’m going to persuade Keith to have lunch with me before I drive him to the airport, and I’m going to call your new junior partner and ask him to talk to me about his impressions of Ginny’s campaign. He might have something I can throw into the mix.”

  “And you might find out if his intentions towards Mieka are honourable.”

  “That too,” I said.

  I spent a couple of hours in my office having a go at the first draft of my proposal, then I stopped by a florist on 13th Avenue. I chose a spring bouquet for Bree and started looking around for a congratulatory bouquet for Margot. I’d settled on an arrangement of stargazer lilies when I remembered Margot telling me that Zack’s invariable gift to women he was dumping was a nice note and a hundred bucks’ worth of flowers. I paid for Bree’s bouquet and walked up the street to a shop called the Embroidery Works. My aim was modest, a T-shirt, but when I walked inside, I knew that this was my lucky day. On a sale rack by the door was a single yellow and maroon satin bowling shirt
. I took it to the clerk, told her what I needed embroidered on it, asked her to courier the finished shirt to Margot’s office, paid, and left triumphant. I was still aglow with self-congratulation when I put my key in the ignition to drive to Regina General. Some days, I just had all the moves.

  Bree had been moved from intensive care to one of the wards, but she was in a private room with the door locked, and the nurse at the station asked for my ID before accompanying me down the hall and letting me in to see her patient.

  She was propped up in bed. There was a large bandage across the top of her skull and an intravenous tube was taped to the vein of her left hand. Without makeup and wearing her skimpy blue hospital gown, Bree Steig looked much younger than she had the evening I met her at Nighthawks. She was hard at work on a colouring book opened on the tray in front of her.

  Her face brightened when she saw the flowers. “Are those for me?”

  “They are,” I said.

  “Pink and purple, my favourite colours. Can I hold them?”

  I moved her tray aside and handed her the vase. She sniffed the flowers and beamed. “I feel like a bride.” She giggled. “Bet I don’t look like a bride, except maybe the Bride of Frankenstein.”

  “You look fine,” I said, and in truth, she did. The hectic glitter was gone from her pale eyes, and her skin had lost its sallow cast.

  She lowered her voice. “I’ve been eating,” she said confidentially.

  “So you’re feeling better?”

  Her eyes scanned the room, then she leaned towards me. “I’m fine. I really am fine. I’m just not telling the doctors and nurses.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m safe here. Could you take my flowers? I’m supposed to finish colouring my picture before lunch.”

  “So the colouring book is therapy.”

  “They’re worried that I’m not focusing my mind. My mind is exactly the same as it was before I got hit on the head, but I don’t want them to know that, so I just keep colouring.”

  “So you do remember what happened that night?”

  “I remember everything.” Bree’s eyes were sly. “I don’t know his name, but I could pick him out.”

  “Tell the police. They’ll arrest the man who attacked you, then you’ll be safe.”

  The scorn in the glance Bree levelled at me would have curdled milk. “Right,” she said. “Could I have my table please?”

  I slid the table back in front of her, and she picked up a crayon and began colouring in the ball gown of one of the indistinguishable Disney princesses.

  “Bree, you can’t stay here forever.”

  She cocked her bandaged head. “Do you have a better plan?”

  “No.”

  “Thanks for the flowers. I think the pink ones are the prettiest. What are they called?”

  “Tulips,” I said.

  “Tulips,” she repeated. Then, with the tip of her tongue extended catlike from between her teeth, she returned to her colouring.

  Keith and I didn’t manage a last lunch. There were many loose ends from Ginny’s campaign that needed tying, and in the absence of the candidate, Keith stepped in. I picked him up at Ginny’s constituency office, and we barely had time to make it to the airport. On the drive, we talked about Maddy and Lena. I told him about Lena’s variation on the theme of cinnamon toast, and he told me that when he was a child, his mother had pencilled faces on each of the family’s morning boiled eggs and he missed it still.

  “Next time you’re here, we’ll have you over for breakfast. Lena will do the toast, and I’ll draw the face on your egg.”

  “Next time,” Keith said softly, but we both knew.

  As I turned towards the airport parking lot, Keith touched my arm. “Don’t bother parking. Just pull into the five-minute zone over there. If I’m going to catch my plane, I have to make tracks.”

  I took his hands in mine. “This is no way to say goodbye.”

  He brushed my cheek with his lips. “For us, it’s the only way.”

  I popped the trunk, Keith went around to the back of the car, took out his laptop and suit-bag, and headed towards security. He didn’t look back.

  Sean Barton had agreed to meet me at his office at four o’clock. As I stepped into the elevator and pushed the button for the fifteenth floor, I caught sight of myself in the mirrored walls. What I saw was not encouraging. I’d chewed off my lipstick, my hair needed attention, and the coffee I’d bought at a drive-through after Keith disappeared into the terminal had leaked onto my skirt. When the elevator doors opened onto the hard-polished perfection of the reception area, I felt like a woman who’d arrived at the wrong party. But Denise Kaiswatum had a way of making everyone feel that they were in the right place.

  “Sean is anxiously waiting, but if you’d like a moment to freshen up, here’s the key to Zack’s bathroom.”

  “Thanks,” I said, pocketing the key. “I’ll need more than a moment. Could you let Sean know I’m here, and I’ll be along?”

  “Will do,” Denise said. She opened her desk drawer and found a container of instant spot remover and held it out to me. “Interested?”

  “Very,” I said.

  Denise handed me the tube. “Zack’s at home, you know.”

  “I know,” I said. “I wish I was there too. It’s been a long day.”

  Sean was sitting on the edge of Denise’s desk when I came back. He jumped up and offered his arm. “Can I get you anything before we start, Joanne?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “So, are you still in your old office?”

  “Nope. Moving on up. Come have a look.”

  I followed him down the corridor to the office next to Zack’s. He opened the door and stood aside so I could get a clear view. It was impressive. The room was probably half the size of Zack’s, but a floor-to-ceiling window gave it great natural light, and it had been decorated with surprising inventiveness for a business. The walls and furnishings were in complementary shades of brown and taupe, but the ceiling was a bracing asparagus green.

  “What do you think?” Sean said.

  “I love it. Who did the decorating?”

  “I did,” he said.

  “That colour on the walls is gorgeous. I’ve been looking for a brown that shade for our bedroom at the lake. What’s it called?”

  “Moleskin,” Sean grimaced. “Terrible name, I know, but I went through a hundred decorating books till I found exactly what I wanted.”

  “You were just named partner a few days ago,” I said. “How did you find the time?”

  “I’ve always known what I wanted,” he said. “It was just a question of waiting until I got it.”

  “Well, congratulations,” I said. “On being patient, on the partnership, and on the decorating. I’m going to send Zack around to take notes.”

  “Please do,” he said. “Right now, just make yourself comfortable.” He pointed to a reading chair covered in café au lait leather. “That particular chair is very restful.”

  “Another time,” I said. “If I settled into that, I’d never leave.”

  I walked over to his desk and pulled out the leather client chair. His framed law school diploma was on the seat. I picked it up. “You don’t want to lose this,” I said.

  Sean coloured and grabbed the diploma from me before I’d had a chance to really notice anything but the date.

  “That’s nothing to be ashamed of,” I said.

  “Zack says if you need to have a diploma on your wall proving you’ve mastered the law, you’re in the wrong business.” he said tightly.

  “You’re a partner now. Put whatever you want on your walls. Besides, you know Zack. He doesn’t care what you do with your office. All he cares about is that you love the law the way he does.”

  Sean’s eyes met mine. “The only thing I’ve ever loved is Falconer Shreve,” he said. His face was blank; it was clear he had no idea how much he had just revealed. I felt a chill. “Let’s talk about Ginny’s campaign,�
� I said.

  “It was like everything else,” he said. “Just a series of trade-offs.”

  “I thought you believed in Ginny.”

  “Not really,” he said. “But I needed leverage to get what I wanted at Falconer Shreve.”

  “Ginny was just leverage?”

  Sean’s baritone was smoothly reassuring. “Everyone is leverage, Joanne. You invest in a person, hoping that the potential return from your investment is great. Sometimes it is, but sometimes people disappoint us. When we realize that our investment is worthless, it’s time to move along.”

  “And that’s what happened with you and Ginny?”

  “Among others,” he said.

  I thought of how Sean had suddenly spurned my daughter. “So what do you do when an investment doesn’t pay off?” I asked.

  “Like any other investor, I cut my losses,” he said. “Now, let’s talk about the future. I can’t tell you how excited I am to be part of the Falconer Shreve family.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Friday morning when I flipped through the business section of our local newspaper and saw Falconer Shreve’s announcement that Margot Wright and Sean Barton would be assuming new positions with the firm, I knew Sean would be over the moon at being publicly acknowledged as a member of the Falconer Shreve family. The pictures of Margot and him were equally flattering; more importantly, they were of equal size and side by side. By his own assessment, Sean was a patient man. It was only a matter of time before his name would be added to the letterhead of Falconer Shreve.

  When I handed the paper to Zack, opened to this page, he grinned. “Hey, nice picture of the newest members of our bowling team.”

  “They look promising,” I said. “Margot could bowl a perfect game without breaking a sweat or a single one of her fabulous red, red nails, and Sean is certainly single-minded.”

  Zack raised an eyebrow. “Do I detect a note of criticism?”

  “No,” I said. “If you’re happy with the hires, I’m happy with the hires.”

  “I’m happy. I know it started as a joke, but Delia’s convinced we have to find our soul again. Maybe bowling is a start.”