Utterly Charming

by Kristine Grayson

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll be there. But I may have to—”

  She heard a click on the other line before she finished the sentence. She stared at the receiver for a moment.

  “—find him a new attorney,” she finished, softly, to herself.

  Then she sighed and slipped on her trusty black shoes. She was glad she had worn a blazer, even though the shoulder pads made her look like a linebacker. Actually, they made her look like a cheerleader dressed in a linebacker’s suit coat. She grabbed her cheap briefcase and her oversized purse and headed out the door.

  “I don’t know when I’ll be back,” she said to Ruthie. “Tell anyone who calls that I’m on an emergency and will talk to them later tonight or tomorrow.”

  Ruthie nodded, pretending, like Nora was, that someone would call, and Nora hurried out of the office, wishing she were busy enough to tell Ruthie to cancel her afternoon appointments.

  When Nora reached the elevator, she wondered exactly what she was doing. She didn’t have a criminal specialty. She should have called someone else. But she felt a need to see Blackstone, a need that she didn’t want to analyze too closely. A need she suspected had nothing to do with her work.

  ***

  Her drive from downtown to Beaverton took nearly twenty minutes in the hot afternoon sunshine. She spent most of the drive worrying about how she could get a retainer out of Blackstone and keep it while she found him a good defense attorney. It wasn’t until she had reached Highway 217 that she actually realized she had tried and convicted the man in her mind. Just because he was in trouble didn’t mean that he didn’t need a civil attorney. Just because the police were involved didn’t mean she couldn’t help. Just because he needed help didn’t mean he was a criminal.

  Gorgeous men shouldn’t be criminals. In the world of her imagination, they couldn’t be. Criminals looked like—well, criminals looked like Blackstone’s little friend, Sancho Panza. Not that criminals were short (she thought most of them were tall) but in the world of her imagination, they all had improperly set noses and they all rolled cigarettes up in their sleeves.

  Maybe the little guy had gotten Blackstone in trouble. Maybe that was why he was trying to get Blackstone off the hook.

  As she took the Tigard exit off Interstate 5, she frowned at the cloud of inky black smoke that covered the horizon. It was field burning season—when the Willamette Valley’s grass farmers burned their fields to prepare it for the next crop—but regulations required them to wait until the winds would take the smoke away from the city, not toward it. Besides, they would have to be burning fairly close to the west side suburbs for that much smoke, wouldn’t they?

  She frowned and rolled up her windows, wishing that she could afford to fix the air-conditioning in her ancient Rabbit. Immediately the air grew stuffy, but that was better than the smoke that she was driving into.

  With a flick of her right hand, she turned on the radio. The local talk station had a single helicopter that was just going toward the site. The news stated what she already knew: something was happening ahead of her.

  A prickly feeling grew along her back. She hoped that the smoke wasn’t related to Blackstone, but that prickly feeling said it was.

  Maybe she should stop at a pay phone and call another attorney now. But she was curious. She was broke. And she really, really wanted to see Blackstone again.

  She rolled her eyes at her own thoughts. Maybe she deserved to look like a cheerleader. Only teenagers got crushes like this. Or, more accurately, only teenagers acted upon them.

  She decided to take a back route to the address that the little man had given her. She took a side road, and then another, sweat running down the back of her cotton shirt beneath the blazer. The car was stuffy and smelled of smoke. The sky was so black here that she could barely see in front of her car, and what she did see was oily smoke and flaky ash.

  There was no way one person could cause all of this. Maybe Blackstone wanted her to sue someone for burning his house down. Maybe. But then why had the little guy mentioned the police?

  She bit her lower lip and turned into the neighborhood that the little man had told her about. Immediately she slammed on the brakes. Directly in front of her was a police barricade, and around that, fire hoses, emergency equipment, and more flashing red lights than she had ever seen in one place. She still couldn’t tell what was causing the smoke, but she knew it was just ahead.

  A cop rapped on her window. His beefy face was red and streaked with soot.

  She shut off the radio and rolled down the window. “I’m Mr. Blackstone’s attorney,” she said, wondering if that would mean anything to the cop.

  Apparently it did. He waved her forward. She had to drive slowly to avoid the hoses and the emergency personnel. Burning bits of wood littered the road, and she constantly had to swerve to avoid them. Several homes were on fire. The fire leaped out like a live thing, not responding to the water at all.

  The smoke had gotten into Nora’s throat, making it feel swollen. She had forgotten to roll up the window, and the stench was overpowering. She didn’t see Blackstone anywhere.

  She kept driving, cautiously. The address the little man had given her was right in the middle of the devastation. Police cars blocked the entire road. She couldn’t drive any farther. She really didn’t want to get out, but she felt she had no choice.

  She grabbed her purse but left her briefcase, thinking that she didn’t want to be too encumbered but she needed her identification. She opened the car door and slid out, gingerly putting her feet between fire hoses and charred debris.

  It was worse outside. The stench permeated everything. Bits of charred wood and flame floated down with the ash. The sky was so dark, it seemed as if a severe storm were about to break overhead. Her eyes watered. Police band radios were crackling voices and static, and firemen were yelling directions at each other. Strangely enough, she didn’t see any residents. Maybe they had been evacuated. But she would have expected at least one, screaming and shouting and defending his house. Instead there was no one. Other than emergency vehicles, there weren’t even cars parked along the street.

  For some reason that unnerved her more than anything. She walked around a parked police car, its flashing red lights a dramatic counterpoint to the artificial darkness.

  There was a brown and orange Volkswagen microbus parked at the curb in front of the house that the little man had told her about. She walked around it, and then she saw Blackstone.

  He was on a green lawn untouched by flames, its flowers a reminder of what the neighborhood had been just a short time before. He had not a speck of dirt on him. He wore the cowboy boots, and a tight pair of jeans, and a T-shirt so white, so clean, that it flared like a neon sign.

  His hair was slightly mussed, but he seemed calm. And he was even more gorgeous than she remembered.

  Five policemen stood around him—not protecting him so much as guarding him. Another group was on the driveway, including a man who was taking pictures. From her position on the street, Nora looked at what he was shooting, and the sensation that she was out of her league grew from a feeling to a certainty.

  There was a woman on the concrete. She was sprawled, face down. With all the commotion around, Nora could only assume that the woman was dead.

  Nora swallowed, then smoothed her skirt in a nervous gesture. Just as she had suspected, Blackstone needed a criminal attorney. But all he had at the moment was her. She would do what she could to get him out of here and call Max to defend him as soon as she was able.

  Beside her the microbus rocked slightly. She looked up. Sancho Panza or whoever he was moved by the window. She was about to call up to him when he disappeared into the bus’s interior.

  She swallowed against the smoke-ravaged dryness of her throat. She had to stay focused. She had to get through these next few moments and then get out of here.

  She stepped onto the lawn, and her movement caught Blackstone’s attention. His face soft
ened when he saw her. It had been all hard lines and angles before. Now it was gentle, rounded, as if someone had changed the lighting or he had become a different person somehow.

  He looked at her as if she were a lifeline. She went to him like the schoolgirl whose crush she had appropriated. Only when she was halfway across the yard did she remember she was supposed to be his attorney.

  She squared her shoulders and prepared to sound tough. Heaven knew, she couldn’t look it.

  She stopped beside one of the police officers, a middle-aged man whose soft stomach edged over his belt. His face was soot-streaked, and his eyes were red from the smoke.

  “I’m Mr. Blackstone’s attorney,” Nora said in her best don’t-screw-with-me voice. “What’s going on here?”

  “Honey,” the officer said, “you don’t belong here.”

  She raised her chin as if it would give her more height. She hated being called “honey,” and she hated even more being called “honey” in that tone of voice.

  “I have every right to be here,” she said, louder and even more stridently than before. “I am Mr. Blackstone’s attorney. I demand that you tell me what’s going on.”

  “Nora,” Blackstone said, and on his lips, the use of her name sounded like a poem. “What are you doing here? I don’t need you. It’s not safe.”

  “What’s going on?” she asked again, this time to both Blackstone and the cop.

  The cop stared at her as if she were a cat who had suddenly spoken. Then he looked around as if what she saw explained everything. “Your client destroyed this neighborhood.”

  She raised her brows, skeptical. “This doesn’t look like the work of one person.”

  “Believe me, lady,” the cop said. “It is.”

  “Nora,” Blackstone said again.

  She held up a finger, a silent command ordering him to wait. “I don’t believe you,” she said to the cop.

  “We have witnesses,” he said.

  “Nora—”

  “Just a moment,” she snapped. Blackstone closed his mouth, obviously stunned at her curtness.

  “And,” the cop said, “those witnesses put that woman alive not fifteen minutes ago.”

  After the little man had called her. So he had called her while this—whatever it was—was going on.

  She straightened. She had to take charge of this situation. “Are you charging my client with anything?”

  It was the cop’s turn to raise his eyebrows, as if he couldn’t believe the stupidity of her question. “What aren’t we charging him with? Carrying incendiary devices. Arson. Murder, and attempted murder. And that’s just for starters.”

  Blackstone rolled his eyes and then shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe what was going on. Nora’s hands were trembling. She clasped them together to maintain her illusion of calm.

  “Nora,” Blackstone said. “Since you’re here, find Sancho. Make sure he has secured the case.”

  “I can’t believe you’re speaking,” she said, turning on him. “You’re being charged with damn near every felony in the criminal code. Don’t say another word.”

  “Nora—”

  “I mean it.”

  He closed his mouth as if she had pushed it closed. The cop watched them. He hadn’t called her honey since she got strident. And now he was looking at her as if she were someone to be reckoned with. The other officers who had been crowding around watched as well. One of them finally took out handcuffs.

  “Are those necessary?” Nora asked in the same tone she had used with Blackstone.

  The cop visibly flinched but nodded. He snapped them on Blackstone’s wrists.

  “Where are you taking him?” she asked.

  “Downtown,” the first cop said.

  “Not the Beaverton station?”

  “We’re better equipped for this kind of criminal downtown, ma’am,” the cop said.

  This kind of criminal. She shook her head. “My client is not a criminal.”

  “All right,” the cop said. “We’re better equipped to handle this kind of alleged criminal downtown.”

  Now she remembered why she had avoided criminal work. It was so that she wouldn’t have to deal with cops. “I’m coming with you.”

  “No!” Blackstone said.

  “I told you to be quiet,” she said.

  “And I need you to find Sancho. We need—”

  “One more word,” she said, “and I’ll gag you myself. You will not speak unless told to by an attorney.”

  “I promise,” he said, “I won’t say another word, if you promise you’ll find Sancho.”

  “I’m going with you to the station,” she said.

  He shook his head. “You’re my attorney, aren’t you?” he asked. “You have to do what I ask.”

  Technically that was correct, but it was also her job to save her clients from themselves. The cops were watching the entire interaction with great interest.

  “I promise to say nothing at all until you tell me when I can speak again, if you find Sancho and secure the case.”

  She didn’t know what he meant by “secure the case” but she was sure she would find out. “All right,” she said, wishing she had another choice. She probably did, but damned if she knew what it was. If he chose to speak without an attorney present, that wouldn’t be her problem. She didn’t do defense work. “But I won’t meet you at the station. I’ll be sending one of my colleagues.”

  No sense in using Max’s name since she hadn’t yet spoken to him. Blackstone smiled, full wattage. It hit her like a beam of light in the darkness. That smile was as powerful as she had fantasized it would be. She almost had to take a step backward.

  “Thank you,” he said, then he let the cops lead him away.

  She watched. He was taller than the cops, but not by much. He only seemed taller because he stood so straight, even handcuffed when most people would have been humiliated.

  Amazing how she could find him attractive, even now.

  She brushed a strand of hair out of her face. The smoke was making her woozy. She adjusted her purse strap, and walked across the green lawn. Amazingly, none of the ash and burning debris had fallen here. The cops were still bent over the corpse, and as Nora passed, she paused to look.

  The corpse was of a slender older woman with jet-black hair and a streak of white off the right temple. Her face, which might have been beautiful in life, was frozen in an expression of such malevolence that it took Nora’s breath away. The woman’s hands were splayed at her side, her legs bent, and her expensive dress torn. She didn’t look like the kind of woman who normally frequented the suburbs.

  She also didn’t look dead. She looked more like she had—stopped—freeze frame, the way someone would pause a movie.

  One of the cops moved in front of Nora, blocking her view. And she let him, feeling a bit odd lingering here. The fires were not spreading anymore, but it would take a long time for them to burn out—at least that was what one of the firefighters said as he passed behind her.

  She walked across the sidewalk and down the curb. As she passed the microbus, the passenger window rolled down a crack. A tiny face pressed against it. Sancho.

  “I’m going to your office,” he whispered.

  She suppressed a sigh and didn’t even nod as she passed him. The last thing she wanted was for the cops to investigate the microbus. Who knew what they would find inside? She couldn’t believe they hadn’t cordoned it off as part of the crime scene. It was as if no one seemed to notice it. No one but her.

  She climbed over hoses and returned to her own car. It was covered in a film of ash. As she settled into the driver’s side, she turned on the wipers. The ash smeared all over the glass.

  The cops said Blackstone had destroyed a neighborhood and maybe killed a woman. She didn’t believe it. Was that because she had spent the last two weeks fantasizing about him? Or was it because she had some innate belief in the goodness of people? Or was it because this feeling that she had—that
she had had from the beginning—that this was a decent man was growing stronger instead of weaker?

  She started the car and executed a series of small Y-turns in the tiny space, careful not to run over any hoses. Why didn’t she see this destruction as something awful? It looked as make-believe as the dead woman, the one who looked as if she had been a video stopped midframe.

  Whew. Nora had never thought she was one who practiced denial. At least, she hadn’t thought it—until now.

  ***

  Before Nora drove to the office, she stopped at a pay phone just off 217 and called Ruthie. Ruthie asked if Nora had heard about the disaster in the west side suburbs, and Nora said, yep, she’d heard. No sense telling Ruthie that she’d been in the middle of it. Ruthie would panic, and Nora would spend the next few minutes calming her instead of getting business done.

  And she suddenly had a lot of business, although she doubted she’d be paid for it.

  Not that it mattered. Some part of her really thought Blackstone was being framed. By whom and for what, she didn’t know, but she was convinced of it.

  She had Ruthie set up a conference call with Max, and while she waited on hold, she brushed ash off her blazer. There was a lot of ash, and as she brushed, she changed the color from a faded blue to a dusty gray.

  When Max came on, she told him about Blackstone (“You’re kidding about the name, right?”) and asked him to go to the police station. Max sniffed money immediately and all the fame and publicity a good local defense attorney wanted. He agreed to go the police station before Nora had told him about the dead woman. She was left holding the receiver, Ruthie on the other end, asking her if she was all right.

  Nora lied and said she was.

  She was shaking as she drove back to her office, shaking and slightly woozy from the smoke. Her nylons were ripped, and she didn’t know how she had done that. She smelled like charred wood, and she doubted the smell would ever come off.

  The traffic was horrible—backed up for miles as people gawked at the smoke and pulled aside for the emergency vehicles. Nora ran a hand through her hair, and her fingers came away covered with dirt. She was filthy, but she couldn’t go home. This might be her only chance to meet Sancho.