“At this point, the private sector has more to offer me, I think.”
He was hunched forward over the table, waiting for her to respond.
“Oh. I’m just ... surprised,” she said.
I didn’t begin to cover it. She felt nauseated. Stunned. Dizzy. But he seemed to be waiting for her to say something more, so she added, “It sounds like a great opportunity.”
Her words rang hollow in her ears, but they must have sounded convincing to Connelly. He reached across the table and took her hand in his.
“I think so, too,” he said.
“When do you need to make a decision?” She tried to sound casual. She wasn’t sure she succeeded.
“Very soon. By the end of the week.”
“Wow. That’s fast,” she said, just to have something to say.
She wondered how long this change had been in the works and why she was only now hearing about it.
“It’s only D.C. We can see each other on weekends, right?” he said.
“Sure.” She forced a smile.
He sounded to her like a man who had already made his decision.
CHAPTER 9
“I can’t believe she’s dead,” Martine said on the other end of the phone. Her voice was scratchy, like she had a cold.
Clarissa could hear Martine’s kids squealing in the background, but it was faint. She couldn’t tell if they were playing or fighting. Either way, she figured Martine had about ten minutes tops before she had to go break up a squabble, kiss a skinned knee, or help someone get a snack. That’s the way it always was at Martine’s house.
“Cee Cee, are you there?” Martine asked.
“Yeah, sorry. Me, either.” Clarissa sighed, and then she asked, “Do you think Greg killed her? Really?”
“I don’t know. Greg never struck me as the violent type, but things were pretty ugly. I mean, they were getting a divorce. Ellen was admitting failure. It had to have been bad.”
It had been bad. Ellen had told Clarissa that Greg was gambling again, but had asked her not to tell Martine. Clarissa chewed on the ragged skin near the fingernail on her left ring finger and let her eyes drop to her wedding band. There was a time when the three of them hadn’t kept any secrets from one another, but after Martine had left the firm and all its pressures behind, she sometimes seemed to forget what it was like to work there, how it frayed the edges of a person’s relationships, driving a spouse into a casino or, worse, the arms of some slutty teenager.
Clarissa willed herself to put the picture of Nick and that girl out of her mind.
“It was pretty bad,” she said. Then, feeling guilty that Martine didn’t know, she blurted, “Ellen found out Greg was gambling.”
Martine let out a long, low whistle. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Clarissa instantly felt better. She was still keeping her own secrets from Martine, but what was the harm in sharing Ellen’s now?
“Was he in deep? Like last time?”
“I think it was more money, but, you know, they could afford it. I guess he was just taking the money out of their accounts, trying to take care of it behind her back.”
The last time had been when the three of them were still junior associates. 1998. Ellen and Greg were engaged, and the wedding had been just four months away, when she’d broken down crying at a happy hour. Greg had been betting on football and owed his bookie thirty thousand dollars. To them, back then, that was a lot of money. Today, any one of them would have written a check for that amount without bothering to confirm the balance in the account, but they didn’t have that kind of money in 1998.
Ellen had sold her engagement ring and emptied out the fund she’d set aside for the wedding and honeymoon; perhaps presciently, her parents hadn’t been wild about Greg and had no intention of footing the bill for the reception. So, she’d been saving a chunk of her salary every month. But they came up eight thousand dollars short on the gambling debt.
Greg’s attempt to negotiate the debt had earned him two cracked ribs and a busted nose, and Ellen was terrified he was going to be killed. Clarissa and Martine had each lent Clarissa four grand. They told themselves they would have spent that much on shower and wedding gifts, bridesmaid dresses, and other wedding-related hoopla if Ellen and Greg hadn’t canceled the wedding in favor of a quiet civil ceremony at the courthouse.
As a condition of going through with the wedding, Ellen had made Greg join Gamblers Anonymous. Grateful to her for saving his hide and afraid of losing her, he had thrown himself into the program. As he’d worked through his steps to recovery, he’d eventually made amends to both Clarissa and Martine and had repaid them the money they’d given Ellen.
And, as far as Clarissa knew, in the fourteen years that followed, Greg had never once broken his promise to Ellen that he wouldn’t gamble. Until those pictures showed up.
Funny how she and Ellen had both gotten their pictures on the same day.
Unlike Ellen, though, she hadn’t flown into a rage and confronted her husband with them immediately. Instead, Clarissa had deliberated, planned. She’d taken patient steps, beginning with retaining Andy Pulaski to ruin Nick’s life.
Martine broke into her thoughts again. “I thought they were really a solid couple. You know? Like you and Nick or Tanner and me.”
Clarissa swallowed her laugh, or maybe it was a sob. She couldn’t tell anymore. Martine still believed she and Nick were solid. If she only knew. Clarissa had a sudden urge to confide in her, now that Ellen was gone.
“Can you get away for a drink tomorrow night? In honor of Ellen?” she asked.
Clarissa could almost hear her ticking through a mental schedule of carpools, soccer practice, dinner, homework, and baths.
Finally, Martine said, “Sure. Let’s do it late. Maybe nine-thirty? If I don’t help the kids with their homework and get lunches packed before I leave, I’ll have to do it when I get back. Tanner just gets so overwhelmed.”
“Sure, nine-thirty’s great. The bar at the William Penn?” It had been their hangout, way back when they were three single girls with a lifetime of glamour and excitement ahead of them.
“Where else?”
CHAPTER 10
WEDNESDAY
Sasha woke with a headache, a furry mouth, and an empty bed.
From behind her closed bathroom door, she heard the shower running. She sat up and the room started to spin. She laid her head back down on the pillow as if her skull were made of blown glass and replayed the previous evening.
After Connelly’s bombshell, they’d shared a joyless meal and then had decided to go for a nightcap. They’d started at a hip martini bar, stopped in a neighborhood saloon, worked their way down the food chain to a dive bar frequented by hard-core drunks and twenty-somethings looking to stretch their drinking dollars, and had ended the night at the Mardi Gras, a refuge for drinkers who’d been banned from other establishments and underage kids trying to pass off bad fake IDs. Its signature drink was a hellish version of a screwdriver, wherein the bartender squeezed the juice of half an orange into a glass of vodka.
The Mardi Gras. No wonder her head pounded.
She took three slow breaths and forced herself out of bed. She made her way to the kitchen, taking the stairs from the loft slowly, and steadied herself against the wall when she reached the bottom.
She poured herself a cup of strong coffee, thankful she’d apparently remembered to set up the coffeepot and turn on the timer the night before, and considered her options.
It was almost six o’clock. She looked out the window. The sun had not yet risen, but early light, gray and soft, streamed in. No rain. She could follow her routine: put on her running shoes and jog to Krav Maga class, then try to ward off punishing blows while her hangover attacked her from within. It didn’t sound appealing. Or she could sip some more coffee, nibble a piece of dry toast, and try to get her legs back underneath her.
The shower turned off. She pictured Connelly wrapping a towel aro
und his waist and combing through his black hair with his fingers. Next, he’d run the hot water in the sink and start his daily shaving ritual. A ritual that would be moving to D.C.
She put down the coffee mug and found her running shoes.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
She returned from her class feeling almost human and found Connelly’s used coffee mug holding down a note on her recycled glass kitchen island.
Hope you’re feeling better than I am. I was thinking I’d make pho tonight? Love you, LC
Despite their respective Irish surnames, Sasha was half Russian and Connelly was half Vietnamese. Although she hadn’t been able to sell him on borscht, he had gotten her hooked on the Vietnamese beef noodle soup.
Having spent eight years eating at her desk at the office, Sasha was not in the habit of buying groceries or preparing meals. Connelly had tackled that role with enthusiasm. Now he was leaving. Maybe she’d finally have to learn how to cook.
She poured a glass of ice water and drank it greedily. She knew rehydrating would help clear the remnants of her headache. But she wasn’t sure what to do about the lump that rose in her throat every time she thought about Connelly leaving.
Her cell phone vibrated on the countertop. She checked the display, curious about who would call so early. Volmer.
“Hi, Will,” she said, putting her glass in the dishwasher.
“Sasha, I’m sorry to bother you so early.” Will’s voice was grave.
“It’s no problem, but I’m afraid I haven’t come to a decision about taking on Greg’s case yet.”
She’d planned to bounce the idea off Connelly over dinner the night before, but, in light of his news, she hadn’t gotten around to it. Although he wasn’t an attorney, he was one of the most deliberate, analytical people she knew, and she valued his opinion.
Will cleared his throat. “I really hate to pressure you, Sasha—”
“Then don’t.”
He hesitated but picked up where he’d left off, “I must. Mr. Lang’s constitutional rights are at issue here. The longer he goes without counsel, the less time he will have to prepare a robust defense.”
“It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours,” she said. She felt irritation clawing at her.
“I know. I’m sorry, Sasha. I’ve been instructed to get an answer now.”
Will sounded genuinely apologetic. She was sure someone higher up in the Prescott food chain was making him press her for an answer, but it didn’t matter. She bristled.
She opened her mouth, intending to tell Will that Prescott & Talbott could find someone else to do its biding.
Instead, she heard herself say, “If I am going to represent Mr. Lang, we need to get straight what role the firm will have in that defense. Here’s a hint: it’ll be limited to writing the checks.”
“Of course, of course.” Will’s answer was quick and soothing.
“No offense, Will, but I’d like to hear it from someone with the authority to say it,” Sasha said.
Will sighed then said, “If I get you a meeting with the Management Committee, can you come in today?”
Sasha mentally scrolled through her calendar. “I’m free until lunchtime. The rest of the afternoon is blocked off.”
Blocked off so that she could spend some time processing the fact that Connelly was probably leaving.
“I’ll make it happen,” he promised.
CHAPTER 11
Will stood in the middle of Cinco’s office, trying not to look at the painting of a nude woman’s buttocks that hung over the white leather couch where Cinco sat. The painting, like the rest of Cinco’s office decor, raised eyebrows. It also inspired a long-running rumor among the senior partners that Cinco’s secretary had been the model.
Will doubted there was any truth to it; it was just the sort of salacious gossip that lawyers seized on to relieve the tedium of their workdays. He did have to admit, though, he had never looked at Caroline quite the same after he’d heard the rumor.
He cleared his throat and his mind and waited for Cinco to speak. He assumed Cinco hadn’t offered him a seat as a way to drive home his displeasure. He toed the interlocking square pattern beneath his feet.
Cinco finally spoke. “I’m disappointed, Will. I thought John impressed upon you how important it was for Sasha to take on Greg Lang’s defense.”
“He did, indeed.”
Porter had made it abundantly clear to Will that he had to get Sasha to agree. Will didn’t see how he could be charged with such a task in the first place, given the existence of free will. And, to be honest, as talented as Sasha McCandless was and as much as he personally liked her, she had no criminal defense experience. Without taxing his memory, he could name at least a half-dozen young lawyers, formerly employed by Prescott & Talbott, who would be better suited to handling a homicide trial.
He said none of this to Cinco. Instead, he emphasized the positives.
“She hasn’t said no. She just wants to meet with the Committee and get some assurances that we aren’t going to micromanage her case.”
Cinco rubbed his forehead. “I heard you the first time. But she hasn’t said yes, has she? We don’t have time for this, Will.”
Will couldn’t quite understand the urgency. When Marco had barreled into his office earlier and told him to lean on Sasha, Will had tried to explain why an ultimatum was the wrong tack to take. But Marco had insisted.
Now, Will said, “I understand that. I think she’s reacting mainly to the pressure I applied this morning. I told Marco we shouldn’t have tried to force her hand—”
Cinco cut him off. “Don’t fix the blame. Fix the problem.”
Just in time, Will stopped himself from rolling his eyes. The partners often joked that Cinco used a Successories catalogue of motivational posters as his management manual.
“How do you mean?”
“How do I mean? I mean, get the meeting scheduled and get her in here. Now go.”
Cinco dismissed him with a wave of his hand, then he added, “Tell Caroline to come in on your way out.”
Will started to speak and thought the better of it. He snapped his mouth shut and left.
As he sent Caroline in to see her boss, he couldn’t resist a quick peek at her shapely rear, nicely displayed by her snug skirt.
CHAPTER 12
Sasha looked around the table, not quite believing she was sitting in the Carnegie Conference Room with Prescott & Talbott’s five most powerful partners. And Will.
Marco DeAngeles, Fred Jennings, Kevin Marcus, John Porter, and Cinco. Their combined net worth had to have eight digits. Maybe nine. And each of them was usually more than ready to seize control of any conversation. They were assertive. Confident. Decisive.
Except they were none of those things right now. Right now, they were all looking at Will with varying degrees of hope and desperation in their eyes.
Will straightened his tie and swallowed, then he said, “Sasha, thank you for coming in on such short notice. As you know, the firm would like you to represent Mr. Lang, and we’re willing to discuss the contours of that representation with you.”
Jennings nodded along as Will spoke.
Don’t let them intimidate you. Be cool. She thought of what Noah used to tell her: fake it if you have to.
Sasha arched a brow. “As it happens, Mr. Lang would also like me to represent him. And I spoke to him about an hour ago to tell him I would do so, subject to the firm’s agreement not to interfere with our attorney-client relationship. Those are the contours.”
She sat back and watched the heavy hitters defer to Will.
“As a criminal defense attorney myself,” Will began, “I understand your concerns. You rightly don’t want the firm to second-guess your advice or whisper in Mr. Lang’s ear. But you have to understand, too. Two Prescott & Talbott partners have been murdered in the past year. We need to control the fallout from that fact. As a result, the firm has an interest in the outcome of Mr. Lang’s case. We will want to be
kept apprised of the case and consulted on strategy.”
He flicked his eyes to Cinco, looking for confirmation that he’d delivered the right message. Cinco gave a little nod.
Sasha stared straight ahead at the painting on the wall. As befit Cinco’s private conference room, it was a nude. There was no question that his secretary had not posed for this one. According to the brass placard hanging beneath it, it was the work of Philip Pearlstein, a native Pittsburgher and noted painter who specialized in nude models posing with unusual objects—in this case, a yoga ball.
She ran through a series of calculations in her head. When she’d spoken to Greg, he’d admitted that Ellen had filed for divorce because of his gambling. He’d also admitted he’d lost his job because he’d taken to stopping in at the casino on his way to work, which inevitably led to him not going to work. So, with no income and Ellen’s estate tied up in the divorce, Greg had told her that, despite his ritzy address, cash flow was a problem.
But Sasha simply wasn’t willing to be at Prescott & Talbott’s beck and call. Greg would have to figure out another way to pay her. She wondered if he had any space on his credit cards. Presumably, Naya could set arrange for her to accept credit cards. To date, all her clients had paid by wire transfer or check—yet another strike against dabbling in criminal law.
She pushed her chair back from the table and stood.
“Your proposal’s not feasible. If Mr. Lang wants me to represent him, we’ll work something out between the two of us. But I won’t have you breathing down my neck and second-guessing me.”
Sasha reached in her purse for the retainer check, prepared to throw it on the gleaming table as part of her dramatic exit. It had been a mistake to even consider taking the case. What she really needed was a clean break from her former firm.
Kevin Marcus leaned forward and said, “Wait. Please reconsider your position. I personally assure you that we won’t interfere wth your work. We will, however, stand ready to give you any support you request in your representation of Greg Lang. I’m sure we can work through this.”
9 More Killer Thrillers Page 31