Angel: Counsel Series

by Shenda Paul

  “You’re smart; you’ll work it out, Miss Angelique, and you can always talk to me. I may be old, but my brain still works.”

  “Thanks, and you’re not old; you’re wonderful.” I kiss his cheek and say goodbye. Anxious for more information, I stop off to pick up a late edition newspaper.

  Amy and Sarah both call soon after I get home, and I agree to meet the next day. Then, after making myself a sandwich, I settle in to read. Joseph’s arrest is the lead story. His ownership of Liaison is reported, and there’s now speculation that the club may be linked to the escort agency that Justin’s alleged to have been involved in.

  Justin is now linked not only to prostitution but also to the drug-related charges that Joseph and his brothers have, reportedly, been charged with. Liaison, thankfully, hasn’t been directly linked to any of the drug crimes. That can only be good for Justin, and by extension, me. I pray that doesn’t change.

  Tom hasn’t contacted me again, and I don’t expect to hear from Justin. I can’t help feeling hurt by his swift rejection. My overwhelming worry, though, remains that my name will, somehow, be dragged into this case and that Mom will find out. I’ve been in a perpetual state of anxiety, and I don’t imagine it will get better any time soon.

  I flip through the paper, and there, on page three, is a photograph of Adam Thorne in his tuxedo. A gorgeous woman, clinging to his arm, looks up at him. He’s smiling down at her, the headline above the picture reads, ‘Boston’s New Power Couple?’ The article claims that he consistently makes the list of Boston’s most eligible bachelors and that he’s a multi-millionaire, who shies away from the high-life except for rare occasions such as last night’s charity event. It extols his stellar career in the DA’s department and mentions that, because of his cold-hearted approach in the courtroom, defense lawyers and criminals he’s prosecuted and sent to jail refer to him as ‘the bastard’.

  I can’t tear my eyes from his image. I’ve seen three sides of Adam Thorne—the belligerent man whose car I ran into, the confident and highly intimidating prosecutor I watched on this morning’s news, and, now, displayed before me, this a picture of a light-hearted and obviously affectionate man. I can’t help but wonder, should I ever run into him again, just which version I’d be confronted with.

  I send up another silent prayer, probably my thousandth, since the news about Justin broke, that I don’t get caught up in this mess that seems to worsen each day. I also hope that Adam Thorne never discovers my true identity.

  17

  T wo days pass with no new reports about Justin. I start to believe the scandal involving him might just blow over, and, for the first time since having listened to that awful newscast, I enter the studio with a spring in my step. Declan notices my upbeat mood.

  “You’re cheery, lass. Sorted things out then?”

  “Things are looking better, Declan,” I answer with a smile before making my way into my office-cum-change room. The rest of the day passes without mishap, and, before I know, it’s four o’clock. Ruth, who’s scheduled to teach the first adult class at five, has already arrived, and so, on a whim, I decide to see if I can leave early.

  I poke my head into her office. “All of my students have left, and the studio’s tidy and ready for you. Would it be all right if I go now?”

  “Sure.” She looks up with a smile. “We have to take advantage of days like this. Are you planning anything special?”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I want to enjoy the weather, sit in the sun and read. Who knows, I might even be motivated to do some cooking.”

  “Sounds fantastic; enjoy! See you tomorrow,” she calls out as I leave.

  Outside, I decide I should cook. Besides, I tell myself, it gives me an excuse to visit the recently opened place Sarah’s been raving about. I’m not a great cook but I’ve started experimenting with simple recipes, and I’m proud to say that I’ve managed to perfect a limited number of tasty dishes.

  I spend an inordinate amount of time roaming the aisles of the small, well-stocked supermarket. I particularly love the fresh salad bar and load my cart with a variety, enough to last a week.

  At home, I admire my full fridge, and, then, anxious to get outside, I change into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt before making myself a cup of tea and settling down in my Adirondack with my dog-eared copy of Rebecca. By the time I start cooking, my pale skin is pleasantly flushed and warm.

  After dinner, while tossing up whether to find something good on television or continue to read, my phone rings.

  “Angelique, listen carefully,” Tom says without greeting. “If the police contact you, I want you to call me, do you understand?”

  “I’ve already told you I wouldn’t speak to anyone. What’s going on?” I ask, annoyed by his abrasiveness.

  “Justin’s been arrested. Just call me if you’re contacted,” he says and hangs up before I can question him further. I’m so shocked, it takes a while before my mind starts functioning enough to turn on the television. I don’t have to wait long for the newsflash.

  “In breaking news, Senator Justin Wade has been taken into custody. The senator was seen being escorted into police headquarters earlier this evening, and his lawyer, Thomas Martin, entered the building a short while ago. So far, details of the exact nature of the charge or charges remain undisclosed, but the Police Commissioner is expected to make a statement shortly.

  “As always, VOXP will bring you the news first and live. Stay tuned,” the reporter urges, ending the announcement before the scheduled program resumes.

  I remain transfixed, staring at the television screen, desperately hoping, no, praying, that my role in Justin’s life remains undiscovered. Deep down, though, I know it’s only a matter of time before my name is, somehow, brought to the attention of the police.

  Some indeterminate time later, the Police Commissioner appears to confirm Justin’s arrest and reveals that he’s been charged with racketeering. I’m not sure what that means, but the commissioner saying they’re serious charges sends me into a state of panic until the vision of Tom, surrounded by reporters finally pulls me from my stupor.

  “My client is innocent,” he declares. “The charges laid against him are a mistake, and we will fight them vigorously. Senator Wade is a respected member of this community and has served his state and constituents well.”

  “Mr. Martin, will the Senator be detained?” someone calls out.

  “Senator Wade will be arraigned at the court’s earliest possible convenience and will be back at work soon.”

  “Is it true that the senator was involved in a high-class brothel?” another asks.

  “That’s all; thank you. As you can appreciate, I have a lot to do to,” Tom answers tersely as he battles his way toward a nearby car. He gets in and carefully maneuvers the vehicle through the throng before speeding off.

  I stay up till after one, checking on the meaning of racketeering and waiting, in vain, for Tom to call. The longer the night drags on, the angrier I become. I understand that Justin’s his primary concern and that he’s doing everything possible to protect him, but it doesn’t excuse his rude and dismissive treatment of me. Mostly, though, I’m consumed with worry about the effect on Mom when my association with Justin is eventually uncovered. Yes, I’ve come to accept that I will be implicated. I am, however, clinging to the slim hope that I’ll escape the attention of the press. If that happens, I may be able to stop Mom and my friends from discovering my shameful secret.

  The next afternoon, when I meet up with Sarah and Amy, I listen, without adding much to their speculation on what will happen next. Sarah says she called a legal hotline anonymously to check whether we could be charged with prostitution. She received pretty much the same information Tom gave me—one has to be caught in the act of soliciting to be arrested.

  She advises me to get a lawyer. “Your situation’s different to ours; you can be linked to the Senator,” she insists, but after a lengthy discussion, I decide I don’t want to do tha
t. After all, none of the other females at the club are getting legal representation, not even Natasha Perkins, according to Amy, who’s keeping in contact with everyone to make sure she doesn’t miss out on any news.

  Except for the exclusive nature of our agreement, there’s no difference between my arrangement with Justin and his with Natasha. Engaging a lawyer will only make it look as if I have something to hide. There’s also the financial aspect; I need to preserve as much of my savings as I possibly can. The thing I dread most, given what I’ve seen on the news, is the potential publicity; having a lawyer in tow will only increase interest and speculation about my involvement.

  Justin’s release on bail is announced that night. The newscaster introduces someone she refers to as an expert, and, with his help, proceeds to speculate about the possible penalties, should he be convicted. Not satisfied with having explored that scenario, she introduces a political expert and asks whether or not he’ll have a future in politics after the trial. I turn the television off, feeling sick to my stomach at the growing sensationalism.

  Justin doesn’t contact me, and I don’t try to reach him, but no matter how much I rationalize his behavior as being necessary, I remain hurt by his silence. He hasn’t called, not even once, to set my mind at rest, and he hasn’t sent a message to acknowledge the concern I expressed through Tom. Tom hasn’t called either, despite my request to keep me informed. I go about my life, trying to act as normal as possible, but I remain on tenterhooks, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  It does, a day later, when I arrive home to find a man in a rumpled suit waiting outside my apartment block. Without knowing who he is or what he may be doing here, my heart speeds up, and my sense of foreboding grows when he pushes off the wall. “Ms. Bain?” he asks, drawing near.

  “Yes?” My voice rasps nervously.

  “I’m Detective Baker,” he flashes a badge, which I glance at briefly. It looks authentic, but how would I know?

  “Could I speak to you inside, please?”

  “Umm, I’m sorry Detective, but I’d rather not if you don’t mind. I’m not trying to be rude or evasive, but I have no idea whether you’re who you say you are,” I say, trying to keep my voice firm.

  He smiles wryly. “I understand your reservations, Ms. Bain; it’s wise to be cautious. You’re needed for questioning in relation to investigations into the Cordi and Wade cases.”

  “Am I under arrest?” I ask, swallowing down my panic.

  “No, you’re not, but the DA’s office has asked that you come in for questioning.” He pulls out a business card from his jacket pocket. “Please call and ask for Senior Detective Jon Holmes; he’ll arrange a time. I advise you do it immediately,” he adds meaningfully.

  I recognize the name. Detective Holmes is the man at the press conference with Adam Thorne. I take the card. “I will,” say, unable to disguise my fear.

  Upstairs, I fumble the key in the lock, and then, once inside, drop my bag and the card on the table to sink into a chair, not sure my legs are capable of holding me up much longer. I eventually recover enough to get a drink of water, and after a short while, I pick up my phone.

  “Jon Holmes,” a deep voice responds after several rings.

  “Umm, Detective Holmes, this is Angelique Bain, a Detective Baker asked that I contact you?”

  “Thank you for calling, Ms. Bain. I’m not sure what Will’s said, but you’ve been identified by the DA’s office as a person of interest in the Cordi case. I was asked to locate you and arrange for you to go into the their headquarters for questioning as soon as possible. Are you available tomorrow?”

  “It depends on the time. I work during the day and finish at five,” I say, my voice tight with nerves.

  We agree on a time, and he provides basic directions to the DA’s offices. I feel sick when I hang up, already knowing who’ll be questioning me. In some vain hope that I’m not the only one being targeted, I call Sarah to ask whether the police have approached her. She says no and offers to call Amy to find out whether any of the other girls have been contacted. I tell her not to bother because I know if Amy knew, she’d have told us immediately. My panic escalates as the evening progresses.

  ‘You need to be confident and composed; otherwise, they’ll be convinced you have something to hide,’ I castigate myself. Then, realizing what an uphill battle achieving that’s going to be, I decide that if I can at least look the part, I may actually be successful in acting the part. Besides, choosing and setting out an outfit to wear will give me something to do other than worry, I rationalize.

  I spend the next hour going through my wardrobe and end up selecting a slim-fitting, black jersey dress that flares at the hem. It’s always been a confidence-booster to me. I make sure the six-inch black stilettoes I want to wear are clean and place those on the floor within easy reach. Mandi’s mantra of, ‘wearing sexy underwear is the best morale booster’ comes to mind, so I choose and place the lacy scraps of fabric at the top of my drawer.

  Having done that, I force myself to eat some pasta salad, and then, deliberately avoiding the television, I settle down to read. Unable to concentrate, I decide to take a long shower and go to bed, where I toss and turn for what feels like hours before drifting into a restless sleep.

  My day starts off badly. A little girl throws up all over herself during class. While I clean her up, I discover that she has a fever and immediately call her mother to collect her. It takes forever for me to get through to her, and when I tell her her daughter is ill, she corrects me by telling me Lillie is her stepdaughter—as if that matters when a child’s unwell. She insists that she, ‘can’t be that ill because she was perfectly fine at home.’ I lose my temper and tell her if she doesn’t arrive within the hour, I’ll be forced to call her husband. That gets her co-operation, but I can’t leave Lillie alone, so I have to cancel my usual lesson and set up a video for the rest of the class to watch, which means we’ll have to forfeit payment. The school’s struggling to make ends meet as it is.

  Then Ruth calls to say she’s running late, so I’m late leaving work and feel rushed when I finally arrive home. I planned on having a leisurely cup of herbal tea and then a long shower to get myself into a more relaxed frame of mind, but neither of those things can happen now.

  I rush through my shower and blow-dry my hair. Not having the time to pin it up as intended, I leave it tumbling over my shoulders instead and console myself with the thought that the dress, at least, makes me look poised. Then, feeling inspired, I apply deep red lipstick instead of the subtle pink I planned on wearing. I’m satisfied with the result. I do look confident and strong. The red adds the touch of bravado I’m lacking inside.

  I will my nerves to settle as I introduce myself at the reception desk. The young woman announces me to someone on the other end of the line, and, shortly after, an efficient-looking woman arrives and introduces herself as Rebecca. She shows me to an interview room to wait for the assistant district attorney, whom, she assures me, will be joining me shortly. I’m relieved that I at least have time to mentally collect myself. I have no idea what to expect, the only reference I have for situations like this is what I’ve seen in television dramas, and those recollections do nothing to inspire confidence. I resist the desire to ask the name of the prosecutor I’ll be meeting, and I decline her offer of refreshments. She leaves with a professionally pleasant smile.

  I cross and then recross my legs in an effort to tamp down my anxiety and stare around the nondescript room, its beige walls and sparse furnishings. A tinted mirror takes up most of the wall at the far end, and as I stare into it, I get the strangest feeling of being watched. Thoughts of the two-way mirrors at Liaison come to mind, so I turn back to look more closely. Convincing myself that I’m being paranoid, I look away.

  Ten minutes pass, and I’m still waiting. ‘Stay calm,’ I tell myself, consciously relaxing my clasped hands. ‘He may not recognize you.’

  Finally, I hear a sound and look up to see the
doorknob turn, and, try as I may, I can’t stop my heart from accelerating at the sight of him. It seems an unfair advantage, given his chosen profession, for him to be blessed with such striking good looks. Why should someone, whose job it is to break people down, be given such potent leverage? He reminds me of a predator, whose appearance has been specifically designed to disarm its intended prey. I manage to settle my face into what I hope is an impassive mask and stare at him expectantly.

  “Ms. Bain, I’m Assistant District Attorney Adam Thorne. Thank you for coming in,” he greets me. I don’t respond, and I bite back the overwhelming desire to remind him that I wasn’t given a choice in the matter. I watch his face carefully instead, looking for any sign of recognition. There isn’t, thank goodness.

  He lowers himself into a chair across from me, and I draw myself up, putting as much distance between his magnetic presence and me. I wonder, briefly, whether he has the same effect on everyone he comes into contact with? He offers water or coffee, making some crack about the quality of the coffee—an attempt to lighten the mood or perhaps relax me, I think. It doesn’t, and I decline.

  “Do you know why you’ve been asked here, Ms. Bain?” he asks, startling green eyes boring into mine.

  “All I’ve been told is that I’m a person of interest in the Cordi case and that it would be in my best interests to answer your questions,” I answer, willing myself not to sound nervous.

  His eyes give me the first indication of his mood shift; they intensify in color and narrow infinitesimally. “Well, let’s get straight to the point then, shall we? Joseph Cordi hired you as a paid escort at his club, Liaison. You were then contracted to service Senator Justin Wade exclusively,” he says, deliberately enunciating the word service, making two things very clear; the first is that he suspects the nature of my employment, and the second, that it repulses him.

  “I’m a dancer at the club, Mr Thorne, nothing more,” I dismiss his comment, hoping all he has is suspicion.