This Case Is Gonna Kill Me

by Phillipa Bornikova

  “I know this is just really awful of me, and I shouldn’t want food after what happened, but I’m fucking starving. I haven’t had anything since lunch.”

  John stood up and held out his hand. “Come on. I could do with a cheeseburger too.” I gave him my hand and he pulled me to my feet. “And look, they do chocolate malts. Do you like malts?”

  “Um-hmmm,” I managed as my mouth filled with saliva at the very thought.

  We started across the parking lot, and even though I tried to hide it, John realized I was limping. He looked down at my bare feet and shredded stockings. Next thing I knew, he had swept me up into his arms. Despite his willowy build, he was incredibly strong. I clasped my arms around his neck, and he carried me into the restaurant.

  The air was redolent with the smells of grease and chocolate. It was wonderful. John deposited me in the plastic chair at a plastic table and leaned in. “What do you want?”

  “Cheeseburger, fries, chocolate malt.”

  “Look, I don’t think you ought to be alone until we figure out exactly what’s going on. Either you can come to my place, or I’ll stay at yours. No funny business. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  “Hasn’t your bed already got somebody in it?”

  “I doubt it after the way I blew out the door.” He gave me a somewhat rueful grin and shrugged.

  “Then I’ll take you up on your place. All I seem to do is have nightmares at mine.”

  And he surprised me by leaning in and giving me a kiss on the cheek.

  16

  After our grease-and-carbs dinner (John got a large order of onion rings, and I ended up eating way too many of them), we climbed back into the car. As we pulled out onto the street and headed for the entrance ramp to the freeway, I watched John’s eyes flicking up to the rearview mirror, over to the side mirrors, and back again.

  “What are you…? Are you—” I began.

  “Yep, there they are.”

  “Somebody’s following us,” I squeaked.

  “Yeah, I figured they would get a little closer once the trace went dead.”

  “Are you going to … lose them? Chip said you could go into this … other world … Fairy … are you going to do that?” I felt like an idiot even saying it.

  “Nope.” The word was a harsh single syllable. “I don’t go there.” He took a deep, steadying breath and shook his head. His tone was normal when he continued. “Look, they know who I am. By now they probably know where I live. It’s not worth the effort.”

  “Not worth the— They might try…”

  “Trust me, they won’t. They’re not that desperate—yet.”

  I found that more ominous than comforting, but John was right. Nothing happened. I occasionally looked in the mirrors and even turned around in my seat to look back, but I never saw anybody following. John laughed at me. He had a good laugh, full throated and filled with joy.

  I gave him a suspicious look. “Did you just say that? Because I don’t see anybody,” I said.

  “Oh, no, they’re there. They’re good, and you don’t know what to look for. And now they’re dropping out because they know where we’re going,” John said as he turned down city streets and drove into the Village.

  Amazingly, he found a place to park only a few cars down from his building. He carried me and the bag up three flights of stairs. The smells of dinners long past lingered in the air, but they were nice smells—lemongrass and curry. We went past a tricycle and a bicycle chained to the bannister, and a squeak toy on one step.

  I pointed at it. “Is that an early warning device so you know when someone’s coming?”

  “Neighbor’s dog. A pretty whippet, but she forgets where she leaves her toys.”

  We approached a door painted bright blue, and he set me down. He took out a key, inserted it in the lock, and let us in. The door to his apartment opened directly into a long, narrow kitchen. A wrought-iron potholder hung from the ceiling, and it was festooned with copper pots and high-end cookware. A gigantic spinning spice rack stood on the meager counter space. Another counter was swallowed by an espresso machine. At the end of the kitchen there was a half bath.

  There was the faint odor of orange and ginger in the air. Either it was something he’d been cooking or a really lovely sachet.

  A left turn took us into a postage stamp–sized living room. A flat-screen TV hung on the wall opposite the Territorial-style sofa and armchair. There were a number of bookcases (all filled), several pieces of decent art (all landscapes), and a Bose wave radio/CD player. A large, bright orange cat sat on a perch suspended in front of the windows. It twurted, stretched, jumped down, and ambled over to be petted.

  Its fur was deep and silky, with a soft undercoat that gave it the feel of a plushy toy. The cat wove, purring, between our legs, arching its back to receive our strokes.

  “This is Gadzooks. He’ll sleep with you, if you let him.”

  “I’d love that.”

  There was a half-open door. John led me through it and into the bedroom. The bed was rumpled, covers tossed aside and half-dragging on the floor. John sighed.

  “Yep, she was pissed.”

  “Sorry.”

  He gave my back a quick rub. “No, it’s okay. There’s a full bath to your left. I’ll change the sheets while you clean up. There’s a bathrobe hanging on a hook on the door, and I’ll leave a T-shirt for you to wear.”

  “Thank you,” I gulped past the lump in my throat.

  I left my purse on the dresser and admired the collection of Native American fetish figurines, especially the white buffalo with turquoise horns and the white bear with a heart line outlined in some kind of red stone. I wondered how it was that Gadzooks hadn’t decided they were really awesome cat toys. Maybe the supposed deep affinity of the Álfar and animals was true. I headed into the bathroom.

  An overly deep tub, shaped like a triangle to accommodate the small space, was tucked into a corner. There was a large rain-style shower head directly overhead, and shower curtains with a decided South Sea Island theme. The hooks had tiny, brightly colored palm trees on them. While the tub was filling, I stripped out of my torn and bloody clothes, wadded them up, and crammed them into the trash can. I’d worry about what to wear tomorrow when tomorrow arrived. Except it was already tomorrow. That thought was just too confusing. I shook my head. The steam began to occlude the mirror until I could no longer see the wan-faced girl looking back out at me.

  The hot water stung my cut and abraded feet. Too late, I realized I probably shouldn’t have gotten the bandage wet. The water lapped at my chin as I sank down low. A quiet knock made me splash and jerk upright.

  “Wha … what? Yes?” I stammered as I jerked awake.

  “Didn’t want you to drown in there.”

  “Thanks. I probably would have. I fell asleep.”

  “I thought you might,” John said with a quiver of laughter in his voice. “The bed’s changed. T-shirt awaits. I’ve got a pillow and blanket, and I’m going to embrace the couch. Call if you need anything.”

  “Okay.”

  I washed up, scrubbed my hair, and climbed out of the dirty, soap-scummed water. John bought nice towels, thick and soft, bath sheets rather than regular towels. I limped out, wrapped in one. The door between the bedroom and the living room was closed, and Gadzooks was taking a leisurely bath in the center of the bed. I admired the black lacquer Oriental-style headboard with lots of nooks for books and drinks, and even his and her reading lights.

  I dropped the towel, pulled on the T-shirt, and crawled between the crisp, clean sheets. Gadzooks determinedly marched up the bed and plopped down against my stomach. His purrs rumbled in my gut. My head sank into a down pillow, and I was gone. I didn’t have any nightmares.

  * * *

  I awoke to the intoxicating smell of blueberry pancakes, bacon, and coffee. Gadzooks, standing at the door, heard me stirring and let out a plaintive twert. I pushed the hair off my face, stretched, and climbed out of bed. The
sounds of the city greeted me: trucks rumbling past, car horns, a yapping dog, a garbage truck’s hydraulics whining as it pushed trash into its interior.

  The cat was making ever more tragic and desperate sounds. I cracked the door as I staggered past on my way to the bathroom. He darted through the opening. I hit the bathroom and peed. While I was sitting on the toilet, I noticed the bandage had come off my leg during the night. The claw marks were no longer raw, the edges had begun to seal, and there were no red streaks, so I figured I was out of the woods. I snagged the bathrobe off its hook and donned it. It covered my toes and it smelled of John and cinnamon. Both very nice scents.

  I headed into the kitchen. As I walked through the living room I noticed a pair of slacks and a blouse that I recognized as mine draped over the back of the armchair. Clean underwear and a bra were folded on the seat. Set neatly in front were a pair of sandals with really pretty multicolored agates on the straps that I’d bought on sale at Bloomingdale’s. I frowned at them and completed the journey into the kitchen.

  John was flipping pancakes on a griddle placed over two of the stove’s burners. He set aside the spatula and opened the oven door. The odor of bacon became much stronger. He grabbed a fork and turned the strips of bacon on their cookie sheet, then turned to greet me with his devastating smile.

  “Morning. How did you sleep?”

  “Like a rock,” I answered. I pushed back my hair nervously. “I saw the clothes. How did you…?”

  “I slipped into the bedroom, took your house keys, got your address off your license, and drove up to your apartment. I didn’t think you’d want to put back on your dirty clothes, and our only other option was to go shopping with you dressed in a bathrobe.”

  The image disarmed me, as I suspected he thought it would. I laughed. “Well, thank you.”

  “Coffee or espresso?”

  “Espresso.”

  He set a cup under the tap on the espresso machine and punched a couple of buttons. There was whirring, grinding, and then a groaning as it deposited a thick black brew into the white cup. It finished, grumbling to itself a few more times. John handed me the cup. A beautiful rich cream floated on the top.

  “Do you take anything?” he asked.

  “No, this is perfect.” I blew on it, then took a sip. It was, in fact, perfect.

  I helped by draining the bacon and setting the small two-person table in a corner of the kitchen. We then tucked in. I inspected the graceful curving glass bottle of Canadian maple syrup. “Nothing but the best,” I said as I poured it across my short stack.

  “Damn straight.”

  We ate in silence for a few minutes, then I took a breath and pushed back my chair. John gave me an inquiring look, which changed to alarm.

  “Not good?” he asked anxiously.

  “No, it’s great, the food I mean. It’s the day I’m dreading. By now the partners will have heard about the latest hideous killing that has me at its center. Securitech is out there.…” I waved vaguely at the window. “Are they out there?”

  “No,” John said, and ate a slice of bacon in three quick crunching bites.

  “But I can’t mention Securitech because it’s an ongoing case, and because…”

  “We can’t prove anything,” John supplied the end of the sentence. “Suspicions. No proof.”

  I studied my folded hands. Looked back up. “Can we get proof?”

  “Say, by having Securitech try to kill you again?” he asked.

  “Maybe something a little less drastic.”

  “That’s harder. If Securitech is behind Chip’s murder and this latest killing, they’ve been very careful to put a lot of daylight between them and the killers.” He nervously beat out a rhythm on his plate with the fork. “We’d need them to make a mistake.”

  “When people get desperate, they make mistakes,” I said.

  “Sometimes they make mistakes. These guys are professionals. Maybe all that happens is that you get dead, and we still can’t prove a thing.” He drank some coffee, then changed from drum practice to drawing pictures with the fork’s tines in the syrup that lined his plate. “The only way I can think to make them desperate is to go find the other will. Assuming the other will exists.”

  I shook my head. “But then I’d be working against the interests of my clients. I can’t do that.”

  “You went to New Jersey to talk to that old lawyer.”

  “I didn’t know he was the lawyer who drafted the other will. It was just a cryptic note.”

  “But now you do know that the other will exists. Don’t you have an obligation to find out the truth?”

  “No, I have an obligation to my clients. Right now all I have is the unsupported word of a senile old coot who is now dead. I don’t think I have any obligation to follow up on this.”

  “A minute ago you wanted to get the goods on Securitech. You can’t have it both ways, Linnet.”

  I sat and dithered, pulled first in one direction and then in the other. “I need to be a good lawyer.”

  John nodded. “That’s probably the smartest approach. Certainly the one best suited to keeping you alive. And I like the idea of keeping you alive.”

  “Probably not as much as I do.”

  We cleaned up the kitchen together. I was startled to discover it was 11:20 in the morning. I was really going to be late to work. Then I decided, fuck it. After what I’d been through, I figured I was entitled to a few hours of personal time.

  “If you’re done in the bathroom, I’ll just nip in and take a shower,” John said.

  “Sure. I’ll get dressed in the living room. I don’t suppose you packed up any makeup for me?” I said jokingly.

  Deadpan, he pointed at the small cosmetic bag underneath the coffee table. I swept it up, pulled back the zipper, and stared at my Bare Minerals makeup. John was leaning against the bedroom doorjamb, grinning at me. “Okay, you are practically perfect in every way.”

  I finished dressing and checked my cell phone. The battery was stone dead. I looked around for a landline, but didn’t find one. It seemed Álfar—or at least this Álfar—were hip and with it. I leaned against the closed bedroom door and called, “May I borrow your cell phone and check in with the office?”

  The door opened. John wore a towel wrapped around his waist and nothing else. I had wondered if his chest hair was going to be as motley as the hair on his head. Now my question was answered. He didn’t have hair on his chest. Of course he doesn’t; that would be way too declassé. What he did have were ripped abs and a flat belly. Water glistened in the hollow at the base of his throat. I had a desperate urge to press myself against him and kiss away the dampness. Tangle my fingers in his amazing hair, feel his hands on my back. My eyes wandered to that mobile mouth, the soft curve of his lips. I wondered how he tasted.

  “Sure,” he said, and padded over to the dresser where he recovered the phone. He tossed it to me. I didn’t embarrass myself; I caught it. “Let me get dressed, and we can go in together. I’ve got to make a report to Cecelia on a personal injury case she’s handling.”

  The door closed again, and I settled on the sofa, bare feet resting on the coffee table, and called Norma.

  “Linnet Emery’s office.”

  “Hi, Norma, it’s me—”

  “Where are you!? The office is like a stirred anthill! Mr. Ishmael even sent the police to your apartment. Daniel Deegan is going to be here in forty minutes!”

  It took a moment for the name to penetrate and get placed. Once it did it sent me jumping to my feet. “Deegan? The guy who runs Securitech?”

  “The same.”

  “Why’s he coming to the office?”

  “I don’t know. His assistant called this morning, requesting a meeting with you.”

  I paced around the living room. Gadzooks twined between my legs and nearly tripped me. “Oh God, oh God, oh God. What does this mean? What does he want?”

  Norma’s tone was waspish. “I’m sure I don’t know. Why don�
�t you come to work and find out for yourself?”

  The tone and the unspoken criticism snapped my control. I got angry. “I nearly got killed yesterday!” I yelled into the phone.

  “What, again?”

  The deadpan delivery snapped me out of the irrational rage. Why had I assumed that my secretary would know what had happened, and even if she did know, why would I assume that this was going to be as big a deal to her as it was to me?

  “Sorry. Thanks,” I mumbled.

  “You weren’t close enough for me to throw a glass of water on you,” Norma replied.

  “Are you ever sympathetic?” I asked.

  “Rarely.”

  “I’m on my way.” I hung up the phone and rushed toward the bedroom door. It opened before I could knock, and John stepped out. I gripped the front of his shirt.

  “We’ve got to go now. Daniel Deegan, the head of Securitech, is coming to the office. To see me. I don’t look very professional. He called for an appointment this morning. I wish I had time to change. Guess I don’t. I’m going to die.”

  John disengaged my hand from the crisp material of his shirt and, holding my hand, led me through the kitchen and to the front door. “Probably not at the office.”

  “Why not? That’s where it nearly happened last time.”

  “Murderers don’t normally make appointments.”

  I opened my mouth, shut it again firmly, and looked up at him. John was smiling warmly down at me.

  “Sorry, I’ll stop being nuts.”

  “Actually, I think you’re remarkably sane for someone who’s survived two close brushes with death within a three-week period.” And he bent down and gave me a quick, soft kiss on the lips.

  He tasted as good as he looked.

  17

  We set a speed record getting from Greenwich Village to the office. Sitting tensely in the front seat next to John, I asked if we were being followed. He didn’t answer, just shook his head.

  He dropped me in front of the building. I paused to pull up the handle on the roller bag and went running through the lobby. I hit the elevator call button about twenty times until a car arrived. I checked my watch. Fifteen minutes until Deegan time.