Fatal

by John Lescroart

“I’d just as soon avoid coming down to your office, if you wouldn’t mind. You’re at Embarcadero Two, aren’t you?”

  “Home, sweet home,” he said.

  “Well, if I came by there, there’s a fairly decent chance I’ll run across somebody I know, and I’d rather avoid that.”

  “This is starting to sound really cloak and dagger. So where would you like to meet?”

  She drew a breath. “I’ve got a room at the Meridien.” On Battery Street, the hotel was less than two hundred yards from Peter’s office. “Eight twelve.”

  “You mean right now? This minute?”

  “I hope so. I thought I’d take the chance. It’s really quite important. If you could please just come by.” After about ten seconds of silence, she spoke up. “Peter?”

  “You’re scaring me a little, I must say.”

  “There’s no danger. I promise you. I just don’t want to be seen.”

  “Okay. Give me a few minutes to wind things up here. Room eight twelve, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right.” A last hesitation. “I’ll see you in ten.”

  * * *

  Whatever this was all about, it was fascinating, Peter was thinking. And even if it were a total waste of his time, it had to be better than the deposition work in which he’d been immersed. Better than all the other work he did, too. Something out of the boring ordinary at last, saving the remnants of his day. If for no other reason than that, he thought, it was worth walking over and finding out what was going on.

  Closing the folder on his transcript, he pushed himself back from his desk and stood up.

  Kate Jameson had promised him that there was no danger associated with her unorthodox request, but he spent a minute or two considering whether in fact there might be the possibility that he was walking into some kind of trap, some desperate situation.

  Try as he might, he simply couldn’t imagine it.

  He had no trouble remembering Kate Jameson from Saturday night, but his memory of her, his sense of her, did not include anything sinister. Although it did include beauty. He remembered that well enough. She was a fucking doll, the absolute complete package. But as a person, she came across as what she was—a happily married, well-adjusted mother of two.

  She was, he told himself, not a CIA spy or an FBI agent. And he had no secrets and no hidden agenda with a foreign power or terrorist organization. Kate Jameson was not going to have henchmen in the Meridien with her who would drug him or hold him for ransom.

  But still, even though he was smiling at these absurd scenarios, he stopped at his office door, telling himself that no matter how intriguing this whole situation was, if he were smart he would stop right here and go back to his regular work.

  What was he thinking? He couldn’t just get up and leave the office for a hotel assignation in the middle of the day with a woman he barely knew.

  The idea was preposterous.

  He should call her back, and if she wanted, he would tell her that there was still time for her to walk over to his office and have a regular business interview with him, or she could find herself another lawyer. Of which, she admitted, she knew several.

  He asked himself again: was he only going over to Le Méridien because she was so attractive? No, he told himself. That had nothing to do with it. She was a damsel in some kind of distress and for whatever reason, she’d come to him to help her out. She was probably—in fact, obviously—a bit frightened herself.

  Of something.

  He’d just swing over to the Meridien, hold her hand, give her whatever legal advice she needed, send her on her way.

  There was certainly nothing for him to worry about.

  Theresa looked up from her desk expectantly as he came out of his office.

  “I’m just going out to get some sunshine and clear my head,” he told her. “I ought to be back in an hour, maybe two.”

  His secretary’s face clouded with concern. “You’re going out? Are you all right? You never go out.”

  “Today I am,” he said. “I’ve got the deposition transcript blues. If I don’t take a break, I’m going to kill somebody and that would be bad luck, wouldn’t it?”

  Only on the way down in the elevator did he realize that he’d lied to Theresa.

  Why had he done that?

  * * *

  By the time he got to the door to room 812, his heart was a jackhammer in his ears. He felt so dizzy with the rush of adrenaline that he found he needed to hold himself up, his hand against the door jamb.

  What he was doing was not just unusual, he was thinking. It was—somehow—wrong. He shouldn’t be here. It made no sense.

  Taking a deep breath, for another moment he considered simply walking away, but then, almost as though he were watching himself from some distance above, he saw his hand come off the jamb and rap twice sharply on the door.

  “One second.”

  He heard her steps approaching, then her voice through the door. “Peter?”

  “Yes. It’s me.”

  She pulled the door open, inward toward her. “Thank you so much for coming over. Sorry for all the secrecy.” Standing in the short, dark hall that led back into the suite and backlit by the room’s windows along the far wall behind her, she wasn’t much more than a very shapely silhouette. Her face was mostly hidden in shadow, even as she backed away, holding the door. “Come in. Please.”

  He closed the door behind him.

  The unlit hallway passed a similarly dark bathroom to his right as he followed her further into the suite, past the king bed and the large bureau that held the television set that separated the bedroom from the seating area—on the right, a small desk with two chrome and leather chairs, and on the left, a glass table with two more chairs.

  On the table sat an unopened bottle with a corkscrew and a couple of wineglasses. At a glance Peter recognized it as a Napa Valley Silver Oak, perhaps half a step below cult status but by any standard a superb bottle of wine, although what it was doing here at this meeting was another mystery.

  Though perhaps it had become less so.

  Peter couldn’t seem to stop himself, putting one foot down after the other, following a couple of steps behind her.

  With the floor-to-ceiling shades open, the bright sunshine out the windows lit up this back half of the suite. He could not fail to notice how sensational she looked from behind. At the Cookes’ on Saturday, she’d worn jeans and flat shoes and a bulky, nearly formless sweater, looking good because of her natural attractiveness, but not so good that she’d stop traffic. Today, her two-inch heels accented a pair of very shapely legs that disappeared into a black leather miniskirt, above which she had tucked an emerald-green silk blouse.

  But the view from behind her as she walked through the suite, seductive as it was, did not adequately prepare him for when she turned around just beyond the table. She wore no bra and the outline of her breasts pushed at the fabric of the blouse. She’d undone the top two buttons.

  Mesmerized by the look of her, he couldn’t move.

  She now had turned all the way to face him, and she broke a smile, her green eyes sparkling and playful. “Before we get down to what I’ve asked you here for, I thought we might start with some wine, if you’d do the honors. Is the oh seven a good year?”

  “Silver Oak,” he said. “They’re all good years.”

  “That’s what I thought, too.” She held the corkscrew out for him. “Do you mind?”

  And suddenly he was holding the corkscrew, reaching for the bottle. “I’m afraid this is a little out of the ordinary for me. I don’t usually drink in the afternoon. It puts me to sleep.”

  “I’ll cut you off at a half glass.” Her smile urged him on. “Though I might have a whole one. Or even two. Really.” She touched his hand. “It’s all right. Promise.”

  For Peter, it did not feel all right. It felt at this one moment like the end of something, of the constant awareness of the existence of Jill and the twin boys in
his life—the life he’d chosen and committed to—while at the same moment he was plunging the sharp end of the corkscrew into the cork and beginning to twist it down.

  “Oh, while you’re getting that,” she said, brushing by him—touching his shoulder, the lightest of contacts—heading back past the king bed, down the short hallway to the door. “Excuse me one minute.”

  He heard the room’s door open, then close. Then she was coming back toward him.

  He popped the cork.

  “That sounded perfect,” she said.

  He held the cork to his nose. “Smells right,” he said. He held it out to her.

  She took it and gave it a sniff. “That’ll do,” she said.

  “Where did you just go?” he asked.

  “I put the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door,” she said. “You can take off your jacket, you know. Get comfortable. Here.”

  She helped him out of it, draped it over the chair in front of him, then turned and put her right palm flat against his chest.

  “Your heart is going crazy,” she said.

  Then, “Mine is, too.” She lifted his hand up and held it against her breast. “See?”

  3

  THE ACTUAL EXPERIENCE MATCHED KATE’S fantasy in all respects.

  After the first kiss, Peter had pulled away, fighting her persistence as well as his own conscience, but in the end he couldn’t summon the strength to resist her.

  Once she put her hands on him, the sex became its own thing and carried them each to two climaxes in the next ninety minutes.

  It was by far the most satisfied she’d been in her memory, maybe in her whole life. She hadn’t even been aware that she was so desperate.

  And she was sure it had been the same for him.

  Now sated, still warm under the covers, Kate listened to the shower running in the bathroom, heard it stop. After another minute, he came out with a towel around his waist. With a kind of rueful half smile, he said, “I’m afraid I’m not too clear on the etiquette right now.”

  She scooched back against a pillow, against the headboard, pulling the sheets up to cover her breasts. “I think you get dressed and probably go back to work.”

  “And what about us?”

  “What about us?”

  A moment of hesitation. “Well, for example, are we going to do this again?”

  “I don’t know. I never have before, you know.”

  “No. I didn’t know that. How would I?”

  She waved that off. “The point is, it’s all new to me, too.”

  After a couple of hesitant breaths, he sat down on the edge of the bed. “I’m not sure I even know what happened.”

  This brought a small smile. “Oh. I’m pretty clear about that.”

  “That’s not how I meant it.”

  “No.” More seriously now. “No, I understand.”

  “I don’t know what to do with any of this. I mean, how does it fit in our lives?”

  “I’m not sure it does. I really don’t know that.”

  “So we leave it where it is?”

  “I think so.” She reached over and gently touched his leg. “I don’t want to complicate your life. Our lives.”

  He broke a little laugh. “I’m thinking you’re a couple of hours late on that. But let’s agree at least that we don’t tell our spouses. How’s that sound?”

  “Of course not.”

  “And you’re good? We just forget this?”

  “If we can. Consenting adults. One afternoon. It doesn’t have to be any more than that.”

  “All right then.” He reached out his hand. “We’ve got ourselves a deal.”

  She took his hand and shook it. “Deal,” she said.

  * * *

  She took an Uber car back from the hotel to her house.

  She had her own Uber account, paid through her American Express, with which she’d also paid for the hotel room. Since she had gone paperless, the record of her expenditures was only available online with her password.

  She handled the household bills, essentially aware of every cent either she or Ron spent, except for the cash expenditures from his fifteen hundred dollar monthly “allowance.” By contrast, Ron had very little contact with their expenditures. Kate had set up an elaborate system that automatically paid most of their household expenses from their checking account—mortgage, car payments, gas, electricity, various insurances, telephone, television, tuition for the children, and so on. What remained—credit cards, groceries, house cleaning, yard maintenance, clothing expenses—had over time evolved into Kate’s province as well.

  Kate held a degree in business from Stanford. After graduating, she’d put in two years at Deloitte, then another three with a local venture capital firm, after which Ron—five years her senior—was doing well enough in the law to allow her to quit working to start their family and to be a full-time mother.

  Most days, both of her kids were at their respective schools until after 5:00 and didn’t make it home until at least 6:00. So she didn’t have to worry about them running into her by mistake. By the time the Uber car dropped her off in front of the house, the last chance that one of her neighbors could possibly see her, she’d put on the plain tan overcoat that covered the miniskirt and the green silk blouse and light leather jacket. The heels were in her purse, replaced by ballet-style slippers.

  In any event, she didn’t see anyone and she doubted that anyone saw her. Though still clear and sunny, the evening had gotten cold and the wind out of the west had scoured Washington Street of pedestrians.

  Upstairs, she changed into her jeans, her hiking boots, and a Stanford sweatshirt. After Peter had left her at Le Méridien, she too had taken advantage of the hotel’s shower, and now she spent a few minutes in her bathroom with her hair dryer, making sure no dampness remained. She hung up the miniskirt and jacket in her closet, dropped the blouse into the hamper, then ran a small load of laundry that included the underwear she’d worn to the hotel.

  In the kitchen, she opened a bottle of Francis Coppola claret and splashed it into a glass, which she then dumped into the sink to wash it away. Pouring another inch or so into the glass, she put the open bottle back down on the counter and took the glass with her into the living room, where she sat in her favorite reading chair and put her feet up on the ottoman.

  Finally, closing her eyes, she allowed herself a breath of relief.

  She was home, safe, undiscovered.

  Let them all come now—Ron, Aidan, Janey. She was ready for them. Ready to go back to normal life, to real life.

  * * *

  Jill Ash checked the kitchen clock when she heard the garage door open. 8:45. She dried her hands, having just finished the last of the dinner dishes for herself and the kids.

  When Peter came in, she walked over, went up on tiptoe, and planted a kiss on his cheek. He looked exhausted, his eyes bagging, his shoulders slumped. “How do you work thirteen hours and still smell so good?” she asked. “Or is that a trace of wine I detect?”

  He put his heavy lawyer’s briefcase down on the floor next to him. “Jerry opened a bottle to celebrate something, and I had a half glass going out the door. Silver Oak.”

  “My, my. Must’ve been a big one.”

  “Must have. But I didn’t even ask. I’d been downtown long enough.” He looked up at the corners of the room, then met his wife’s eyes. “Some nights it is just so good to be home.”

  “It is. I know. And good to have you home. I hate it when you’re this late. Even when you call, I worry.”

  “That’s why I call. So you won’t.”

  “I know. But I still do. Have you eaten?”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t get around to it.”

  “You know what we tell the kids, about the body being a machine and it needs fuel?”

  “I know. If I would have thought of it, I would have.”

  “That’s what they say, too. But luckily we’ve got about half a lasagna left, still warm.”

&
nbsp; “You are my savior,” he said. “Come back over here a minute.”

  She took a step into his embrace and felt his arms tighten around her. He kissed the top of her head. “I love you.”

  “As well you should.” She gave him a squeeze and another quick kiss, this time brushing his lips. “Okay, now sit. A little more wine?”

  He pulled out his chair. “I don’t see how it could hurt.”

  * * *

  At the kitchen table, Jill sat across from Peter with her own glass of wine.

  The boys, Eric and Tyler, were off hanging out with some friends—it was all suitably vague. They were both seniors at Lowell and had already been accepted into the fabled “college of their choice”—Eric to UC Berkeley and Tyler to Chico State—so their full-time commitment to academic excellence was in the waning stage. Peter and Jill both understood that they were probably not out studying.

  “I just don’t want to see them flunk something in this last semester,” Jill was saying, “and get their acceptances rescinded.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” Peter said. “They’d have to kill one of their teachers to get less than a B, or burn down the school. Something along those lines, anyway. The general understanding is that standards for seniors relax a bit, like if they show up and hand in their work, they pass.”

  “Yeah, but that whole showing up thing . . .”

  “I haven’t heard about them missing classes. Is that going on?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then. They’re good kids, Jill. They’ve made it this far. They’re not going to blow it now with a month to go.”

  “Let’s hope not.” She let out a sigh. “I just wish they weren’t out every single night. Maybe we should tell them they need to come home earlier.”

  “Sweetie, they’re eighteen. In six months they’ll both be living on their own, out of our house. They’re going to run loose a little, or even a lot. We might look on this as good training for us as well as for them.”

  “Well, I don’t like it. I don’t know why they can’t have their friends all come over here, even just to hang out, instead of them going out who knows where every night.”