Naya ignored her question and said, “Leo stopped by.”
“Oh.”
“Oh? Oh? Your boyfriend’s thinking about moving. Doesn’t that seem like the sort of thing you’d mention?” Naya’s voice oozed irritation.
“We can talk about it later, okay? Did he mention what he wanted?”
“No. He was surprised to hear you were at P & T to meet with the partners about whether you were going to represent a killer,” Naya said, still seething.
“Alleged killer,” Sasha muttered, as she climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, where she’d left her car. Her heels clattered on the stairs but did nothing to drown out Naya.
She pushed the door open and, out of habit, scanned the parking garage. Saw nothing unusual.
On the other end of the phone, Naya was still griping.
“Whatever, Mac. Why’s everything gotta be top secret with you? You don’t tell me anything; you don’t tell your boyfriend anything.”
Suddenly, it hit her: Naya wasn’t mad; she was hurt.
Sasha squeezed the phone between her shoulder and her ear, unlocked the car door, and tossed her bag inside. She exhaled, long and slow, and cleared her mind before she slid into the car and answered Naya.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I didn’t tell you about Leo because I wasn’t ready to talk about it. I didn’t tell Leo about Lang because he dropped his news on me before I had the chance. I’m trying to process everything, okay? I’m not holding out on you,” Sasha said in a soft voice.
Naya was instantly placated. Her tone shifted from annoyed to concerned. “Okay. How are you doing, Mac?”
“I don’t know. Can we talk about Lang for a minute?”
While she waited for Naya to agree, she started the car and eased it out of the spot.
“Sure, of course.”
“We’re a team. If you really object to our representing Lang, we won’t do it. But, I think if you meet with him, you’ll be on board. Especially because of those pictures. Somebody took them and mailed them to Ellen. That someone just might have killed her, right?”
“Maybe, but, Mac—”
“Just keep an open mind. Call him and set up a meeting at the office tomorrow morning. After that, I promise, I’ll hear you out. Just hear him out first.”
Naya sighed. “Fine. Are you coming back to the office?”
Sasha glanced at the dashboard clock. Almost four-thirty.
“Not unless I need to.”
“No, you’re cool. You need to read those discovery responses and give me your comments, but they’re on the system. Do it from home tonight.”
“Thanks, Naya.”
“Sure. Take it easy, okay, Mac?”
Sasha accelerated as the garage ramp dumped her out of the garage and into the early wave of rush hour traffic. She had one stop to make before she went back to her condo.
CHAPTER 15
Sasha parked halfway up the Steinfelds’ long cement driveway. She rehearsed her pitch as she walked past Bertie Steinfeld’s carefully tended chrysanthemum bushes and mounted the wide stairs to the porch.
The front door swung open while she was reaching forward to press the doorbell. Bertie stood in the doorway, wiping her hands on a red and pink Vera Bradley apron. Sasha recognized it because she’d bought one of her own, finding it cute and flirty. Connelly, it seemed, found it hilarious.
“Sasha, what a nice surprise,” Bertie said, beaming. “Come in, come in. I’m making rugelach.”
Sasha’s blank face gave her away.
“It’s a cookie, Cookie. I’ll send you home with some. And the recipe, so your young man can make them for you if you like them.”
Sasha forced a laugh as she stepped into the gleaming hallway, which smelled like lemons and sunshine. “Thanks, Bertie. Is Larry home?”
“Is he home? Does he ever leave?” She waved toward the closed study door to the right of the hall stairs. “He’s in his office. Go ahead in, while I get my rugelach before they burn.”
Bertie trotted toward the kitchen in the back of the house, tutting to herself.
Sasha knocked on the oak door.
“What is it, Bertie?” Larry yelled from inside.
Sasha eased the door open and stuck her head in.
“Hi, Larry. It’s Sasha McCandless. May I come in?”
Larry looked up from the legal journal he was reading and peered at her over the top of his glasses.
“Sasha, how good to see you. Of course, come in.”
He started to push himself up from the desk chair.
“Please don’t get up.”
He ignored her and straightened to standing until she’d taken a seat in the pineapple-patterned wing-backed chair in front of his desk. Larry—who had served in the Israeli Military as a young man, where he’d been trained in Krav Maga—refused to accept that he was aging. Except for his bad leg, he was strong and fit. He still swam laps at the Jewish Community Center every morning.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked, sinking back into his chair.
“I was wondering if you’d like to help me out with a criminal case.”
“A criminal case?” Larry repeated. A glint of interest lit his brown eyes behind his glasses.
“Yes. I’ve been asked to represent a gentleman accused of murdering his wife.”
Larry rocked back in his chair and said, “A homicide? That’s not really a good way to cut your criminal law teeth, Sasha.”
“I know,” she agreed. “I don’t know why he wants me to represent him, but he does. Well, actually, Prescott & Talbott does.”
He leaned forward, eager and interested.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“His wife was Ellen Mortenson. Recognize the name?”
“Sure. She’s the gal who had her throat slit. Wasn’t she a Prescott partner?”
“She was,” Sasha confirmed.
“And they want you to represent the husband?” Larry said slowly.
“Right.” She decided to skip the story about the murder being an elaborate scheme to make the firm look bad. “They maintain that he’s innocent. And so does he.”
Larry dismissed that notion with a wave of his hand. “Eh, so what?”
“So what?”
“That’s right. So what? Rule number one: it doesn’t matter whether your client is guilty or innocent. What matters is whether the state can prove he’s guilty. And that’s the only thing that matters,” Larry said in a serious, intense voice. “Don’t ever forget that.”
Sasha nodded her understanding and said, “So, will you help me?”
He looked at her for a long time before he answered. “I will. You’re going to need all the help you can get.”
The sound of clattering trays from the kitchen seemed to remind him of his wife.
He shook his head slowly and said, “Bertie’s not going to like this one bit. Not one bit.”
Sasha just smiled. She knew Bertie would put up a fuss about it, but she’d secretly be glad to have a little less together time with her recently retired husband.
CHAPTER 16
Clarissa slipped into the Tap Room at the William Penn and waved to the bartender, a young, clean-shaven man she didn’t recognize. She surveyed the room. No sign of Martine yet.
She took the booth in the farthest corner of the room and sat facing the door. The pub was not quite half full. Most of the patrons had their eyes glued to the World Series playoff game being broadcast on the two television monitors mounted over the bar. As usual, the Pirates’ season was over, so she neither knew nor cared who was playing.
A heavyset, light-skinned waiter materialized with a glass of water and a dish of nuts.
“How you doing tonight, ma’am?” he asked in an interested voice.
“Fine, thanks,” she answered automatically.
The truth was that she was exhausted. She felt sluggish and heavy. Like her brain and limbs were encased in maple syrup.
He smile
d and waited for her drink order.
“I’m meeting a friend. She’s going to order a vodka cranberry. When she does, I’m going to say I want the same, but just bring me a cranberry juice, okay? Bill me for the real thing, though,” Clarissa said, feeling silly.
The waiter looked at her for a moment, then a slow smile spread across his face. “You got it, and congratulations!” he said.
“Excuse me?”
He laughed. “Father of four. I know all about keeping it a secret till you’re sure it’s gonna stick. That vitamin C will be good for the baby, anyway.”
“Thank you.” She smiled back at him, and her mouth felt stretched by the movement. She hadn’t had much to smile about recently.
“You bet,” he said, as Martine rushed through the door.
“Oh, here she comes now,” Clarissa said, catching Martine’s eye and giving her a little wave.
The waiter moved to the side to allow Martine to hurry into the booth.
“Sorry. Am I late?” Martine asked, while she piled her coat and tote on the booth and caught her breath.
“No worries, I was just saying we’d each want a vodka cranberry. That is still your drink, right?”
“Sure. Sounds good,” Martine said.
“Very good, ladies,” the waiter said, throwing Clarissa a wink.
“So,” Martine said, once he’d left.
“Yeah.”
They sat, not speaking, and stared down at the table between them. Clarissa was seeing Ellen’s face—her crooked smile and the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose that had made her seem more like an imp than the detail-oriented estates and trusts attorney she was. Judging by Martine’s long sigh, she had a similar picture in her mind’s eye.
Martine broke the silence. “Have you heard anything about the arrangements for Ellen?”
“Yeah, Cinco sent around an e-mail. Her parents are having her cremated as soon as the coroner releases her body, but they don’t want to have a memorial or anything. Not now, at least,” Clarissa said.
The waiter returned with two vibrant red drinks and took care to place the one with the swizzle stick in front of Clarissa.
Martine raised her glass. “To Ellen.”
Clarissa hefted her glass and clinked it against Martine’s. “To Ellen,” she echoed. Then she took a long swallow of the bitter juice and said, “I’m leaving Nick.” The words sounded flat and far away.
Martine put her drink down fast, sloshing liquid over the top of the glass, and reached across the table for Clarissa’s hand.
“Oh, Clarissa, no.”
Clarissa nodded, not trusting herself to speak around the lump in her throat.
“Why?”
“He’s cheating on me, Marti,” she answered, using the nickname they’d given Martine a lifetime ago.
“Nick? Are you sure?”
“Pictures don’t lie,” Clarissa mumbled.
“You have pictures?”
Clarissa knew Martine was going to be hurt to learn that she and Ellen had been keeping their troubles from her, but she didn’t care. She needed someone to talk to.
“Yeah. It’s kind of funny, actually. Well, not funny. Strange. On the Friday before Labor Day, Ellen and I both received envelopes at work marked Personal and Confidential. Hers had pictures of Greg at The Rivers Casino, with a stack of chips in front of him.” She stopped.
Martine asked, “And yours?”
Clarissa took a deep breath and exhaled, then said, “And mine had pictures of Nick and some woman—more like a girl, really—making out.”
“Oh my goodness, Clarissa, that’s horrible,” Martine said in a dramatic tone that immediately irritated Clarissa.
It was horrible, of course. But, was it any more horrible that the crushing boringness that Martine’s husband displayed on a daily basis? Or Greg’s gambling problem? Hadn’t she known from the very beginning of their relationship that Nick had a roving eye? Why was it that when she and Ellen talked about their relationship problems, Clarissa had felt supported, and now she was feeling judged? Probably the hormones.
Martine, ever logical and analytical, had already moved on.
“Where did these pictures come from?”
“I have no idea,” Clarissa said.
She and Ellen had tried to find out, of course. But the packages had been delivered to the busy firm mailroom on the afternoon of a holiday weekend; most of the support staff had already been permitted to leave early to get a start on the weekend, and those who remained were flying through their jobs in an effort to get out of work as soon as possible. The harassed mailroom supervisor could only tell them that the packages had been logged as having been hand-delivered. No messenger company name, no other information.
Besides, it had hardly been their biggest concern. More important than who had sent them or why, was what those pictures meant to their marriages. As they huddled together in shock and anger, Clarissa had suggested calling Martine and getting together for a drink to process what had just happened, but Ellen had been itching to get home and confront Greg.
After Ellen had left, Clarissa had hidden in her office, too embarrassed and raw to face anyone who might still be around, finishing up work. Then she’d wasted some time running Internet searches for family law attorneys and scrolling through her law school friends’ Facebook and LinkedIn profiles trying to find someone she could trust but who wasn’t in her social circle.
Only when she was sure her floor was deserted, had she blown her nose, steeled herself, and raced across the public space to the elevator bank.
Across the table, Martine was trying to get her attention.
“Clarissa? You okay?”
“Yeah, sorry. I was just thinking.”
Martine nodded, sympathetic and understanding. “So, what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to leave him.”
“Well, sure. Do you have your ducks in a row?”
“I think so. I have the same divorce attorney Ellen was using. He said to just act normally until he serves Nick with the papers.”
“When’s that going to happen?”
Clarissa checked her watch then sipped her juice. “Right about now.”
Nick was at his weekly card game at his Greek social club. Andy was going to send someone to the windowless concrete block building on the South Side with the divorce complaint. She’d had a locksmith come over and re-key the door as soon as Nick had left. With any luck, the next time she’d see his smarmy face would be in court.
Martine’s eyes widened. “Oh, wow. Okay. So, tell me about this attorney. Is he good?”
“He’s got a reputation for being a bulldog. So, I guess.”
“He’s at WC&C?”
“Oh, God, no.”
Clarissa hadn’t even considered hiring a divorce attorney from one of Prescott’s peer firms. The thought of sharing the details of Nick’s infidelity with someone she might later run into at a benefit or on a bar committee turned her stomach almost as much as the adultery itself.
She’d left the office that Friday night planning to spend her Labor Day weekend getting referrals to family law firms. And, then, in a stroke of luck, she’d literally run into a guy who worked for Andy Pulaski.
She’d barreled off the elevator and charged through the lobby, her head down, in a hurry to get to the elevators that led to the parking garage. And had banged into a chest.
“Oh, pardon me.” She’d managed to get the words out without crying, which had felt like an accomplishment.
A young guy—in his early twenties, maybe—had given her a slow, easy grin. He was dressed like a bike messenger: cargo pants, long-sleeved t-shirt layered under a short-sleeved t-shirt, ratty canvas bag.
“In a hurry to get your party started?” he’d asked, as he pressed the call button for the elevator.
“Excuse me?” Clarissa had squeaked. Then, she’d remembered: it was the start of a holiday weekend. “Oh, not exactly.”
&n
bsp; He’d looked at her closely from under his mop of floppy brown hair. “Are you okay?” he’d asked in a kind voice, full of concern.
Clarissa had felt the tears building behind her eyes and, to her horror, had been unable to stop them.
“Not really,” she’d said, “I just found out my husband’s cheating on me.”
“Aw, that’s beat. I’m sorry.”
He’d dug into one of his pockets and pulled out a linty, crumpled tissue.
Clarissa had waved it off and wiped her eyes with back of her hand.
As the bell dinged to announce the arrival of the elevator, he’d said, “My boss is a really good divorce attorney. You should give him a call.”
On their short trip to the second floor of the parking garage, the kid had produced, from yet another of his innumerable pockets, a bent business card that proclaimed Andy “Big Gun” Pulaski was the guy who’d see her through the war of divorce.
Now, she drained her drink, wishing it actually contained vodka, and told Martine, “His name is Andy Pulaski. His offices are out in Monroeville.”
Martine wrinkled her nose at the idea of a strip mall attorney but said nothing.
She took a sip of her drink then said, “I’m so sorry, Clarissa.”
“Thanks,” Clarissa said.
There was really nothing else to say. She couldn’t tell Martine about the baby, not when she hadn’t even told Nick.
She wondered if Nick had the papers yet. She’d turned off her cell phone as soon he’d left for the club. She didn’t want to talk to him—ever again, if she could arrange it.
CHAPTER 17
Sasha was not uncomfortable with silence. She could sit companionably next to a friend, a relative, or a total stranger and be alone with her thoughts. Truth be told, she preferred it to incessant yammering on about nothing, just to have something to say. Usually.
Tonight, though, with Connelly sprawled across her couch, pretending to read some behavioral economics book, the quiet was making her edgy—the quiet, and the fact that Connelly hadn’t turned a page in at least twenty minutes. He was just staring into the book.
Their dinner conversation had been strained and awkwardly polite, as they danced around the topics of her new murder case and his potential new job. It had felt like a bad first date.
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