Sasha McCandless 03 - Irretrievably Broken

by Melissa F. Miller

  He thought for a moment. “The playoff game was on, but I wasn’t really paying attention. If the Pirates are out of the running, the season’s over as far as I’m concerned. I guess it must have been the bottom of the seventh, maybe. Around ten o’clock or a little after. Anyway, there was a commotion at the door. It’s a private club, but you know, there’s no security or anything. We all have keys. Usually, though, we leave the door unlocked, ‘cause guys come and go all night long.”

  “What kind of commotion?”

  “Some young guy pushed through the door and walked in like he owned the place. George and Demetri grabbed the guy, told him the club wasn’t open to the public, and tried to steer him back outside, down the street to a bar. But, he got real loud, yelling that he needed to see me, had something important to tell me about Clarissa.”

  Nick stopped and looked down at his shoes.

  “What?” Sasha prompted him.

  “I thought maybe she’d been in an accident or something.”

  He was lying. Whatever he’d thought, that wasn’t it.

  “Okay, go on.”

  “They brought him over to me and he shoved this envelope at me with a big shitty smirk on his face. He said I’d been served, and my marriage was over.” Nick’s face darkened at the memory.

  Greg rapped on the door. He eased it open and poked his head into the room.

  “Is it okay to come back?”

  “Actually, would you mind waiting downstairs in the coffee shop? If you take your mug down and tell them you’re a client, they’ll give you a warm up for free,” Sasha said.

  She didn’t dare suggest he wait in Naya’s office. If Naya returned and found Greg Lang in her space, she would not be shy about making her displeasure known.

  “Sure, I guess,” Greg said. He trotted over to the table and grabbed his mug. Before he hurried out of the room again, he gave Nick a concerned look. Nick nodded at him, as if to say he was doing okay.

  The door swung shut and Nick resumed his story. “Things got kind of crazy after that. Some of the fellas tossed the guy out onto the street, and I tried to read the complaint. But, the words were swimming on the page and I—” His voice broke and his eyes filled with tears.

  Despite her gut reaction to the man, Sasha felt a twinge of sympathy. Just as Will had asked her to do for Greg, she put herself in Nick’s shoes for a moment and thought about how his life had been upended. She held out the box of tissues she kept on her desk, but he wiped his eyes on his shirtsleeve and went on. “I didn’t understand what was happening. It didn’t make sense. I tried to call Clarissa, but her phone went straight to voicemail. I guess, after that, I had too much to drink.”

  “Do you have the complaint?”

  “Um, yeah. Here.” He half-rose from the seat and pulled an envelope, folded length-wise, from his back jeans pocket and handed it to her.

  “Thanks. I’ll look at it in a bit; let’s get through the rest of your night.”

  “Okay. I drank ... a lot. I kept calling Clarissa’s cell phone and the house phone, but the cell rolled to voicemail and the answering machine kept picking up at home. Finally, I just left. I don’t know exactly what time it was.”

  “That’s okay, Nick.”

  Sasha wanted to pull out her notepad and jot down some notes, but she restrained herself: It would be counterproductive to break Nick’s rhythm; and, if she were being honest, she didn’t want to have a record of their conversation in case she decided not to represent him. If she did decide to take him on as a client, she’d memorialize their discussion, along with her impressions, as soon as he left.

  “Um, so I shouldn’t have done this, but I drove home.” He looked up at her, sheepish and contrite.

  “I see.”

  “Yeah, so, I got home. I was drunk and confused, maybe a little bit angry. I went to the front door and I couldn’t get my key to work.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I pounded on the door. Hollered for her to let me in or at least come talk to me. Nothing. She didn’t yell back or turn on a light or anything. I was getting ready to go around and try the back and then I guess I noticed the lock. It was really shiny. I realized the key didn’t work because the lock was new. She’d changed the locks.”

  Sasha didn’t react to the anger in his voice.

  “Go on.”

  “Well, at that point, I knew she wasn’t going to let me in. So, I called Greg. Asked if I could crash at his place.”

  “Then you didn’t actually see Clarissa last night?”

  “Uh, no. Not after I left for the club.”

  “You don’t even know for a fact that she was home when you returned, do you?”

  Nick stared at her, uncomprehending. “Where else would she have been?”

  “I don’t know. But, neither do you, right? You know she had the locks changed, but after that, she could have gone out, met up with someone and ... decided to spend the night elsewhere, couldn’t she?”

  Nick curled both hands into tight fists. “You saying she had a boyfriend?”

  “No, Nick. I’m saying maybe you have an alibi.”

  “An alibi? Why the hell would I need an alibi?”

  It was Sasha’s turn to stare. She searched his face for understanding, but it was empty. He really didn’t understand just how bad his situation was.

  “Because it’s always the husband. When the police learn that Clarissa served divorce papers on you, and you later came home, by your own admission, blind drunk and yelling in the street within hours of her being found murdered, do you think they’re going to look any further?”

  “But ... I didn’t kill her. Greg said her body was found at the office building this morning. I was at Greg’s all morning.” Nick was stammering.

  He resisted following the logical train of his own sentence, so she helped him aboard. “Right. You couldn’t have killed your wife because you were having a sleepover with a man who was just charged with killing his wife. See any problems with that story?”

  Nick hung his head and sobbed. He made no effort to control his anguish, as his shoulders heaved and comprehension sunk in.

  Sasha handed him the tissue box from her desk and went off in search of Greg. Nick was going to need a friend with him as he moved from denial into reality. And it looked like she was going to be representing two accused murderers, just as soon as someone got around to accusing Nick.

  CHAPTER 23

  Leo stared down at the box in the palm of his hand. Now what?

  He’d been on his way to Sasha’s office to see if she wanted to grab a late lunch at the crepe place around the corner. And then, of their own volition, his legs detoured and pushed through the front door of Henne Jewelers—a Pittsburgh institution, from what he’d been told.

  As soon as he’d walked into the space, he’d regretted it. His throat had tightened and his face had grown hot and flushed. He’d felt like a stupid, lumbering giant. And he’d been certain everyone was staring at him.

  A smiling saleswoman had glided over to him, placed a cool hand on his arm, and guided him to a seating area off to the side of the brightly lit room.

  “You look a bit uncomfortable,” she’d said in a tone somewhere between a mother comforting a toddler and a psychiatrist encouraging her patient to unburden himself.

  Leo had laughed in relief, and a jumble of information about Sasha, his job offer, and the move had cascaded from his mouth in a rush.

  Two hours and forty minutes later, he found himself standing on the corner of Walnut Street and South Highland Avenue, balancing a small, velvet box in the palm of his hand.

  What the hell had he just done?

  He pried the lid open and stared down at the ring. A large, square (the saleswoman had called it emerald-cut) ruby flanked by two small diamonds stared back at him.

  When she had led him to the first ring display, after talking with him about Sasha and her taste, he’d spied the ring at once. The fiery red stone had jumped o
ut at him from among the rows of glistening diamonds and the occasional sapphire. Different. Fierce. Sasha.

  He’d looked up at the saleswoman and said, “It is it an engagement ring?”

  “It is if you want it to be,” she’d answered with a hint of a smile.

  Leo jammed the box into his pocket and checked his watch. It was almost five, so he headed toward Sasha’s condo, still edgy and out of sorts. It wasn’t in his nature to be so impulsive.

  CHAPTER 24

  Sasha had sent Greg and Nick back to Greg’s with strict instructions: Nick was to keep his cell phone turned off and they were to stay put. The fact that Nick had dropped off the face of the earth after his wife’s dead body was found wasn’t going to win him any popular support, she knew, but right now she just needed to buy some time before she let him talk to the police.

  She sat with her chair turned away from her desk, facing the window. The last bits of sun streaked the sky. She chewed on a pen and read Clarissa’s divorce complaint against Nick. Odd. Just like Ellen, Clarissa had sought a fault divorce, alleging she’d suffered indignities that rendered her condition intolerable and her life burdensome. And, again like Ellen, she hadn’t set forth any specific factual allegations to support that claim.

  She flipped to the end of the complaint to check the signature block. Clarissa was represented by none other than Andy “Big Gun” Pulaski. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Could it?

  Naya rapped on the door and stuck her head in.

  “I’m going to take off.”

  “Okay,” Sasha said absently, her mind still on the odds that Ellen and Clarissa would share the same misogynistic divorce attorney.

  “Mac? You okay?”

  Sasha turned her chair around and looked up to see Naya wrinkling her forehead in concern.

  “Yeah, sorry. I was thinking. Have a good night.”

  “Why don’t you come downstairs? We’ll go over to Mad Mex. Margaritas are on me.”

  Sasha smiled. “Your winnings burning a hole in your pocket?”

  Naya had returned from the casino to report that The Rivers had been a bust as far as the Lang case was concerned. The marketing team couldn’t—or wouldn’t—tell her how it had gotten Greg Lang’s name, and security had offered no comment on the use of still photography by any patrons. They’d actually laughed at her request to review the security camera data. Naya had, however, managed to win sixty dollars playing Paigow poker, so she had been in an unusually mellow frame of mind when Sasha had broken the news of their newest client.

  “C’mon. You could use a drink.”

  A margarita and a bowl of salty chips with Mad Mex’s house-made salsa sounded about perfect. But, there was no way. Not tonight. Not with Leo leaving in the morning.

  “Sorry, Naya. I wish I could. I have too much to do. Maybe tomorrow? We could do a proper happy hour.”

  “Sure, okay. Especially with fly boy gone. We’re going to need to keep you busy.”

  Sasha spread her hands wide and gestured at the papers covering her desk.

  “I think I’m plenty busy, Naya.”

  Naya laughed and pulled the door shut before heading down the stairs.

  Sasha thought for a moment and then punched Andy Pulaski’s telephone number into her phone.

  The Big Gun himself answered on the third ring. She’d been banking on the fact that he probably sent his receptionist home at five and then stuck around to do paperwork.

  “Pulaski,” he said in an abrupt growl.

  “Mr. Pulaski, my name’s Sasha McCandless. I represent Nick Costopolous,” she said.

  “That was quick,” he commented.

  From his tone, Sasha thought he might not have heard about Clarissa.

  “You do know Clarissa’s been murdered, Mr. Pulaski?”

  “What? When?” he said.

  Sasha pulled the phone away from her ear while he bellowed.

  “Early this morning. A shopper found her in the parking garage attached to her law firm.”

  “Aww, shit. Another one.”

  “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you. I’m surprised you hadn’t heard. It’s been all over the news, apparently.”

  “I was in a deposition all day. Some broad’s accused my client of hiding all his money. Doesn’t want to believe she bled the poor sap dry, I guess. Who the hell has twenty-eight thousand dollars’ worth of couture shoes? Anyway, what do you want? If Clarissa’s dead, she’s dead. Just don’t answer the complaint.”

  “Actually, I’m not representing Mr. Costopolous with regard to the divorce.”

  “Oh. So, again, what do you want?” His voice was edgier, more demanding now.

  “I’d like to come talk to you in person. Please.”

  Sasha wasn’t about to get into it over the phone.

  “Listen, lady, I don’t have time for this. If you aren’t Costopolous’s divorce attorney, then we don’t have anything to talk about. Give your dirtbag client my condolences.”

  Pulaski slammed the phone down in her ear.

  CHAPTER 25

  Andy slammed the phone down in frustration, knocking a stack of exhibits to the floor in the process. They fell out of the redweld and scattered.

  “Son of a—” He stopped and reminded himself that he needed to make his anger work for him, not against him. Manage it. Harness it.

  It was not what his most recent ex-girlfriend had meant when she’d said he had anger management problems. But, it was what he’d decided to do. Andy was angry most of the time. He figured he might as well channel his rage into his work.

  He snatched the stupid, squishy stress ball from his desk and squeezed it. Squeezed it like it was opposing counsel’s neck and savored the image. Then he dropped it back on the desk and yelled for Rich.

  “Rich! Get in here!”

  He heard the kid’s heavy hiking boots shuffling along the carpet as he scurried down the hallway.

  “Yeah, boss?” Rich stood in the doorway, not meeting Andy’s eye.

  The kid was like an abused dog. Always skulking around, meek and apologetic. But, Andy had to admit he was handy. Having a dedicated runner to drive into the city and hand deliver documents, serve defendants, and file papers in court had made Andy’s life a ton easier. Before Rich had shown up looking for a job, Andy had been forced to either stop what he was doing and burn a few hours sitting in traffic or pay the obscene fees of a messenger service. Now, he just handed the documents to Rich and sent him out the door. And, to give the kid his due, he’d even scored a few clients. Of course, they were all dying.

  “I was just told that the Costopolous chick got murdered. Is that true?”

  Rich stared down at his feet while he answered. “I guess.”

  “You guess? What do you mean, you guess? She’s either dead or she isn’t.”

  The kid’s face flushed pink, and he stammered, “She is. Dead, I mean. That’s what they said on the noon news. I saw it while I was eating lunch.”

  Andy grabbed the remote control from his desk and aimed it at the television sitting on the cart against his wall. He rarely watched it; every once in a while he turned it on to try to catch one of his commercials. But, it was just after six o’clock. A dead chick lawyer—the second in a week—would probably be the lead story.

  An attractive black woman wearing a bright purple suit filled the screen. She stood at the entrance to a parking garage.

  “... savagely beaten to death with a hammer,” she said, her eyes wide and her expression serious.

  She went on, “Earlier today, Detective Burton Gilbert of the homicide squad told us the dead woman’s husband, Nick Costopolous, is a person of interest.”

  The camera cut away to a shot of a guy in a gray trench coat walking into the garage. Andy could tell he was the detective by the cop walk: his head bent, his body pitched forward. The guy raised a hand in greeting to the camera but didn’t slow his pace.

  A picture of a smiling Nick Costopolous came on the screen; Andy jud
ged it to be several years old, based on the more recent still shots he’d seen of Nick sucking face with the hottie.

  The reporter prattled on, “Police have been unable to locate Mr. Costopolous, a master carpenter. His employer, Woodcrafters, had no comment. Anyone having information regarding Ms. Costopolous’s death or the whereabouts of Nick Costopolous is asked to contact the Homicide Squad.”

  The camera returned to the reporter, who somehow managed to smile and come across as somber at the same time.

  “Charlie, Linda,” she said, addressing the off-screen anchors, “this is, of course, a tragic situation. But, it’s made even more so by the fact that this is the second murder to rock the venerable Prescott & Talbott law firm in just a matter of days. Over the weekend, another lawyer at the firm, Ellen Mortenson, was brutally murdered in her home. Police have charged her estranged husband, Greg Lang, with the crime.”

  “Shocking,” murmured Linda as the picture switched to her and Charlie, sitting shoulder to shoulder in the studio.

  Charlie nodded his agreement and shuffled his papers on the desk in front of him. Then he added, “We’ve reached out to Prescott & Talbott, but the firm did not agree to an interview. It issued a statement this afternoon saying ‘We ask for privacy for our employees during this difficult time. Please keep them in your thoughts as they mourn the loss of their colleagues and friends.’”

  Andy jabbed the off button and turned to Rich.

  “Some lawyer named Sasha McCandless called. Said she represents Costopolous, but not on the divorce. She must be his criminal lawyer. Track her down and give her a copy of the pictures. And take one to the homicide squad, too.”

  “Why?” Rich asked in a soft voice.

  “Why what?” Andy said.

  He didn’t have time for Rich’s endless questions today. The kid was eager to learn—a trait Andy appreciated—but it was like employing a four-year-old child with all the incessant freaking questions. He needed to get a hold of this homicide detective and tell him the pictures were coming.

  “Why are you giving them the pictures?”