Imperfect Justice

by Cara C. Putman

  “I’ve got an interesting challenge for you.” His words were slow, distinct, precise. Nothing wasted. “Over the last month I have developed a new stable of prospective clients. They are prepared to sign, but want to know the next generation that will actively manage their money. I’ve told them about each of you. They want more, so I created this test. If you pass, you’ll add them to your list and be set up for a lucrative future. Fail, and I’ll wonder whether you belong here.”

  Priscilla stepped up and passed out a folder to each person.

  “Inside that folder is your group of prospects. There is overlap among some. Others are uniquely yours to gain or lose.” Fletcher steepled his fingers in front of him. “You may want to work together, but it is your choice. Good luck.”

  He stood and left the room. Vince waited long enough to not run over the man, then bolted from the room, his purple tie flapping. Reid opened his folder and saw dossiers on four people. He glanced around the table and saw his remaining colleagues surveying theirs.

  One looked at him. “What’s our strategy?”

  “If you want to work together, then we need to share who we have.” The others nodded, and he felt the weight of their trust. “If there’s overlap, that will help shape our steps.”

  Slowly the folders slid toward him. As he fanned out the dossiers, careful to keep each in its home folder, he noted a few duplicates. Some were trust fund kids. Others old money, made and managed the hard way, over time. Most were from Virginia and the surrounding area. Strategies formed even as he felt the gaze of those at the table.

  This was when he loved his job. When the pressure coincided with the knowledge it would take a bit of work and he’d have the prospect of real success . . . perfection.

  He looked up to gauge the people sitting at the table. Simone had slipped in at some point, as if she’d received a text he hadn’t sent. Next to her sat Luke Langford, a second-year guy out of Virginia, every bit as smart as Reid, if a little awkward. Across from Luke sat Annabelle Lotus, who had the mind of Scarlett O’Hara and the style of a Southern belle. She constantly saw angles and possibilities others didn’t, but Fletcher and Vince didn’t see that secret strength in her. She was living with Matt Arch, who’d joined the firm the same year as Reid but didn’t have the drive to make it to the top rung. In fact, he seemed quite content managing a small book of clients, a task he did very well.

  If they acted like a team, Reid felt certain they’d succeed. They’d just need to dig.

  “All right.” Reid handed the folders to Simone, who quickly pulled out her phone and took photos of the dossiers. “Let’s get started.”

  His computer continued to ding, alerting him to e-mails from the team. Annabelle’s had details about the prospects’ backgrounds that suggested she had sources who knew them personally. Not for the first time he wondered how she’d landed at the firm. After speed-reading her e-mail, he forwarded it to Simone, who would compile the information in a book they would use as they met the different individuals.

  Then he turned to the e-mails from Matt. He’d given Matt the task of determining the best strategy for investing the infusion of assets. Part of that would be affected by the clients’ desires and interests, but for the team to succeed they needed the outlines of a plan they could sell. Matt could synthesize vast amounts of data, and Annabelle would funnel information to him as quickly as she uncovered it.

  So far there was nothing from Luke, and they needed his best guesses on who Vince might have in his dossier. Since Vince had shown a willingness to go after clients that weren’t his, Reid was determined to stay ahead of him on this project. As far as he could tell, Vince would work alone. That would make the task more daunting and increase the chances the man couldn’t get everything done in a timely fashion.

  At noon Fletcher had sent an e-mail with more details. They had one week to develop and submit a strategy to the boss. At the same time, they must compile a thorough dossier on each prospect, expanding the information they had received with significant details. He wanted a strategy that would be unique to the interests of each while addressing the weaknesses in their current portfolios.

  While that task seemed impossible, it meant the information was available somewhere in the public realm. Reid’s team simply had to access it. Annabelle’s list of boards and work histories for each was a start, but there were gaps. Those gaps could contain key information that would affect their success.

  He pushed back in his chair, considering the next steps. How to find the missing information?

  Simone.

  He needed her brainstorming with him. Together they’d see more than either would separately.

  He buzzed her desk, and a minute later she walked in with a mug of tea and her faithful tablet. After she settled in a chair and set her mug on the stone coaster he pushed toward her, he leaned forward. “What do you think?”

  She clicked her stylus on her tablet and then turned it to him. She’d already created a spreadsheet with graphs. “Here are my initial thoughts.”

  He scanned it. “You’ve got some good work here. Walk me through it.”

  She spent the next fifteen minutes giving her synthesis of what they’d learned during the day, then she clicked another series of buttons. “Here’s a punch list of what we’re missing. It’ll keep the three musketeers busy over the weekend.”

  He scanned the list. It was thorough and contained almost everything he’d thought to include. “I have a couple things to add, but this is good work, Simone.”

  She studied him as if waiting.

  “There’s no but. Good job.” His desk phone rang, and she stood.

  “I’ll wait for your additions and then get the gang back to work.”

  “Thanks.” He grabbed the receiver as she exited his office and closed the door behind her. “Billings here.”

  “So I’ve got a friend here who tells me you’ve asked about Kinley.”

  Reid sank against the back of his chair as he took in Robert Adams’s dull voice. “I’m concerned about her, and you told me I could ask.”

  “Then call me.”

  “You made it clear that wasn’t a good idea.”

  “Keep harassing the hospital, and you’ll never see her again.” His brother-in-law’s voice was as cold as it was firm. There was no heightened emotion, just a hard certainty.

  “I care about Kinley.”

  “I’m her father. You’re only her uncle, who came around once a year. Guess who will win.”

  Reid pushed back the guilt Robert’s words resurrected. “This isn’t about winning or losing.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. It’s always about winning. I will always win with my daughter. It’s what fathers do.”

  Reid wished he’d recorded the conversation. Anything to capture the man’s flat words and hard edges. The ones he carefully hid in public where others would notice. “All right. When can I come see her?”

  “She’s still unconscious.”

  “Then it’s a perfect time. She won’t know I’m there, but I can be assured she’s getting good care.”

  “Maybe. I’ll call you.” Then the man hung up.

  Had he been played or was Robert serious about letting him see his niece? Could he have figured out that Reid was exploring more permanent options?

  CHAPTER 22

  After a fitful night spent chasing shadows that loomed in her dreams, Emilie arrived at her desk at the Haven an hour before the office officially opened. A quick glance showed that there was no protective order waiting on her desk. Maybe she’d have to pull up the file and finish it herself. First she had to find Shannon’s file and Taylor’s notes. A quick look on Taylor’s desk didn’t reveal them. Then she placed a call to Nadine, but it went to voicemail, so she left an innocuous message as if they were friends planning to meet for coffee. A quick conversation would let her know Nadine’s state of mind. This had to be handled carefully so Nadine could leave with her son before her boyfriend
knew what she planned.

  Since she couldn’t sleep or write and was on hold with the protective order, was there something she could do to help Kinley? She couldn’t check on the diamonds or talk to the Adamses’ neighbors at this early hour. Her cell phone rang, and she picked it up. She didn’t recognize the number. Who would call at this hour of the morning? “This is Emilie.”

  “Detective Gaines returning your call.”

  “Thank you.” She scrambled to pull her notes from one of her in-boxes.

  “I’ve only got a few minutes. Crazy weekend working homicides.”

  “Have you watched the video from Kaylene’s death?”

  “The one the media has?”

  “Yes. I wondered if you have a cleaned-up version.” It sounded so crazy to voice the question, but she had to know if the police had analyzed it.

  “We’re working on it. The case is pretty open and shut.” He didn’t say not a top priority, but she could hear it.

  “What if Kaylene didn’t do this?”

  “It’s unlikely.”

  “I don’t think so.” She blew out a breath. “I had worked with her for several months. She was a mother intent on saving her girls. That woman would not kill them.”

  “Unless she felt something had changed. It happens.” His voice was firm, but not unkind.

  “Will you let me know when it’s cleaned up? I’d like to see it.”

  “You could do the same thing yourself.”

  “Not without something better than what’s online.” The quality was so bad, she didn’t see how it could be improved. “If you have another minute, I have a quick question.”

  “Keep it brief.”

  “Yes, sir. Can you recommend an officer I can talk to? I have a personal situation.”

  “Related to a crime?” His words were alert and sharp.

  “I think I’m being stalked.” She couldn’t believe she’d just blurted out the words.

  “Officer Miranda Roberts. She’s the liaison for your agency and a good detective. Do you have her number?”

  “I do, and I’ll contact her. Thank you.”

  Detective Gaines clicked off. Emilie’s fingers hesitated over the phone. Could she risk asking Officer Roberts for help? The woman was tough as nails with a soft exterior when dealing with their clients. Would she exhibit the same sympathy with Emilie? Emilie didn’t need that; she needed someone to be aware of what was happening. She placed the call and left a message.

  While she worked to discover what had happened in the Adamses’ household, she could also review old client files. Chances were her stalker lurked somewhere in those. Maybe she’d identify whether a shadow existed in her life or if she’d overreacted in her own small version of PTSD. That’s what her primary care doctor had suggested, even after she’d found a stuffed elephant peeking out of a gift bag on the hood of her car last April. That was hardly a figment of her imagination, but the doctor told her it was likely a coincidence. She hadn’t wanted to believe him, but maybe she needed to . . . After she did more digging, that is. Something attorneys were trained to do that effectively, and she was nothing if not effective.

  She’d been the one to piece all the information together to break the Rodriguez drug cartel, and she did not believe they’d been after her. Her article had posted the same day she was shot.

  “Good morning.” Taylor entered the office, looking sharp yet feminine. “I grabbed a black coffee and muffin. I suspected you needed the caffeine more than you needed the cream.”

  Emilie accepted the to-go mug with a grateful smile, feeling the warmth from the cup seep into her hands but not reach the chill that clung to her. “How are you?”

  “Fine.” She set her tea on the corner of Emilie’s desk. “Couldn’t sleep again?”

  “Not well, so instead of lying there and getting frustrated, I’m here.” Emilie brushed back a lock of hair. “I tried to reach Nadine, but nothing.”

  “We’ll reach her.” Taylor plopped onto a chair. Then she grabbed her tea and gestured to the muffin. “You’d better take a bite before I change my mind about the diet I’m on. Those are decadent.”

  “And 100 percent good for me.”

  “Sure.” Taylor waggled her eyebrows mischievously, then took a sip of her tea. “So how can I help?”

  “That personal letter I received yesterday? It has me spooked. It makes me think my shadow is back.” She couldn’t say stalker to Taylor. Not yet. “Have you thought of any clients or significant others I should add to my list?”

  In June, as soon as Emilie had returned to the Haven, she’d asked Taylor to pull together a list of potential clients who were angry or frustrated with her. The list had been short—a half dozen jotted down in Taylor’s distinctive swirls. None had seemed the right person for the scrutiny she felt. The clients had moved and the exes had disappeared.

  “Not since you asked a couple months ago. Are you sure it’s necessary?”

  “Maybe not, but that letter feels like a change. Last night I thought someone was lurking out of sight when I walked into the parking lot. I hate that feeling.” Emilie held her coffee, consciously forcing her hold to relax so she didn’t crush the cup and spill the steaming hot beverage. “I want to be strong enough to walk to my car without wondering who is waiting where I can’t see them.”

  Taylor gave a slight shrug. “You can’t control everything, even your emotions and fears.”

  “But that’s it. I don’t like fear. I’ve never lived that way.” Not really.

  “Do you want me to pull the files again?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you contacted the police?”

  “I left Miranda Roberts a message, but I don’t want the word to spread here.” Not until she had a better understanding of what she faced.

  “Understood.” Taylor stood and turned to leave, but not before Emilie noted a flash of sympathy.

  The young woman was too astute for her own good. She intuited emotions and layers to situations that most would never identify. It’s what made her excellent in her job working with at-risk women. But Emilie didn’t like it when that same empathetic magic was directed toward her.

  She didn’t need anyone’s pity.

  For goodness’ sake, she was a young woman of privilege, part of a loving family. Graduate of a top law school and using her education to help those in need fix their problems. All of that should allow her to sleep like a baby. Instead, she’d awoken last night in a cold sweat, the accident playing through her mind like the chaotic footage of a movie, camera shots in juxtaposition to each other in a dizzying kaleidoscope that left her breathless, heart pounding, and awake. Very awake.

  She returned to the old list Taylor had given her months earlier. Plugged the first name into the search engine. Waded through page after page of returned links. Wasted her time, even as it felt like it was all she could control.

  The phone on her desk rang and Emilie hit the intercom button. “Yes?”

  “Your editor’s on line 3.”

  “Thanks, Taylor.” Emilie blew out a breath. She was now a week late turning in her latest article. Surely Olivia understood. She clicked on the line and took a breath. “This is Emilie.”

  “The woman I’ve been looking for.”

  “I know I owe you an article.”

  “Yes, you do, but that’s not the reason I’m calling.”

  It wasn’t? Now Emilie was confused . . . and the butterflies in her stomach took flight.

  “Can you meet me at Lady Camellia’s for tea? Say, four o’clock?”

  “Okay.” Emilie jotted down the address and then returned to work.

  While Georgetown wasn’t that far from Old Town, it took time to drive across the Potomac and to the right neighborhood. Finding parking took even more time. By the time Emilie climbed from her car, she risked being late.

  The building was brick painted mint green with a couple tables set outside the front door. Fortunately, Olivia wasn’t waiting the
re or they’d melt in the heat. Emilie stepped inside and found the tearoom charming. Why hadn’t she heard of it before? It looked like the perfect place to schedule a high tea with the girls. From the brick exterior of the row house to the blanched yellow wallpaper with pink figures to the clean, white tablecloths and elegant chairs to the empty gold picture frames decorating the wall, it was a place one would raise a pinky while sipping exotic teas and nibbling tasty macaroons. She looked up and saw elegant white chandeliers braced on the ceiling by an ornate bronze swirl of metal.

  “Emilie.”

  She pulled her gaze from the ceiling and found her editor gesturing her over. Olivia Lanning was a buttoned-down woman who wore her explosion of auburn hair in a tight French braid that few curls escaped. Her horn-framed glasses were perched on her nose as she set down the menu and gestured toward the chair on the other side of the table.

  Emilie squared her shoulders and pushed a smile on as she walked to the table. “What a charming place.”

  Olivia nodded as Emilie sat. “I thought you’d like it. Something of a hidden gem. It will also afford us privacy.”

  That didn’t sound good.

  “We need to talk about the trajectory of your career.”

  “Oh.” That was not what Emilie had expected. “I know my article is late, but I promise I’ll submit one.”

  Olivia tapped the menu in front of Emilie. “First tea. I recommend the Savory. It comes with a few sweets and a couple sandwiches. The perfect complement to a pot of tea.”

  Emilie doubted she’d eat if the conversation took the turn Olivia’s tone suggested. In spite of her mother’s careful schooling, Emilie could barely focus on Olivia’s words as her thoughts returned to the real reason the woman had invited her.

  Finally Olivia brushed her cloth napkin gently across her lips. “Now that we’ve enjoyed that, we need to talk about you.” She slid her small plate to the side, placed her elbows on the table, and leaned forward. “Part of my job as editor at the Nation’s Post is to keep all our content going by having the correct writers in place.”

  “Yes.”