“C’mon, babe. Take these.”
I opened my eyes to see two capsules in Connor’s palm. Manna from heaven. I reached for the medicine, accepted the glass of water he offered, and drank. Silently, I handed the glass back to him.
“Bath or sleep?”
“Shower.”
He reached into the shower and turned the water on. I watched him numbly as he put one hand in the spray before adjusting the temperature. He reached for my hands, but I stopped him.
“I can do it.”
“You sure? You’re not dizzy or anything?”
“Just the headache. I’ve got it.” I stood up slowly, meeting his eyes.
He reached out and tucked my hair behind one ear, his green eyes watchful.
“Okay. I’ll be in the bedroom if you need anything.”
He moved toward the door.
“Connor?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks. For not yelling or anything.”
“I think I’ll wait until you’re feeling better.” A half smile softened his words before fading. “We are going to have to talk about tonight, though, Sara.”
“I know.”
He nodded and left the bathroom, closing the door halfway behind him. I stripped slowly and spent twenty minutes steeping in the hot water. Washing my hair, I carefully probed the knot on the back of my head. The soap stung a scrape on my elbow. The drugs had dulled my headache, but I still felt like I’d been in a brawl. And lost.
I halfheartedly dried my hair and wrapped myself in the blue bathrobe I kept hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Connor was sitting on the edge of the bed when I opened the door. The light on the bedside table was set low.
“You okay?”
“I’m gonna live.”
He stood and came across to me. He took my hands and leaned down to kiss my forehead. I turned my head and laid my cheek against his chest. His arm came around me and he gently rubbed my back.
“Bedtime.” Holding my hand, he led me to the bed, pulling back the covers so I could slide in. He went to his side of the bed and clicked the light out. I could hear him rustling in the dark as he undressed before he crawled in beside me and pulled me close. I turned and turned again, trying to find a comfortable position.
“You okay like this? I’m not hurting you or anything?”
“No, this is good. G’night.” Sleep was dragging at me.
“Try not to freak out when I wake you. Doctor’s orders, remember.”
“Hmmm.”
“Sara?”
“Huh?”
I could feel his breath against my hair. He was warm and solid.
“When you’re hurt, I’m the one you call.”
Chapter Eight
Whoever invented the flashing message light had a lot to answer for. Despite two Starbucks quad venti lattes and six acetaminophen, the strobe from my phone drilled directly into my brain. It was barely eight o’clock and the only thing stopping me from pitching the evil device from the window was the fact that they didn’t actually open.
I put my laptop and briefcase onto the desk. I picked up the phone and listened to four messages from Morris. Even with the volume turned to hangover level, they got increasingly abrasive and consisted of the same command: Report immediately to his office. Oh, hurray. Morris was the sort of senior partner who rose at the crack of dawn and was at his desk by six each workday. His wife probably insisted. I rubbed at my neck, my headache pounding behind my eyes. I felt like I’d been dragged through a bush backward and knew I looked it. Why me?
I took the elevator, my aching body rebelling at the thought of climbing stairs. Elizabeth sat behind her desk, the scarlet of her lips and nails matching her dress. The sheer brilliance of color assaulted my eyes. Without a word, she picked up her phone and informed Morris I was waiting. Her hard brown eyes never left my face, and a trace of a Cruella DeVille smile twisted her lips.
“You may go in now.”
“Great. Thanks.”
“My pleasure,” she purred.
Sergeant Wesley rose from the visitor’s chair as I entered the room. He looked worse than I felt. He wore an olive green sport coat and crumpled black trousers. His brown tie was crooked and sported a mud-colored Rorschach spot I doubted was part of a pattern. His big hand cradled the same dog-eared notebook he’d used the previous night, and he looked me over without any change of expression.
“Ms. Townley.”
“Sergeant. Sir.” I turned my attention to Morris, whose Brooks Brothers slickness was only enhanced by the company. He did not rise, and his eyes did not look kindly upon me.
“Miss Townley, Sergeant Wesley has been telling me about the incident last evening. As I’ve explained to him, while we are certain that this unfortunate episode is unrelated to any work you may have been doing for the firm, we cannot breach attorney-client confidentiality by discussing the specifics of any case.” He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he looked down his bulbous nose.
“Yes, sir.” I knew Morris was talking to me. I wondered if Wesley realized it, too. I could only pray the cop had told him I’d limited my responses to name, rank, and serial number. I couldn’t tell by looking at Morris. He always wore that sour expression. I remained standing, not having been invited to sit. Wesley’s appearance apparently belied good manners, because he continued to stand with me. Together we could be school-age delinquents called into the principal’s office.
“I have also told Sergeant Wesley that any future questioning by the police shall be done only in the presence of counsel.”
“She’s not a suspect.”
Although I’d pretty much figured out that the cops didn’t think I’d killed the alley guy, it was reassuring to hear that Wesley hadn’t come to haul me to jail. Not that I thought for a moment that the cop’s statement would keep Morris from wreaking vengeance for my having inconvenienced him with this visit. Morris lived to discomfort.
“Be that as it may, Sergeant.” Morris waved one hand in a regal gesture. “If there’s nothing else . . .” He let the words trail off, making it clear that there would be nothing else. Morris finally stood, offering one hand to the cop in a here’s-your-hat-what’s-your-hurry gesture that couldn’t be missed.
Sighing, Wesley stuffed his notebook into his pocket and shook hands, giving me a long look before shuffling to the door. It closed behind him with a click.
“What the hell is going on?” Morris boomed, collapsing back into his chair.
Ouch. “Well, sir, I was working on the Millinfield case. You know, the missing cat.” The air conditioner hummed and I felt chilled.
“Why would you involve the police?”
No doubt it was only his paternal concern for my well-being that had him out of sorts. His point-the-finger approach was probably just an abundance of genuine concern.
“I received a call from Jeff Randall, the trustee in charge of the cat. Mostly his responsibility is to physically care for the animal. He got a call from someone claiming to have information. I went to meet with the informer. That’s when I found the body.”
“Did you meet with the alleged informer?”
“No. He didn’t show up. Unless he’s the guy I found.” Having said it, I realized it was the most likely explanation. The informer had picked the time and location. If he’d been legitimate he’d have selected a nice office during business hours.
“What information did he offer you?” Morris voice returned to a normal decibel range. My head appreciated it. I would have appreciated being allowed to sit down even more.
“I didn’t talk to him. Jeff Randall did. I’ll reinterview Randall this morning to see if I can find out anything else. In the meantime, I’d like to review the Millinfield trust, as well as anything we have on the Mastersons.”
“That certainly won’t be necessary. You have nothing to link this incident to the Millinfield case. If this corpse is your missing informant, he was obviously some con artist looking fo
r a reward. More likely he was a drug dealer killed during the course of his illegal activity. A foreseeable end to a life of crime having absolutely nothing to do with Millinfield, Masterson, or this firm.”
“We don’t know anything for sure at this point, sir.”
He was shuffling papers on his desk, already turning away from the case. I couldn’t believe he was just going to blow off a dead body. I was supposed to be the investigator, and here he was totally dismissing significant leads on the case. There was nothing like having his opinion about my professional skills driven home to me the morning after I picked up a black eye working for him. I took a deep breath, stifling the urge to rant. I took a step closer to the desk, trying to regain his attention.
“Sir, the cat may have been taken deliberately. He is the beneficiary of a sizable trust. And since he lives at the Masterson estate, and the Mastersons were around at the time of the cat’s disappearance, it makes sense to me to—”
“No. This is a missing-pet case, Miss Townley, not the Lindbergh kidnapping. The stupid thing has wandered off. Your job is to locate it, period. I will not compromise other clients, especially one as significant as Stuart Masterson, to satisfy your prurient curiosity. Limit yourself to the case. Find the cat. Have I made myself clear?” He was glaring again.
“Yes, sir.”
What could I say? He wasn’t going to listen. He was going to play ostrich. At least he wasn’t taking me off the case altogether. Or firing me. Last night losing my job seemed like the worst thing that could happen. Today, facing Morris the Horse’s Behind, I realized it wasn’t. First, he wouldn’t fire me. I wasn’t important enough to fire. I existed to take metaphorical dictation, salute, and toe the company line. Yes, sir. No, sir. Whatever you say, sir. Second, everything that had happened didn’t even register on his radar. Mysterious informant—childish prank. Murder victim—unfortunate coincidence. Police investigation—irritating irrelevance. Well, if he thought I was just going to ignore the first real case I’d ever had to keep this stupid job, Morris the Moron could bite me.
“Am I clear?” he bellowed.
I crossed my fingers.
“Yes, sir. Crystal clear.”
Chapter Nine
The first step to successful career suicide is not to panic. It’s not like I’d done anything, and he couldn’t possibly know what I was thinking, right? My answer must have sounded reasonable, because I was still here, sweating outside his office. I wasn’t going to do this. I was not going to risk my job. I wasn’t.
Liz wasn’t at her desk. With any luck she was on one of her hour-long smoke breaks and I’d be gone before she caught me not doing this.
I started with her calendar. Investigating for real sounded good, but here I was flipping through Elizabeth’s mostly blank calendar without the faintest idea what I was looking for when it hit me. Only an idiot would believe in a coincidence big enough to cover the loss of a multimillion-dollar cat and a dead body in the space of a few hours. Only a moron would deliberately ignore an actual lead of the magnitude of a police investigation peripheral to the issue. Morris was many things. He wasn’t stupid.
And what was all that about attorney-client privilege? I was covered by privilege. Why play coy? It was probably nothing. Simple I’m-an-important-lawyer-and-you’rean-insect philosophy. It wasn’t his stance that bothered me so much. It was the vehemence. Maybe his elitism went that deep, but he seemed a little over-the-top. Dead guys, police, air bag lawyers . . . maybe I was a little paranoid.
I flipped through the folders in the in-basket. I hesitated, debating the wisdom of rifling through Liz’s files. I might actually be more afraid of Liz than I was of Morris. He could only fire me. Her revenge would probably include blackmail, job termination, and some sort of voodoo curse.
I slipped around her desk and stepped to the file cabinet. A quick perusal of the labels had me on my knees opening the lowest drawer, my fingers flying as I searched for the right file. I pulled a heavy brown folder marked MILLINFIELD TRUST from the drawer and flipped it open. I stared into the empty file. The sudden trilling of the phone had me whirling around, my heart in my throat and my breathing labored. I immediately whipped back, jammed the folder into place, and stifled a scream as I slammed my fingers in the drawer. I popped to my feet and managed to round Liz’s desk and start toward the door before it opened to admit her, reeking of smoke. The woman was a walking vice. She gave me a dismissive glare and I fled to the hallway.
I nursed my throbbing hand in the elevator. When the doors opened, I took two steps toward my cubicle before I stopped. The file room was practically calling my name. Just because I hadn’t found anything in Liz’s files didn’t mean the file room was a dead end.
The files were kept in the central core of the floor in a huge room with thousands of files housed on rolling metal bookcases. I walked down the length of shelves, trying to be casual while I checked for other employees. I could hear two women discussing the evil nature of men in general and their husbands in particular, but they were at the other end of the room. That topic could take a while.
I meandered toward the relevant section and, after a brief glance back at the gossips, pushed the file wall far enough to allow me to slip between sections. My eyes scanned past Masterson to Millinfield. I pulled the file and flipped it open. Inside were Morris’s initials and nothing else. Disappointment swamped me. I pushed the file back into place and turned toward the end of the row, only to be startled by a bespectacled, gray-haired secretary in a frumpy green suit and sensible shoes—I could never remember her name.
“Are you looking for something?”
“Just putting a file back,” I said casually despite a racing heart and sweaty palms.
“You’re putting a file back?” Her voice dripped disbelief.
“Something strange about that?” I asked, passing her on my way to the door.
“No one ever puts them back,” she muttered.
My heart tripped madly all the way back to my desk. I was astonished that the people I passed in the hall seemed unaware of my near miss. Surely heart palpitations were visible, yet no one seemed disturbed, and the file clerk didn’t chase after me screaming, “Liar.” The nearer I got to my cubicle, the more the fear gave way to blinding curiosity. Something wasn’t right here.
I stopped at the opening to Joe’s cubicle. He sat hunched over a stack of documents, his thick glasses barely hanging on to the end of his nose, both arms surrounding the files as if he expected someone to try to snatch them away.
“Joe?”
He jumped, his head coming up as his watery blue eyes tried to focus on me over the half-moons of his prescription lenses.
“You scared me. Nice eye. What did Morris want?”
“It was time for my annual review. I’m getting a monumental raise.”
Joe snorted.
“Actually, it was nothing. I’ve got a question for you, though.” I leaned against the fabric wall. “What does it mean when a file is empty but someone’s initials are inside?”
“It means they checked out the contents. You’re supposed to sign them out with the date, so if someone else needs the file they know where to look.”
“What if there was no date?”
“Either it’s a permanent sign-out or they just didn’t bother with a date.”
“Everything is also on the computer, right?”
“Sure. We save everything we draft and scan anything we get from anybody else. Whether or not you could see it is another story. The sensitive files are password-protected and can be accessed only by the assigned attorney.” He leaned back and dug under a stack of papers, coming out with several pieces of candy, which he offered to me with an open hand.
I shook my head in refusal, careful to avoid his eyes.
“What makes you think we’re discussing a sensitive file?”
“I’m not discussing a sensitive file. I have never discussed a sensitive file with you. I will never discuss a sensit
ive file with you. Which is what I will tell anyone who cares to ask.” He used his arm to shoo me out of the cubicle and returned to work.
I grinned and walked the few steps to my own cubicle.
My phone was ringing. I desperately wanted a few moments to think about Morris’s weird behavior and the empty files, but I couldn’t stand the ringing. I took a deep breath and picked up the receiver, dropping into my chair.
“Sara Townley.”
“Spill.” Russ didn’t bother to identify himself before making his demand.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“When last we saw our heroine she was abandoning her husband of record to a truly unamused she-demon nurse while waltzing off with husband number two, who was wearing an I-am-not-happy-and-haven’t-taken-my-Prozac expression.”
“Oh, that.” I didn’t want to think about Connor. Just remembering how sweet he’d been made me feel like a heel.
“You sound terrible. Has something else happened? Since the dead body and the public bigamy?”
I laughed in spite of myself.
“Private bigamy really is the only choice. I never told you how much I enjoyed your performance last night. Oscar-caliber.” I picked up a pencil and began to doodle. I could already feel Russ’s good nature restoring my mood. I might have an irate boss and a disappointed husband, but I also had a best friend who could help me see the funny side of things.
“Thank you very much. Now stop changing the subject. What happened after you went home?”
“Nothing.”
“I am your best friend and coconspirator. Start talking.”
“He was mad.”
“Well, you could hardly expect the guy to be doing cartwheels. He did walk in on his wife and another husband.” Russ laughed.
I didn’t respond, and the silence stretched.
“How mad was he?” Suddenly Russ didn’t sound like he was having a good time.
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