Your Money's Worth: Seattle Elementals, Book 1

by Connie Suttle

  "Tomorrow morning?"

  "Sounds good. I'll forward my rates to you."

  "That will be fine."

  * * *

  Cassie

  I made it through Wednesday's classes, although my trepidation mounted. I had an unpaid job to go to on Thursday morning. I wondered if the boss would bother to introduce himself then.

  I hadn't asked about his caseload; he'd handle the biggest cases while portioning out the rest to his direct employees or those hapless, private attorneys selected by the county to represent indigent defendants.

  While I'd worked in Parke's firm in Seattle, I'd seen the top side of court cases; those filing civil suits who could afford attorneys' fees. Here, it was the underbelly, with everything from murder one to petty crimes and the inability to pay fines.

  "Everybody chips in for the coffee fund," Rob informed me after I arrived at eight sharp in the county courthouse, ready to begin my four-hour detention.

  "How much is expected?" I asked, eyeing the stained coffee cup sitting on my desk. For a moment, I envisioned the previous intern who'd occupied that desk, holding that coffee cup while poring over endless case files.

  He probably hadn't washed the cup once.

  "Never mind, I'll skip coffee today," I sighed, handing a twenty from my purse to Rob.

  "This will do for the first month," Rob grinned. "Bring your own cup—or cups, if you want."

  "I will, don't worry," I said. The one on my desk belonged in the trash, in my opinion.

  "Good. Cliff's out today; he has court this morning, and appointments this afternoon. You'll probably meet him next week. Get started on those files," he jerked his head toward the pile of folders on my desk. "Write a summary for each—which ones are defensible, which ones probably aren't."

  Yes, I stared at him. Everybody was entitled to a defense. Rob sounded as though most of them wouldn't get much in the way of representation.

  Fuck.

  Fuck Parke for getting me into this mess. I'd have willingly waited to get into a school in Washington State.

  Fuck, damn and runny effing crap.

  * * *

  I ended up spending seven hours at the PD's office instead of four, just to go through all the folders once, make as expert an assessment as possible, and then write up notes, saying that although the case looked hopeless, the defendant deserved a fair trial.

  I'd done that seventeen times out of twenty-four. I also pulled up records in a handful of instances, which showed that others—who'd paid for their representation—had gotten off with either light sentences or community service or time served for the same crime.

  The difference, of course, was money. Or race and money.

  I wrote that down.

  I figured I'd be called on the carpet, too, but by that time I was so mad I worried I'd burn down the PD's office.

  I stopped by the local pharmacy to get ibuprofen on the way home—it would take a lot of it to get rid of the headache I had.

  * * *

  Parke

  "Here's Annabelle's password," Dave handed a slip of paper to me. "I'm still working on Geoffrey's. His is harder to crack, for some reason."

  "Stupid pig," I muttered.

  "I heard almost the same thing from one of the secretaries in the office pool," Dave agreed. "She was getting coffee the same time I was," he added. "We struck up a conversation. Geoffrey may have come up."

  "You were fishing for hints, weren't you?" My estimation of Dave went up a few points. Daniel was right about him.

  "Yeah. The more you know, the better off you are at getting in," he shrugged. "The most inconsequential thing can often be the biggest help."

  I unfolded the paper, which held Annabelle's password.

  SharkTornado6377.

  I wasn't surprised.

  "Thanks for this," I waved the slip of paper. "Keep working on Geoffrey's and keep me informed."

  "You bet." Dave grinned and walked out of my office.

  * * *

  Cassie

  "How did it go at the PD's office?" Binita asked. She'd brought curried chicken with her that she'd made at home. I put a vegetable stir-fry together and we'd sat at my small dining table to eat and talk.

  "That," I mumbled, dipping into the vegetables and dumping a spoonful on my plate. "I spent seven hours there, today. They may be so mad they cancel my internship before I go back next Tuesday."

  "What did you do?" Binita was suddenly interested.

  "Rob, the clerk, asked me to make an assessment on twenty-four case files. I was supposed to weed out the hopeless cases from those who deserved a defense. Have you ever heard anything like that in your life? The law says everybody is entitled to a defense."

  "So, what did you do?" she repeated her question.

  "I wrote out my assessment, saying exactly that," I said. "And then did research on several cases, citing instances where other defendants who'd paid for their representation got off with time served or light sentences or community service."

  "Uh-oh." Binita cut into her chicken, keeping her eyes on her plate for several seconds.

  "Like I said, internship canceled," I said and speared a slice of zucchini.

  "Was that your intention?"

  "No. I was just so mad that he'd even insinuate that those people had hopeless cases," I muttered before stuffing the zucchini in my mouth and chewing. "You don't see the big, high profile cases going without proper representation. Look at the worst of the worst—mass murderers and such—they always have a big-name lawyer representing them, most likely for the notoriety and not the money. The rest of them—so many fall through the cracks."

  "That's why I want to specialize in tax law," Binita said. "My father wants a lawyer in the family. My older brother is a doctor already. This way, I make my father happy and do something that makes me happy, too."

  Staying in Seattle would have made me happy. That wasn't to be; Parke made sure of that. "At least you're not doing a forced march through the Public Defender's office," I grumbled and cut into my chicken.

  * * *

  "How was school?" I asked. Destiny called Saturday afternoon; she said that she'd been invited to a sleepover to watch movies, eat pizza and mostly not sleep.

  "It's fine. Some of the kids are stuck up, but that happens everywhere."

  "Wait until they get into the real world," I said. "Most people can't afford to keep their attitudes when they're faced with supporting themselves."

  "Shelbie used to say the same thing," Destiny pointed out.

  "Yeah. Shelbie taught us a lot," I agreed. Her death still caused my heart to hurt, but I didn't say that to Destiny.

  "Have you been to the 'shroom?"

  "You really want pizza, don't you?" I teased. "I hear you're getting some at the sleepover."

  "Yeah, but it won't be 'shroom pizza."

  "I know," I agreed. "No, I haven't been to the 'shroom yet. No time. Maybe I'll go tomorrow for dinner."

  "Let me know how good it is," she begged.

  "I will. Have fun at your sleepover. I'll be here, not having a sleepover and reading boring law books."

  "Poor you," Destiny laughed.

  "Yeah. Poor me."

  * * *

  Parke

  "I'm in Matamoros," Daniel announced. "A bartender here says he remembers seeing Mort. Says he got drunk before wandering out of the bar. Local police, whom I had to bribe, by the way, say a murder occurred on the same night."

  "Morton's dead?" I couldn't believe that.

  "No, but he may be the prime suspect. The police don't know anything about Mort, but the method of the murder doesn't look good in my estimation. The victim was strangled, then locked in a freezer."

  "You think he was strangled and frozen at the same time, then locked up in a freezer to hide the fact that he was frozen and strangled at the same time?" I leaned back in my study chair and watched the fire in the fireplace for a few seconds.

  "That's exactly what I think. This was
a restaurant freezer; the place was broken into the night before according to the employees I questioned, and they found the victim in their freezer shortly after."

  "There's no reason to hide a victim in plain sight like that—if it were a normal murder, they'd just have dumped the body outside of town," I sighed. "Whether this was Mort or another ice demon we can't say for certain, but it's not looking good for Mort. Think the vic tried to rob him?"

  "Possible. If Mort were drunk, the ice demon could have taken over the minute the victim attempted to rob him."

  "Killing humans. Not smart," I said.

  "At least the human police here have no clue and don't seem to care. Just another body, to them."

  "No word on where Mort went after this probable murder?" I asked.

  "None. Looks like the last person who recalls seeing him is dead. Matamoros is just a swim away from Brownsville, you know."

  "Yeah. I'm familiar with the geography."

  "If he were still ice demon, he could have floated across with little effort."

  "Or let the Rio Bravo take him toward the gulf, and get out whenever he wanted or thought it safe enough."

  "True. I'll widen the search area."

  "Good."

  * * *

  Cassie

  The Mellow Mushroom wasn't the same, sitting at a table by myself Sunday evening and eating a sausage and mushroom pizza. Shelbie was gone and Destiny may as well have been on the opposite side of the Earth.

  Binita would be having dinner with her family; she always spent weekends at home. I still hadn't gotten a call from Parke—or even a text. An apology may have been accepted within a forty-eight-hour grace period.

  That had long since passed.

  I wondered what I should do. Shelbie could have given me advice—if she were still alive.

  "Fuck you, Ross," I whispered. "I hope your rock demon is melting in hell, wherever that is." I'd forced myself not to drive to Shelbie's house in Birmingham—that would make me cry. As far as I knew, she had no family living and had never mentioned a will, so that meant her estate would be swallowed up by the State of Alabama.

  Ross' place, on the other hand—I wouldn't mind seeing it razed. I figured he had somebody waiting to take it over, though. I hoped the new Prince of Alabama had already had a few words with whomever that might be.

  Words to the effect of, your deceased relative committed many crimes. Among those crimes was treason against the Chancellor. We'll be watching every step you make from here on out.

  Ross' antebellum mansion would probably be put on the market; many people would pay plenty to own it. I intended to stay away, in case my fire demon got the urge to burn it down.

  Forcing my thoughts away from such morbid subjects, I opened a textbook to read. It wouldn't do to be unprepared for class, if I were called on by the professor.

  * * *

  Tuesday morning, I forced myself out of bed at six. I'd paved the way for a drubbing and dismissal from the PD's office, after being brutally honest in my notes. It could be that Cliff Young wouldn't see me—Rob could act in his place, telling me not to come back.

  No, I wouldn't be sorry not to go back, but I wasn't looking forward to explaining to Parke and the Law School Dean that I'd blatantly failed on my first day of an internship.

  Parke. He still hadn't called. I was conveniently out of his sight and out of his mind. Perhaps he was having second thoughts on our marriage, too. A human divorce could be had easily.

  A divorce in the elemental demon world couldn't be had for five, long years, unless abuse or other circumstances could be proven—and the Chancellor would have the last word on that.

  Nice pants and a blouse. My hair pulled back and a minimum of makeup, in case I left the PD's office in tears. "Courage, fake and otherwise," I muttered to myself as I gazed at my image in the bathroom mirror.

  The morning was in the foggy fifties in my part of Alabama. At least it wasn't raining as I trudged toward my car. I could be studying at the law library. Doing research on case law presented in my Immigration Law text so I'd be prepared for class on Wednesday.

  Instead, I was headed toward a lynching—in a figurative way. The last public execution took place in Kentucky in the thirties, I reminded myself as I buckled in and started the car.

  * * *

  "Cliff wants to see you."

  Rob didn't waste any time, appearing in my cubicle thirty seconds after I arrived. I hadn't even had time to pull off my jacket and settle it on the back of my chair.

  "I'm sure he does," I sighed and followed Rob through the PD's office until we arrived at the closed door, which bore Cliff's name and title.

  "She's here," Rob went in ahead of me. As I was behind Rob, I still hadn't seen Cliff, yet.

  Until Rob moved out of the way and gestured for me to take a seat in front of Cliff's desk.

  "Want to stay for this?" he asked Rob. Cliff Young didn't look as old as I imagined he would. Dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard framed a squarish, handsome face. Dark eyes bored into mine from the moment he could see me clearly.

  I drew in a breath and didn't release it for several seconds.

  Cliff Young was a werewolf.

  Did he know about me? I wanted to panic as I sat in the indicated chair. Werewolves were notorious for sniffing out elementals.

  Vampires, too, but this was daylight.

  "I do want to stay," Rob said. His voice sounded almost gleeful.

  Here it comes, I thought.

  "Shut the door, Rob," Cliff Young's voice was low. Even. Commanding.

  Rob shut the door, then took the guest chair next to mine.

  "I read your notes," Cliff lifted one of the files I'd read.

  I steeled myself for the news; I just wasn't sure how it would be delivered.

  "Rob and I agree with you," Cliff said, shocking the hell out of me. "We've waited three years—since we first started here, in fact, to hear the truth from one of our interns."

  "But," I couldn't force my voice above a whisper.

  "You thought you'd be dismissed immediately for speaking your mind, didn't you?" Cliff almost smiled. "None of our interns have had a spine—until now."

  "We're trying to make things better, but we're understaffed, underfunded and held in check by an antiquated legal system," Rob grinned at me. "Not that you need to spread that around," he added.

  "Yeah. I—uh—understand that very well," I said. I still hadn't recovered from the shock and felt dizzy as a result.

  "To put your mind at ease," Cliff said, "I'm close friends with Blake Donovan and Evan Haroldson. They're the ones who helped get me into this position. They want things changed, too, but it's a slow process." Cliff's leather chair creaked as he leaned back in it. "In case you're wondering, I know what both are, as does Rob. He's a sprite, by the way."

  My head jerked in Rob's direction. "What kind?" I whispered. Sprites didn't often interact with the human world.

  "I could ask you the same thing," Rob was grinning again.

  "You know about me?" I squeaked, turning back to Cliff.

  "I know you're an elemental demon. Your husband didn't say what kind when he spoke with Blake, so I can't say what kind you are."

  "Wow." My eyes dropped to the area rug that lay beneath my feet. It covered most of the utilitarian tile of Cliff's office.

  "Will you tell us? You don't have to—you don't know us well enough to trust us, yet," Rob offered.

  "I'll wait," I said, refusing to lift my eyes.

  "That's fine," Cliff said. "I'm giving you seven of these cases back. Those are the ones the DA's office won't expect us to mount much of a defense on. Do your best and we'll hit them hard when the cases come to trial."

  I lifted my eyes, then. "You can bet on it," I said.

  * * *

  I stayed six hours instead of four, and only left because my stomach was growling so loudly Rob commented on it.

  I hadn't eaten breakfast; I'd felt too queasy. Two cups of
coffee in one of Rob's (clean) cups hadn't settled well, either. Food was the best option.

  At least I'd made a dent in two cases—the ones coming to trial first. I left the files and my notes with Rob so he could review my work, told him I'd see him on Thursday and walked out, wondering where the nearest fast-food restaurant was.

  While I ate a burger in a tiny café not far from University Boulevard, I considered that Parke hadn't been brought up to speed on Cliff or Rob. He knew about Blake Donovan, since he'd approved Blake's election as the new Prince of Alabama. He probably knew about Evan Haroldson, too, but if he'd been told about Cliff, he'd have passed the information along to me.

  Perhaps it was by design—Cliff asked for anonymity, perhaps, to see what kind of intern I'd be. None of our interns have had a spine—until now, he'd said.

  That included his other current intern, who was human and worked on Wednesday and Friday afternoons. I realized I didn't even know his name, yet.

  It didn't matter that things appeared to have come out right for me, as far as the internship went. I was still mad at Parke, because he hadn't called.

  * * *

  Parke

  "How's your wife?" Pauline set a fresh cup of coffee on my desk. I blinked at her for a second or two before my brain engaged.

  I wasn't used to that question.

  Had never had a wife until four weeks ago.

  We'd been together only three of those weeks. I hadn't spoken to her in person since she'd left for Alabama.

  No calls had come through Pauline—calls from Cassie, asking to speak with me—her husband.

  She was still mad.

  Pauline's eyes lit with interest when I hesitated to reply. I had no idea how Cassie was, other than pissed at me.

  "She's fine," I said. "Thanks for the coffee."

  I didn't like the devious smile that crossed Pauline's face.

  I was her boss.

  Her skirts had gotten shorter since she'd become my assistant.

  I considered pointing her toward the office dress code, but held off for now. Pauline was human and I had no time for her. I hoped she figured that out for herself and soon. "I'm expecting a call from Daniel," I said, hinting that she should get back to her desk.

  "I'll put him right through, Parke," Pauline purred and walked away.