by Jeanne Adams
The older man finally smiled. “So, no cat and mouse. Tell me your thoughts on this, Paul. And tell me why you haven’t told her how much Todd left her in his will.”
Clearing his throat, Paul began. “I haven’t told her because she is still a suspect. The inheritance just adds fuel to that fire.”
“Press hasn’t got wind of it, have they?”
“Not officially, but there’s gossip. One of the tabloids already has a reporter here. He’s been digging old pictures out of the society pages from back when…well, their engagement picture, and all that.”
“Hmmm. Yes. That’s unfortunate. That type can dig out a lot of information in too short a time span. I often wish they worked for us. Or for the police, rather than some rag of a grocery-store newspaper.”
“Good point. We could use those kind of research skills.”
“Indeed. So far she’s avoided the press, yes? When are you planning to tell her?”
“Yes, they’re focusing on the men, and on her office. As to when to tell her about the money, I don’t know. One of the things I need to ask you, though, as a point of law—can I represent her? Do I need to get Myra or—” a terrible thought crossed his mind—“You don’t want Melvin Jr. in on this, do you?”
Pratt looked irritated, then sad, before quickly covering it up with a smile. “No, Melvin’s better suited to corporate work. I think Myra would be superb for handling the estate matters with you. You stay on as defense council while she needs it. I think it would be best to recuse yourself for the estate matters.” Pratt laughed suddenly. “After all, we’ll be billing for two sides of the cookie. You’ll be closing out Todd’s affairs, Myra will be handling Ms. Hagen’s. A nice fee for us.”
Hating the sound of it, as Pratt put it in terms of billable hours, Paul nonetheless nodded. “True. Though he’s gone, I still represent Todd.”
“Exactly.” Pratt nodded and looked satisfied. “I didn’t think I was going to need to remind you of that. You are going to have to tread very carefully between being in conflict of interest and in being downright over the line.”
“For the firm’s sake,” Paul said, choosing his words with care, “do I need to disconnect entirely, turn her case over to someone else?”
Pratt cocked his head, and focused his entire attention on Paul. The old man was intimidating most of the time. The weight of years and skills gave him an aura of power and knowledge that no amount of joviality could mask. It was an uncomfortable feeling, like talking to The Powers That Be or something.
“Can you walk that thin line?”
Paul waited before answering. Thought about it. Could he? Now that he’d touched her again, tasted her again, held her again? Could he defend her?
Absolutely.
Could he keep his work for Todd’s estate separate?
That he wasn’t so sure about.
“I think so, sir. However, I will understand if you want to put someone else in the saddle.”
“You’d hate that worse than being fired,” Pratt said bluntly.
Paul couldn’t help it; he grinned. “Well, yes.”
Pratt returned the smile, and Paul could see him relax into his chair. “You know, that’s what got you promoted to partner so quickly. You have just enough killer instinct, tempered with what works for the long-term good. You balance them both,” Pratt said, holding out heavy gnarled hands to pantomime a tipping load. “Too much one way and you become a shark, dedicated to the thrill of closing cases. Too much the other way, and you might as well be working for the state.”
Paul laughed. “The state doesn’t bill enough hours. You know that.”
It was an old joke between them. Pratt had asked why he wanted private general law, instead of the more high-profile defense positions available with law enforcement or government agencies. He’d always claimed he liked keeping score with billable hours.
“Here’s the compromise. I want you to report to me every few days. If I think the balance is tipping—” he let his hands slide down to the desk—“then we’ll talk about a second set of eyes on everything, and another set of ears in the discussions. Until then, you’re point.”
“Thanks.” Paul rose to take his leave, extending his hand to shake the older man’s hand.
“One more thing,” Pratt said, gripping his hand, and giving it an extra squeeze. “Well, three more, actually. You need this.” He handed Paul an envelope. “That’s something you can put away for a rainy day, or celebrate with. The press releases will go out today. The dinner is scheduled with the senior and junior partners for late next week. We usually do that at the Ritz, and invite everyone to stay the night. Have Martha talk to my assistant, get all the details finalized. The word’s already on the street, by the way. Give marketing a list of anyone you want to personally send a note to, and they’ll handle it.”
“Got it.” Thank God Martha could handle that. He saw the dismissal in Pratt’s nod, and turned to leave. He was nearly at the door when he made the count. Pratt had said three things. “Sir? What’s the third thing?”
Pratt didn’t smile this time. He looked deadly serious.
“Be very, very careful, Paul.”
Everything jumbled together in Torie’s mind as she tried to focus on picking out clothes. What had she done? She’d started everything by kissing him last night. She hated him. Didn’t she? Oh, Lord, had she really slept with Paul? Again?
Was she insane? Hadn’t college taught her anything? Sleeping with him then had been a mistake, too.
Not that sleep had anything to do with what had happened. Her lips curved in memory. His body was so strong, so lean and sexy.
They’d been like sleepwalkers afterwards, helping one another to dress. It was that fierce desire that had frightened her so in college. That intensity of attention and focus. When she was younger, to have it turned her way so powerfully had been terrifying after all she’d been through at the frat party.
Now, it was incredible. Commanding. Orgasmic.
She felt her body heat just conjuring the images. His face. His hands.
“Miss? Did you need help finding anything?”
The clerk’s interruption was like a bucket of cold water.
“No, thanks. Oh, just the dressing room?”
She caught sight of a man sitting nearby, reading the paper. He met her gaze, gave a slight nod.
The bodyguard.
It shifted her thinking away from Paul, thank goodness. Hopefully Paul’s house would be secure, if she agreed to stay there. She felt like a hunted animal moving from hotel to hotel, from the fire to the beach, only to return to bullets and destruction. She was looking over her shoulder at every turn.
Everything was crazy. Upside-down. The world had surely gone mad when she of all people needed a bodyguard. Then there was her job. How could they? One part of her understood. It was hellish enough to meet deadlines, and answer RFPs, and beat the competition at the engineering and architecture game in the best of times. If the press were breathing down your corporate neck about an employee, it would be strategic to neutralize that employee.
“Except it’s me,” she muttered, shifting around the racks, looking for the right size.
Piling items into the saleswoman’s arms, Torie made her weary way to the dressing room. She loved shopping as a rule, but having done this same thing several times over the last few weeks, it was getting old. It was also dreadful to try to start over. She kept thinking about a special shirt or skirt that would work with an item, then felt a hard pang when she realized that shirt or skirt was no longer available to her.
Torie had discarded five skirts and as many shirts when her cell phone rang. Sitting down on the bench, she tugged it from her purse and answered it.
“Ms. Hagen? This is Investigator Sorrels, from the Philadelphia Fire Department?”
Like she wouldn’t remember who he was. “Yes, Inspector Sorrels, how may I help you?”
“We’d like you to come down to the scene, ident
ify some items for us, if you can.”
“Okay, I can be there in…” She looked at her watch, a cheap pink Timex picked up from a street vendor. “Thirty minutes? Is that soon enough?”
“That’ll be fine.”
As soon as they hung up, Torie began wondering what they wanted her to identify. Nothing she came up with seemed probable, but it reminded her to call her insurance agent. She’d been so busy getting shot at and recovering, and then, Paul.
Instant arousal had her leaning her head back onto the cool wood of the dressing room partition. She’d been so wanton, so over-the-top with Paul. They’d been so good together, fit so well. Nothing, not even her terrible memories, had come between them.
For the first time in nearly a decade, she felt free.
“Miss? Did you need a different size? Can I find anything else for you?”
The clerk was efficient and helpful, sensing a big sale. Torie stared at the remaining items she needed to try on. She didn’t want to bother, but she had to. For once it was true that she had little to nothing she could wear.
With a grunt, Torie stood up. Her muscles were slightly sore, but the twinge made her smile. She’d instantly regretted the action, and been horrified to give in to the desire she’d repressed all this time. The result was…spectacular.
“Uh, I need a larger size in this,” she said, passing a too-small sweater set over the partitioned door. “And a smaller one in this.” A skirt joined the sweater. “Otherwise, I’m okay for now.”
With another new suit, two skirts, and several sweaters bagged and wrapped up, Torie hurried to Paul’s Mercedes. He’d loaned it to her, arguing that her own vehicle might be a target. He figured that the rental car might be marked by now.
It was a short ride to her house. She wanted to weep at the sight of her once-lovely little row house with its boarded-up windows and smoke-blackened siding. A huge pile of trash was heaped in the front yard, including her great-aunt’s settee, which had been in the front room. The blackened hulks of the matching chairs were on the side of the pile. Her bookcases and the twisted wreck of her plant stands lay on top.
All of it was soggy and disgusting. Soot stained everything. Her flowers and grass were a ruin as well, trampled by the firemen.
Not that she regretted their fabulous response, just the necessity for it.
Sorrels and Marsden waited for her outside the house. Belatedly, she realized she should call Paul. Curling her earpiece around her ear, she used the speed dial for his office.
“Mister Jameson’s office.”
“Good afternoon, Missus Prinz,” Torie said, uncomfortable at talking to the eagle eyed assistant. “Is he in, please?”
Should Torie call him Paul or Mr. Jameson when talking to Martha? How the hell did she address her attorney? How the hell did she address her lover? Was he her lover?
What the hell had she gotten herself into now?
Before she could wind herself up anymore, Paul came on the line.
“Hey, you all right?”
“I’m fine. I’m over at my house.” She heard the quiver in her own voice. Damn it, she had to get over it. It was just a house.
“You’re where? Torie, why?”
“Sorrels and Marsden. They wanted to meet me here, ask some questions about things.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“But I have your car,” she protested.
“I’ll be there.” He hung up without another word.
Miffed, but somehow reassured, she dropped her phone into her purse and got out of the car.
“Ms. Hagen, thanks for meeting us here.”
“Sure.” Torie looked at the gloppy pile in the yard. “That’s just awful, isn’t it?”
Sorrels nodded. “Yeah, they have to tear out so much drywall to be sure they’ve gotten to all the fire, then soak it down. It makes one damn-all mess.”
Marsden cleared his throat.
“Oh, sorry,” Sorrels offered.
“For what?”
“Language,” Sorrels said.
Torie laughed. “I work with engineers, gentlemen. Language doesn’t bother me.”
They looked relieved, even as they were moving toward the house. “We have the key to the padlocks here, since it is still a crime scene,” Sorrels said, unlocking the thing and swinging the makeshift plywood door away from the jamb. The shattered storm door creaked like doom when they pushed it open.
Torie couldn’t suppress a horrified gasp as they crossed the threshold and she saw the devastation. Virtually nothing was left of her living room. The lovely hardwood floors were blackened and hacked. The walls were stripped to the studs, all the wallboard torn away to insure the fire hadn’t spread. The ceiling joists were exposed; some of them were blackened as well, showing where the fire had roared through the ceiling when the bomb went off.
“Oh, my God,” Torie murmured, reaching for the newel post to steady herself. With total disregard for her new pants, she lowered herself to the steps. “This is…this is…”
“Horrible. Yes, it is. Fire always is, but one that’s set? With intent to harm? That’s worse.” Sorrels said it with matter-of-fact calm, but Torie heard the intensity of his conviction.
She managed to nod, but couldn’t speak. It looked like a war zone, like a movie set. It was so different, so surreal, it hardly seemed to be her house at all.
Marsden picked a careful way through the maze of broken floorboards. “We think the bomb landed here, then exploded,” he stated, turning to spread his hands in a wide pattern to mimic the blast.
“Can you tell us where you were when it went off?”
Torie corralled her chaotic thoughts which all centered on how terrible everything looked and smelled. She decided the smell of soaked floors, soggy drywall, and possible mildew were nearly as bad as the smell of the fire.
“I think I was here,” she said as she managed to make herself move toward the kitchen, tripping a bit over the warping floorboards. “I had just let the dog back in and I heard the noise.” She shuddered at the memory, the odor of gas. “I smelled gas, I went toward the living room,” she continued. Looking at the two men, she grimaced. “I guess that was really stupid.”
“It’s a natural response.” Marsden temporized his response. “But dangerous.”
“I guess. Anyway, that’s when the first explosion went off.”
“First?”
“There were two. Pickle and I were thrown back and we hit the door. When I heard another crash, I grabbed my purse to get the phone.” She pointed to where it had been, on the counter. The twisted, melted, and mangled plastic of her grocery bags were a bizarre sculpture on the counter. “I got the door to the deck open. The second blast knocked through the door, out onto the deck.”
Sorrels nodded. “That’s what we wanted to know.”
From the doorway, Paul cleared his throat. Torie jumped at the sound. “Oh, Paul. Inspector, Chief, you know Mister Jameson, don’t you?”
“Yes, indeed,” Sorrels commented, shooting looks between the two of them. “Obviously you two have come to some sort of truce?”
Torie nodded and prayed she wasn’t blushing, though she felt her cheeks heat. “Common enemy, it seems.”
“Yes, Ms. Hagen’s correct. I believe whoever killed our friend is responsible for this as well, and the additional attempts on Ms. Hagen’s life.”
“So you’re a detective now, too?” Marsden said, sarcasm tingeing his voice.
“No, but I’m a trained observer, Chief. And in talking with both of you, with Officer Tibbet, and with the officer who worked the scenes at the hotel, I can put a lot of pieces together.”
Paul turned to Torie, extended a hand as if to brush her arm, but changed the gesture at the last minute. Instead of a caress, he rested his hand on the door jamb. If the others found it odd, they didn’t show it. “So, Ms. Hagen, I know this is difficult.” His gaze was hot, but his tone cool. It was a strange combination.
With a grimace, Torie shook her head. “We’ve known each other for nearly twelve years, Paul. The inspectors know that.”
Paul smiled. “True, but I wanted to be sure you were comfortable.” He looked around, stepping away from the stairs and gazing into the trashed living room. “What a disaster.”
Marsden nodded. “The smallest fire can cause tremendous damage, and this was no small event.”
“May I take anything out of the house?” Torie finally gathered the courage to ask. “Or can I at least go upstairs and see if anything is left of my clothes?”
Sorrels and Marsden exchanged looks, but Sorrels spoke. “Yeah, but be careful. We don’t want you landing on our heads, okay?”
“I’ll come with you,” Paul said, following her up the stairway. The pictures on the wall were cracked and the glass blackened from the blast. She couldn’t tell if any of them were still whole. That alone broke her heart. The large picture of her grandparents was one of the only ones still hanging in place, but along with everything else, it was dark with soot, the black dust obscuring the seated couple.
The damage was only slightly less obvious upstairs. The scent of smoke permeated everything. Water stained the walls, and the enormous gaping hole in the floor and ceiling of her guest room showed the path of the flames. Plywood covered the windows here as well, making the room dark and dank. Everything in it was surely a total loss.
“Where do you want to start?” Paul said, his voice neutral, urging her to keep moving.
“The office,” Torie said, moving that way. She’d turned the third bedroom into an office overlooking the narrow garden in the back of the house. The windows here, unboarded, let in the spare sunlight. The trees and pretty bushes still stood, unmoved by the destruction in the house. At least the back was salvageable. “Oh.”
Stopping dead in her tracks, Torie surveyed the wreckage that had been her neat, pretty office. Soot and water stains were less visible here, with the fire concentrated in the front, but they were nevertheless present.
The large window overlooking the backyard was a haze of cracked panes. A storm front was blowing up outside, and the cloudy day made the formerly cheerful room seem sinister and murky.