by Jeanne Adams
Torie shook her head. “No. In some ways, it shows their true colors. It’s better to know.”
“Hmmm, I guess. So, key first. Then we’ll run by the house and change. There’s a nice family restaurant near the house. We’ll go there.”
“What kind of food do they serve?”
“What else? Italian.”
“Excellent.”
“So—” he rose to unlock the door. It wouldn’t do for someone to come along and try it, find it locked, and jump to all the right conclusions. “What’s on the list?”
He pointed to the pad, covered in neat, precise notations.
“All the miserable details of finding a place to live, and replacing some of my things.” She eyed the pad, flipped up several pages to reveal more writing. “You can see why I got a little overwhelmed.”
“Yeah, I can. So what’s the key?”
“It’s to a safety deposit box. I kept it in my desk drawer so I could get it easily if something happened to the house.” She looked at him, her eyes dark and sorrowful again. “I never thought I’d really need it.”
He pressed his hand over hers. He’d made that gesture a thousand times to clients, to friends who needed reassurance or succor, even to women he was dating, keeping them interested. Never had it felt like it meant anything. Now, it did. He really did want her to feel how much he empathized with her plight. The gesture seemed so very little.
Torie sighed and sandwiched his hand between hers. “Thank you for offering to go. If this is part of the ‘Truce with Torie Campaign,’ I really appreciate it. I can go by myself,” she said, beginning to temporize.
“I know. But won’t it be easier if I go with you?” he said quickly, knowing she’d talk herself into facing it alone if he didn’t. He didn’t want her to go alone. He wanted to be there for her.
Another shocker.
She smiled, nodded. “Yeah, it will be easier if I have company when I go. Thanks.”
“Oh, so I’m company now,” he teased. “Jeez.”
“You know what I mean.” She pushed at his shoulder and he pretended to be knocked back.
“Wow, you pack a whallop. And yeah,” he said and returned to serious mode, “I know. Let me just wrap up a few things here and we’ll head out. That way, we get there just before five. You can get the key and get out without a lot of fanfare and gossip.”
Torie closed her eyes, winced. “Yeah. Sounds like fun.”
“Stick with me, kid. We’ll have ’em rollin’ in the aisles,” he joked, hoping to make her laugh.
Fortunately, she did. He went to his desk and checked the printout Martha had managed to make of his schedule for the next few days. Thankfully, he could indeed leave early.
“Hey,” he said, and turned as a thought struck him. “What was up with Pam? Was she any help figuring out where your cousin went?”
“No, not really.”
Another thing occurred to him, and he was about to ask when Martha knocked on the door, easing it open.
“Oh, I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“That’s all right, Martha, I was just checking to see what was on the docket for tomorrow.”
“You have several clients who are scheduled to come in tomorrow. Did you want me to reschedule those again?”
“Don’t reschedule on my account,” Torie interjected, hefting the list she’d made as an addendum to her comments. “Obviously, I have a considerable amount to do. And…” She forestalled his suggestion that she come with him to the office. “I can do that from—” she stopped her gaze on Martha, then shrugged—“from your house just as easily as I can do it here.”
“Very well, then.” Martha nodded without waiting for him to reply. “I’ll see to it. I have the information on the dinner, as well as several other items. I understand you’re having breakfast with Mister Pratt Sr.”
“If he says so. His schedule was jammed more tightly than mine.”
“His assistant just called to confirm it. His office at seven-thirty.”
Paul snagged a pen from the drawer, and wrote the time and particulars on the paper calendar. “Got it.”
“Very good, sir. Unless you need me, I would still like to leave early today. Does that suit you?” she added stiffly, not looking at Torie. Paul wondered if she just didn’t want the younger woman to know she had a real life, or if she still just didn’t like Torie.
“That’s fine. I have to assist Torie with a matter about her office, so I’ll be leaving shortly as well.”
To his surprise, Martha turned to Torie, her lips pursed and disapproval written all over her face. He was about to interrupt, forestall any negative comment, but he needn’t have worried.
“Ms. Hagen, I have to say that your firm has not lived up to its obligations to support you. I’m sorry for that.”
Torie managed to not look shocked as well. “Thank you.”
Martha’s nod was sharp and decisive. She was done with that topic. “Will you need me to get your tuxedo sent to the cleaners again?”
Crap. The dinner. He hadn’t thought about the tux. When was the last time he’d worn it? Had he sent it to the cleaners? Hell. He had no idea, and said so. “I’ll check it.” He jotted another note to himself on the paper.
“Very well. Good night, sir. Ms. Hagen.”
They replied in unison, and when the door was closed, glanced at one another.
“Did I miss something, or was she just nice to me?” Torie asked.
It was infuriating. That’s what it was. Now she was with another man. Again. And who was it? The odious Paul Jameson, whom she professed to despise.
How like a woman to go from one man to the next, turning to the worst possible man if the potential for profit was there. Paul Jameson. The man’s very name made his blood boil. He thought he’d gotten rid of the problem, laid out his plans so carefully, and disposed of the bastard who’d caused him so much grief.
He’d been sure, sure that he would be able to let it go, with the ever cutesy Torie and Todd out of the way. But she hadn’t died. Once again, Paul Jameson had been there to ride to the rescue.
Damn Paul Jameson.
“That’s it,” he realized, saying the amazing words out loud. “Fuck me, that’s it. It was never Todd. It was Paul. Always in the way. Always the one to call the shots.”
He leapt from his chair, paced the room, thinking furiously. It had been Paul, then. Damn.
The revelation was startling.
Not that he regretted killing Todd. It had been a rush to kill him, despite having to handle the illegal firearm. He preferred his own sleek weapons, but they were traceable. The twenty-two had been effective, however. He thought of the neat, tidy hole in Todd’s forehead. It had been so symmetrical. So clean, in fact, that he’d been surprised. The television sensationalized so much that he shouldn’t have believed it about the pools of blood and the spurting spray so often depicted in films and cop shows. It had been remarkably precise, and the blood had been so minimal as to require almost no clean up.
Of course, he’d used a small caliber weapon. He’d done his research on the internet. Off site, of course, never while he was working. Not that it would matter with his safeguards, but everything must be separate.
The twenty-two had been easy to purchase. He hadn’t even had to look very far for it. South Philadelphia was so helpful for procuring the things he needed.
That’s why he would succeed so brilliantly. He was a master at thinking things through.
“Paul Jameson,” he said, returning to his earlier thoughts. He slowed his pacing, glanced at the press release which had come through, featuring a sober looking and entirely too competent Paul. Part of him wanted to shred the noxious document, toss the scraps into the nearest toilet, and flush.
“No. No reaction,” he cautioned himself, speaking out loud to help control the impulse to make confetti of the picture. “That’s what sets me apart. Cool. Think it through,” he soothed.
&n
bsp; Sitting back behind the desk, he took up a pen, made a series of notes in his own brand of shorthand. No one could read it. No one but him.
He listed all the points at which Paul had thwarted him. Putting it down on paper, starting with their fraternity, made the pattern clearer. His list had grown so long, he had to use another sheet.
His blood pressure rose as he got closer to the present time. So many incidents.
“It was you, then,” he muttered. “Never Todd. Todd was just your puppet, your front man. How did I miss this?”
He had to hand it to Paul. Only now, with Todd out of the way, could he see the pattern.
“Clever, very clever. But as always, I’m a step ahead.” He dashed off a few more notes. “I know now, and I’m going to act. This time I’ll get you both.”
With a giggle, he thought about the Wicked Witch of the West’s line from The Wizard of Oz. “‘And your little dog, too,’” he cackled.
With a last flourishing stroke of the pen, he added his final reason to the list. Right after that, after the sentence about Torie taking up with Paul, he wrote:
“Time to kill Paul Jameson.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Martha can be nice,” Paul protested, closing and locking his desk. He picked up the paper schedule and several files, and crammed them into his briefcase.
“To you, maybe. She made it quite clear that I was unwelcome,” Torie replied, gathering her own things as well. Not that there was much to gather. “Do you mind if I use this portfolio and pad for a few days? I’ll get another, and get it back to you.”
Paul frowned at it. “Keep it, it’s a spare, and I don’t think I’ve ever used it.”
“Thanks,” Torie said, joining him at the door. Riding down on the elevator with a host of other people, they stayed silent, but once in the car, Torie gave him directions to her office.
“I know where your office is,” Paul replied, pulling into traffic. “Did you call ahead?”
“I guess I should.” Her stomach coiled into a knot at the thought. “At least alert Tristan that I’m coming by.”
“Much as I’d rather surprise him, yeah, you should.”
Torie managed the call, even with her hands shaking. She didn’t mind conflict, nor did she have a problem with her boss, but this unwarranted distancing of the firm from her personally was new territory. Heck, everything was new territory.
“Tris will be waiting for us,” she said, closing her eyes at the thought of being escorted to her desk, watched, stared at.
“Nice of him,” Paul said dryly, the sarcasm evident in his tone. “Of course, since it’s your desk and they haven’t fired you, he really doesn’t need to escort you.”
“Of course.”
The visit was as stilted and painful as Torie imagined. She’d imagined bad. It was worse. Tristan followed them to her office, and anyone still in the building stared at her as she walked in, following her with their eyes. She could feel the speculation building in her wake.
“Torie,” Tristan said, his eyes shadowed. “I’m so sorry about this. I really…”
“Not sorry enough to vouch for me, stand up for me,” Torie said, fighting back tears. She’d never played the weak female card here before, and she wasn’t about to now. Nothing would be worse than crying, so she locked it down. “I’ve worked hard for this firm, helped build its reputation, served on every board or committee you ever asked me to serve on. Given that, I somehow deserve this kind of treatment?” She motioned toward the door, where she could see people peeking over their cubicles to see what was going on.
“No, but—” he began.
“But nothing,” she snapped, letting anger take the place of the tears. “This is so wrong.”
He glanced at Paul, who up to this point had been silent. “I know it’s tough, but the phone wouldn’t stop ringing. We might have lost clients.”
“Did you?” Paul spoke for the first time.
“Uh, I don’t know,” he waffled. “I don’t think so, but we were advised to do, um, damage control. Quickly.”
“Oh, so putting me on admin leave is damage control? What about saying you believe in me? In my innocence? What about supporting one of your longest-serving, most loyal employees by believing in her?”
“Torie,” Tris stuttered. “You’ve got to see our side.”
“No, actually, I don’t. You never hesitated to use the fact that I was a woman, and one of the best in my field, to your advantage. From contracts to PR, you made sure everyone knew you had a crack engineer who met the government requirements for gender equality. Nope, never missed an opportunity on that one, did you?”
“But—” Tristan began.
“Yeah. But when it came to trash-talking reporters with no real information sniffing for more, you caved. You gave them a story. Don’t you realize that? You made this far more of a story than it was originally by doing your little admin leave deal.”
“When you come back, we’ll do our best to make it up to you.”
“Uh huh. That’s going to take some doing.” Torie unlocked her desk, found the safety deposit box key, took several other items as well, then relocked the desk.
“D’you mind leaving that unlocked? We needed some files earlier today and couldn’t find them.”
“No. I won’t.” She turned to Paul. “I don’t have to do that, do I?”
“No, and you can press charges if they break the locks.”
“It’s our desk,” Tris protested, shocked.
“Yes, but unless you terminate her employment, in which case she would clean out the desk, the contents can be considered her intellectual property to which you have no right.”
Tristan looked at him in horror. “What are you, her lawyer?”
“Yes, actually, I am.”
Tris’s face went pasty at the rejoinder, and he almost staggered when Paul handed over his card.
“This is Pratt and Legend,” Tris said.
“Yes. We’re among the best in the city, I believe.” Paul smiled.
While the two men were facing off, Torie took a moment to check her files. So far, nothing had been disturbed. Paul’s words had reminded her that she had a stake in things. Given that, she selected several items from her file rack on her credenza. The folders contained ideas for breaking into new markets, ideas she was developing to present. They also included her personnel report on all her employees, and the review she’d been preparing on herself.
“Uh, Torie, I don’t think…”
“These are ideas in development. My ideas. I believe my attorney already indicated I was perfectly within my rights to take them with me.”
“Indeed you are, Ms. Hagen,” Paul said, nodding with a serious air. He turned a frowning gaze toward Tristan. “So, do you feel you need to be here, supervising what Ms. Hagen is doing? That feels a bit like harassment, don’t you think, ma’am?” He turned to her and raised an amused eyebrow when Tristan couldn’t see it.
“Uh, no. I guess not. Torie,” Tristan said, shrugging helplessly, “I’m really sorry about all this.”
She didn’t say anything. Part of her wanted to tell him it was okay, that she understood. Since she really didn’t understand, she kept silent. Paul’s presence helped her keep up the façade.
Tristan backed out of the office, and Paul shut the door behind him.
“Well,” he said and grinned. “That was fun.”
Torie sagged onto a corner of the desk. “You have an unusual sense of fun.”
He came over and put an arm around her shoulders, gave a squeeze. “No, it probably was nerve-wracking for you, but you put on a good show. I would never have known you weren’t cool as a cucumber. Except…”
“What?” She looked around, looking in vain for something he might be referring to.
“Except for when you nearly cried.”
“You’re a rat,” she said on a weak laugh, punching at his shoulder.
“Hey, don’t hit your lawyer. I might s
ue.”
“Yeah, yeah. Sure.”
“So, candidly,” Paul said, scooting onto the desk next to her, “you should take anything you don’t want someone looking at, or pawing through.”
“How about everything?”
Paul laughed. “I don’t think you have a briefcase big enough.” He pointed at the one sitting under the desk. “The nice thing is, you have one here, so you can take whatever files you want to protect.”
“Wow, I forgot. I didn’t take any work home that night.” She sighed. “Lord, it seems like a hundred years ago.”
“You usually take work home?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Yeah.” They laughed at one another.
“Why didn’t you take work home that night?” Paul wondered.
Torie pushed off the desk and began filling her briefcase. Her mother had given it to her when she graduated with her master’s degree. “Well you know about the little, uh, escapade with Pam, of course.”
“Yeah, I guess that would preclude working.”
Torie laughed. “Actually, the snatch and grab didn’t take too long. Getting Bear’s chain undone from the fence where he’d been tied for the twenty-seventh night in a row took a lot more time.” She shoved a file in harder than she’d meant to and gave herself a paper cut. She shook the injured finger, then got back to packing the case. “I was going to call my mom, preempt her usual Thursday night call, and have a nice dinner.”
“Your mom calls you every Thursday?”
Torie smiled. “Yeah, since she went into assisted living, they have all this stuff they do. But Thursday nights are always open. She hates bingo. She’s lonely,” Torie offered, “sometimes she calls three or four times a week. She misses my dad. Still.”
Paul nodded. “My folks were close, too. With my mom gone, my dad fills up his time with hobbies.” Paul made air quotes around the word hobbies, telling Torie that the hobbies were fairly annoying. “My sister has to deal with it more than me, but motorcycle maintenance?”
“Really?” Torie stopped to stare. “You’re kidding, right? He’s not—”