by L. E. Rico
He removes his hand from my shoulder, and I immediately miss its comforting weight. Am I so lonely that I’m desperate for a man’s touch? Any man’s touch? No. No, no, no. Opposition. He’s the prosecutor. I’m the defense. He’s going to try and get me off balance, and I can’t let that happen. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and turn away from the board.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” I remind him as I take a seat in front of his desk. “What are you doing here…in this office?”
“What did you think I was going to do when I told you I was sticking around? Did you imagine I was going to sit in the parlor at the Lady Sleep Number Bed Inn and count the passing moments?”
“Okay, so, again, it’s the Pink Lady Slipper Inn. And I honestly didn’t give it a thought.”
True enough.
Bryan Truitt’s dark eyebrows go up, and I’m struck by the rich chocolate brown of his eyes. They’re so much more dynamic than your garden-variety dark eyes. They crinkle in the corners a little now as he gives me a polite smile.
“Well, I have a thriving business that goes well beyond this particular project, so I needed a place where I could spread out and work while I’m waiting for you to lose our bet.”
Suddenly my hands are itching to slap the smile off his face. His very handsome, slightly stubbly face.
Son of a…!
I hate it when I’m up against an attractive opponent. Juries love them, and they’re so much harder to beat.
“I know you think you know me,” I say coolly, “but you don’t. You have absolutely no clue what I’m capable of, and you’re making a big mistake if you underestimate me.”
“Oh, that’s one thing I’d never do. You’ve already surprised and impressed me more than I can say.”
I don’t know what to do with that. Was it a compliment? Is he trying to butter me up? Maybe get me to let my guard down so he can swoop in? He continues before I can speculate further.
“Look, you think I don’t understand how much that place means to you. I do. But, barring a miracle, we’re beyond the point of you reclaiming the pub and living happily ever after. I’m just trying to help you make the best of a bad situation.”
“But why?” I didn’t mean to ask the question, but the two words fly from my mouth before I can stop them. Well, they’re out there now. Not much I can do about it except see what his answer is.
Bryan stares at me for a long moment, and something in his face changes. The snarky, smirky, teasing obnoxiousness is gone, replaced by something I don’t recognize. Something softer.
Bryan Truitt leans across his desk toward me.
“To be honest with you, I don’t really know. And that scares the hell out of me.”
Holy. Crap.
“I—uh…I think I’d better get going,” I say awkwardly, getting to my feet and hurrying out of the office and past a puzzled King Colby before anyone has time to say another word.
Including me.
Chapter Fourteen
Bryan
Truittism No 7: The only way to beat your enemy is to know him. The only way to know him is to become him…to live among him. Or her. Or them.
Imagine if you knew exactly how your enemy thought. How he would respond to something, what he might do to try and protect himself…or to fend you off. Short of ESP or a crystal ball, that’s no easy feat. What I’ve discovered over the years is that the best way to get into someone’s head is to act like him—to become him. Live in his neighborhood. Shop where he shops. Go to the church he goes to and eat in the restaurants he eats in. Embed yourself in his world, and it’s only a matter of time before you start to think how he thinks. And that is an invaluable advantage.
Contrary to what I thought when I first arrived, the O’Hallorans are not my enemies. Nor are the residents of Mayhem, Minnesota. And yet, I find myself relying on the same protocol that I use anytime the outcome of my bid is uncertain. Usually this sort of thing will help me convince someone to sell or convince a community to accept my plans or convince an investor to take a chance on me. The longer I’m there, the more they see me in and around and among them, the more they come to think of me as one of their own. The more they think of me as one of their own, the more likely they are to give me what I want.
Plain. And. Simple.
I already have my little wager in place with Hennessy, and I’m 99.999 percent certain that I’m going to walk away with the pub property, one way or the other. But I don’t like leaving anything to chance. And as long as this isn’t a 100 percent certainty, then I must proceed with my SOP. To that end, I’ve turned the Truitt Group’s satellite office into a modern-day war room. I was lucky that I heard Hennessy at the counter when she stopped by the Gazette to see King the other day. It gave me time to flip over the huge rolling board, hiding the side that has my Mayhem project displayed prominently.
If Hennessy had walked in on my work-in-progress that afternoon, she’d have seen her own picture—and those of her sisters—taking up a good chunk of the corkboard. I’ve got a headshot of each with notes underneath, including stats like age, education, career, spouses, etc., mostly provided by Helen. I’ve also created my own enlarged map of Main Street, and I’ve been filling in the blanks as I explore each of the local businesses and take notes on their proprietors.
There’s also a section on the board with a big calendar. Each time I become aware of another event in the community, I put it on the calendar so I can get an idea of the way these people live. I’ve logged service times for various houses of worship, high school basketball and college hockey games, and anything else that attracts the locals—even a craft fair set to take place next week at a nursing home.
Crotchety old King Colby has gone home for the night and left me working down in the basement, combing the paper’s archives. I’m not sure what it is I think I’m going to find down here, but I’m enjoying leafing through the town’s history. I’ve even found the birth announcement for Hennessy V.S. O’Halloran. I have to remember to ask her what the V.S. stands for. I’ve spent most of the afternoon down here with a bucket of coffee, and I’m just cleaning up the last of the folders when my phone vibrates on the table.
“Helen,” I answer when I see a picture of her stern face and orange hair pop up on my screen. “How are things back on the home front?”
“All is well here, O fearless leader,” she replies, deadpan.
“Good, good.” I laugh, imagining her at her desk. “Anything from the Iowa people?”
“Their project coordinator checked in to tell you the zoning permits are looking good and they should have them by the end of the month. Other than that, it’s been pretty quiet here with you gone.”
“I’ll bet it is.” I grin to myself. “Hey, outstanding job with all your research. The stuff you’re sending me is really great.”
“Have you set up your war wall somewhere yet?”
“Oh, you know me too well. Yes. I’ll snap a picture of it for you when I get off the phone. You can have a look and tell me if I’m missing anything.”
“Sure, sure. It hasn’t been hard. That’s a community with some serious roots and a surprisingly large online contingent. I didn’t have to do much digging for anything.”
“Excellent. Hey, speaking of digging, any more on Hennessy’s job?”
“Ah yes, actually. I have a friend at the California Bar who has an ex-girlfriend at the Minnesota Bar. I convinced him to reconnect with her… You know, for old time’s sake. Blah, blah, blah…”
“Oh, Helen, you’re such a romantic,” I croon sarcastically.
“Yup. That’s me. Anyway, what I’ve been able to find out so far is that Hennessy O’Halloran passed the Bar Exam on her first try—not as common as you might think, apparently—and was immediately offered jobs with three prestigious firms in Chicago, Milwaukee, and Boston.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” I begin, stopping mid note-taking. “I thought she was a public defender?”
“She is,” Helen confirms. “In the end, she turned them all down in favor of working for Hennepin County—a mere three-hour drive from home.”
I sit up suddenly, surprised by that little tidbit. “Really? She gave up a lucrative salary to work for next to nothing defending the dregs of society?”
“Bryan,” Helen begins in her “don’t be such an imbecile” tone, “just because someone can’t afford a two-hundred-dollar-an-hour attorney doesn’t mean they’re any less deserving than someone who can. I’m surprised at you!”
My assistant’s disapproval hits me hard.
“You’re right, Helen. Thank you for the reminder,” I offer contritely. “So, what do we know about her work?”
“Well, near as I can tell, she’s quite an exceptional attorney with a surprisingly high success rate for a public defender.”
“Oh, well, that’s good.”
“You’d think so, right? Maybe not so much.”
“Helen, what are you getting at?” I ask, feeling the start of a dull ache in my temples.
“Just that Miss O’Halloran has indicated that, while she’s happy to defend those who are truly innocent, her particular skillset has made her a favorite among the guilty looking to get off on a technicality. I understand that it’s beginning to weigh on her—the fact that she’s putting criminals back out onto the street simply because she can produce a better argument than most of her colleagues who are prosecutors.”
Even as Helen explains the situation, I can see it. Hennessy is incredibly smart. I’ll bet she’s an exceptional attorney. But when you’re a public defender, not everyone you’re defending is innocent. Still, you’ve sworn to offer the best defense you can, right? So what’s a woman with a strong moral compass to do?
No wonder she wants to fight this fight so badly. To her, it’s as a close to a clear-cut good vs. evil scenario as she’s likely to ever come up against.
“Wow, Helen. That’s amazing detective work,” I marvel.
“I…uh, well, thank you,” she replies, clearly taken aback by the compliment. “Hey, did you know that it’s illegal to tease a skunk in Minnesota?”
“You’re making that up,” I accuse her with a laugh.
“Nope. Just one of the many Minnesota-centric tidbits I’ve picked up in the last week. So, make sure you’re nice to any skunks that you come into contact with.”
“Yeah, I’ll try to keep that in mind. Oh, hey, maybe you know…”
“What?”
“Hennessy’s middle name is V.S. Just the two letters. Do you have any clue—”
“Very special,” she answers before I can even finish the question.
“Very special? Hennessy Very Special O’Halloran? That’s a little bizarre.”
“Not a cognac drinker then?” she asks with a chuckle.
“Not really…”
“Hennessy has several different designations. Hennessy Black and Hennessy White. Hennessy Paradis. Then there’s Hennessy V.S.—very special. And Hennessy X.O.—extra old. And before you start working on a joke to go with that last potential punch line, don’t. Just don’t. Or you’ll never stand a chance with the girl.”
“And what makes you think I’m looking for a chance with the girl?” I ask indignantly…though, even I know that’s exactly what I’m looking for.
Helen gives me a scoff/snort combo.
“Yeah, I’m not even going to answer that, Bryan.”
I’m shaking my head and grinning into the phone as I make my way up the narrow staircase from the basement to the main floor of the office building.
“What the hell…?” I murmur, stopping short when I get a look at the figure peering into the window from the sidewalk.
“Something wrong?” Helen asks on the other end of the line.
A few feet closer and I can see a tall man in jeans, a plaid shirt, and very distinctive neckwear, waving at me.
“Helen, I’ve gotta go. I’m being stalked by a priest.”
“You’re what? A priest? Oh, for God’s sake, Bryan, run… If he sprinkles you with holy water, you’ll burst into flames!” She’s laughing so loudly that she’s coughing by the time she gets it all out.
“Good night, Helen,” I say loudly into the receiver. She’s still laughing and calling “Run, Bryan, run!” when I disconnect the call and unlock the front door. A frigid blast of air takes my breath away.
“Hello, Father. I’m sorry, King has gone home for the night…”
Father Romance’s face is open and smiling. I like this guy. No pretense here. No agenda.
“Mr. Truitt!”
“Please, Father, call me Bryan,” I insist, holding the door open so he can come inside.
“Of course. Thank you. It was actually you I’ve come to see.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. You see, I need your help, son.”
“You do?”
My tone is more than a little suspicious.
“Yes. I’m looking for someone impartial. Someone who isn’t related to anyone here in Mayhem and who doesn’t have any specific ties to the community.”
“What, do you want me to judge a beauty contest?” I laugh.
“Close, my boy! Close!” he declares jovially, patting my back so hard that I wince. “Come now, fetch your coat and join me across the street.”
“Wait… Across the street…in the pub?”
“Of course, son! Come now, get your things. You’re holding up the proceedings.”
I look past Father Romance and realize that something is, indeed, going on at O’Halloran’s. Something that didn’t make my events calendar. Every single spot along Main Street is taken, on both sides of the street, and there are several cars driving past slowly, hoping to find an open space. The lights in the building are ablaze, and I’ve just been extended an invitation by way of Heaven.
Chapter Fifteen
Hennessy
“Have you seen Father Romance?” I holler over at Walker, who’s concentrating on serving customers three-deep at the bar. She just shakes her head.
Frustrated, I climb atop a barstool and scan the crowd. And I do mean crowd. This Chili Cook-off thing grew some serious legs, and now about half of Mayhem is crammed into our pub. I might be concerned about the fire marshal showing up, were he not already here, stirring his own crockpotted entry of spicy, steamy goodness.
Bailey and Walker spent the afternoon arranging several long folding tables end-to-end to accommodate the fifteen entries into this first annual event. Now, each contestant stands guard over their so-called “secret” recipes, ribbing one another and knocking back beers faster than we can serve them. I mean, I knew this thing would get some interest, but I never anticipated it’d draw a crowd this size.
We offered tickets at ten-bucks a pop, covering a bowl of O’Halloran’s own secret chili and a beer. I figured maybe we’d sell an extra beer or two on top of that, but I’m starting to think I’ll need to call my distributor in the morning to get an extra delivery of inventory. Thank God for Walker, who’s moving effortlessly behind the bar, keeping track of multiple tabs, concocting several drinks at a time, and collecting every penny without missing a beat. As I watch her, I can’t help but think how proud our Pops would be to see her. To see this…
“Henny!” I turn around to see Bailey running back to the kitchen with a tub full of dirty chili bowls. I brace myself for the torrent of whining she’s about to unleash on me. “Oh my God! Do you believe this? I can’t keep up with all the chili! Donovan is in the back working on another huge pot! I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so happy!”
I’m stunned. My youngest sister, the most narcissistic, self-absorbed little beauty queen I’ve ever seen in my life, can’t stop gushing. I grab her beautiful face with both my hands, lean in over the tub of dirty bowls, and give her a big, sloppy kiss on the forehead.
“Hey!” she protests, wrinkling her nose and giggling at the same time. “What’s that for?”
“Because I love you, Bailey.
And because we couldn’t do any of this without you, little sister,” I explain softly. She’s so much younger than me, and in such a different place in her life, that I can’t always relate to Bailey. But since Pops died, I find myself pulling her closer—the opposite of what I did when we were all living together at home. I suddenly find myself simultaneously proud of Bailey and protective of her. We’re all she has now.
My youngest sister’s cheeks redden, and her unexpected bashfulness makes her look like a little girl again. I’m about to comment when I see her catch sight of something behind me that makes her eyes widen.
“Holy. Crap,” she murmurs, forgetting I’m standing there.
“What?” I ask, twisting and struggling to see through the crowd.
“Over there, by the door. Look who Father Romance just came in with.” I follow Bailey’s nod and find myself, once again, shocked to see Bryan Truitt walk into our pub.
“What the hell?” I hiss. “I was so careful to keep this thing word-of-mouth only, hoping he wouldn’t get wind of it. Why would Father Romance bring him here?”
Bailey shrugs, smiles, and beats a fast path back to the kitchen as my soon-to-be-ex priest and soon-to-be-deceased nemesis make their way toward me through the crowd.
…
Bryan is sans suit, wearing jeans and a button-down flannel shirt in a shade of blue that sets off his dark hair. And I’ll be damned if he hasn’t tossed the tasseled loafers in favor of a pair of boots.
“Wow,” I say loudly so he can hear me over the chatter around us. “Someone got himself a new outfit.” I mean it to be snarky but am surprised to hear it ring as more complimentary.
He grins. “You should see the parka. I left it hanging on the rack by the door.”
“Nice,” is all I can think to reply, and we experience an awkward moment of silence amid the din. That is until Father Romance throws a Molotov cocktail my way.
“Henny, dear, I’ve asked Bryan to replace me as judge of the chili cook-off,” he informs me as he puts a heavy hand on Truitt’s shoulder.