Turns out, a traumatized kid is a lot of work, but she refused to send me back into foster care. Fell in love with my pale blue eyes, she said, that gazed upon her like I was a cherub who accidentally fell into the devil’s lair before she pulled me out.
“I’ll be there, Mom.”
“Really?” she can’t disguise her enthusiasm. “Oh, that’s great. I’ll tell Dad once he gets in from the garage.”
“How’s he doing, anyway?”
“Oh … you know. Covering up any pain by turning into a grouch if you try to ask him about it.”
I chuckle. “Reminds me of someone else I know.”
“Tell Locke and his family they’re welcome, too,” Mom says, immediately understanding who I’m referring to.
“I think they’re busy, but I’ll ask. Mind if I ask Ash?”
“Oh boy,” she says. “I’m not sure the supermarket has enough beef to feed him.”
Not much intimidates Callie Donahue. My giant, tattooed biker friend is no different, probably because he makes the best chocolate-hazelnut croissants in Manhattan.
“When are you going to bring a girl around here instead of your friends, who eat us out of house and home?”
“Okay, Mom. Gotta go.”
“Someone like Carter. She’s such a lovely person.”
“Oh—do I see? Uh-huh, I do. Ash is waiting on me. Love you, Mom.”
Mom gives some sort of laugh-sigh, then says, “I love you, too, honey. See you at six.”
I’m not lying. I may not see Ash, exactly, but I see his bike outside the warehouse, and that’s good enough reason for me to bail on my mom when she’s asking about my love life.
10
Astor
The subway ride gives me time to collect myself. I score a seat—a rarity—and I plan to make the most of it by searching through my tote and pulling out my tablet, catching up on emails.
If I deign to think about it, it’s amazing how fast I can go from emotional to business-savvy, like a kitchen faucet going from hot water to cold. But that’s how it has to be. Ruminating on Ben and the strange cast to his expression when he asked me—no, told me—to back off the Staten Island Slaughters gets me nowhere.
Sighing, I cross my legs and frown deeper at my fifty new emails. Hadn’t I just told myself not to think about Ben?
The man beside me, bulky in an oversized beige coat and a fedora too small for his head, keeps trying to read what I’m up to, a sad annoyance whenever I want to get work done during public transportation, and why I usually avoid it. I angle away from him and cross my other leg, clearing my throat in an obvious, passive-aggressive attempt to get him to realize his impropriety.
He only shifts closer, peering down through his bifocals to get a better look.
Fuckin’ New Yorkers.
At last, the train screeches to a halt at my midtown station. I shove my tablet in my tote and depart, leaving Peeping Grandpa behind.
When I reach the clear-glass, fifty-story building that houses my office, I swipe my security clearance, say hello to the weekend doorman (usually much sleepier and with more newspapers than the weekday guy) and step into the elevator to the 45th floor.
When the doors slide open with a classy ding, my suede boots clunk across the flawless varnish of the marble floors, past the empty receptionist desk, and since all “walls” in this office are sparkling glass (not even frosted), I can spot where everyone is.
Black and navy suits are crowded into Conference Room B, not as big and spacious as A, where clients can get a close-up view of the Empire State and Chrysler buildings. This one is reserved for exactly what’s occurring this afternoon—interns and associates angling for a position on the latest, hottest case.
I pull off my beanie, smoothing my hair, and slip off my parka, dumping it unobtrusively on a rolling leather chair outside the conference room. I slip in unnoticed and am relieved to see other people in casual clothing like me.
Mike, of course, is in a goddamned three-piece suit.
And he’s right at the front, beside Altin Yang, senior partner in charge of all criminal defense cases, like he’s already secured a spot.
I sidle up to my co-associate, Taryn Maddox. We’ve helped each other out now and again during late nights in the office. She’s also the only other female in this room and stands out more than I do. Perhaps it’s due to her Barbie-thick, blonde hair, round, almond-colored eyes, and ridiculous breasts. More likely, it’s because of her insanely high IQ, graduating summa cum laude at Harvard, and the Mensa title behind those pert nipples. She’s smarter than most of the testosterone in here.
Taryn’s better as a friend than an enemy, but I catch myself wondering often if she would’ve been part of the cohorts who spread my picture around campus, had she gotten the chance.
“What’d I miss?” I whisper to her out the side of my mouth. I try to look busy pulling out a legal pad and pen.
“Not much. Just started,” she says quietly. “Your man’s up there doing his damnedest to be on the Delaney case.”
My left hand, still wearing the engagement ring, clenches. “Delaney case?”
“That’s what we’re calling it now. The family’s name. No more Staten Island Slaughters.”
It makes sense. Being on the defense side, it’s better to dull down words like “slaughter,” to the media.
“All right, people.”
Altin’s booming voice cuts off any further conversation. Half-Japanese, half-African American, he has both height and smarts to his name. His close-cropped hair is mostly white, likely caused by his forty years at this firm. Altin is one of the unnamed partners who started CW&C from the ground up, and as a result, he’s intimidating as fuck. He doesn’t merely take prisoners—he kills them after smiting them with lightning. I’ve never been on his bad side and don’t ever plan to be.
“I know why y’all are here,” he continues. “Sadly for you, this joint defense doesn’t need thirty attorneys crowding for a spot in the courtroom. I’m only taking on two of you, so as of this second, you’re about to be on your best behavior.” Altin smiles, enjoying being king at this feast.
“I have here the police files, some discovery passed to us from the state, and essentially what’s going to be an extended date night for a lucky two of you. I want it summarized, arguments laid out, and any holes ripped wide open for me to read tomorrow morning. Everyone got that?”
He raises his brows, and we all nod like good disciples.
“Arraignment is coming up shortly. While I don’t believe we’ll get these boys out on their own recognizance, we can damn well try.”
“Yang got a phone call,” Taryn whispers to me.
“Huh?”
“From Chavez.”
A small spot at the center of my chest goes cold. Enrique Chavez is a known crime lord in NYC, a slick, laid back man who Altin Yang has drinks with on the regular. Chavez pays us an expensive monthly retainer, so if any of his crew are arrested, someone here is ready to defend them.
We get a lot of business from the Chavez cartel.
I’ve only seen him a few times, but at each click of our eyes against each other, I sense he’s more an adder ready to strike than a human being. There’s nothing behind the black of his irises, except more black. He’s a very rich, very dangerous man, and if he’s involved in the Staten Island Slaughters—he’s likely already deeply involved with these defendants.
“Shit,” I say.
I’ll never say it to his face, but perhaps Ben is right, and I should stay far away.
My talents are usually reserved for mergers, acquisitions, and financial problems on the corporate side of things. But, as a junior associate, I can traverse departments, so the partners can see where I really shine, before solidifying myself in one particular subject. And witnessing Mike beside Altin, deploying a closed-mouth grin at the rest of us like he’s already one of the two juniors picked to assist, makes my teeth hurt.
“Who’s prosecut
ing?” I ask in the small space of silence.
All eyes and feet shuffle toward me. A small pathway emerges with Yang at the other end.
“I’m glad you asked, Miss Hayes,” Yang says with approval. “As it’s always better to know your enemy before you meet him. We’ve got a file on him, too. Spencer Rolfe.”
Grumbles abound, and even I make a sound in my throat. He’s a well-known, young and hungry prosecutor six years older than me. Barely thirty and already making a name for himself.
“All right, people,” Yang says, and slaps his palms on the two piles of paper and files in front of him. “Here’s how this is going to go. The first people to bring me a weakness in this case—and I don’t mean some crap like self-defense—will be seated with my team. Give me something meaty. Something I can sink my fangs into. First two to do that, you’re in.”
Yang backs away from the large table and leaves the conference room without so much as a look back.
As soon as the glass door shuts and he’s out of view, we descend onto the files like vultures.
Hands swipe, but Taryn and I have the sharpest nails. We grab what we can, and I’ve got my fingers on the crime scene file when a thick, hairy, perfectly manicured paw grabs my wrist.
“Hey—!”
“We should work on this together,” Mike says, cutting off any further protest from me.
I laugh. “Sorry, what? Did you say work as a team? Do you even know what that means?”
He leans closer, hand still squeezing my wrist, and I cover a grimace. As far as everyone knows in this room, we’re still a happy couple.
“You’re well aware of what our two heads together can accomplish,” he murmurs. “Don’t you want to lay waste to these other hacks?”
“Too bad you can only think with your little head,” I snap, and pull out of his hold. “I’ve already agreed to team up with Taryn. You’re on your own, Ascott.”
Taryn glances between us, too smart to believe we’re still that happy couple. “Uh … sure?”
Mike shakes his head and laughs. “You’re putting our personal life before nailing the best case of your short-lived career. That’s a mistake, Hayes.”
God, am I ever tired of hearing that word. Mistake. “I’ll make sure to remind you of that when I’m sitting beside Yang on Monday.”
“Uh-huh.” Mike rolls his eyes. I’d be stupid to think I hurt his feelings, because his attention immediately slides over me and rests lightly on Taryn’s breasts before he yells across the room. “Yo, DeSean, you in?”
Another junior, DeSean Ferguson, throws his arm up, gripping the ADA’s file and a few police transcripts. “I’m in like win, Ascott! Let’s go.”
“Your loss, honey,” Mike says, then puckers his lips and blows me a kiss before moving to his new teammate.
“I don’t know why Yang makes us do this,” Taryn says. “When everything’s available on the company database.”
Hands on her hips, she sighs as associates continue to scramble around on the table (some even on it), a sign of what cutthroat competition can do to Ivy League educated desperados. The sounds of yelling and papers tearing ricochets against the small space.
“Because we’re baby sharks in the womb,” I say, “and we have to eat a few of our siblings before bursting out into saltwater. C’mon, let’s go to my cubicle.”
Clutching the crime scene photos to my chest, Taryn and I leave the carnage behind.
Ready to create our own.
Three hours later and I’m no closer to giving Altin Yang the hole in the case that he wants, but I’m a whole lot sicker.
I’ve turned the crime scene photos face down at this point, even though Taryn keeps picking them up and studying the pictures, as if the bloodstains and ash can give us a clue.
They don’t.
There’s too much of it to create any sort of pattern.
“Okay, so here’s what we have.” Taryn brushes donut crumbs from her fingers then gets back to her laptop she’s perched at the corner of my L-shaped, gray desk. We’re framed by more gray, carpet-like cubicle walls that always smell funny no matter how much I Febreze it. The mumblings of other associates are a constant thrum, nobody willing to speak up enough for another team to hear.
“Our defendants are Angel Lopez and José Garcia. Rose and Tim Delaney were killed around three in the morning, after being woken by their front door busting open by, it is estimated, three men. There’s only two in custody, though.”
“Yeah,” I say, squinting at the police report I have up on my laptop screen. “But they’re estimating three based on the different heights of the stab wounds, some left-handed, others right-handed … also, there seem to be no restraints used. One must’ve held Tim Delaney back while the other held down Rose, so the third guy could….”
“We can skip over that for now,” Taryn says quietly.
“Right,” I say with relief. “Let’s stick to the background facts. Tim was a drug mule turned FBI informant.”
“Yep.”
“And the drug cartel he was working undercover for figured out who he was. It’s assumed this attack was for punishment. Retribution. Revenge.”
“All those fun things.” Taryn sits back, tapping a bright red nail against the edge of her computer. “These defendants are disgusting, and we’re representing them.”
I raise my brows. “Assuming they’re the right ones.”
Taryn glances over. “You really think there’s a possibility they’re innocent?”
Ben’s insults have gotten to me, and it’s as if I’m reiterating my point to him when I say, “Only one set of DNA at the scene. They don’t have to be Virgin Marys to be considered innocent of this crime or be properly represented.”
Taryn bites her lip like she can’t believe I can be so cavalier, but I pretend I don’t see it.
I’m trying to find more, holding up papers and crusting my eyes over by staring at my screen, skimming through the facts and sadly coming across no detailed witness interviews. Just the boy’s, and it’s very short.
Ryan Delaney, 4 years old, and mute as a mouse.
At such a young age, it’s hard to imagine he’d have a lot to say even if he were a chatterbox. But I think of Lily and how quickly she’s grasping language at the ripe old age of one-and-a-half. She’s the only baby I can compare him to, since I don’t know children any better than I know cats.
My mind starts doing funny things at the thought of Lily, injecting her into this crime scene. The image has me blinking rapidly and looking away from my monitor.
Then I frown.
“Hey,” I say to Taryn. “Where are pictures of Ryan Delaney?”
She picks up the stack of photos and flips through them. “Huh. None here. Let me check the database.”
I do the same, and we both scroll and study our screens, but come up with nothing about the boy. Literally zilch. No photos, no description of any wounds, if he had any…
“He was found alive, right?” Taryn asks.
“Yeah. The fire department came just in time to pull him out,” I say. “The report says as much. See, right here.” I spin my laptop around and point. “He was found crouched over his mother’s body, barely breathing due do all the smoke inhalation, but conscious. They saved him. Took him to … SIU Hospital. And from there … jeez, where is everything?”
“How can we be without that? He’s a key witness,” Taryn murmurs.
We both look at each other at the same time.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I ask.
“How long will it be before everyone else figures it out?”
“Not a lot of time,” I admit. “But so far, we’re first. And we have to do it.”
“Do you think we can?”
“If we want a seat at Yang’s table? Yeah, we do.” I set my shoulders. Lick my lips. Take one last look at the charred bodies of Tim and Rose Delaney. “Where’s Ryan Delaney?”
“The DA’ll be wondering the same thing,�
�� Taryn whispers. “Everyone’s going to be after this kid, on both sides. He’s what, twenty-six now?”
“It’s not good enough,” I mutter. “The others will figure this out in ten-point-two seconds. It’s … holy shit.”
“What?”
“This is what Yang wants. It’s been his motive this entire time. All hands on deck in trying to track down Ryan Delaney is better than the small cluster of employees the DA has. It’s going to be a frenzy.” I stab the stack of papers I’m holding. “Ryan’s the crucial link. Who knows what he remembers now. He could exonerate our boys.”
“Or point the finger at them.”
“A risk we have to take, because you know what?” I lean closer to Taryn. “Yang wants meat. So, what’s better than bringing him human flesh?”
Taryn smiles. “We’re gonna win this.”
“Damn right we are,” I say. “Because we’re going to find this witness before anyone else.”
11
Ben
It’s Sunday morning, and I’m out for a run. In college, getting up at 5 AM was a bonkers idea. In high school, just plain insanity. But, I coached myself into it, with the help of my pops, especially considering words like “scout,” and “NFL draft” were being thrown around like footballs speeding past my ears since I was thirteen.
At the ripe old age of twenty-six, it’s now a habit. Wake up at 4, chug a cup of coffee from an extravagance I stole from Ash—a Nespresso machine—that he hasn’t noticed I’ve taken from his apartment, jam in my beats, and jog around the deserted, barely lit, TriBeCa neighborhood. No tiny dogs to jump over, no strollers to narrowly avoid hip-checking, no women in heels getting stuck in subway grates…
—Astor—
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