They entered Noah’s attorney number and the name of his boat
, “
Res Judicata.” Latin for “the thing speaks for itself.” Then they searched until they found a recent TRO filed in the jurisdiction.
Sasha copied it, changed the caption, customized the facts, updated the law, and drafted the affidavit. She printed and then closed the document without saving it, but she didn’t kid herself. Someone who knew where to look would find a trail that led right back to her.
She read it over. It was solid. Much better than what Cook would be expecting from Mickey’s shop. It hit all the elements.
To obtain a temporary restraining order, a movant must show four things. One, he is likely to win on the merits of the underlying argument. Two, he will suffer an irreparable harm if the TRO is not granted. Three, it will be less harmful to the defendant if the court issues the TRO than it will be to the plaintiff if the court doesn’t issue the TRO. Four, any public interest weighs in favor of issuing the TRO.
Sasha tried to think of a harm more irreparable than death. She couldn’t.
She had Naya review the facts. They had to give Cook enough to hang his hat on but not so much that it would be obvious Mickey had access to Hemisphere Air’s privileged information.
Naya agreed they’d walked the line safely.
“I think we’re done,” Sasha said. And it wasn’t even nine o’clock yet.
She left a voicemail for Lettie, asking her to check first thing in the morning with the mailroom, UPS, and FedEx to try to track down a package from either a Tim Warner or Patriotech that should have been delivered to her attention but was not.
“Let’s call a messenger and put this to bed,” she said to Naya, slipping the emergency motion into a manila folder. She slid the folder into Mickey’s well-worn bag and fastened the buckle.
“I’ll deliver it, Mac.” Naya’s eyes were tired but her mouth was set. “Carl’s picking me up. He can run me over to Fox Chapel. It’s just across the bridge.”
Faithful Carl. He’d been Naya’s next door neighbor for years and had been open about his attraction to her. Naya’d been equally open that she didn’t have the same feelings for him, but Carl was undeterred. He’d do anything Naya asked of him. To her credit, Naya didn’t abuse his infatuation. She did accept his help when he offered it. She seemed to consider him a friend.
Sasha was glad Naya wouldn’t be going home alone. She couldn’t see how Naya would be a target, but then she never would have expected to be attacked in the stairwell of the federal courthouse at eleven o’clock in the morning, either.
“Okay,” she said, “that’d be great. Tell Carl I’ll reimburse his mileage.”
Naya waved the offer away with a hand.
“And thank you for your help tonight. I promise if this goes south I’ll keep your name out of it.”
“I know you will, Mac. That’s why I stayed. Do me a favor and be careful.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Where’s your car?”
“Connelly left it on four.”
Naya frowned.
The fourth level of the garage was shadowy, and the elevator bay was obscured by a wide column. She never parked on four if she could avoid it. No one did. Which was why there was a spot available when Connelly returned her car to her at lunchtime.
“Naya, I’ll be fine.”
“I hate that elevator. That blind spot freaks me out.”
“I’ll take the stairs. I’ll be
fine
. Now, go. Carl’s probably waiting in the fire lane and you need to deliver that bag and get home to your mom.”
Naya came around the desk and surprised Sasha with a quick, light hug. “Good night, Mac. You take care and don’t stay too late.”
“Good night.”
Naya hung Mickey Collin’s bag across her chest diagonally and left.
Sasha watched her go. She would wade through her e-mails then cut out. Another thirty minutes, tops. Then she’d pick up some takeout and meet Connelly to plan for tomorrow.
Connelly. Funny how he’d become a fixture so quickly. An annoying fixture, to be sure. But, still. She called up his cell phone number. Four rings. No answer.
“Connelly, it’s me. It’s quarter to nine. I should be home before ten. I’ll bring Thai food. Let me know what you like.”
She dropped her phone into her bag and it thudded against Connelly’s enormous gun. Just having the gun in her purse made her feel queasy with responsibility.
She stared at the computer screen. Her in-box was devoted to Noah’s death; e-mails provided information about the arrangements, expressed sympathy, and discussed the transition of his various matters.
An image of Laura Peterson, alone and grieving, flashed in her mind, and, on an impulse, she dialed the Petersons’ home number.
Laura answered on the third ring. “Peterson residence.” Her voice was strained, but still elegant.
“Laura, it’s Sasha McCandless.”
“Sasha.”
“I am so sorry about Noah, Laura. I just wanted to call and see if you need anything. Is there anything I can do?”
“That’s very kind of you, Sasha. I have a friend coming over to stay with me. I’ll be fine.”
Laura sounded drained.
“Okay, well, please. If you think of anything …,” Sasha trailed off.
“Thank you.” Laura paused, and then she said, “Sasha, I hope you know what high regard Noah held you in. He respected you very much as a lawyer and liked you a great deal as a person.”
Sasha’s eyes filled. She blinked back the warm tears, afraid if she started crying, she might not stop.
“That means a lot to me, because I felt the same way about him.”
Sasha decided to tell her, not about her belief that Noah had been murdered—she couldn’t do that until she had some answers—but about the trip to France.
“I don’t know if Noah got a chance to tell you before … before he died, but he was planning to take a sabbatical and take you to the French countryside for a year.”
Sasha hoped she’d made the right decision. Laura wasn’t saying anything.
“Laura?”
“Are you sure about that, Sasha?” Laura’s voice was soft.
“Yes. We were having a dri… talk. He seemed distracted and I asked why. He definitely was planning to tell you the last time I saw him.”
Laura’s response came slowly. “But, why would he do that? Take a year off from the firm?”
Now it was Sasha’s turn to hesitate. She’d started this. She had to be honest; she just hoped the truth wouldn’t cause Noah’s widow more pain. “He was afraid you were going to leave him.”
Sasha heard Laura’s sharp intake of breath. “He was right.”
“Pardon me?” Sasha must have misheard.
“I was going to leave him. After all, he left me years ago. For the firm.”
The two women sat in mutual silence. Sasha didn’t know what Laura was thinking. Sasha was thinking she was glad Noah had died not knowing.
Chapter 32
Sasha pushed all thoughts of the Petersons’ marriage and the day’s events from her mind. She gathered her things—wallet, keys, a slim file related to the emergency temporary restraining order—and slipped them into her bag. She hesitated, then pulled Connelly’s gun from the bottom of the bag and put it within easy reach on the top of the pile. She closed her bag and turned out the office light.
She walked a loop around the floor, hoping to run into someone else getting ready to leave, but the rooms were dark. Only the hall lights were lit, and those would switch to motion detection status at eleven o’clock.
She imagined most people in the litigation group had taken Noah’s death hard and had gone home early to be with their families.
She took out her car keys and pressed the button to pop the ignition key out from the casing. She held them in her fist, pointed out. Ready to be jammed into an eyeball or nostril, if need be.
Sasha had made the mistake of inattentiveness once. She did not intend to make it again. She walked down the internal staircase. Her heart clamored. She was afraid she might not hear footsteps over it, the noise was so loud.
Get it together
, she told herself. She could have taken the elevator, but she needed to prove to herself that she was not cowed.
She quickened her pace and burst out into the lobby, her pulse like a trapped bird.
As she past the security station, the dozing guard stirred. “Ms. McCandless, want an escort to your car?”
They guards were required to offer an escort to every woman leaving after eight p.m. It was building policy. In six years, Sasha had never taken a guard up on it.
She slowed and considered it. Certain of her answer, he was already back to sleep.
She shook her head. She just needed to focus.
She walked across the lobby to the entrance to the attached garage. She eyed the door to the stairwell, then the elevator bay. No way out, she thought. Being trapped in an elevator with an assailant was worse, way worse, than being ambushed on the stairs. Plus there was that column. If she emerged from the elevator on the fourth level, she was a sitting duck until she got past that damn column.
She pushed open the door to the stairwell and started to trot up the stairs. As the door closed behind her, she bumped her purse against her side to feel the comforting thump of the gun against her thigh. The exposed light bulb hanging over each landing provided the only light and the concrete walls magnified the sounds of her footsteps. Her heart was banging in her chest now. She went faster. Like she was running the steps on the South Side Slopes.
She stopped at the fourth floor landing to gather herself before she pushed open the door. Connelly had just said he’d parked on four. She wasn’t sure exactly where her car would be. It wouldn’t be hard to find, given the late hour. But, she didn’t want to spend any more time wandering around the garage than was absolutely necessary.
She pushed the door open hard. It banged against the cinderblock wall with a crack that echoed in the still garage. She rushed through and hit the lock button twice. Unlock, lock. Listened for the chirp, chirp of her car and walked with purpose in that direction.
Connelly had parked against the wall, two in from the corner. Hers was the only car in the row, and the shadows from the corner fell over the space.
Just keep moving
.
She reached the car. Looked behind her. No one. Crouched and peered under the car, with the keys ready in her outstretched hand. No one. Stood and hit the button to unlock the door. Peered into the back seat when the dome light came on. No one.
Sasha pulled the door open, hurried into the car, and pressed the button to lock the doors. Put on her seatbelt and started the engine. Her hands shook. She turned the radio on. Loud, to drown out her thoughts. Connelly must have messed with her stations. Classic rock blared out. Songs from before she was born. She didn’t care.
She threw the car in reverse and sped for the ramp. She laid her purse on the passenger seat beside her—open, so she could grab the gun if she needed it.
Chapter 33