Authors: Lisa Scottoline
meet me at 5. 18th & Walnut. keisha.
“I told you, it’s the economy, stupid! Everybody took a hit in April! There was a war on! Don’t ya read the papers?”
“Then why’d you keep ordering the Massage Mes? They weren’t goin’ anywhere, we couldn’t
give
’em away! But you got two times, three times, the normal order! Don’t lie to me, Marc, I
know
why! So your girlfriend could double her quota and win the trip to Tortola!”
“Where do you get your information? She
hates
Tortola!”
Under the table, Mary had to read the message again to believe she was really seeing it. Keisha wanted to meet with her. Why? It had to be about the Saracones. She checked the display for a little electric envelope but there wasn’t one. No voicemail message. She couldn’t hear over the yelling anyway.
“You should be ashamed of yourself! Your wife and kids never even
saw
Tortola! You send ’em to
Ventnor,
if they’re
lucky
! You don’t even go down with ’em, like Jake! Not even on the
weekends
!”
“
You
spend the weekend with my mother-in-law! I
wish
that on you, just once! See how
you
like it, Mr. Perfect Marriage! And what about that secretary, at the auto tag place?”
“Gentlemen! Marc, please! Sit down! I want this on the record! Mary? Where’s Mary?”
Under here.
Mary wasn’t ready to come out yet. They weren’t hitting each other, and she needed a minute alone to think. She crouched under the table with her phone. Keisha wanted to meet her at five o’clock? How would she ever make that? She checked her watch. 4:35. The dep would go to until six, easy, and at this rate even later. And on top of it, Eighteenth & Walnut was ten blocks away.
“I never said I had a perfect marriage! And Courtney didn’t mean anything to me! At least I didn’t leave my wife and kids for her! I have some
self-control,
unlike you!”
“Oh, please! You just don’t have the
balls
to leave! You’ve been miserable for years, but it’s easy to stay! It’s simple! You’re just settling! You don’t know what real love is!”
“Don’t lecture me about love, Marc! Love is stickin’ by somebody, no matter what! Good times, bad times! You bailed on Linda when it got tough! Just like you bailed on
me
!”
“Mary? Mary!” Baker said, and the next minute his mustachioed face popped underneath the table, where she was on all fours with her cell phone. His eyes narrowed in professional anger. “Mary! Get off the phone and talk to your client! He’s out of control!”
“Shhh!” Mary said, hushing him with an index finger to her lips, and both lawyers fell silent for a minute.
“
I
didn’t bail on you, Jeff! You bailed on
me
!
You’re
the one who wants to dissolve the partnership!
You
sent
me
the termination letter!”
“Only because you’re never around! You showed no interest! I was
carrying
you! It was always
her
and the trips to Tortola! What, can’t the broad stay home for one second?”
“It’s Tortuga!”
“Same difference. Anyway I thought it was Tobago. You said Tobago.”
“Oh right.” A pause. The decibel level lowered above the table. “You’re right. It
is
Tobago.” An uncomfortable laugh emanated from the plaintiff’s side, followed by one from the defendant’s side.
“If it ain’t Jersey, I’m lost.”
“Me, too.” They both laughed again.
Awww
. Mary came out from under the table, slipped her cell back into her purse, and straightened up on her side at the same time that Baker straightened up on his side. “Joe,” she said, “are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Yes,” he answered, and his handlebar twitched in a way that suggested he was smiling. “Off the record,” he said to the court stenographer, who lifted his hands from the keys.
Mary put a gentle hand on Eisen’s shoulder. “Jeff, I think this marriage can be saved. Why don’t we end this deposition, and Joe and I drop out for a while? I think you and Marc should go to dinner and see if you can settle this thing. Go to that French restaurant you took me to. Smoke yourself silly.”
“Maybe,” Eisen said uncertainly, and across the table, Joe was nodding at his client.
“I agree. It’s a good idea, Marc. You two can resolve this thing without us. If you don’t, we can always continue the dep. You’re the plaintiff, it’s your call.”
Schimmel frowned so deeply that fissures appeared in his tan forehead like cracks in dry clay. Mary read his eyes. It wasn’t going to be that easy. He wasn’t sure, but she was. She had to get to Eighteenth & Walnut. Ten blocks in ten minutes. Keisha could be in trouble.
“Marc,” she said, talking across the table, “you’re the one who came to the deposition, when you weren’t going to. I think you did that because you were mad. So go out and yell at each other. Get it out of your system. Even a lawyer knows that peace is better than war, if you don’t make a habit of it.”
Marc looked at Eisen. Joe looked at Mary. Mary looked at her watch. 4:49. She had to
go
. Ten blocks in ten minutes, at rush hour.
In the next minute, Schimmel smiled and said, “So. You
smokin’
again, Jeff?”
Mary grabbed her exhibits and ran.
Mary hit the humid air outside with her purse swinging from her shoulder. Her briefcase weighed down her arm; she’d packed it for a deposition, not a sprint. She launched herself into the rush-hour crowds of businesspeople, salesclerks, and students heading for the trains at Suburban Station, SEPTA buses, and the subway line. She’d been going with the flow in the down elevator, now she was swimming upstream. And she still couldn’t swim.
“Excuse me! Excuse me, please!” she said, wedging sideways through a sea of loosened ties, damp oxford shirts, sweaty silk dresses, briefcases, laptops, backpacks, bulging shopping bags, and a rolling Samsonite overnighter that she tripped over. She checked her watch on the fly. 5:10. “Excuse me, please!” she said, pressing forward to Chestnut Street.
She reached the corner of Fifteenth & Chestnut just as the traffic light turned red and stepped off the curb anyway. A bus headed straight for her, and she jumped back on, almost side-swiped by a poster of J. Lo in the shower. 5:16. Fifteen minutes late. Would Keisha wait?
Could
she wait? The light stayed red for so long it seemed intentional. So many buses roared down the street Mary couldn’t slip across. She waited on the corner, sweated though her navy jacket, breathed in acrid diesel exhaust, cigarette smoke, and fading Shalimar. It took a long business day to kill Shalimar.
Go!
She took off at the very next break in traffic, sprinting into the street against the light and hitting a wall of people at the other side.
“Excuse me! May I get through!” she kept saying, plowing through the crowd. 5:23. Hurry!
Mary hustled her way to the curb and barreled ahead, still going against the grain, bonking her briefcase on a cab driving the other way on an always-congested Fifteenth. She grabbed it back, ran across Sansom, then headed through the crowds for Walnut. Only one block more to go, then a few more uptown. You could walk the entire business district in Philly in half an hour. Mary was trying to fly it. 5:34. The crowd was noisy, laughing and talking, many yapping on cell phones as they hurried along. The air was thick with noise, heat, and smoke, and somewhere Mary heard her cell phone ringing. She reached for her purse, grabbed the phone, and opened it:
help me! keisha
Mary felt her heart leap into her throat. Keisha was in danger. Go, go, go! She bolted full-tilt through the crowd, shoving people aside with her shoulder. Her thoughts raced her footsteps, outstripping them. Why didn’t Keisha call the cops? Mary couldn’t think of a reason, but she wouldn’t take a chance. She raced to the corner of Walnut Street, flipped open the phone on the run, and pressed speed dial for emergency. The dispatcher answered, and Mary shouted, “Please help! There’s a woman being attacked at Eighteenth & Walnut!”
“Eighteenth & Walnut?” The woman’s voice was calm and even. “Does the attacker have a gun?”
“I don’t know! I’m not an eyewitness!” Mary huffed, almost out of breath. “She just messaged me on my cell! She may not be able to talk!”
“How do you know she’s being attacked?”
“She said she needs help, on the cell. Send a squad car! I’m on my way there now!”
“You’re in a car?”
“No, I’m running. Please!”
“Eighteenth & Walnut, that’s Rittenhouse Square. How do you know where she is?” The dispatcher asked, but her question got lost when Mary banged into a businessman.
“Watch it!” he yelled. “Hang up and walk!”
“I was supposed to meet her there, on the corner at five! I think somebody got to her first because I was late! Ask Detective Gomez from Homicide! He knows all about it!” Mary was only using his name to bolster her credibility. She knew the two departments couldn’t be more separate, and there wasn’t time for a referral.
“Okay, stay on with me. Can you stay on with me?”
“Sure, yes. Thank you! Please hurry! Send a car!” Mary sprinted past Burberrys, rounded an overflowing wire trash can in front of McDonald’s, and jumped over a smashed Big Mac wrapper, scattering a trio of pigeons. She was only two blocks away.
Go, go, go!
“Are you sending a car?”
“I’m seeing if I can locate one close to the Square. There usually is one. It’s a busy time of day. Where are you now?”
“I’m
there
!” Mary tore down Walnut and finally hit Eighteenth, cell phone in hand. She stopped when she reached the intersection, thronging with businesspeople. Buses, cars, and cabs clogged the street. Keisha was nowhere in sight. It was the busiest time of day in the busiest corner in town. That must have been why Keisha had wanted to meet her here. It was where she felt safe, with so many people around. Mary looked wildly around, panting. “I’m at the Square, but I don’t see her!”
“I have a car on the way. I’ve located one three blocks south.”
“Please, hurry! Hurry! God, where
is
she?” Mary saw everyone but Keisha. Secretaries, businessmen, students, moms, kids, even poodles crammed the Square. “I don’t see her!”
“Stay calm and keep looking.”
“Okay, okay,” Mary said, her voice jittery from panic and exertion; Keisha wasn’t on this corner, if she ever had been. She took off when the light turned green, loping around the Square, lapping a real jogger in running shorts. She searched the crowd for Keisha but didn’t see her. Anybody who wanted to hurt Keisha would have to take her away from witnesses. Stick a gun in her ribs, threaten her so she wouldn’t scream. Where would he take her? To a car? No way. He couldn’t get a parking space around the Square. And if he double-parked, a cop car would be on his ass sooner than if he committed murder. So most likely, he was walking Keisha somewhere away from the crowd or to a waiting car.
Right now
.
Mary picked up the pace, her breath coming in ragged bursts. Her arm hurt from carrying the briefcase and purse. She looked frantically around for Keisha. Passers-by looked at her like she was nuts. In the next instant she heard the distant blare of a police siren. The cavalry! “Is that siren the squad car?” she asked into the phone.
“Should be. The car’s on Spruce, heading toward you. Did your friend message you again?”
“No.” Mary ran harder.
“You’re sure you’re for real? I’m comin’ after you myself, if you aren’t.”
“I swear it!” Mary turned left onto the west side of the Square, thinking again. West or south were the residential sections, with less traffic than the business district. And they had parking. A bad guy’s dream.
The thought gave Mary her second wind and she veered around the corner at a streak. The Square was lined with the swanky restaurants, the busiest branch of the Free Library, therapists’ and plastic surgeons’ offices, and a ritzy art gallery.
Think!
Then the answer popped into Mary’s head. Where else in a city did nobody ever go?
A church!
The Church of the Holy Trinity was right on the Square! She whirled around and doubled back. The police siren blared closer now. Help was on its way! She bolted across the street between cabs and sprinted toward the church, a huge brown sandstone edifice with a castlelike Norman tower, on the northwest corner of the Square. She shot toward its red doors.
“Keisha! Keisha!” Mary shouted as she ran up the church steps toward the door and yanked on the iron handles. It was locked! The church was closed! Police sirens screamed closer. They were almost here. Mary looked around, frantic. The Rittenhouse hotel sat beside the church, and cars drove in and out of the hotel’s circular entrance. Then she noticed a narrow concrete driveway tucked between The Rittenhouse and the church. An iron gate covered the entrance but the doors hung open, half-painted brown.
“Keisha!” Mary yelled. She ran for the driveway and grabbed the iron gate to stop her momentum, leaving rust-colored paint on her hand. A padlock and chain hung uselessly from the gate, which had been left open. A white painting truck was parked in the narrow driveway and beside it was darkness, where The Rittenhouse completely blocked the sun. Midway down the driveway was Tiffany’s stained-glass depiction of St. Paul, his palms open in appeal. Mary looked directly underneath it, in the shadow between the truck and the wall.
“No!” she screamed. Keisha, in a dark T-shirt and jeans, had collapsed in a sitting position. Beyond her was the silhouette of a man, running for the end of the driveway and the side door to the church. The man was large and thick. Chico.
“STOP!” Mary yelled, but Chico escaped through the door. She wanted to chase him, but she had to see about Keisha. She dropped her briefcase and purse and flew toward the fallen woman, throwing herself down on the concrete. Keisha slumped against the stone wall, her head tilted forward like a broken doll and her legs splayed out next to a few paint cans. Her eyes were closed and her mouth slack, but her lips moved as if she were trying to speak. Then Mary looked again, in horror. Keisha’s T-shirt wasn’t dark, it was drenched with blood. Blood bathed her neck and bubbled like a gruesome freshet from under her chin. Her throat had just been slit.