Authors: Lisa Scottoline
So Grady had been arrested, undoubtedly as an accessory after the fact. Either Azzic had traced the bananamobile to him, or wasn’t worried if he could make the charge stick and wanted to increase the pressure on me. He would ruin a terrific lawyer in the process, and it was way too close for comfort. They were closing in.
I picked up the pace as best I could, fighting the panic rising in my chest, constricting my throat. I thought of the Eileen tapes. How long before Celeste discovered they were missing? Eileen’s folder had been near the top on his desk. It had to be the hottest thing going for him right now. How long before he reported it to the police? How long before Azzic realized I had something to do with it? I was running out of time. The guard would remember my disguise, no problem.
Pliers?
Christ.
“Hey, baby,” said a voice at my arm, and I jumped. “How you doin’?” It was a short man with tattoos, and he was leering at me. “You wanna spend some time with a real man, baby?”
Then I remembered what I looked like. An oversized hooker who couldn’t walk in heels. “I am a real man, handsome. Now beat it.”
I wobbled ahead. There were fewer and fewer people on the sidewalk. The bus traffic had thinned out. Everybody was going back to work, leaving me feeling exposed. I needed to hide, but I still couldn’t risk going uptown to the basement. I needed to get off the street before another tattoo stopped me.
A bus steamed by in a cloud of sooty smoke and braked with a hydraulic squeal at the corner stop. Perfect.
Go.
I hustled across the street, grabbed the bus, and fed the machine my fare with a shaking hand. The bus lurched forward, and I groped for the slippery pole, eyeing the riders. There were no cops on board and the faces in the padded seats looked comfortably blank, many plugged into radio earphones. No one seemed to recognize me.
I made my way to the back of the bus and took a seat in the last row, which was empty except for a teenager on the far right in a Raiders shirt. I sat down in the back row, scooted way over against the greasy window on the far left, and willed myself to calm down. Breathe easily, normally. I wiped my damp brow under my sunglasses. I couldn’t stop thinking about Grady. Where was he now? In a holding cell? Had he called a lawyer? Who? I couldn’t help him or me, except to solve this damn thing.
I fished in my purse and unpacked the Casio cassette player Grady had had in his backpack. He said it would free me from the library and he’d been right. I tried not to worry about him as I unwrapped the long wire, slipped in a cassette of Eileen unplugged, and pressed the itsy-bitsy black earphones into my ears. Now I looked just like the other people on the bus.
I pushed the
PLAY
button.
Q: Where was this lawyer?
A: At a clinic. I didn’t have to pay.
Q: See, you get what you pay for.
A: But it was the courts, not the lawyer. The lawyers there, they were good.
Q: So tell me about your next boyfriend.
A: That would be Deron.
Q: (laughing) Deron, huh? A nice Jewish boy.
I listened to this kind of crap for the next four hours, riding around my hometown in circles. Down Chestnut Street, over on Sixth, then up Walnut, all the way to West Philly and back again. The Raiders fan stayed on the bus for two round-trips and he wasn’t the only person riding aimlessly, maybe because the bus was air-conditioned. During that time, the back row filled in and emptied out. Riders came and went. Nobody spoke to me or even gave me a second glance.
The day turned to an overcast evening, the tapes ran to their end, and no other clues announced themselves during Eileen’s inane interviews. If anything, the tapes were more significant for what they didn’t say. Eileen barely mentioned Bill Kleeb, he was a footnote to her fascinating life story, and there was no mention of any drug use, or of Sam. On the last tape, a jailhouse interview, she told the fabricated story of the CEO’s murder as if she had been my dupe, the pawn of a crazed radical lawyer. I could only shake my head. We used to give jail time to frauds like Eileen, now we gave them book deals.
I rewound the tape and listened again to the part about Renee Butler, but learned nothing more than I already had. I played the tape over and over as passengers climbed off and on the bus at the end of the workday, toting briefcases and shopping bags for the trip home.
I hadn’t gone anywhere, but I’d made progress. I was narrowing in on Renee, developing the next questions to be answered. What legal clinic had she worked in? I knew every public interest law center on the East Coast and didn’t remember any of them listed on her résumé. We’d gotten her right out of Penn Law, so maybe it was the law school clinic, staffed by students.
It could have been. Renee could have met Eileen there. But would she really kill Mark and frame me for it? I remembered our conversation in her office. Maybe her anger with me that day was all an act. The best defense is a good offense. It would make sense, and she would testify against me so she could drive in the final nail.
A siren blared suddenly on my right. Two squad cars came racing toward my bus, which squeaked heavily to a stop. I slunk down in my seat, my breathing shallow. A middle manager searched my face inquiringly. The police cars screamed past my window, then tore down the street. A near miss but my pulse refused to return to normal. The middle manager got off at the next stop, with a quizzical look back at me. Was he going to call the cops? I couldn’t take the chance. My stop wasn’t for three blocks, but when the manager was out of sight I stood up and got off the bus.
I had no time to lose. My head down even as night fell, I hurried down the blocks to my building and strode through the employees’ door acting for all the world like I owned the place. The Trident gum I’d stuck in the door’s lock had worked like a sugarless charm. Inside, I fumbled in my purse for the penlight I’d bought instead of the red lipstick at the dime-store.
I hustled as fast as I could down the corridor, behind the jittery pinpoint of light. My feet swelled in my heels and my silk top grew damp as the corridors got hotter and hotter. I slipped my shoes off and walked through the transformer room, tiptoeing behind the gray boxes to avoid any maintenance types still around, maybe an evening shift.
I snuck into my little hovel, closed the door, and switched on the light. The place hadn’t been disturbed since yesterday and the smell of dope was almost gone. Whoever’s hiding place this was had been working harder lately, which was fine with me. I’m all for American productivity.
In fact, I had a job to do myself. I reached under the bed for my clothes and changed into a navy pantsuit with retro bell bottoms, the closest thing I had to burglary wear. Then I shoved my puffy toes into the heavy black clodhoppers that said Dr. Martens Air Cushion Sole inside. What was this personal shopper thinking? You’d have to pay me to wear these in the daylight. I laced them up, grabbed my penlight, and went out into the night.
Bouncing along to a break-in.
R
enee Butler’s rowhouse was a typical Philadelphia trinity, so called because there were three floors with a single room on each floor. It looked like a tiny brick box with pale white shutters; white flower boxes over-flowed with leggy purple pansies and vinca vines. A women’s house, and tonight its owners, Renee and Eve, were throwing a party.
I stole into a dark alley across the street and watched, disappointed. Even I didn’t have the moxie to break and enter during a house party. But what kind of party was this? And so soon after Mark’s death?
Music floated from the open windows, a syncopated jazz rhythm, not Green Day. Odd. Nobody was dancing, either, and in the windows I could see people chatting over iced drinks. I spotted a waiter through the window on the second floor, serving hors d’oeuvres to guests in shirts and ties. A waiter? What gives? This wasn’t the type of party the associates usually gave at R & B. But then again, there was no more R & B.
A head turned suddenly on the first floor. Renee. Her coarse hair was slicked back into a glossy twist and huge silver hoops dangled from her ears. She wore a long dashiki, looking like she’d lost some weight. Suddenly she walked to the window and lifted the sash.
I dodged back into the alley and waited a beat. Except for the party, the street was quiet and still, one of those cobblestoned Philadelphia backways that’s too narrow even for a car. I popped out again. I wanted to see what Renee was doing.
She appeared to be chatting up a good-looking man in a suit. Who was he? Who were these people? I heard voices coming down the street and flattened against the building, edging into the alley.
A couple approached, the man holding the woman by the elbow. She was giggling as she negotiated the cobblestones in pumps. When they got closer I could see it was Bob Wingate, dressed in a real tie, with the ever-perky Jennifer Rowland. I turned my head to the darkness to avoid being seen.
So there were other R & B associates at this shindig. Did they know about Grady’s arrest? I waited until I could hear the front door close and Wingate’s voice had disappeared inside. Then I peered out again.
On the second floor, I could see Eve in a tight tan dress, flanked by a tall man. I couldn’t tell who it was because his back was to the window, but when she leaned over to whisper something to him, I caught a glimpse of his steely-glassed profile. Dr. Haupt from Wellroth. Beside him stood Kurt Williamson, the general counsel, with a chiffoned battle-ax I assumed was his wife. Around them stood a circle of sycophants, like corporate ringworm.
Of course. This wasn’t the usual associate party. The faces were older, the hair was silvered, and the couples were married. These people were corporate clients. No wonder nobody was having any fun.
“Quiet, please!” someone shouted inside. The music stopped abruptly and the conversation trailed off. Heads turned in the direction of Dr. Haupt, who raised his glass in a toast I couldn’t hear. Eve beamed and everyone sipped their champagne. Then I understood. The joint venture must have gone through. Everyone was clapping and Eve mock-curtsied. Only Renee, watching her roommate, barely smiled behind her goblet.
What was going on behind those dark eyes of hers? I had to find out, but I didn’t know what to do if I couldn’t search the house. I needed a Plan B. I took an inventory of what I knew. Renee Butler was connected with Eileen Jennings and their connection was Penn’s legal clinic. If I couldn’t find out this way, I’d find out another.
Either way you looked at it, the party was over.
I cleared my throat, squared my shoulders, and prepared to confront my umpteenth security guard in a week’s time. I’d met old ones, young ones, black ones, and white ones, and yet was rapidly coming to the conclusion there were too many guards in the world and not enough security. Too many police and not enough safety. How could it be otherwise, when a girl like me was on the run?
I pushed through the glass doors to Penn’s law school and confronted my latest guard. This one was a civilian; short, spectacled, and seated behind a wooden dais studying corporation law. A law student, in his second year if he was taking what we fondly called “corpse.” He looked up, blinking through thick hornrims as I approached. He wouldn’t be the best-looking security guard, but I was guessing he’d be the smartest. Shit. I’d have to find his pressure point. A second-year student? In this economy? Piece of cake.
“I have a problem and so do you,” I said, leaning on the dais with a weariness that came easily.
“I have a problem?”
“I’m a partner at Grun & Chase. You know the firm.”
“Sure, I know the firm.” He swallowed visibly and closed the thick red casebook, squishing his index finger in the middle to mark his place. If it hurt, he didn’t show it. No feelings? He’d make a fine suit. “Everybody knows Grun & Chase,” he said.
“Of course they do. As I was saying, I interviewed here the other day and, unfortunately, left my résumés and my entire file in the law clinic. You have a key to let me in, I assume.”
“Sure.”
“Good. Let’s do it.”
“Uh, I didn’t know they held interviews in the clinic.”
“Well, they do. They’re for clinic students.”
“Weird.” He cocked his head. His dark brown hair had been buzzed into an old-fashioned cut, from when the styles had names. I was guessing his was The Geek.
“What’s weird?” I asked.
“It’s summer. I didn’t know they did on-campus interviewing in the summer.”
Think fast, stupid. “It’s not the normal interviewing. It’s of select second-year students. Clinic students. I didn’t interview you, did I?” I flashed him an arrogant, Grun-patented should-I-know-you squint.