Wrong Chance (5 page)

“So,” Cash said, changing the subject, “when will the new book be done?”

Books were a subject Jazz wanted no part of. She shrugged an
I'm not sure.
“Can't find the mental strength to write.” In fact, she didn't believe she would ever write again. Eric, her literary agent, was pressing her to get her ass in gear because Simon & Schuster was screaming about a breach of contract. With everything she was going through on the day-to-day basis, Eric, Simon,
and
Schuster could kiss her natural black ass.

Cash nudged Jazz. “Come on now, we have to regroup, redirect, and recommit.”

“That day in the car,” Jazz said. “You never told me why you couldn't have kids.”

“Let it go. It's no longer important.”

“So what about Chance, anything?”

“Not a peep since he walked out on me in the hospital.”

“Fuck him,” Jazz said with conviction. “Y'all were an odd couple anyway. But it still intrigues me how much y'all used to look alike. Look at the bright side, though, you've moved back home. Now we can hang out like best friends are supposed to. You've got yourself a brand-new start, and you've landed yourself a great job with the district attorney's office.” Then: “Even though Cuyahoga County residents view you as a carpetbagger.”

“About that.”

Buank. Buank. Buank. Buank.

“I could scream! That boy and that damn ball.” Jazz shifted toward the sound. “Jaden, would you please stop.” She faced Cash, feeling awkward. “Excuse me.”

“Take your sunglasses off.”

Jazz withdrew and sat back on the couch. “For what?”

“Because you're not a vampire, Jazz. I want to see your eyes.”

“It's that serious?”

“What I have to say, yes.”

Jazz sucked her teeth, removed the sunglasses, and bulged her eyes. “Satisfied?”

“Your eyes are so attractive. I don't know why you still insist on hiding them. Leon is gone. Hard to believe you and your author photo are one and the same.”

“Whatever. Talk.”

“The new start thing.” Cash threaded her fingers with Jazz's.

“What about it?”

“The person you once knew as Cashmaire Fox—” Cash touched her scar. “—she died in our car accident. With my new look, now I can start over as Scenario Davenport and leave Chance and my past behind.”

Jazz thought about what Cash said for a long moment then nodded. She understood Scenario Davenport's position perfectly well. “I understand.” With the apropos of nothing, Jazz said, “Girl, did you hear about the hieroglyphics serial killer murdering all those people in Denver?”

“Yeah, honey child, that's awful. As long as he stays out of Cleveland, Ohio, I won't have to prosecute him.”

S
he pushed through the rental office door like a stormy wind. The gray-haired blind man sitting behind the desk smelled and committed her expensive fragrance to memory. His nose was better than a bloodhound's; it never failed him.

He sniffed the air. “Never smelled that perfume before. What is it?”

The urgent clicking of her heels came to a stop in front of the counter he was holed up behind. “You wouldn't have. It's called Thin Air. Had it designed for my personal use.” Then: “Heard through the grapevine you would help me.”

He tried to pinpoint her ambiguous accent. Midwest with a touch of West Coast. “Depending on what kinds of help you's in the business of needing.”

“A safe apartment. Off the radar.”

He said, “I stock those. What's your name?”

“Uh, Ca—umm…Marie. No last name.”

“Wells, Ca-umm-Marie, I recons you needs to take your troubles elsewheres. Don't like or gives my help to liars.” He stuck his stubby fingertips back on a Braille copy of
Push Comes To Shove
and ignored her.

“I'm not leaving,” she said, her voice taut with tension. “There is no other place for me to go.”

“Hiding from someone, Ca-umm-Marie? The likes of the law? Don't fool with lawbreakers.”

“It's my husband.” She paused for effect, letting the implications of a defenseless woman hiding from her husband trickle through the man's mind. “He's clever. He'll find me if I use my real name.”

“That bad?”

“Worse.” Then: “He's killed before.”

“Supposing you wanna pay cash and not leave a paper trail.”

“Yes, yes.” She breathed a sigh of relief. “I knew I came to the right place.”

“Not ifens I don't know your real name.” He snapped the book closed. “Ms. Ca-umm-Marie, I can't see a lick. Borns that way. And I don't keep records or receipts of anything. So I only operates on
real
names and what my nose smells. Surely you heard that through the grapevine, too.”

Winner winner chicken dinner, she thought, then she leaned forward and whispered her name.

O
n April 21, 2011, Chance's research led him to the unsavory end of Cedar Road. The elderly brick buildings were hunched over like they had suffered a lifetime of abuse. Some of the crippled buildings had broken windows that made them look snaggle-toothed. He had obviously been fed bad information. He looked at the lowercase lettering—
stormie bishop, esq.
—on the stained-glass door and started to say fuck it. A man who didn't think to capitalize his name wasn't worth Chance's time or hard-earned money. But a pack of dangerous-looking thugs bopping in his direction urged him to go inside. No use for unnecessary violence and troublesome attention.

Stormie Bishop, the best damn criminal defense attorney in the Midwest, at least that's how the source who'd referred Stormie to Chance described him. For days Chance tried to imagine what the “best” looked like. He sure didn't figure on Stormie Bishop being such a casual man: Old Navy T-shirt and well-worn denims, loafers and a diamond earring with hair as white as an Antarctic blizzard.

Stormie covered the phone. “Just be a sec; take a seat.” He gestured to the phone. “Granddaughter wants a new car with subacceptable grades. Generation Y.” He flagged his hand. “Move the junk.”

Chance looked at the
Federal Supplements
and other law books stacked in the only chair facing Stormie's desk. He wondered why
this jerk-off would refer to his professional tools as junk. “I'll stand. I won't be poking around long.” He adjusted the bulky book bag on his shoulder, then he took in the office.

It wasn't decked out with all the expensive trappings he expected the best would have; it was the exact opposite: Unimpressive. Cluttered. Dirty. A minifridge and a food-stained microwave were shoved in the corner. The area looked like a rest haven for roaches. A drip coffee maker sat on the desk next to the computer. Its Home Row keys were stained brown. Chance couldn't figure that one out. Maybe Stormie stirred his Folgers with his fingers and didn't wash his hands before getting on the computer. The only window in the room offered an ugly view of the senile brick building next door.

Piles of
Criminal Law Reporters
and law briefs occupied every available crevice. From the looks of things, Stormie Bishop was far from high-powered. More like static electricity. Chance started to shove off and take a look at his alternative research options now that the thugs outside were more than likely gone. But the Marc Newson Lockheed lounge chair Stormie's narrow ass was parked in told a different story. Chance knew the chair was worth a couple million easy. Who could afford an ass parking space like that but someone who knew their shit?

Stormie hung up the phone. “Sorry about that.” He stood and offered Chance a hand. “How can I help you, Mr.…?”

“Fox. Mr. Fox, but call me Chance.” Chance noted Stormie's firm, confident grip.

“So what brings you, Chance?”

“How many limbs do you charge to defend a capital murder case?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether I'm pleading it down to a lesser charge or taking it to trial.”

“Going the distance.”

“Three hundred thousand,” Stormie said.

“Does that cover multiple bodies or only one?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“If the bodies were killed together in one location or if they were killed separately in different locations.”

Chance said, “Different.”

“Per par share.”

Chance tossed him the book bag. “It's all there.”

Stormie unzipped the bag and took a peek. “Who…who am I defending?” He slowly and carefully set his eyes on Chance. “There hasn't been a capital murder case around here since that fellow Anthony Sewell murdered those street girls and buried them in that house on Imperial Avenue.”

“I haven't whacked them yet,” Chance said without a glimmer of humor, then headed toward the door. “Dude, I'll give you a buzz when I've done the deed.”

•  •  •

Scenario Davenport watched the volley of subtle insults bounce from one sibling to the other. She sat in uncomfortable silence in her boss's office, not believing she had a front-row seat to this family feud.

“It's unethical,” County Prosecutor Marcus Jefferson said and set his square chin. His tone wasn't kind; it suggested a history of contempt and inflexibility.

“But we're family,” Miranda Brooks, a bejeweled woman with coiffed hair, said.

“Like that amounts to much. Funny, the
family
word only comes out your fat mouth when you need something. This time it works against you because it's a conflict of interest.”

“You seem to act like you don't know we're talking about George, your only nephew.”

“Who robbed a convenience store and carjacked a senior citizen to flee the scene of the crime.” Then: “I can't prosecute his case because George
is
my nephew. It's called conflict of interest. It's the same reason why husbands and wives can't be forced to testify against each other.”

Miranda Brooks said, “If Mother were alive—”

“She'd what, Miranda? Force me to break the law and risk my job and freedom to give your junkie son a break? Side with you as usual and beat me if I don't comply? We're not kids anymore, and she's fifteen years dead and I'm thrilled about it.”

Scenario could tell from Miranda's facial expression that Marcus's words cut to the quick and set her temper on edge. Their moment of silence was everything but amicable; it was almost intolerable to inhale the fumes.

Marcus said, “I've pulled all the strings I am going to pull for poor George. He got those breaks while he was a juvenile. He crossed the adult line this time. He chose his path.”

Scenario figured Miranda was too proud and hateful to cry. Instead she kept her tears in check and dabbed them with a fancy handkerchief.

“You're never going to change,” Miranda said. “Mother was right about you. You're a selfish self-centered bastard, Mar Mar.”

“Don't. Ever. Call me that again or I'll make you eat your words and lick your fingers when you're done.”

“Isn't there anything you'll do for George?” She made an imaginary crucifix on her body. “He's my son.”

“This is what I can do for you, Miranda,” Marcus said. “Meet Ms. Scenario Davenport. She's my new assistant county prosecutor, my successor when I retire in a few years.”

Scenario flinched when her boss said her name. She felt like he'd just thrown her under a bus. From the sheer look alone, Scenario could tell that Miranda was regarding her with as much contempt as humanly possible. Marcus's office was too small for the bitterness being stuffed into it. Scenario wanted to open the door but was certain she'd be blown into the hallway when the enormous pressure released. Scenario swallowed and offered a hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Brooks.”

“And?” Miranda looked at Scenario's hand like it was covered in shit. And she had the audacity not to hide her upturned nose.

“I'm assigning George's case to her,” Marcus said with a smug smile.

Miranda stood up so fast it made Scenario woozy.

“She's an outsider,” Miranda said. Her eyes burned with outrage.

“Assistant County Prosecutor Scenario Davenport is impartial, which is the only way to achieve justice with this sensitive matter you find yourself faced with.”

Miranda stormed out without uttering another word and slammed the door behind her.

Marcus put his penetrating turquoise gaze on Scenario. “If anyone in this office ever calls me Mar Mar, you're fired. Are we clear on that?”

“Crystal.”

“Conflict of interest is a fucked-up thing when you want to nail someone. Show me exactly why I hired you and throw the fucking book at my nephew. I hate that little bastard.” He gave Scenario George's criminal file.

I
t was a seedy place called The Kennel, and it was overflowing with idiots. A portable radio with a hanger antenna played the static version of Christina Aguilera's “Not Myself Tonight.” A raggedy fan stirred the stale air. The place smelled awful, just like its namesake. Chance hopped up on a barstool between a big-tit bimbo with a bad dye job and a redneck that looked like a surgically altered version of Vin Diesel. Diesel look-alike had the tough look down to a science.
What is this world coming to?
Chance questioned himself as he rubbed his new bald head. He was going to miss his dreadlocks.

He placed a ten-dollar bill on the scarred countertop and glanced at the Budweiser clock behind the barkeep, 3:55 p.m. “Give me what it'll take. Pour it neat and make it tall.”

“What are you into?” the bimbo said.

Chance knew that ass and tits were all that anyone ever noticed or remembered about her. “I'm into having magic sex,” he said.