“You think?”
She yanks a hand through lemony hair.“We’ve been reading the notes as threats to you, but what if it’s someone who’s just trying to get close to you? To communicate with you the only way he can? Not someone who hates you, someone who loves you. Someone who wants you all to himself.”
My gut tightens as she speaks. She’s close to what Lombardo was saying after the memorial service, and I forgot to mention it to her. But it doesn’t square, not entirely. “A note that says ‘watch your step’? It sounds like a threat to me.”
“Or a warning. Particularly since almost the next night, the man you’re with gets hit by a car.”
“But that assumes the killer knew I’d be out with Brent, and he couldn’t have. We didn’t plan to go out to dinner, I offered to take him out after I finished a brief for Jameson.”
“Jameson? Yuck.”
I’m reminded of the weird toys in Jameson’s desk, and how Brent had laughed and laughed. I tell her what Stella said. It doesn’t seem funny now.
“I don’t think it’s Jameson,” she says, shaking her head. “He’s too much of a wuss. I don’t think it’s Ned’s father either, even though he wanted to meet you that day. He could have found out that you were in Ned’s class from Martindale-Hubbell.”
“But Ned said he keeps tabs on him.”
“That doesn’t mean he has him — or you — followed. Maybe he asked around. People know you. You’ve been in practice for eight years in this city. You went to Penn Law, you even went to Penn undergrad.”
“Maybe.”
“You know, you’re resisting the most obvious conclusion, Mary, and the most logical. It’s Ned.”
“It can’t be.” I shake my head.
“Look at the facts — there’s a pattern here. You date Ned in law school, then you pick up with Mike. You marry Mike, and he’s killed by a hit-and-run. You begin dating Ned again, and a couple of nights later Brent’s killed by a hit-and-run. Don’t you think that’s strange?”
“It’s strange, but it doesn’t mean anything.”
“Why doesn’t it? Ned even sends you a warning after you have dinner with him — watch your step. Read it as a threat to keep you away from other men, even Brent. Look, Ned didn’t know Brent was gay. You remember the rumors that you and Brent were having an affair?”
“That was ridiculous.”
“I know that, but Ned doesn’t. Plus he admits he’s been interested in you since law school. That’s weird, Mare.”
“Not necessarily. He said he’d been depressed. He’s had a lot of problems.”
“Which way does that cut? So he’s hardly the picture of mental stability.”
“I’m surprised at you, to hold that against him. He was depressed. He got help. I give him credit for that, don’t you?”
“That’s not the point. The man has a history of serious mental illness. I’m glad he dealt with it, but that’s the fact. I mean, depressed or not, he hasn’t dated anyone since law school. Pining away for you? Doesn’t that strike you as obsessional? Almost sick?”
“He never said that, Judy. We didn’t discuss other women. You know, if you knew him, you wouldn’t say these things. He’s beautiful, really.”
But she doesn’t seem to be listening. “Look, I don’t blame you for not wanting to believe me, but think like a lawyer. Imagine that you’re the client. What advice would you give?” Her azure gaze is forceful, and it angers me.
“You don’t like him, Judy. You never have. He cares for me, he makes me happy. I would think you’d want that for me, for Christ’s sake.” My tone sounds bitter; my chest is a knot. I can’t remember ever fighting with her this way. “What’s happening to us, Jude?”
“I don’t know.” She leans back against the wall, wounded and hurt. She’s my best friend; she’s trying to help me.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s hard.”
She flicks her hair back, dry-eyed. “I know. I’m sorry too.”
We fall silent a minute.
“You know, Mary, you asked me once if I ever worry. Well, I do. About you. I used to worry about your emotional health, after Mike died, but now we’re at the point where I’m worried about your life. It scares me that something could happen to you. It makes me very… bitchy. Bossy. I’m sorry for that.”
“Jude—”
“But that doesn’t mean I’m letting you off the hook. I can’t watch you walk into the lion’s mouth. So I’m asking you, for me. For my sake. Follow your head and not your heart. Err on the side of caution. Cut him loose.”
I feel an ache in my chest. “He said he didn’t do it.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
I shoot her a look.
“I’m sorry, that was unkind.” She thinks a minute. “Here’s an idea. Don’t see him for a week. We’ll know a lot more in just a week. Maybe Lombardo will find out something; maybe you’ll get another note. Seven days, that’s all.”
Easy for her to say. I feel like I need him now. I remember the weekend together, how sweet he was, and how open with me. He made love to me, he held me. He said things, things that thrilled me. Things it hurts to remember now. Tears come to my eyes; I blink them back. “You’re tough, Jude.”
“The stakes are high, Mary. I want to win.”
And either way, I lose. Because the ache inside me is telling me something, and it’s too strong to be something else.
I’m in love.
21
I feel like everyone’s watching me the next morning when I get off the elevator and walk to my desk. The secretaries in my area gaze at me bathetically, to them I’m the Young Widow Times Two. A partner glances back at me, wondering whether my billable hours will fall off. A messenger pushing a mail cart hurries by with a sideways glance. His look says, The broad must be some kind of jinx.
Why are they thinking about me? Why aren’t they thinking about Brent?
I feel shaky, disoriented. Nothing seems familiar here, least of all Brent’s desk. There’s a blotter with floral edges where there used to be a friendly clutter of wind-up toys and a rubber-band gun. Brent’s mug — WHAT DO I LOOK LIKE, AN INFORMATION BOOTH? — is gone. A calendar with fuzzy kittens has replaced a portrait of Luciano Pavarotti. The air smells like nothing at all; I can’t believe I miss the tang of Obsession. What I miss is Brent. He deserved a long and happy life. He deserved to be singing his heart out somewhere, for the sheer joy of it.
Somebody’s grandmother is sitting in Brent’s chair. She introduces herself as Miss Pershing and refuses to call me anything but Miss DiNunzio. Her dull gray hair is pulled back into a French twist, and she wears a pink Fair Isle sweater held together at the top by a gold-plated chain. She’s been a secretary in the Estates Department for thirty years. She brings me coffee on a tray.
It makes me want to cry.
I close my door and stare at the pile of mail on my desk. Without Brent, it’s not organized into Good and Evil and totters precariously to the left. Mixed in with the thick case summaries and fuck-you letters are batches of envelopes in somber pastel shades. I remember them from before. Sympathy cards, dispensing a generic sentiment in every cursive iteration imaginable: My thoughts/feelings are with you/your loved ones at this time of difficulty/of sorrow. May you have the comfort/solace of your loved ones/faith in God at this time.
I can’t bring myself to read any of the mail, especially the sympathy cards. They’re only a comfort to people who don’t know anyone who died.
I poke at a pink card on the top of the mail, and the tower topples over. It fans out across my desk, revealing at its center a bulky manila envelope bearing my name scrawled in pen.
Odd.
Miss Pershing’s sheared the top off the envelope, and so neatly that there’s barely any tearing. I open it. Inside is a piece of blue notepaper which says FROM THE DESK OF JACKIE O at the top and reads:
Mary—
I cleaned out Brent’s desk. Thank you for everything, and for being so good to Brent. You
may need this.
Love, Jack
Stuck in the envelope is Brent’s rubber-band gun. I smile, and am trying not to cry, when I remember the notes.
The notes! Brent kept them for me. Where are they?
I ransack my desk, but they’re not there. I rush out to Miss Pershing’s desk, and she watches, aghast, as I slam through the drawers. They’re all empty except for typing paper and Stalling letter-head.
Where are the notes? Brent would have put them someplace safe. He took care of me.
I run back to my office and call Jack, but he’s not at home. I leave a message, asking him to call back. I feel panicked. It doesn’t make sense that Jack would take them, but maybe he’ll know where they are. I still have my hand on the telephone receiver when it rings, jangling in my palm.
“DiNunzio?” barks Starankovic. His voice has a Monday-morning-I’m-refreshed punch to it. “You changed your number? I had to go through the switchboard.”
“I’m sorry—”
“When are the interviews?”
I cringe. I’d totally forgotten. “My secretary—”
“Don’t blame it on him, DiNunzio. Set ’em up today or I file the motion.”
“Bernie—”
Click.
I hang up the phone by the pile of disordered mail. I should straighten it up. It’s the Next Thing to do and I should do it. Dictate, return phone calls, back-fuck. I pick up an envelope, a white hand-delivery from Thomas, Main & Chandler, the third firm in the holy trinity. It must be a response to a motion I filed last week. Last week, when Brent was telling me to call the cops.
What did the Mike-voice say? I tried. I tried.
I put the envelope back down, feeling empty inside. Hollow. Aching. Exactly how I felt after Mike died, and how I was beginning not to feel before Brent was killed. I let the leaden sensation leech into my bones, into my soul. A little white pillowcase of a soul that turned black the instant of my birth, and even blacker when the men I love were killed on my account.
Suddenly, someone is clearing his throat directly above me. I look up into the bland visage of Martin H. Chatham IV.
“How do you tolerate it?” he says, with as much emotion as I’ve ever heard from him.
“Stand what?”
“That blasted clock!” Martin sits down in one of the Stalling-issue chairs in front of my desk and crosses his legs.
I look over my shoulder. 9:15. “You get used to it. Sort of.”
“I don’t see how. But you’ll be vacating this office after June, n’est-ce pas? When we make our new litigation partners.” His tone is oh-so-controlled, but I’m in no mood to fence.
“I hope so.”
“Come on, Mary. We both know you’re on track.”
“I am? I guess I haven’t thought about it lately.”
Martin’s face changes, as if he’s remembered his manners. “Yes. Of course. I’m sorry about your secretary.”
“Thank you.”
“Damn drunk drivers. It’s a terrible way to go.”
I flash on the car as it explodes into Brent’s body. And Mike’s. I feel stunned.
Martin tosses some papers onto my desk. “Here are a couple of deposition notices in Harbison’s. They’re for the two supervisors, Breslin and Grayboyes.”
I should call him on it, but I feel upset, off balance. I bear down and say the Next Thing. “I talked to Starankovic. It’s taken care of.”
He looks mildly surprised. “Did you postpone them?”
“Yes. Starankovic wants to take some employee interviews. I told him I’d think about it.”
“I know you. You won’t let him do that.”
“I won’t?”
“You? Voluntarily expose your employees to interviews with the enemy, without benefit of counsel? So that they can say anything? It goes against all those hot-blooded instincts of yours, even if there is precedent for it.”
“He’s going to file a motion if we don’t consent.”
“Bah! Is the man a glutton for punishment?” Martin can always tap into the our-team-kicked-ass mentality that flows like blood at Stalling.
“He might win it. Even if he doesn’t, it’ll cost Harbison’s more to fight the motion than it will to let him do the interviews.”
“Money’s no object, Mary, when it’s the client’s.”
I don’t bother forcing a smile.
“By the by, I understand you’ll be handling the new age case for Harbison’s. The plaintiff’s named Hart, right?” He gets up, tugging at suspenders needlepointed with flying owls.
“Right.”
“Sam wasn’t sure you were ready, but I told him it was time we gave you a case of your own. If you need a hand, let me know. I’ll keep it to myself,” he says with a wink.
He’s about to leave when Ned suddenly sticks his head in the doorway. His jacket is off and one hand is hidden behind his back. “Mary?” he says, in the split second before he spots Martin.
“Young Waters!” Martin booms. “What brings you up to this neck of the woods?”
“I thought I’d stop in to see Mary.” Ned beams at me from the doorway. His smile says, We’re lovers now.
I can’t help but return the smile. I feel it too. Bonded to him invisibly, by virtue of the fact that he’s been that close. When there’s not many who have.
Martin tugs at Ned’s shirtsleeve like an insistent child. “Haven’t seen much of you lately at the club.”
“No. I haven’t been there.”
“Working hard or hardly working?”
“I just haven’t had a chance to sail much yet this spring.”
“Too bad. I got out on Sunday. Had a beautiful day, a beautiful day. You’re welcome along anytime. Alida would love another lesson,” he says, with measurable warmth. His hand rests on Ned’s shoulder. “She’s darn good for a sixteen-year-old, don’t you agree?”
“She’s good,” Ned says.
Martin turns to me. “Waters here taught Alida more in one afternoon than that school in Annapolis did all last summer.” He slaps Ned on the back. “How about this Sunday, my man? What are you doing this weekend? Why don’t you head over for brunch? We’ll spend all afternoon on the water. What do you say?”
“Uh, I’m busy.” Ned flashes me a grin. His eyes are bright, and his look is undisguised. “I have big plans.”
Martin looks from Ned to me. His smile fades slowly. “Do my eyes deceive me?”
“It depends on what they’re telling you,” Ned says, with a laugh.
“Ned—” I’m not sure how to finish the sentence. I don’t want Ned telling Martin about us. Not when I’m about to break us up, at least temporarily.
“What?” Ned asks, smiling. “Don’t you want to tell the world? I do.”
Martin looks back and forth between us again. “Say it ain’t so, Joe,” he says.
I’m not sure I like Martin’s tone. Neither does Ned, who bristles. “Something wrong, Martin?”
“With you and DiNunzio?” Martin asks. “Of course not. I’m surprised, that’s all.”
“So am I,” Ned answers lightly. “She’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”
I shoot Ned a warning glance.
Martin pats Ned’s shoulder. “Don’t take offense, Waters.”
“None taken,” Ned says abruptly, brushing past Martin to me. “Now if you’ll excuse us.” He whips his hand out from behind his back, but it’s covered by a gray wool jacket. The jacket conceals something huge, almost as big as his arm.
Martin clears his throat behind Ned. “Well. It looks like you won’t be needing me.”
“I can handle it from here,” Ned calls back, and Martin closes the door. Ned beams at me. “Guess what the bulge is. And it’s not that I’m happy to see you, even though I am happy to see you.”
“You didn’t have to do anything.”
“I know that. Now guess. It’s in disguise.” He wiggles the jacket, and it makes a crinkling sound.
“A
really big muffin?”
“You’re half right.” He snaps the jacket off with a magician’s flourish. Underneath is a full bouquet of rich red roses, wrapped in cellophane. “Ta-da!”
“Jeez, Ned!”
He hands the bouquet to me and kisses me on the cheek. “These are for you, sweetheart.”
I take the crinkly bouquet and feel myself blushing. The flowers are beautiful. The man is charming. I am in love. How am I supposed to give this up? How am I supposed to hurt him?
“Do you like them?” he asks worriedly.
“They’re lovely.” I avoid his eye.
Suddenly, he takes my face in his hands and gives me a long, deep kiss. I return it over the sweet smell of the flowers, feeling touched and confused at the same time.
“I missed you last night. I really did.” He kisses me again, but I pull away.
“You sent Judy.”
“To take care of you. But she’s no substitute, right?”
I nod. The roses are a cardinal red, and the underside of each petal has a dense and velvety texture. There are twelve in all. They must have cost a fortune.
“I did get you a muffin, by the way.” He wrestles with the pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out a crumpled white bag the size of a hardball. “Blueberry.” He shakes it beside his ear like a light bulb. “It’s in three hundred and fifty-seven pieces at this point. Sorry about that.” He sets it down on my desk.
“Thank you.”
“You still don’t look happy. Was Martin giving you a hard time?”
“Uh, yeah. First he holds back on the two deposition notices, the ones I told you about. Then he tells me he’s the one who told Berkowitz to give me the Hart case, not the other way around. I think he’s trying to save face.”
“How do you know?”
“How do I know what?”
“That Martin wasn’t the one to suggest it to Berkowitz?”
“That’s not what Berkowitz said. Implied, anyway.”
Ned looks skeptical. “Maybe Berkowitz wasn’t telling the truth. Maybe it was Martin who suggested you get the case.”
“I don’t understand. Why would Martin champion my cause, Ned? You saw him just now.”