The Family Lawyer

  “Dee-Dee,” Jonah said, “I wanna go home now. It’s too loud.”

  “I know, sweetie pie. We’re going.” To Ian, I said, “Can we…? I don’t think he should see the coroner rolling out…” I nodded toward the house.

  Ian turned back to see Dr. Brooks and his team pushing a gurney carrying Kirk’s body to the front door. “Oh. Yeah. Crap. Quick question though: your sister have a security system?”

  “Not that I know of. Why?”

  “We could check to see when the doors were opened and closed.” His eyes wandered to the house on the left of Melissa’s and then to Mr. Jackson’s on the right.

  I squinted at him. “What are you thinking?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe her neighbors have security cameras that face the street.” He jotted in his notepad. “I’ll ask them. Oh—last thing.” He looked up at me. “What was the girlfriend’s last name again?”

  I told him and held my breath as he scribbled into his tiny notebook.

  He nodded and grunted.

  “Something wrong?” I asked.

  “Nope. I’ll call you later.” He ambled back to the front porch.

  Frank stood there with Dr. Brooks and the gurney. He held a baggie in his hand. And in that baggie—Kirk’s cell phone.

  Chapter 11

  Lights, camera, action!

  Nothing said light and happy like the Aussie music group for kids, the Wiggles, now playing on my Caddy’s stereo. Jonah, strapped into his backseat booster, clapped and sang along to their silly songs.

  Down the hill I drove, the lightening horizon before me. The street-cleaning truck rumbled on the side of the dark road. On the sidewalk, a homeless man pushed a shopping cart filled with orange pylons and two small dogs. It was a little after three o’clock and people living in those Baldwin Hills Mediterraneans, sprawling California ranch-styles, and two-story colonials still slept.

  “Dee-Dee, sing your part.” Jonah’s chipmunk cheeks were stuffed with Cheerios. Freckles speckled across the bridge of his nose, like Kirk’s. “Sing, Dee-Dee!” he said again.

  Sweet honey in the rock, it was too early for this. Too early for effin’ Australians warbling about fruit salads and pirates and some damned octopus named Henry.

  I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror—wind-tunnel hair and chapped lips. When was the last time I’d had something to drink? I needed something cold and liquid—preferably with dark rum and served in an icy glass. But I loved my nephew, so I sang. “Welcome to our TV show!”

  My phone vibrated in the cup holder—I’d forgotten to turn the ringer back on and only now noticed that I had two missed calls and a long string of text messages. And the latest text message was not from the Hot Doctor.

  STOP IGNORING ME PICK UP THE PHONE!!!

  I dropped the phone back into the cup holder and hoped that Sophia Acevedo would grow bored or tired. And alakazam, just like that, she sent another text.

  WHY THE COPS CALLING ME???

  There was no punctuation mark Sophia Acevedo didn’t like enough to triplicate. She spoke like that, too.

  “Dee-Dee?” Jonah asked.

  “Yes, sweetie pie?”

  “Is daddy okay?” He met my eyes in the rearview mirror. They gleamed, those eyes. So close to crying. So close to falling asleep.

  I opened my mouth to speak—the truth, a lie, I didn’t know which had queued on my tongue. “Your daddy wouldn’t want you to worry about him. He’d want you to get some rest and to be—”

  My phone vibrated again, and took my lie away.

  THIS DETECTIVE JUST TOLD ME!!!

  What had Ian told her?

  “Dee-Dee?” Jonah asked again.

  “Yes, sweetie pie?”

  “Where my mommy go?” He shoved a handful of Cheerios into his mouth.

  “She had to go to a meeting but she’ll see you later.” Bile had already burned through my stomach and now it bubbled up my throat and into the back of my mouth.

  “Why Mommy crying?” Jonah asked.

  “She was just very tired today,” I said. “You know how you cry sometimes when you’re tired especially after a long day?” I glanced at him in the rearview mirror.

  He nodded. “She gon’ take a nap?”

  “When she comes home, and I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you climbed in bed with her and helped her rest. She says you’re the best nap-taker in the world.”

  Jonah pumped his legs in time with the music, then said, “Daddy makes Mommy cry. I cry, too. It’s too loud.”

  “I know, sweetie. It won’t be loud anymore, okay?” The truth, but oh, how I needed that drink.

  My phone vibrated.

  Sophia. Again.

  IGNORE ME IF U WANT 2 BUT LET ME TELL U THIS!!!

  WATCH YOUR BACK BITCH!!!

  Chapter 12

  Never one to ignore advice, I watched my back.

  That’s why I stood at my living room window with frayed nerves and scratchy eyes that ping-ponged between the parking guard hut down on Marina City Drive and the smeared screen of my cell phone. Only a few rays of sunlight glimmered past thick fog hanging over Marina del Rey. Car lights burned through, then quickly blinked out, caught up in the Rapture.

  It was almost seven o’clock. Monday had officially started.

  Just a mile away from his home, Jonah had fallen asleep in the back seat of my Escalade. As I carried him from the truck to my bedroom, he hadn’t awakened. He snored softly beneath the folds of my comforter, fifteen stories above the city.

  I had not slept since Saturday night. Couldn’t rest, not with Sophia Acevedo texting all morning. I re-read her last text message:

  U CAN RUN BUT U CAN’T HIDE!!!

  Six years ago, Sophia had seemed so…normal. She’d been a social worker, a product of the barrio who made it out. She was smart. Funny. Collegial. Melissa had hired her because of her ability to connect with struggling families. Back then, I’d swoop into the office, pick up my sister and her team, and treat them to my perks: happy hours and wine tastings, chef’s tables and magic shows. Over tapas and flights of wine, we mourned the children swallowed up in the system and rejoiced after every Forever Family celebration.

  But then, Melissa met Kirk Oakley. And then, Sophia met Kirk Oakley. Both women fell for him—but one bided her time until a weekend conference in San Diego. Only later was it discovered that Sophia had run up the organization’s credit card on couples’ spa treatments and bottles of pricey champagne. But her first mistake was answering Kirk’s hotel room phone. The next week, Sophia didn’t have a job, and Melissa discovered that she was pregnant with Kirk’s baby.

  Despite her affair with my sister’s husband, Sophia still tried to maintain her friendship with me, inviting me to tequila tastings and Taco Tuesdays. I declined each invitation with a message—Stop sleeping with my sister’s husband!

  Now, here we were: me standing at the window, Sophia texting morning threats, my sister in not-custody at a police station.

  Melissa still hadn’t called, so I didn’t know whether Detective Elliott truly planned to arrest her or if he had been blowing smoke like the bully he was.

  My cell phone vibrated.

  I KNOW WHERE U LIVE!!!

  Down at the guardhouse, a cherry-red Mustang pulled to a stop.

  Sophia drove a cherry-red Mustang. Before the affair, she drove a Chevy Malibu. But then fortune—and another woman’s husband—had found her, and she found herself behind the wheel of a new red pony. Upward mobility in today’s America.

  At the guardhouse, the chubby security guard bent to talk to the driver. Randy turned away from the Mustang and grabbed a green parking pass from the kiosk. He handed the slip to the driver, then pointed to his left. The driver slowly turned left into the guest parking lot.

  Shit.

  My gaze skittered around my apartment—if I needed a weapon, what could I use? The ceremonial fireplace poker that had never met a flame? The silver frame with those sharp-edged corners? My eyes fo
und that hallway closet, stuffed with boxes, Mardi Gras masks, and a heavy Birkin bag.

  A bang from the hallway. Someone had slammed a door.

  Voices echoed down the corridor. Male. Deep. The voices grew louder…louder. Came closer…closer.

  “Which one?” one of the men asked.

  Silence. Then: “This one.”

  A bang on the door. But not my door. “Hey, guys,” the woman across the hall from me shouted. Laughter. Chatter. The door slammed shut.

  Breathless, I trudged over to the intercom at the front door, and hit Gate. A squawk from the speaker, and then, “Mornin’, Miss Lawrence.” Randy’s voice was as round and soft as he was. “How can I help you?”

  “Hey, Randy. I’m expecting a friend today. Her name’s Sophia and she drives a red Mustang. Could you call me as soon as she arrives? It’s important—I’m surprising her with something.”

  “Sure, Miss Lawrence.”

  I spelled Sophia’s name, thanked him, then hit the End button. Slightly relieved, I trudged back to the window.

  Could I trust Randy to remember? What if he was on break when Sophia rolled up?

  A light-blue Crown Victoria and a police cruiser stopped at the guardhouse. The driver of the Ford was a black man. Detective Elliott was a black man.

  I leaned forward to get a better view but my forehead bumped against the windowpane. I closed my eyes and slowly exhaled. “What the hell am I doing?”

  My parents—ovarian cancer for her, heart attack for him—had worked hard so that Melissa and I wouldn’t have to be scared in our own homes. That meant extra jobs—more heads of hair to curl for her, more seasonal construction jobs for him after he’d left the Navy. That meant lots of frozen fish sticks and canned chili for dinner, all so that we could live in a View Park neighborhood that wasn’t as fatal as the neighborhood we could truly afford.

  Thirty-something years later, here I stood. Barely breathing, heart racing, terrified in my own home.

  My phone vibrated again: Just confirming mtg today at hotel to go over last details. In two days, one of my best clients, the California Constitution Foundation, would be throwing its annual gala on Wednesday night—a gala I’d forgotten about until this text.

  Something touched my hip.

  I banged my forehead against the window again, then, spun around with a yelp.

  Jonah, Elmo blanket in his hand, lay his head against my thigh. “Dee-Dee, I want some pancakes, please.”

  Chapter 13

  Pancakes, bacon, eggs.

  A normal breakfast for a normal American boy on an abnormal Monday morning.

  Grease splatters and batter drips dotted the stove top, smoke from hot bacon curling at the ceiling—my galley kitchen hadn’t hosted this much cooking since Election Night 2012.

  Jonah, syrup on his chin, chipmunk cheeks filled with food, tore into his breakfast like LeBron James in Game 7 of the NBA Finals. He now poured syrup over his eggs just like Melissa did. I could only nurse coffee—I was a hollowed out, wrinkled mess that needed a shower and a week-long nap. I couldn’t stand watch at the living room window all night and morning again. Some things—and some people—I wouldn’t be able to control, no matter my willingness to deprive myself of sleep.

  For the sixth time in an hour, I called my sister’s phone number.

  This is Melissa. I can’t come to the phone—

  I hit End Call—I’d already left five messages, imploring her to call me, to text me, something.

  Over on the living room television, Little Einsteins played. On this episode, Rocket couldn’t sleep and the little geniuses were teaching him how to count planets.

  “Dee-Dee,” Jonah said. “Watch this.” He placed his bacon strip above his upper lip as a mustache. He held his last pancake to his face—he’d bitten out two holes for eyes.

  I plucked the bacon from his fingers. “Gimme that.” I pretended to eat the crispy strip.

  “Hey,” he said, “that’s my bacon.”

  “Gimme a kiss and I’ll give it back.”

  Jonah clambered onto my lap and planted a wet one on my cheek.

  He snatched the bacon from my fingers and giggled. “Got it!”

  I gave him a bear hug. “You did, and now it’s time for you to get ready for school.”

  He vroomed back to my bedroom.

  I crept back to the living room window—no cars at the gate—then fished Ian’s business card from my sweatshirt pocket.

  The detective answered on the first ring. “You remember anything?” His voice had that been-working-all-night rasp.

  “No,” I said. “Just looking for my sister. I’ve tried calling her, but she’s—”

  My pulse jumped. A red Mustang pulled up to the parking gate. Security guard Randy was not working the entry—Libby, a new hire, had taken his place.

  “Melissa’s still here,” Ian was saying.

  “As a free woman?”

  The driver of the Mustang was black, male.

  “Of course,” Ian said. “I see that she took my advice—Kopp is a damn good attorney. You guys don’t play, do you?”

  “This is life and death,” I said. “Any other good advice you care to give?”

  “Not at the moment,” he said. “Lemme get your sister.”

  The phone rustled and a door opened and closed. Then, “Dani?” It was Melissa and she also had that raspy, up-all-night voice.

  “Crap, Mel,” I said. “I’ve been trying to call you. Are you—?”

  “I’m fine. Kopp’s on his way here to advise me on my formal statement.” She sighed, then chuckled. “Maybe he can actually write it down for me since right now my handwriting looks like shitty Cyrillic.”

  “You’re exhausted, sweetie,” I said. “Need anything?”

  “Maybe bring me lunch later? Don’t know how much longer I’ll be here.”

  “Well,” I said, “they can’t keep you—”

  “Unless they charge me. I know this, Dani.” She sighed again. “This is real life, and there are laws in real life, and ways to conduct yourself. Especially when someone you love has died.”

  My cheeks burned. “You heard about that?”

  “Try not to curse out the people who are supposed to be helping us.”

  I squeezed the bridge of my nose. “I’m sorry.”

  “Give Jonah a kiss from me. Tell him…I don’t know what to tell him.”

  “You wanna talk to him?” He was now brushing his teeth in the bathroom.

  “No. I’ll start crying if I do.” She paused, then asked, “Are you watching Little Einsteins?”

  I chuckled. “Busted. You call the Reverend and his wife?”

  “I left a message but I didn’t tell them that Kirk died.”

  “What about his sister?”

  “Noreen’s not answering, either. Hey. Gotta go. Here’s Detective Anthony.”

  Just like that, Melissa was gone.

  “I actually do have advice for you,” Ian said once he came back on the phone.

  I smiled. “Oh? You wanna tell me now or in person?”

  “Is in person an option?”

  I shrugged. “Sure. As long as I can come and go without restriction.”

  He laughed. “You’re funny. Can you talk this morning? I haven’t eaten breakfast yet. How about Café Laurent on Overland?”

  I cocked my head. “Can you do that?”

  “Have breakfast?” He laughed. “I’d take a bullet for bacon.”

  Outside, the fog was still breaking up, and pale sunshine was poking through the mist. No cars down at the guardhouse. Good.

  I closed my eyes and slowly exhaled. My phone vibrated.

  GET A GOOD NIGHT SLEEP??? Sophia had included three sleepy face emojis after the taunt.

  I gritted my teeth—she wanted me to shoot her. I stomped to the kitchen and grabbed the hollow-handled utility knife from the bamboo block. Then I pawed through the catchall drawer. A pink canister of pepper spray rolled to the front. It had e
xpired seven months ago.

  As the ancient sages say, old capsicum is better than no capsicum at all.

  Chapter 14

  Mrs. Rogers, Jonah’s daycare teacher, had heard through the mommy grapevine that Kirk Oakley had been found dead in his living room. Wide-eyed, she whispered, “Is it true? Because they’re saying that he was…that he was…murdered.”

  I made a sad face, then nodded. “That’s what we’re being told. Someone shot him.”

  She gasped, then slipped her wrinkled, thin hand over her mouth. “Mr. Oakley was such a…” She swallowed her words and blushed. Her mouth moved as she thought of positive ways to describe the slain man. But even she knew the type of man Jonah’s father was. So she followed one of the golden rules of life: if you don’t have anything nice to say…

  “Tell Melissa not to worry about Jonah.” She clutched her elbows. “What kind of monster…? I just can’t believe this type of thing could happen.”

  Of course, the owner of a pink and purple preschool with gingerbread trim and fluorescent geraniums couldn’t believe people killed other people.

  Jonah gave me one last kiss before zooming to his cubby to stow the Tumi knapsack I’d let him borrow…since his Elmo bag still hid drugs, a wine bottle, and a wineglass.

  French bistro Café Laurent was located on a leafy corner in Culver City, a cute suburb of Los Angeles. Melissa and I sometimes stopped by after Jonah’s Saturday morning swim classes at the rec center across the street. It was only two miles from Jonah’s preschool but was far enough for a cherry-red Mustang to ram me from behind, then shoot into my car, narcos-style. My breath caught every time that silver pony emblem twinkled in my rearview mirror.

  By the time I reached the café, I was a sweaty wreck with nerves tighter than piano wire—Ford had sold a lot of red Mustangs in Los Angeles County.

  Café Laurent was tiny. An old couple stood at the glass deli counter, picking out cupcakes to take home. Ian sat at a table closest to the patio. He wore a blue suit with a crisp white shirt and red necktie, and his hair had been swept and gelled away from his face. His eyes were on his phone as his fingers tapped at the screen.