Big Money (Austin Carr Mystery) (25 page)

He thought it was very unlike him, but then decided it was just unlike the man he used to be. He didn’t know if it was unlike Sangster, because he still wasn’t sure what Sangster was like.

They were finishing up their desserts when the group took a break.

“Do you want to meet them?” she asked.

“Why?”

“Because as part owner I can have them come to the table.”

“No,” he said, “that’s okay.”

“Why not?”

“I enjoy the music,” he said. “I don’t enjoy making small talk.”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing?” she asked. “Making small talk?”

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” he admitted.

She studied him for a moment, then said, “You don’t, do you?”

He shrugged.

“You’re a rare man, you know?”

“How so?”

“Well, for one thing, you don’t seem to have an ego.”

“And for another?”

“You seem to be fairly honest,” she said. “Unless this shy boy thing of yours is an act?”

“‘Shy boy?’”

“Don’t be ashamed,” she said. “I’m finding it...refreshing. And genuine. If you turn out to be a player I’m going to be very disappointed.”

“A ‘player.’” These were terms that had never before been used to describe him. He had been a player in his own business for many years, but not in the way she meant.

“I get the feeling you’re a man out of time,” Lily said. “Like...you were just thawed out yesterday. Were you?”

“Was I what?”

“Thawed out?”

He took a sip of his coffee and said, “Not yesterday.”

Sangster stayed for another set, some more coffee rather than another beer. Lily did the same, eschewing another martini for coffee.

When the band broke for the night to a smattering of appreciative applause from those who had remained for the final set, Sangster said, “I have to go.”

“Really?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, “I have to get back.”

“Wife?”

“No.”

“Roommate?”

“No wife,” he said, “no roommate.”

“Then what’s the hurry?”

“I came for the music,” he said. “The music is done.”

“Stay for another reason,” she said, looking him directly in the eye. “I live upstairs.”

He stared across the table at her. In truth, she had become more and more appealing as the night went on, especially that overly long upper lip.

But he couldn’t stay. He’d been avoiding personal conflict for three years. Getting involved with a woman was inviting conflict. He had let his guard down with Burke, but that had worked out. What were the chances it would happen again?

“Okay, then,” she said, sitting back. “We don’t close for another hour or so. Let me know if you change your mind.”

“I’ll get the check—” he said, raising his arm for the waiter.

“Forget it,” she said. “On me.”

“Why would you do that?”

She grinned and said, “I’m a sucker for men who play hard to get.”

He stood up and said, “I’m not playing.”

“Yeah,” she said, “I know.”

“Good-night, Lily.” It was the first time he let her know he remembered her name.

He walked to the front door, stopped and looked through the glass. His eyes scanned the street, the shadows across the way, the shapes in them.

He turned and walked back to Lily’s table.

“I changed my mind.”

Back
to TOC

Here’s a sample from A.C Frieden’s
The Serpent’s Game.

1

New Orleans, Louisiana—August 2005

Silence is a lethal tune—Satan’s anthem for those souls so bruised by this ruthless world that its stealthy carriage of melancholy and anger sends the mind into near-paralysis. Jonathan Brooks understood this too well. To him, silence was a ruse, oversold as peace. Hyped as longed-for solace. This morbid tune brought only maddening echoes of failed love, his soul bled dry by Linda’s caustic slurs lobbed from afar.

Silence. Dreadful silence.

If he’d turn on the radio it would quell its assault. He’d survive a little longer. He gazed at the worn surface of his oak desk, one palm down on it, the other still gripping the phone’s handset that he’d just slammed down to hang up. Linda’s venomous tirade still festered unpleasantly. Her voice had stirred up only anger and despair.

“I’m not answering again,” Jonathan whispered alone, the scorching heat in his office now even more stifling than earlier. “I won’t,” he again told himself.

But he would. She’d call again. Pumped-up on God knows what meds, she’d dialed his office twice already that morning, for no good reason—just to open old wounds and salt them with her spitefulness. And he’d hang up on her again.

Then his cell phone rang. He’d had it. Jonathan pressed Ignore, scrolled through the contacts list, opened his ex-wife’s profile, went to her first name and changed it to “Bitch,” then to her last name: “DontAnswer.” He didn’t have the stomach for more fights. Not today, at least, and this day had barely begun.

The noiselessness. The corrosive stillness.

Jonathan stood up and walked out his office to extinguish this dead air with the cacophony of the secretarial cubicle just outside, where Amber would surely have her radio turned on, or be typing loudly on her keyboard, or talking on the phone. Or his law partner Dino might be there, babbling useless drivel into Amber’s ear while undressing her with his eyes, his amplified masculinity tiptoeing the fledgling firm ever closer to a sexual harassment lawsuit. Noise. The comfort of chatter and random sounds. Even that annoying thud of drops from a leaky ceiling hitting the bucket next to Amber’s chair. Any noise would suffice.

Amber looked up at him nonchalantly, a bag of dried banana strips in her hand. She did it so well: pretending not to notice that Jonathan had just ended another yelling match with his ex. It felt odd, as she never muffled her opinions when it came to clients or the other lawyers.

Jonathan, still hearing Linda’s voice bounce around his skull, looked up at the ceiling above her.

“When are they fixing this?”

“Today, supposedly,” Amber replied with a long sigh, brushing back her wavy auburn hair over her bony shoulders.

“If they don’t, we’ll find someone else who will.”

“Well, if the building weren’t a hundred years old.”

“I know, I know.” And he did. She’d reminded him enough. This squalor was the only space he and Dino had agreed on, and that’s with Dino’s insistence that they’d sublet the crappiest of the three offices to yet another lawyer, one who hardly ever showed his face, preferring instead to spend most days hunting for clients at funeral homes and hospitals. Jonathan had accepted the conditions ever since they’d haphazardly joined forces a long four years ago. Because good-paying clients give you choices. Because they were harder to come by these days. Because billable work is what ultimately pays the rent. He stared down the hall at Dino’s closed door.

“Soon,” Amber said quietly. “Very soon.”

“Yes, I’m counting the months,” he uttered, again eyeing her, “and I’m taking you away from this, too.”

She returned a tepid smile. She hadn’t yet said yes. Perhaps she understood Jonathan’s difficult decision. Two months earlier, he’d given Dino notice that he would be out by mid-spring. Out of the partnership that had only fomented frustration. Out on his own, and with whatever clients he’d manage to take. How Jonathan would afford Amber was still a huge question mark, but he’d promised himself to find a way, somehow.

Amber again gazed up at the ceiling. “If Katrina hits us, that leak could get a whole lot worse,” she said, her gaze turning snooty. “My computer isn’t waterproof, you know.”
Jonathan sighed. “We’ll get it done.”

Amber sometimes acted like a princess. She certainly dressed like one; she walked like one; but it annoyed him when she spoke like one—though her resume gave no hint of anything more than a modest upbringing in Baton Rouge and a few stints as a receptionist at law firms no bigger than Jonathan’s. But she was also damn good at what she did, and with the meager salary they’d settled on, she surprised everyone to become the firm’s miracle worker.

“Oh, I forgot,” Amber said, jumping to her feet and stretching her lean build, veiled by an orange sundress, over the edge of the cubicle. “This came in for you a little while ago.” It was a small, gift-wrapped package decorated with a lavender ribbon. “I bet it’s chocolate,” she added, barely disguising her smirk as she shook the box near her ear. “Can’t possibly be from a client.”

“Probably not a client,” Jonathan surmised. He didn’t have many left. His largest client—a subsidiary of a national shipbuilder—had moved offices to Norfolk in June and hired East Coast admiralty lawyers for their future legal needs. And his next largest had given him only a trickle of litigation work over the last year. And none of the remaining clients—all much smaller—would be so kind as to send him anything more than an occasional past due payment. He took the gift and turned toward his office.

“It’s gonna melt in that oven of yours.”

Jonathan’s office hadn’t had a working A/C in two weeks. He’d thought of taking the window unit near Amber’s cube, or even Dino’s. But that would mean war. He half-smiled, chuckled and shut the door.

He plopped down into his creaky chair and lobbed his feet up on the credenza. The ribbon came off easily, as did the neatly wrapped ivory paper. She was right. A box of candy, black, with a label that read “Golden Globes” in both English and what he assumed was Russian. Though he had never mastered Cyrillic, he still remembered enough to mumble the syllables.

“
Zolo
...
Zolotye Kupola
,” he whispered, deciphering the characters printed above an image of ornate domes of an orthodox church that covered the front packaging.

A chill suddenly crawled through his veins. Who would send him anything Russian? It had been nine years since his painful experience took him to that country. A client’s banal trial over a collision at sea had mushroomed into a perilous race to save his brother’s life, as well as his own. Now, this box of chocolates scared the bejesus out of him.

His hands began to perspire. Jonathan got back up, tossing the box onto his desk. He paused at the window and gazed out the grimy glass onto a quiet, sun-drenched Julia Street.
It can’t be
.

A flood of disturbing memories suddenly ransacked his thoughts: his brother lying in a hospital bed gasping for air in a run-down clinic in central Russia; his hand clenching his brother’s until his last glance; his final hard breath. But it wasn’t just what had happened there; it was everything else in his life that had collapsed since then, and as a consequence. He turned and gazed at the box, motionless, tempted to open it but fearing what more it would resurrect.

The eerie silence had returned, this time dragging with it more unbearable wounds from the past. He vented a long sigh as he flipped open the lid. A handwritten note slightly larger than a drink coaster rested on top of four rows of individual candies wrapped in gold-colored foil. He returned to the window with the note in hand and unfolded it slowly.

I need to see you. Urgent.

It was signed simply “M”. His heart began to pound hard at his chest. There was no phone number, no email address, nothing else—only a faint watermark at the center resembling a logo or coat of arms of sorts. The note’s brevity surprised him, but the sender didn’t. It was her, Mariya, just as he’d feared. That Russian hellion who’d murdered a man in cold blood right in front of him. A psychopath extraordinaire who’d both helped and tormented Jonathan nine years ago.

Jonathan rushed back to Amber. “Let me see the original package.”

His question triggered only her raised brow.

“The package!”

Amber shrugged. “It wasn’t mailed.”

Jonathan caught his breath. “But it’s from...Russia.”

“Russia?” she asked with an embellished frown. “What are you talking about? I told you, it wasn’t mailed. Some kid dropped it off.”

Jonathan opened Mariya’s note once more and gazed at the watermark. “Shit...” It suddenly hit him. “The Monteleon,” he mumbled, recognizing the coat of arms of the landmark hotel in the French Quarter. “Isn’t it?” He held the note a few inches from Amber’s face.

She turned to her computer and typed a search for the hotel’s website. An instant later, the screen confirmed his suspicion.

“Dammit, she’s here,” he said, gripping the walls of her cubicle till his fingers hurt.

“Who?”

“Nothing, nothing.”

He stepped back into his office, grabbed his jacket and brushed by Amber on his way to the stairs.

“Wait, wait—listen to this,” she said turning up the radio by her computer monitor. “It may really be headed this way, they’re saying. I’m worried now.”

Jonathan stopped and turned. “What will?”

“Katrina.”

The radio announcer spoke fast. “Folks, the National Hurricane Center is now advising that Katrina is turning northward over the Gulf and will probably make landfall in seventy-two hours or so...”

“That’s right,” a second announcer butted in. “Experts we talked to are saying it could become a Category Four—or even Five—real soon, and it could slam anywhere between New Orleans and Mobile, Alabama. We’ll have a better idea by tonight.”

“God...” Amber put her hands to her cheeks and stared vacantly at her boss.

Jonathan knew what this meant. Hell, there wasn’t a maritime lawyer who didn’t know what a hurricane that size could do. “That means landfall on Monday.”

“Guess I’ll take the day off, huh,” Amber said, her hands still over her jaw.

“Don’t trust weathermen.” Jonathan didn’t want her to bail without more certainty about the storm. A key deposition was scheduled for Tuesday, with her playing wingman—at least for appearances—and they needed all of Monday to prepare. Most importantly, it was for Cramer, the owner and president of his largest client, an engineering and logistics company with a handful of lucrative contracts with the Port of New Orleans and the State of Louisiana. Cramer was volatile but a fairly reliable, good-paying client that Jonathan wanted to keep happy—but a client who’d take a sudden schedule change with indignation, regardless of the storm.

Amber lowered the volume. “What if they’re right?”

“They’ve been wrong before; they’ll be wrong again.” Jonathan turned to leave and headed through the cramped guest sitting area between her cubicle and the front door.

“But you have a meeting.”

“Cancel it.”

“But it’s—”

“I’m leaving, so make up something.”

“Are you upset?” Amber asked, her voice tapering.

“No.”

“I mean, it’s not my business or anything...” Her words sputtered. “You don’t have kids and you’ve been divorced three years now—why’d you guys even talk? She’s in Idaho, for heaven’s sake.”

Jonathan froze. “Iowa.”

“And you haven’t even seen her in over a year.”

“Ten months.”

He stared at the frosted glass door with his name etched on the other side in between those of his two co-tenants—an order that still jabbed him with insult, as it did each time he walked in and out of this space.

“I don’t get it, but that’s just my two cents.”

Like being hit by a baseball bat, but without the pain. That’s how Jonathan took the assault. Amber—with her faux blue-blood demeanor, and her bad timing—had come out with all guns blazing, finally breaking her silence about all the crap she’d overheard since he’d hired her almost two years ago. He tilted his head to one side and stabbed Amber with scorn.

“I’m leaving for other reasons, if you must know.”

Jonathan wasn’t sure if he was more embarrassed than angry. Perhaps Amber was right. Yes, Linda and he hadn’t completely severed their ties, despite the long, drawn out divorce—an astoundingly lengthy fifteen-month legal battle to unwind a childless marriage with little property to divide. There was no logic to it then, nor now. Jonathan had confessed this to himself many times, even more so on the nights he’d staggered to bed with a full bottle of wine in his stomach. How could Amber not see this as odd? Especially given the strain she’d seen on his face time and time again. For a brief moment he pondered how ludicrous his tolerance seemed, but he couldn’t fathom changing anything, not yet anyway.

“Please,
never
bring up Linda again.”

Amber blushed, her eyes widening, and disappeared behind her cubicle wall without uttering another word.