Heat Wave (5 page)

Chastened, Officer Sulkowski had shredded
Meredith’s ticket and deleted it from his computer.

Jerry Felton’s situation was a bit more
complicated. Caleb had spent several hours at the District
Attorney’s office reviewing the indictment, which the DA planned to
announce at six p.m., timed so that the local newscasts would carry
it live. Brogan’s Point might not be the biggest metropolis in
Massachusetts, but when a town manager was accused of embezzling a
hefty chunk of change from the town’s pension fund, it was the
stuff of headlines. And the DA was no slouch when it came to
exploiting the media.

Caleb decided his best strategy was to
preempt the DA. He set up his own press conference for four p.m. on
the steps of Town Hall. Felton, who claimed he enjoyed schmoozing
the press, experienced an unexpected bout of stage fright, and
Caleb worked with him to craft a statement that said little and
committed to nothing other than his innocence. “Read the
statement,” Caleb instructed him, “and then shut up and let me do
the talking.”

As far as he could tell, most reporters were
the illegitimate offspring of jackals and football fanatics: stoked
on adrenaline, hungry, determined to run up the score, eager to
proclaim their sentiments at top volume and equally eager to feast
on whatever carrion materialized during a news cycle. Caleb knew
how to deal with them. As a defense attorney, he had to.

He felt confident as the press conference
began. He stared down at the seething pack of journalists at the
bottom of the steps leading to Town Hall’s main entrance and
congratulated himself on having set the scene so that he and Felton
literally occupied the high ground. But then he spotted Meredith
lurking at the rear of the crowd and his brain froze. Briefly,
thank God. It was much too hot that afternoon for anything to stay
frozen for long.

Everything south of his brain registered the
day’s heat. He wanted to strip off his jacket and tie and roll up
his sleeves. He wouldn’t mind seeing Meredith strip off a couple of
layers of clothing, either.

He forced his mind back to Felton’s
indictment and the mob of sports-fan-jackals at the foot of the
steps. They yelled questions at him, and he deftly answered those
questions without really answering them. All he had to do was
convey the message that Felton would be exonerated.

Next to him, Felton squirmed slightly. Caleb
knew Felton wanted him to go after Sheila Valenti, accuse her,
shout, “Liar, liar, pants on fire.” But now was not the time to
attack her credibility. Other than establishing that Felton was
innocent, the purpose of this press conference was to show what a
fair, reasonable, dedicated public servant the guy was. A man of
integrity. A man who felt only sorrow at his underling’s betrayal
and her fall from grace. No need for finger-pointing and vengeance.
Caleb would slice her testimony to ribbons after he’d had a chance
to analyze it.

“Isn’t Mr. Felton’s leave of absence an
admission of guilt?” one of the reporters shouted.

Beside Caleb, Felton twitched. Caleb touched
his client’s arm to keep him from leaping to his own defense.
“Brogan’s Point needs to be managed by someone who isn’t
preoccupied by a criminal investigation,” Caleb said. “Jerry Felton
needs to devote himself to putting this allegation to rest and
restoring his reputation and his honor. He’s making the town’s best
interests his top priority, and at this juncture, the town’s best
interest is to let Regina Stoller handle the day-to-day demands of
running the town while he focuses on defending himself against this
baseless indictment. At such time as he can resume his position as
town manager, he will do so. That’s all we have time for,” he
concluded, glancing conspicuously at his watch and offering the
media what he hoped was a gracious smile. “Thank you all.” With
that, he clicked off the microphone’s switch and searched the
crowd, hoping Meredith hadn’t departed.

She hadn’t. She remained where she’d stood
throughout the press conference, gazing in his direction, while all
around her, reporters murmured into their DVR’s, scribbled notes
onto pads, and conferred with one another about whether they had
enough time to grab a beer before the DA held his press conference.
A breeze fluttered across the green, catching a few strands of
Meredith’s pale hair and pressing her skirt against her legs. Nice
legs, Caleb noticed, discerning their shape through the fabric.

Of course she had nice legs. She was
gorgeous. He bet she’d be even more gorgeous racing across the
beach in half a bikini.

Inappropriate thought. He was her attorney.
She was a schoolteacher. A southern gentlewoman—not that he, a
native New Yorker transplanted to the greater Boston area, was all
that knowledgeable about southern gentlewomen. The southerners he’d
known in college and law school were certainly no gentler than he
was. As a matter of fact, they’d been a lot rowdier. They’d studied
hard and partied harder. They’d been brainy good-ol’-boys—and a few
good-ol’-girls—who considered themselves profoundly adventurous and
open-minded for having ventured all the way to New England to
attend college. He’d dated a girl from Baton Rouge for a
while—Daisy or Violet, some flower or other—but gentle would not
have been the word he’d choose to describe her. As he recalled, she
could outdrink him, and frequently did, and after her fourth or
fifth drink, she’d generally wind up dancing on a table top or a
window sill. She’d been good in bed, and she’d had a sweet drawl.
They’d had some good times before moving on.

Meredith didn’t seem like the sort of woman
who would down five beers and dance on a table top. She was polite.
Well bred. Proper enough to be humiliated by a trivial incident.
The last thing Caleb should be doing was thinking about how sexy
she must have looked during that incident.

Had she come to Town Hall in search of him,
or just out of curiosity? The press conference hadn’t been
publicized beyond the media, but it wasn’t exactly a secret,
either. Anyone venturing into this part of town would have noticed
that something was going on on the steps of the building.

Yet now that the press conference was done,
she appeared in no hurry to leave. She must be here to talk to him.
He didn’t want to risk descending the steps to her, though. If he
got too close to the reporters, they’d pepper him with more
questions or probe for inside information about the indictment, the
defense’s strategy, and any dirt they could find on Felton.

Hoping he had Meredith’s attention, Caleb
motioned with his head toward the building’s double doors, then
raised his eyebrows in what he hoped she would interpret as an
invitation to join him inside. She quirked her eyebrows as well,
and approached the steps.

Smiling, Caleb took Felton’s arm and led him
back into the building. He could tell Felton wanted to speak to the
journalists, to plead his case and cast aspersions on Sheila
Valenti. Caleb had to get him away from the podium before he
succumbed to temptation. “I want you to listen to me,” he said once
they were standing inside the vestibule, the doors safely shut
behind them. “You are not to speak to the press. At all. About
anything. Some may show up at your house later. What you will say
to them is, ‘Under advisement from my attorney, I have no
comment.’”

“Can I at least say I’m innocent?” Felton
sounded like a petulant child.

Caleb shook his head. “Repeat after me:
‘Under the advisement of my attorney, I have no comment.’”

Felton rolled his eyes but obediently
muttered the words Caleb had fed him.

Caleb nodded. “I mean it,
Jerry. We’ve got a very long road ahead of us. You slip up now, you
make one misstatement, no matter how innocuous, and it could cause
you huge problems down the road. So what are you going to say?
To
anyone
—not just
journalists but your next-door neighbor, your doctor, and the
chatty clerk at the supermarket check-out counter?”

Jerry sighed, then said, “Under advisement
from my attorney, I have no comment.”

“Very good.”

One of the massive oak double-doors inched
open and Jerry shrank back a step, apparently expecting to be
confronted by a microphone-waving reporter. When Meredith slipped
inside, Caleb felt a tiny knot of tension inside him unravel. He
shouldn’t be so relieved that she’d understood his signal, but he
was.

Felton looked perplexed. “It’s okay,” Caleb
told him. “She’s got nothing to do with your case. Now, I want you
to leave through the back door, where you’re a lot less likely to
run into any of those folks.” He waved toward the doors, once again
shut. “Go straight to your car, get in, and drive home. If by some
chance, some reporter is lying wait for you by your car, what are
you going to say?”

Felton sighed again, once again the sulky
child, annoyed at being nagged. But he dutifully recited his line:
“Under advisement from my attorney, I have no comment.”

“That’s the spirit. Go on home. I’ll talk to
you tomorrow.” He fixed Felton with a firm stare. Shoulders
slumping slightly, Felton vanished through an inner door, heading
to the exit at the rear of the building.

Caleb turned back to Meredith—and felt his
temperature spike. No reason for it; the Town Hall building was a
century old, like so many civic buildings in the charming towns
surrounding Boston, but it had been renovated and retrofitted. It
boasted indoor plumbing, electricity, and blessed air
conditioning.

The air conditioning didn’t prevent a film
of sweat from gathering at the nape of his neck. At work, Heather
often teased him to wear his hair shorter, but he liked it the
length it was, except when he was overheated. Like right now.

He tugged the knot of his tie to loosen it
and smiled at Meredith. “So, Ms. Benoit, things turned out okay for
you.”

“Did they?” She didn’t seem at all hot. Then
again, she was wearing a skirt, a short-sleeved blouse, and
sandals. Her toenails, he noted, were polished the same pearly
shade as her fingernails. “I wasn’t sure. I got your text this
morning, but it seemed…kind of cryptic.”

“I’m sorry. I was rushed. What did I
text?”

“Done,” she said.

He hesitated, thinking she
would continue, but she remained silent. “That’s it?
Done
?”

“That’s what you texted me. Just that one
word.”

“Shit.” He smiled
contritely. “Sorry about the language. I just…um…” He wasn’t used
to being tongue-tied, but Meredith scrambled his brain.
Gentlewoman? Sorceress was more like it. “I got your citation
tossed. I was racing to a meeting with the DA, and I meant to tell
you the matter was resolved, but I guess I was thinking,
done.
Like checking an
item off my to-do list.”

She offered a shy smile. “Well. Thank
you.”

“No problem.”

“Will you be mailing me a bill?”

“Forget it.” At her dubious expression, he
added, “If I was going to charge you, I would have sent you a
longer text message.”

Her smile widened. She had a sense of humor.
Definitely a good thing. “I know lawyers charge by the hour. I
didn’t know you also charge by the word.”

“We’re tricky that way.”

“I do intend to pay you.”

“Not necessary. It took me less than ten
minutes to get the situation squared away. At my hourly rate, that
comes to…” He pretended to calculate the amount. “Zero.”

“That doesn’t seem fair.”

“It’s okay. I’ll more than make up for it by
what I charge Jerry Felton.” Still, her smile melted into a
troubled expression, a delicate frown line denting the bridge of
her nose. “Tell you what—treat me to dinner and we’ll call it
even.”

Whoa. Where had that come
from? She was a
client
, for God’s sake.

No, she wasn’t. If she were a client, he’d
be charging her for the ten minutes he’d spent with Officer
Sulkowski this morning. Lawyers didn’t charge by the hour. They
charged by the minute.

But if he wasn’t charging her, he wasn’t
working for her. And if she wasn’t too much of a southern
gentlewoman, she wouldn’t be too shocked by the prospect of taking
a man out for dinner.

Her frown vanished and her smile returned,
if a bit hesitantly. “All right,” she said.

A line from that song he’d heard at the
Faulk Street Tavern yesterday floated through his head. Something
about the devil in him. Something about a burning flame. Something
about being torn apart.

Meredith Benoit was taking him out to
dinner. Just the thought of it made him hot.

They agreed to meet at the Lobster Shack at
six-thirty. Meredith had suggested dining somewhere a bit fancier,
but Caleb had said the Lobster Shack was fine. She considered
offering to pick him up and drive him to the unpretentious seafood
café, which stood on one of the wharfs where fishing boats docked
at the end of their runs, but that would make this dinner seem like
a date. And it wasn’t. There was nothing romantic going on between
her and Caleb, nothing at all. She was simply doing what she
could—what he would allow—so she could repay her debt to him.

That she found Caleb Solomon ridiculously
attractive was irrelevant. He wasn’t her type. He was a lawyer,
after all.

Every lawyer she’d ever known valued winning
over the truth. It was all about winning, not about seeking
justice. Of course there were noble lawyers, passionate and moral
in their fight to protect the civil rights of citizens, to defend
freedoms, to remove heinous villains from society so they could no
longer hurt anyone. But most lawyers were like her father, her
brother, and her brother-in-law, interested not in righting wrongs
but in winning, winning, winning.