Impasse (29 page)

“We're flush,” he said. “Start acting like it.”

He was already spending Joe Roff's money—another likely score. The guy hadn't been just bragging when he'd scoffed at Reginald Dugan. Roff could run tens of thousands of dollars through the firm in his first two months as a client, Clay said. The retainer alone would be fifty grand. He'd also purchased all Katherine's remaining prints from Brad Bear's studio at full price before leaving town, which covered a Sub-Zero quite nicely. His patronage, along with the purchase by the still-mysterious Archie Brooks, had prompted Brad to ask for another series. Katherine was thinking of doing something similar to the declining whaling industry theme, maybe shots of decaying textile buildings. A spring jaunt around New England for a few days would be just the thing for her, she thought. Bed-and-breakfasts at night, wine and antiquing at quaint shops by day, all of it bookended by shooting sessions to catch the morning and evening light. Perhaps Clay could sneak away with her. She would ask him when he arrived in half an hour, she decided. It would be about the time the incompetent stove installers were due to leave.

She had the workmen done and shooed out by the time Clay rang the programmable doorbell, and she answered the door in pocketless jeans and a new bodysuit—casual, but sharp, something a woman living on the beach might lounge in on her deck.

He still had his shirt and tie on, though the suit jacket was absent.
No fitted shirt,
she noticed. He'd been putting on a little weight since they'd kicked the firm into high gear. She still had to resist hugging him.

“Enjoying yourself?” he said.

“It's not furnished yet, but the kitchen appliances are being installed, and I bought the model couch in the living room.”

“Good memories?”

She grinned. “It's already been broken in.”

“Twice,” he reminded her with a smirk.

Katherine blinked. She and Clay had only done it once. He could only mean Dugan. “I meant you and me.”

“Of course.” He gave her a swat on the butt and walked past her. “We should talk business.”

“Okay.”

“I'm putting together more deals, and things are happening quickly, but we haven't really defined your role going forward.”

“My role?”

“Well, you're a partner for purposes of past and pending accounts, but you're not a lawyer.”

“Right.” Katherine felt a rising panic. She was suddenly certain he was about to tell her that she wasn't part of the firm going forward. Once the Molson money was distributed and the other small cases were wrapped up, he'd have no need for her. Without an income stream, she'd be broke in a million-dollar home.

“We need a new job for you,” he said.

Katherine breathed a sigh of relief. “Of course. I'm absolutely willing to work.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“I'll do whatever it takes. My photographs have been selling.”

Clay evaluated her, cocking his head and thinking aloud. “You present as sophisticated and professional. You also know a lot of the locals.”

“And I throw marvelous parties.”

“Maybe the head of PR. Or personal assistant. I've mentioned the term
client liaison
. Any of those titles strike you?”

“Personal assistant sounds too much like a secretary.”

“So I'm guessing no on that one.”

“What would the head of PR do?”

“Promote the firm. Make me look good. You always advocated for Stu.”

“I can do that.”

“Help me find associate attorneys.”

“Sure.”

“And bring in clients. That's the most important.”

“Already proved my worth there, haven't I?”

“Indeed.” He paused. “I can't justify a full fifty percent of profits, but I can give you a generous salary or commission. You'll be taken care of.”

Katherine didn't like the sound of it, but she put on a happy face. “Do we need a contract?” she said cheerily.

“Don't worry. We can work it out.”

“Shall we spit on our hands and shake?”

“Funny. Keep it up. Speaking of clients, Joe is coming to town.”

“Yeah. So?”

“We're close to signing him. We should entertain him while he's here.”

“Take him to Brandi's. He seems the type.”

Brandi's was an underground strip club at the north end of New Bedford in a converted bank building. Both Stu and Clay had prosecuted cases out of the joint—DUIs, assaults, possession of controlled substances. The manager, a tall guy people called Dinky, had been sent away for hiring underage girls to work the bar, and occasionally the customers. He was replaced by a small guy who took his nickname and sold ecstasy and Oxy at the old drive-up teller window through its vacuum-tube-canister delivery system.

“He asked about you,” Clay said. “He thinks you're ‘classy.'”

“I
am
classy.”

“You're also the new head of PR, and we need to PR him.”

“What do you suggest?”

“He won't talk business in public. We'll have him here. This beach house is where we'll impress clients away from the office. I can't entertain at my bachelor condo.”

“The house isn't furnished yet.”

“So put out some folding chairs. Or rent furniture if you have to. Just have it ready. Appetizers and alcohol, too. And I'd like you to have a certain feel about you.”

“What kind of feel?”

“I dunno. Professionally alluring. Business sexy.”

Katherine gave Clay a hard look. “You'd like that, or
he
would?”

“Look, we agreed that we'd do what we had to do to get where we wanted to be. I'm doing my part. This is your part. It's the job you wanted, right?”

Katherine understood. It was a negotiation. Everything was. Life was. “If I do this, I want you to spend a few days driving around New England with me while I work on my new photo series.”

Clay considered her counterproposal. Finally he nodded. “All right. Sure. I would love to spend a few days driving around New England with you.”

 

CHAPTER 35

Audry's follow-up message was curt and professional.

If you are not Clay Buchanan or Kaylee McIntire, you are not an authorized user of this site. I am setting up a trace now.

She was bluffing. There was no trace.

No, you're not,
Stu wrote.

The response was immediate, informal, and completely without capitalization:
who is this? clay? don't b an ahole
.

Stu debated. His fingers hung over the keys, then stroked them.
I'm your drinking buddy
. There was virtual silence. He typed again.
Three coats of varnish can protect a floor, but not a lace tablecloth.

wtf? no …

Yes.

i need more.

Stu thought hard. He couldn't say anything that identified him; the messages would be stored if Audry didn't delete them.
You've dated men older than me, the bitchy woman never said happy birthday, and your boss's karma is off.

omg! nfw!!!!!!!!!!!

I have no idea what you just said.

god, that does sound like you

It is.

i don't think so, but …

Your interview with the firm was less than five minutes.

if this is clay, i'm quitting in less than five minutes.

The gate agent was calling Stu's flight over the intercom and had been for several minutes, he realized. He had to go.

It's easier to prove in person,
he typed.
Can you pick me up at Logan tonight? At car rental. Nine o' clock???

i don't know

I'll just hope then.

no promises

PS very important—tell no one.

The gate agent announced last call for passengers boarding Stu's flight. He had to go. He typed a final message.

I trust you, Audry. I have to.

Then he ran for the gate.

*   *   *

The euphoria of human connection evaporated quickly, and Stu regretted the entire exchange by the time he settled into his seat.

Audry?

Contacting Katherine would have made sense. Clay would have made sense. But Audry? She was a part-time research assistant. He hardly knew her. She was probably on the phone right now with her BFD, Stu thought, or whatever the hell women called their friends.

I'm so weak.

He cursed himself. He'd resolved to remain anonymous until he snuck off the West Coast. And he'd vowed to fully investigate before he revealed himself. That was the plan. Then he'd outed himself to the very first person to ask who he was.
To be fair, she was the third person,
he thought,
if I count the ticket agent and security at the Fairbanks airport.
Regardless, he was spicing himself the same flavor of dumb as every fleeing defendant he'd prosecuted for years. He'd given Audry only dubious reasons to believe him, less reason to pick him up, and no reason to keep his secret. It was maybe the stupidest, most impulsive thing he'd ever done—next to falling through a roof, wading a chest-deep river, or throwing a hatchet at a stoned pilot's ass.

She won't be there,
he thought.
But the police might. Or a killer.

He had not yet puzzled out who besides Ivan might want him dead or where the culprit might be; he hadn't had the chance while sweating his way on and off planes. Hadn't wanted to either. Too awful. Too personal. But things were less immediate now that the crime scenes were in his rearview mirror. Now he could study the facts and inferences to be derived therefrom. He needed to. He was out of Alaska, the most likely home of his suspect. He would soon be in New England, the only other possibility.

He spent the first hour recalling and reviewing what he knew about Ivan. The guy lived alone, he was a pilot, he ran a crummy little business, he smoked and very likely sold pot, and he had guns. Those were the basics. But he had no way to profit from Stu's death. No animosity. No clear motive. He was not a leader type. He was a better candidate to be a henchman, hireling, or lackey with someone else pulling the strings. Money was the simplest motive, and Ivan
did
have his credit card number, Stu realized. Ivan could have been working for an organized credit card fraud gang in Fairbanks. Such gangs were common and sometimes violent. They collected active card numbers in any way possible and could have run up a tab in the months Stu was gone. Stu considered it. They wouldn't have needed to kill him.
Possible, but not compelling.

It was also possible Ivan had simply forgotten him. Gotten stoned. Mixed up the days. Something. Perhaps he hadn't come back because he was scared Stu would sue—which was absolutely true. Much more plausible, but didn't explain his cryptic comments:
I was
supposed
to leave you there.

A flight attendant in a sharp blue vest and short blond hair arrived to offer Stu a pack of nuts in a blue foil pouch. She had a long straight nose and smooth skin, and gave him a polite smile. After a half year living with Blake and scrounging for every morsel, he had two immediate reactions. He wanted to thank her profusely for the food, and he wanted to hug her, acts that were emotionally unrelated. He thanked her, but without the hug, instead giving her his best smile. In return, she gave him a look of distaste, making it clear her smile had been polite
only
. Then he remembered his unruly hair and beard.
Not pretty.
Equally offensive were his ratty jeans stained with rabbit blood, which hung limp and baggy around his thinned waist, and his shirt with yellowed armpits.

She quickly moved on and left him to his unpleasant theories about murderous Alaskan conspirators. More sinister was the thought that someone from his prosecution past had known Stu's plans and had been in cahoots with Ivan. Perhaps a defendant Stu had put away. Unlikely, but the theory was viable. Stu decided to make a list of the more sinister defendants he'd sent away and their approximate release dates. He called back his squeamish attendant and requested a paper and pen. Then he promptly fell asleep.

*   *   *

The descent into Logan woke him. Stu had the bizarre sensation that his entire trip had been a dream, and he had the urge to ask the fat woman spilling into his seat what month it was. But his worn backpack, which was stuffed under the seat as near to him as possible like a security blanket, shattered the illusion.

He had no luggage aside from the pack, which he slid onto his back instinctively before exiting, like a suit of armor. Then he pulled the deerskin cap over his head.
No chance anyone will recognize me,
he thought.
Although my Unabomber look might draw security's attention
.

Stu strode past the car rental desks without giving them a glance. Anyone watching for him would expect him to stop and scan the desks as soon as he saw them. Instead he went directly to an exit and walked outside, where he waited on the sidewalk for five minutes. When he could stand it no longer, he went to another door and reentered, surveying the room from the other direction.

She was there.

Audry.

The middle-aged novice associate attorney stood in front of the Avis counter, checking her phone for messages. She wore tapered jeans tucked into brown leather boots and a billowy navy blouse with a low-cut cowl neck. A russet-colored belt defined her waist. The outfit looked like it had been thrown together, but somehow it was also fashionable—innocuous and pleasant at once.

Stu took a deep breath and stared straight ahead. He walked by without looking at her.