In Firm Pursuit (17 page)

I
got settled in Jefferson's suite at the Residence Inn, while Special checked into another room two doors away. While I prepared for my conference call, Special took off on a shopping spree.

The suite had a spacious living room with a fully stocked kitchenette. I sat down on the couch and spread out several folders on the coffee table. I had to go over some discovery responses with a manager who'd been accused of age discrimination. The call lasted about forty minutes and went well. I had just hung up when my BlackBerry rang.

I figured it was Special checking in, but it turned out to be Shelia, my secretary. What now? I thought. Were they asking Shelia to turn over my expense reports?

“I'm calling to report another Paris sighting,” Shelia said, laughing.

The secretaries had given Haley the nickname “Paris,” in honor of Paris Hilton, because she was constantly trying to be the center of attention.

“I just thought you'd want to know that Paris has been sniffing around your office,” Shelia said.

“For what?” I asked.

“Not sure,” Shelia replied. “I just came back from the restroom a minute ago and caught her walking out.”

“Did she take anything?”

“Not that I could tell. When I asked if I could help with anything, she said one of the pleading files from the Randle case was missing and she thought it might still be in your office. But that was a bald-faced lie. I personally delivered all of the remaining files to her office myself, right after you were taken off the case.”

“Then what was she doing in my office?”

“I have no idea,” Shelia said. “But the girl looked as if I had just caught her shoplifting at Wal-Mart.”

I sighed. I really did not need any more crap from Haley right now.

“And, of course, she asked me if I knew where you were,” Shelia continued.

“What did you tell her?”

“Exactly what you told me to say. That you were out of the office on personal business. She tried to pump me for information, but I didn't give it up.”

I stretched out on the couch. “Thanks for the info, Shelia.”

“Wait, there's more,” she said. “I went into your office after she left and I could tell that the girl had been snooping around. When I dropped off your mail earlier this morning, your desk calendar was on yesterday's date. After Haley left, it was open to today's date.”

“That girl is going to give me a stroke,” I said.

“Well, you won't be by yourself. She just went through her third secretary.”

By the time I hung up, I was already debating whether
I should give Haley a call. Part of me wanted to let it ride. I was off the Randle case. There wasn't much trouble the girl could create for me now. But I needed to let her know that she should keep her nose out of my business. With some hesitation, I dialed her number.

“Hey, Haley,” I said as cheerfully as I could when she picked up. “Shelia told me you were looking for me. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Uh…no, not really.” I could tell she was surprised to hear from me. “I'm working on a motion in the Randle case,” she said. “I was looking for one of the pleading files, but I found it. I didn't realize that my secretary had it at her desk.”

Yeah, right.
“What kind of motion are you filing?”

She paused. “Well…uh, since you're off the case, I'm not sure it's appropriate for me to be discussing it with you.”

Whatever.
“No problem,” I said.

“Where are you?” Haley asked, trying hard to sound casual.

“I decided to take a personal day off,” I replied.

“Yeah, your secretary told me. Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” I said. “Everything's fine.”

“Are you at home?”

That's none of your damn business!
“If you need me for anything, you have my cell phone number. I gotta run.”

I hung up without waiting for her goodbye. The girl probably wanted to know where I was so she could run and tell Porter. Was he using Haley to keep track of what I was doing? If the two of them were plotting against me, there wasn't really a thing I could do about it. I had come
down here to deal with my husband. I needed to turn my energies back to
that
problem.

I walked over to the refrigerator and looked inside. I wanted a Diet Coke, but Jefferson did not believe in buying anything sugar-free or low in fat. I grabbed a regular Coke and returned to the couch. I wished I could shake the apprehension I felt at seeing the troubled look on my husband's face when he spotted me standing in the trailer.

I took a sip of Coke and started planning exactly how best to confront my husband about his big-breasted little assistant.

S
pecial meandered along the walkway at the Carlsbad Outlet Mall, her thoughts far from fashion.

A vivid picture of Jefferson's face when he first stepped inside the trailer was still etched in her mind. Horror, not happiness, shrieked from his eyes. Special did not want to believe it, but she actually thought something might have gone down between the girl and Jefferson.

Walking into Bebe, Special's eyes gravitated toward a pair of beige pants on the sale rack. She looked around for the dressing room, but didn't see it. Two salesgirls were busy chatting with each other.

“No such thing as good help anymore,” she mumbled to herself. She found a red leather skirt that had been marked down twice and purchased both items in her size without trying them on. Bebe's clothes were usually a perfect fit.

After seeing nothing that wowed her in Barney's, she bought a slice of pepperoni pizza and a strawberry banana smoothie, then resumed her shopping. Twenty minutes later, she tossed her packages into her car and drove back toward the Residence Inn. She was less than a mile away when a sign in the window of a Radio Shack caught her
attention. She made an abrupt U-turn and drove her Porsche into the Radio Shack parking lot.

It was just beginning to get dark by the time Special pulled into Jefferson's worksite. She was glad to find him alone in the trailer.

“I wish I could find a brother as hard-working as you,” she said as she walked in carrying a small sculpture under her arm.

Jefferson stared at her. “What're you doing here?”

“I was out shopping and saw something I thought would brighten this place up a bit. She set the sculpture on his desk. It was close to eighteen inches high and depicted a jazz musician blowing a sax. “You like it?”

“Uh…yeah,” Jefferson said, looking puzzled. “Thanks.”

Special picked up the sculpture and walked over to the back counter. “It'll look great sitting right here where everyone can see it.” She set it down, then stepped back to admire it.

When Special turned around to face Jefferson, his head was bent over a stack of invoices. She stared at him as if some admission might telepathically travel from his subconscious to hers. Special had always had a pretty cool relationship with Jefferson and it was hard coping with the disturbing thoughts that had been running through her mind all afternoon. If a man like Jefferson turned out to be a dog, there was no hope of her ever finding a decent guy.

“I'm about ready to pack up,” Jefferson said, glancing up at her. “But I have to tell you, I'm too tired to go out to dinner.”

“Vernetta couldn't care less about going out,” Special said. “She only came down here to be with you. So if y'all just want to kick it together in your room tonight, that's fine with me. I can catch a movie.”

“Thanks,” Jefferson said.

Special walked up to Jefferson's desk. “Mind if I talk to you for a second?”

He stared at her guardedly. “Sure, what's up?”

“Your wife was a little stressed out about your phone call last night.”

Jefferson's expression did not change, but he put down his pencil and folded his arms across his chest. “There was nothing for her to be concerned about. You know how Vernetta overreacts.”

Special nodded. “Yeah, she does have a tendency to do that sometimes. But when your man's been out of town for several weeks, then calls you in the middle of the night professing his undying love, you tend to start wondering if he's got something to feel guilty about.”

“I'll never understand how women think,” Jefferson said, his face stoic. “I certainly don't have anything to feel guilty about, Special.”

“I think maybe you might.”

One corner of Jefferson's mouth turned upward, but a smile did not follow. Special could tell he was getting pissed, but she was not ready to back off just yet.

“Did Vernetta send you over here?” Jefferson asked.

“Nope. She thinks I'm out shopping.”

“Then maybe that's where you need to be.” He picked up his pencil and went back to his invoices. He took
several pieces of paper from one pile and stacked them neatly on the left corner of his desk.

Special stayed planted just a couple of feet away. Jefferson looked up at her. “Since it seems like you plan on hanging around, why don't you have a seat, Special?”

She grabbed a chair and pulled it close to Jefferson's desk.

He looked her in the eye, started to speak, then stopped. She waited him out, hoping he was going to confide in her. For a second, though, she did not want him to continue. If he had some shocking admission to make, she wasn't sure she could handle it any better than Vernetta.

“I've known you for as long as I've known Vernetta,” Jefferson began, visibly fatigued. “And I know she's like a sister to you and that you care about her a lot. In fact, I've always considered you to be like a sister to me, too.”

Special smiled.

“And if you were my real sister sitting here talking to me, asking me what I think you're asking me…” His voice trailed off, then picked up again. “I'd tell you to mind your own damn business.”

Special was taken aback by Jefferson's response but tried not to show it. She held up under his angry gaze for as long as she could, then got up and put the chair back where she had found it.

“Since Vernetta thinks you're out shopping,” Jefferson said, “can I assume you don't plan on sharing this conversation with her?”

Special smirked. “If you don't have anything to feel guilty about, why're you concerned about my talking to her?”

“You just acknowledged that my wife has a tendency to overreact,” Jefferson said.

Special nodded. “Nah, I don't plan to tell her about our little talk. She'd probably be more mad at me than you anyway.”

Jefferson smiled for the first time. Special was headed for the sculpture when Jefferson quietly called out her name. She turned around to face him.

“I love my wife,” he said, the look on his face so earnest that it scared her. “And I'd never purposely do anything to hurt her.”

“So you're saying something happened, but it wasn't on purpose?”

Jefferson threw up his hands. “Damn! No, Special. That's not what I'm saying.”

“Okay, okay,” she said, backing off. The man was about to go ballistic. She continued to examine his face, praying that the sincerity she saw in his eyes was real. Anyway, she would find out soon enough.

Turning away from Jefferson so he could not see her hands, Special picked up the sculpture from the counter and pressed a tiny button on the right-hand side. The sculpture was equipped with a nanny cam video recorder. For the next forty-eight hours, it would record everything that went on inside the trailer. If something
was
going on between Jefferson and LaKeesha, the tape would tell all.

Special picked up her purse and was almost at the door when Stan walked in. As soon as he spotted her, his lips curled into a salacious smile and he made a beeline in her direction. Stan hit on her every chance he got, even though
Special's body language communicated that she thought the man was disgusting.

“How's the woman of my dreams?” Stan said, throwing a heavy arm across Special's shoulders. His big gut grazed her hip when he leaned in to kiss her on the cheek.

“I'm fine,” she said, squirming free. He was funky, dirty and needed a shave. “I was just leaving.”

“You don't have to go yet,” Jefferson said with a facetious chuckle.

“Uh, yes I do.” She stepped around Stan and grabbed the door handle.

“Hold on a minute, Special,” Jefferson said. “Hey, Stan, can I trouble you to take Special out to dinner tonight so she won't have to spend the evening by herself?”

“Hell yeah!” Stan's big smile displayed a gold tooth that had lost its sparkle. “I've been trying to get a date with this hottie for I don't know how long. Baby, I'ma show you just what a good time is all about.”

Special fired a nasty look in Jefferson's direction. “Thanks a lot,” she said. “I'll be sure to return the favor.”

C
hampions Sports Bar on Century Boulevard near LAX was packed with boisterous patrons. Ferris anxiously rubbed his hands together, trying not to make eye contact with Nathaniel Hall, who was sitting directly in front of him, an arm's length away.

The CFO had a plane to catch and had ordered Ferris to meet him for an update on the Henry Randle situation.

Ferris silently counted at least fifty other customers in the bar and was glad to be surrounded by so many people. No one would possibly do anything crazy to him with this many witnesses, he reassured himself.

“So did you get the documents back yet?” Hall asked.

Ferris knew the question was coming, but his neck muscles still tensed at hearing the words. “Well, um, no. Not yet.” Ferris's eyes darted around the room, which had flat-screen TVs on nearly every wall. “They…um…they haven't found them.”

Hall's wrinkled fingers balled into fists. “What do you mean, they haven't found them?” the CFO hissed. He had a round, angry face, chiseled with thick age lines. A nervous twitch caused his right eye to blink uncon
trollably. “I thought you said the police found the documents in Carruthers's car?”

“They did.”

“Well?”

Ferris's heart began to beat erratically. “They're missing.”

“What the hell do you mean, they're missing?”

Ferris cringed. “Our private investigator has a friend in the department who promised to get them back for us. But somebody else had already checked them out of the property room by the time he got there.”

“Why would anybody else care about those documents?” Hall demanded.

“I'm not sure. An LAPD detective by the name of Coleman has them.”

“Is he investigating the case?”

“Not officially.”

“Then what in the hell does he want with those documents?”

Ferris noticed a couple at the next table staring in their direction. “Please calm down,” Ferris whispered, leaning in over the table. “We don't want to make a scene.”

“Don't tell me to calm down!” Hall said in a restrained shout. “You've botched this thing from day one. And just in case you've forgotten, your ass is on the line, too.”

“I'm fully aware of that,” Ferris replied, clutching his hands to stop them from shaking.

“What do you know about this Coleman asshole?”

Ferris wanted to lie and say he knew nothing, but the information Cliff had passed on about an hour ago would probably surface anyway.

“He's a close friend of Special Moore.”

“What are you talking about? Who's Special Moore?”

“She's the best friend of Vernetta Henderson, that attorney at O'Reilly & Finney who was handling the Randle case. The one our investigator took the pictures of with Hamilton Ellis.”

“And why do I care about this woman?”

“Because Coleman took her up to that street where Karen's car went off the road. They're apparently investigating the case.”

Hall lowered his head until his nose almost touched the table. He began making a loud wheezing noise. Ferris knew Hall was an asthmatic and assumed he was in the midst of an attack. Just as Ferris was about to call for help, Hall's head bolted up and he reached for his Scotch.

Fear prompted Ferris to continue talking. “According to my source, Coleman is a bit of a slug. He's just hanging around waiting for retirement. He apparently has the hots for this woman, who considers herself an amateur sleuth. He told one of his buddies that he's humoring her by letting her think they're really investigating the case together.” Ferris paused, afraid to deliver the rest of the information. “My source also tells me it's possible Coleman showed her the documents and may have even given her a copy.”

The CFO slammed his glass on the table, which drew the attention of their waitress and several bar patrons. Hall lowered his voice, but the venom in it made up for the reduced volume. “You have to get those documents back. If they get into the wrong hands, we could all be in big trouble.”

“I know, I know,” Ferris said, closing his eyes.

“Where are we on the Randle case?” Hall demanded.

“We're hoping to get the trial date moved to give us some time to set up a mediation. But that hasn't happened yet.” Ferris braced himself for another explosive display from Hall. “We've been trying to get it settled, but Randle's attorney, Hamilton Ellis, says he won't talk settlement with anyone except Ms. Henderson.”

Hall drew in a breath. “If the guy only wants to deal with Henderson,” Hall said, scratching his cheek, “then get her back on the case.”

“What? How are we going to explain that?” Ferris asked.

“You figure it out,” Hall barked again. “Hell, tell her we screwed up. Just do whatever you have to do to get the case settled. And get those documents back!” The CFO took another sip of his Scotch.

Ferris glanced around the bar again. When his sad eyes landed on a young Mexican-looking woman at the table to his right, she turned away.

“And find out why this Coleman guy has those documents. If anybody figures out what the hell they are, we're all going straight to jail. So you need to fix this. Now!”

Ferris did not say a word. How had he gotten himself mixed up in all of this? He wanted to ask about Karen, but was too afraid to even utter her name. He had tried to convince himself that her death had indeed been an accident, but the timing was simply too convenient for even him to buy that story.

Framing Henry Randle to get him out of the company had been a stupid idea. What had he been thinking? He
should have stood up to them from the start. He was as much a victim as Karen.

This was all Henry Randle's fault, Ferris thought as he rubbed his forehead. The man should've just done his job and kept his complaints to himself.

Ferris had to get his hands on those documents. Too many careers were riding on it.