Mortal Crimes: 7 Novels of Suspense (51 page)

Over Mr. Cornhardt’s shoulder, she spotted Mallory, one of the building managers, talking to a burly man wearing a Fire Department windbreaker. She excused herself and jogged over to them.

You must have very bad luck.

The matter-of-fact statement echoed in her head.

First her missing document. And now this. It was certainly beginning to look like if it weren’t for bad luck, she’d have no luck at all.

She approached Mallory and the firefighter and cleared her throat.

“Oh, Ms. Higgins,” Mallory squeaked when she noticed Aroostine standing there, “I’m so sorry to have to tell you this—”

Aroostine took pity on her and finished the sentence, “My apartment caught on fire. I talked to the Patels and Mr. Cornhardt.”

Mallory released the tension she’d been holding in her shoulders. “Obviously, The Delano will replace anything that’s been damaged or destroyed by the fire or smoke damage.”

“Great.” Aroostine smiled weakly. “So, what exactly happened, and, more important, when can I get into my apartment?”

“You 609?” the firefighter interrupted.

“I guess so. My friends call me Aroostine, though.” She surprised herself with the lame attempt at a joke.

That earned her a reluctant chuckle. “Well, Aroostine, an electrical fire started in the wall, which blew your surge protector, melting your computer and destroying pretty much everything in your home office as a result of a malfunctioning sprinkler.” He threw Mallory a dark, disapproving look at the mention of the sprinkler failure.

“Melted my computer?” Aroostine repeated stupidly. “Like, my hard drive?”

“Afraid so.”

For the first time since her neighbors had broken the news, the enormity of what had happened hit her in full.

“Aroostine? Are you okay?” Mallory asked, a look of concern on her face.

“I … just … I have a trial starting in a little over a week. All my notes…”

“Surely you back up to the Cloud? Or keep a copy at the office?” the firefighter said in disbelief.

“Usually, both. But, not these notes.”

“Why not?” Mallory asked, her concern morphing into disapproval.

Aroostine closed her eyes and willed herself not to pass out. She swallowed and said, “It’s a long story. It doesn’t matter.”

She wasn’t about to tell the property manager and some random District of Columbia fireman that she was so insecure about her trial abilities that she didn’t want anyone else to stumble across her opening, closing, and witness examinations and cross-exams until they were final.

Pride goeth before the fall
, her adoptive father’s voice rang in her ears.

She almost laughed. She’d never truly understood that particular adage until this very moment. Fat lot of good it did her now.

“Anyway,” she pressed. “Can I get into my place?”

Mallory and the firefighter exchanged a look.

“I’m sorry, but no,” he said.

“Look—what’s your name, anyway?”

“Pete Richards, ma’am.”

“Look, Mr. Richards, I’ve been out in the woods all morning, and I need to take a shower, change my clothes, and get something to eat before I go into work. Because
apparently
I need to recreate my trial prep notes from scratch. So, can you please stop being a bureaucrat and let me into my apartment?”

“No can do. Your walls are still hot. And it’s smoky in there. It wouldn’t be safe.” His voice was kind, but his face was implacable.

Aroostine felt tears welling up in her eyes and forced them back. “What am I supposed to do?”

Mallory hurried to reassure her. “We can put you up in the model apartment temporarily. And I’m sure I can get the office to approve a petty cash dispersal so you can get some clothes and toiletries. It’ll just be for a night or two. Luckily the damage is confined to your study.”

Aroostine shook her head. The last thing she wanted to do was to hang around the building if she couldn’t access her place. “I have my bank card on me, thank goodness. I’ll just … stay with a friend.” As she said the words, she realized she
did
have at least one friend in this miserable town.

She’d call Rosie from the back of a cab. They could recreate the work. Hell, her loss would inure to Rosie’s benefit—she’d let the junior attorney take the lead on a witness or two. She really didn’t have a choice. Not if she still planned to win this trial.

“Good luck,” Pete Richards called after her as she trudged to the corner to hail a cab.

CHAPTER TEN

Rosie met Aroostine at the door of her Columbia Heights townhouse.

“Come in, it’s cold out there,” she said by way of greeting, pulling Aroostine inside.

Aroostine looked around and tried not to gape at the exposed brick walls, the orange and red canvas hanging over the fireplace, and the abundance of dark, rich wood and sumptuous fabrics.

“This is gorgeous. Did you do all this yourself?”

The townhome was the picture of urban sophistication.

Rosie blushed. “No. When I saved enough for a down payment for a house, my parents surprised me by hiring an interior designer to furnish it. They said I’d be living out of the IKEA As-Is room forever on a government lawyer’s salary. You know how it is, being young and single—I’m sure your family’s the same way.”

Young and single.
A pang of guilt plucked at Aroostine’s conscience. But she decided this wasn’t the right time to mention to her closest friend in D.C. that, oh, by the way, she had a husband back home.

Instead she focused on the notion of the Higgenses hiring a decorator and swallowed a giggle.

“Um, back home nobody really has their house decorated by a professional”

Rosie cocked her head. “Really?”

Aroostine thought of the roosters and folk art Americana that most of her parents’ friends favored. They picked up their tchotchkes at the craft stalls that dotted the annual Apple Festival not at some high-end, European furniture store.

“Really,” she assured her friend.

“Huh. Anyway, speaking of being single—”

“Yeah?”

“Somebody was asking about you.”

“Asking about me?”

“You have an admirer,” Rosie teased.

Aroostine felt her face grow warm.

“Mitchell?” she guessed.

“You nailed it,” Rosie confirmed. “He’s cute—I think so, at least. I didn’t even know he was single. He’s always so serious and focused at work, we’ve never talked about his personal life. Not until
you
showed up, that is.”

She wasn’t sure how to respond. This was probably the best chance she’d have to mention the small matter of her marital status. But she really didn’t feel like talking about Joe.

“Uh, so, I could really use a shower,” she said, both because she was desperate to change the subject and because it was true.

“Oh, of course! I’m sorry. After the day you’ve had, I’m sure you could. Follow me.”

Rosie led her up the narrow spiral staircase and down a short corridor.

“Here’s the guest room. There should be towels and shampoo and stuff in the bathroom. I’ll grab you a pair of sweats and leave them on the bed.”

“Thank you, seriously, so much. But, um, I don’t really think sweats are appropriate for the office, even on a Saturday,” Aroostine said gently.

She gave Rosie’s gray leggings and long-sleeved t-shirt a pointed look to suggest she might also want to change before they went into work.

Rosie cocked her head and looked bemused.

“What?” Aroostine asked.

“There is
no way
we’re working today. We’re going to hang out and relax, then eat Chinese takeout, watch girlie movies, and drink a bottle of good red wine.”

Aroostine gave her the same look back.

“Are you crazy? One, we have jury selection in
six days.
Trial starts in nine days. I just lost all my notes, and Hernandez granted the motion
in limine
—which reminds me, did the Clerk’s Office get back to you. Please tell me they did and the whole thing’s been resolved.”

“Not yet. The guy did say it would take him a while to research it. So I’m sure, eventually, it’ll get straightened out.”

“What’s a while?”

Rosie chewed on her bottom lip for a few long seconds, then she admitted, “it could take as long as a week.”

“A week? We don’t have a week. That settles it: we’re
definitely
not taking the day off.”

“Oh, yes, we are,” Rosie informed her.

Aroostine studied her for a long moment.

“No way.”

Rosie held her ground. “Listen, you’re the boss, but this week has
sucked
—I mean, even without your place catching on fire it sucked. The fire is just the cherry on this crap sundae. You deserve a day to recharge. No, strike that, you
need
a day to recharge. We’ll get up at the crack of dawn and work all day tomorrow. Deal?”

Aroostine bit her lip and considered Rosie’s plan. It
had
been a miserable week.

“Okay, but I don’t drink.”

“You do tonight,” Rosie said, and her mouth curved into a grin.

Aroostine rolled her eyes and headed into the bathroom. She shoved her worries about the trial, Joe, and the ridiculous notion of a romance with Mitchell to the back of her head.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Sunday morning

Aroostine held her identification badge up to the reader and waited for the soft click that signified the door had opened. She pushed it open and held it for Rosie.

Rosie was still grumbling about the early hour. She shook her head and dug her own badge out of her purse. “I don’t think so, sister. If you’re going to drag my butt in here before sunrise on a Sunday, you better believe Sid and all the bean counters are gonna know I was here. I want full credit.”

She turned and waved at the security camera. “Hi, Sid!”

Aroostine couldn’t suppress the laugh that rose in her throat. “You’re insane.”

She rolled her neck and stretched her back while she waited for Rosie to finish mugging for whoever had the bad luck to be monitoring the cameras at five thirty in the morning. To her infinite surprise, didn’t even have a headache. She’d fully expected to wake up hung over and sick after not one, but two, bottles of Syrah.

Instead, she felt rested and ready to tackle the mountain of work that awaited them. Maybe, she reasoned, every once in a while, a person just really needed a night of egg rolls, girl talk, and bad Lifetime movies.

The night had gotten a little fuzzy toward the end, though. She could only hope that she hadn’t blurted out anything about Joe. Or, worse, Mitchell. She reddened at the thought.

Rosie followed her through the door, and Aroostine told herself to forget about her disastrous personal life and focus on the trial. It was time to get serious.