Sasha McCandless 03 - Irretrievably Broken (31 page)

As tempting as the idea of coffee was, Sasha declined. “Thank you, but no. I really can’t stay. I just wanted to say hi and, to be honest, I was hoping to pick your brain.”

Lettie frowned and said, “I hope you aren’t planning to ask me about Ellen or Clarissa. I heard you’re representing their husbands.”  Her tone left no doubt as to what she thought of that.

Sasha considered pointing out that it was Lettie’s employer who had engaged her, at least for Greg, but there was no upside. She needed Lettie’s help. Getting her hackles up about the murders wasn’t the way to get it.

“Of course not, Lettie. I wouldn’t do that. I just have a question about an old pro bono case from the nineties—
Vickers v. Vickers
. Do you remember it?” she asked, although she knew Lettie would remember. Lettie was Prescott & Talbott’s unofficial historian.

Lettie nodded. “Sure,” she said, her voice still cautious. “It was a messy divorce that came to us through a Neighborhood Legal Services referral. Ellen and Clarissa cut their teeth on that case.”

“And Martine Landry,” Sasha said.

“Right,” Lettie agreed without elaborating.

Lettie enjoyed a well-deserved reputation as a chatterbox; the very fact that she hadn’t yet launched into a detailed explanation of the matter was evidence that she didn’t trust Sasha with whatever information she had.

Sasha tamped down her impatience and looked straight into Lettie’s gray eyes. “Listen,” she said, “we worked together for a long time. You know me, and I hope you know how I practice law. This isn’t some lawyer trick, Lettie. I think Ellen and Clarissa’s murders might be related to that case. And, if I’m right, Martine’s in danger. But, she refuses to talk to me, so I need your help. Please?”

The older woman blinked. “Of course.”

“Thank you,” Sasha said, relieved. She trusted Lettie, but telling her about the files Caroline had smuggled out of the office could put her in a vulnerable position, so Sasha didn’t mention them. Instead, she asked, “Do you remember who acted as the supervising partner on that matter?”

Lettie sighed and said, “There wasn’t one.”

“How was that possible?” Sasha asked.

Lettie walked over to her front stoop and sat on the bottom step; she folded her hands in her lap like a schoolgirl. Sasha joined her on the cold concrete and waited.

Lettie took her time, gathering her thoughts, then she said, “I guess you could say there was ... an oversight. The firm has done pro bono work forever, of course, but in the nineties, the bar association rolled out an initiative. There was a pro bono challenge of some sort, and Prescott signed a pledge. As part of all that, the Management Committee created the Pro Bono Program Director position, which, of course, still exists. But, now it’s a permanent administrative position. Back then, it was a rotating assignment. From what I recall, the idea was to assign a junior partner to the position for a one-year term. It would allow the partner to demonstrate his management skills and put him in line for the more coveted committee assignments.”

Sasha nodded. It sounded like Prescott & Talbott’s typical approach: the more layers of management, the better. “So, what happened?”

Lettie chewed her lower lip while she thought. “Okay, so, if I recall correctly, the first year, the directorship went to John Porter. He did a fine job, as far as I could tell. Some of the other junior partners resented that he had the power to assign them to cases, but that was part of his responsibility, so they had to accept it. At the end of that first year, the partners voted to give the Pro Bono Program Director the authority to assign
any
partner in the firm a case to supervise. The thinking was that giving the director that authority would signal to the legal community that Prescott & Talbott was truly committed to public service.”

“And it would also signal to the junior partners that they should stop their bellyaching,” Sasha observed.

Lettie gave a wry a smile. “That, too,” she agreed. She rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand and then continued. “So, the second year, Marco DeAngeles was named the director. If you think he’s a firebrand now, you should have seen him back then. The very first case in the door after he took over was the Vickers divorce. The three girls volunteered to work it together, and Marco assigned none other than Mr. Prescott to supervise.”

“Cinco?” Sasha asked.

“Oh, no,” Lettie said, “the fourth Mr. Prescott. His father. He was still the chair of the firm back then, but he was getting up in years and was starting to make arrangements to hand things over to the fifth Mr. Prescott.”

“That was a bold decision by Marco.”

“It was. And, as I understand it, it did not sit well with Mr. Prescott. His secretary, Barbie Roman—she’s retired now, of course—said at the time that they had an ungodly row about it. She told me she could hear Mr. Prescott through the door just roaring at Marco that he had overstepped. But Marco wouldn’t back down. And the Management Committee had to support him, however reluctantly, because it was within his power.” Lettie shook her head at the memory.

“So, what happened?” Sasha asked.

“Nothing happened,” Lettie answered. “Mr. Prescott simply ignored the case. Marco refused to assign another partner. So those poor girls were just set out to sea with no paddle. They worked their tails off with no guidance. But, as I recall, they got a very good result for their client. I think we had champagne in the Mellon Conference Room after the decision came down.”

She searched Sasha’s face. “Does any of that help? Because I really don’t know any details.”

Sasha patted her hand. “It helps a lot, Lettie. Thank you. Now, I’d better get out of here and let you get back to your weeding.”

They stood, and Sasha gave her former secretary a quick hug. As she walked away, Lettie called after her, “Now, you tell Leo I said hello.”

Sasha turned and waved.

CHAPTER 52

Rich’s shoulder throbbed, heat radiating down his arm and up his neck. His right arm hung limp and awkward by his side while he ran down the stairs from the law office, taking them two at a time. He kept his face averted as he passed by the entrance to the coffee shop and shouldered through the front door with his good side.

Out on the sidewalk, he raced across the street and cut through the parking lot, running on a diagonal, trying to put as much distance between himself and the building as he could. He’d cut a wide circle and backtrack for his car without getting close to the Law Offices of Sasha McCandless, P.C. If that crazy old coot was conscious, Rich had no interest in a rematch with him and his damned cane.

He shouldn’t have risked it anyway, he thought. He was so close to completing his plan. Letting Sasha McCandless distract him had been a mistake.

He’d gone to her office, just to see if he could find some hint of what she knew. He’d come prepared to have to break in, but to his surprise the door had been ajar. Just inside, on a small round table, someone had left piles of files, spread out across the surface, with no apparent organization. He’d spotted the picture of Costopolous making out with the model on top of a stack of printouts of legal cases. Two piles over, he was surprised to see the pictures he’d delivered to Prescott & Talbott: the fact that she had copies could only mean that someone was feeding her information from inside. That thought had made his stomach cramp up with fear.

He’d clenched his stomach with one hand and pawed through the papers with the other, searching for more documents from Prescott & Talbott. Suddenly the back of his shoulder had exploded in pain and he’d pitched forward, smacking his jaw against the table.    

He had turned his head to see an old man standing in the doorway behind him, raising a thick wooden cane to crack him again. He’d twisted out of the path of the cane just in time, and it had come down hard on the table.

Then Rich had crouched like a running back and had run low and hard at the man blocking the door. Just before he’d reached the man, he’d deepened his crouch and rolled his shoulder forward. Then he’d plowed into the old guy’s belly and had kept going. The contact had knocked the man out of his path and to the ground. As Rich had run past him, the guy’s face had bounced off the corner of the doorframe, knocking his glasses off. They skittered into the hallway, and Rich’s shoe had crunched down on them as he sped toward the stairs.

It had happened so fast, Rich thought now, as he prowled through the side streets, anxious to get out of the neighborhood. He cradled his aching shoulder and ran.

CHAPTER 53

“Do you want to take a tea for Larry up with you?” Ocean asked, handing Sasha her coffee mug. She’d filled it to the very top.

“Larry’s still up there?” Sasha asked. She checked the time; it was after three. Larry’s plan had been to work until early afternoon and be back home by halftime, so he could catch the second half of the game. He should have been long gone.

Ocean shrugged. “I think so? He stopped in this morning for a mug of red rooibos and a bear claw. I didn’t see him bring the mug back down, and he always does, you know?”

“Okay, well, I’ll bring his mug back down for a refill if he wants one,” Sasha said.

Mounting the stairs, Sasha wondered if Larry had stuck around because he’d had a breakthrough.
A girl could hope
, she thought.

When she reached the top of the stairs, she glanced down the hallway and spotted a flash of white on the floor near the open door to her office. It was an arm. Her hope drained away, replaced by cold fear. She ran. Coffee sloshed over the rim of the mug and burned her hand.

She stumbled, tripping over a piece of twisted metal as she neared the doorway. She reached the doorway and sunk to her knees beside Larry.

He lay sprawled across the threshold, one arm extended forward into the hallway and the other tucked under his body. A gash on his temple had bled down the side of his face and dried, leaving a crust of black blood. His eyes were closed.

“Larry?” she said. Her own voice sounded distant.

He opened his eyes. “Hi,” he croaked.

“Are you okay? Can I move you?” she asked.

“Just having a rest,” he cracked. He tried to push himself onto all fours.

“Wait.” Sasha put an arm across his chest and around his shoulder and helped him stand.

He looked around. “Have you seen my cane? Or my glasses?”

Sasha stepped into the office and retrieved his cane. Jumbled papers were strewn across the floor under and beside the table. She didn’t see his glasses. She handed him the cane and went out into the hall. She crouched by the metal that had tripped her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, holding up his mangled glasses.

He waved a hand. “Eh, I have a spare pair at home.”

Sasha led him inside the office and settled him into her guest chair. She sat across from him in the chair’s mate. He took a handkerchief from his pants pocket and dabbed at the cut on his head, then winced.

“It’s dried,” she told him. “Wanna tell me what happened?”

Larry returned the cloth to his pocket and shrugged. “I was reading those bail revocation cases you’d found. I needed to relieve myself, so I went to the restroom. I left the door ajar. My mistake, I admit. I didn’t see a need to lock it just to run to the bathroom.”

“I don’t generally lock up to go to the bathroom or pop downstairs for a drink, either,” Sasha told him.

“Well, you should start,” he said. “I returned to see a man pawing through the papers on the table. He had his back to me. I stepped into the doorway and cracked him with my cane.”

“You hit him?”

Larry looked at her. “Don’t you lecture me about avoiding the fight. I’ve practiced Krav Maga since you were in diapers. Sometimes the principles aren’t practical.”

Sasha raised an eyebrow but wasn’t about to argue with him. “Okay, go on.”

“I belted him good. His shoulder has got to feel like hell. Anyway, I reared back to hit him again, and he charged me. He knocked the wind out of me and I crashed into the door.” Larry shook his head, a forlorn, wistful look on his face. “Ten years ago, I’d have managed to at least trip him when he ran by.”

“He take anything?” Sasha asked.

“No.”

“Did you get a good look at him?”

“Eh, white kid, early twenties. Completely nondescript. Not much to go on,” Larry said.

Sasha rubbed her eyes with her palms and tried to think. After a moment, she said, “Okay. I need to make two phone calls. Then, I’m going to drive you home, unless you’ll agree to let me take you to the hospital to get checked out.”

Larry threw her a look. “Home, Jeeves.”

She surprised herself by laughing. “You stay here. I’m going to get you a cup of tea and a wet cloth for that cut.”

She patted his shoulder and headed toward the door. When she reached the doorway, she turned and said, “Just in case I run into this guy again, which shoulder do I want to go for?”

He smiled at her. “The right one.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

While Sasha waited for Larry’s tea, she pulled out her phone. She actually had three calls she needed to make, but Larry couldn’t know about this one.

Daniel answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Daniel, it’s Sasha,” she said, turning away from the counter and speaking in a low voice.

“I was about to call you,” he said. “I’m at my folks’ place, and dad never came back from your office. Is he with you?”

“He is,” she said. “And he’s fine. But, before I got here, we had an intruder. Your father apparently tried to beat him with his cane, but the guy knocked him over and took off. Your dad hit his head when he fell. He had a nasty cut on his forehead and his glasses are broken, but other than that, I think he’s mainly embarrassed.”

Daniel was quiet for a second, then he said, “That old coot won’t accept that he’s aging. Sasha, promise me you’ll stop with the Krav Maga before you’re in a nursing home.”

She laughed, relieved that Daniel was taking the news so well. She knew Bertie would be a different story.