Time Served (11 page)

“Aren’t you going to the gym?” I ask eventually.

He glances at me. “What?”

“Why are you going into town?”

“Just have something to do.”

“Is it top secret?”

He nods. “Uh-huh.”

I feel my eyes soften, a little bit sad. Dean was never the class clown growing up, but he’d had a sense of humor. Now it’s hard to tell if he finds anything amusing outside of the occasional Bruce Willis one-liner.

“How long have you lived in your apartment?”

“Why?” He’s staring out the window at nothing.

“Because it’s not very homey.”

“How should it be?”

I inhale, frustrated, and breathe out slowly, refusing to let on that it hurts my feelings that he can screw me six ways from Sunday one night and stubbornly refuse to answer the most basic of questions the following morning. Especially when he’s dropping in inquiries like, “When was the last time you got fucked?” as though asking if I like milk in my coffee.

Finally Dean sighs. “Six months.”

I nod, looking out the window on my side.

He nudges me with a knee and I cross my legs, pulling away. “Come on. We gotta change buses.”

The bus stops and we get off, lingering on the side of a busy road as we wait for the next one. Dean steps in close, pressing me into the graffiti-marred wall of the bus stop. There are no people around, just lots of midmorning traffic. If anyone saw us we’d look like just another mismatched couple.

“I told you I’m not interested in playing games,” Dean reminds me.

“If you say so,” I snap, pushing him away. He moves approximately an inch and a half and I kind of hurt my hand.

He sighs. “Say what you mean, Rachel.”

I shove him again, and again he doesn’t budge. “Give me some space.”

“Just spit it out.”

“I don’t like...this,” I blurt out, gesturing between us.

“You seemed to like it okay.”

“Well, I don’t. You hate me, that’s fine, but don’t screw around with me. Don’t do what you did last night and refuse to answer simple questions in the morning. I’m just being civil. If you can’t manage that, find someone else who doesn’t mind being treated like shit.”

“I answered your question.”

The bus comes and I climb on, resenting the hell out of the fact that I’m not in a cab right now. And that I’m in Camden in the first place. We make the second leg of the trip in stony silence, and Dean doesn’t speak until we board the third bus.

“All the way back,” he says, curling a hand over my hip and steering me past the first row of seats I’d aimed for. His grip is hard enough that I discard any idealistic notions of fighting him and instead sit stiffly in the corner of the empty back row.

Dean slides in next to me, trapping me against the window.

“I’m not going to fight with you,” he reminds me.

“Got it.”

“Good.”

We rattle along for ten minutes before Dean puts a big hand on my thigh. He doesn’t do anything more, just rests it there to get my attention. I stare at his long fingers, the smooth tan skin of his wrist peeking out of his sleeve.

“How long have you lived in your place?” he asks quietly.

I huff, irritated. “Three years.”

“You wanna know anything else about me?”

“Are you on parole?”

A pause. “Yeah.”

“For how long?”

“I’ve got one more year left. That bother you?”

“If it does it’s at the bottom of a long list of things about you that bother me.”

“You bother me too.”

“Then we’re even.”

“Not hardly.”

I glare at Dean out the corner of my eye; he just gazes back blandly. “How long do you think this will last?” I demand, voice hushed.

“You don’t want to know what bothers me?”

“You’ve already told me. Me leaving. You thinking about it in prison. Me wearing suits. Me tying up my hair, carrying a bag, wearing high heels. Breathing, living, being. Did I cover it all?”

He laughs. “Mostly.”

“I’m not being funny.”

“I know that, Rachel. What do you think we’re going to do—have a heart-to-heart in the back of a fucking bus? Come on, if you don’t like something, you can always say no. I’ve never forced anybody to do anything and I’m not going to start.”

“Ha.”

“What’s that mean?”

“You went to prison for armed robbery. A violent one. You forced people to put jewelry into bags while you three idiots waved guns in their faces. Stop acting like you’re the victim here.”

Dean looks surprised, even as his eyes turn glacial. “I never said I wasn’t guilty. If you know so much about it, you know how I pled.”

I did know. I’d read the Chicago-area newspapers regularly after I’d left, just to keep tabs on things. I certainly hadn’t expected to get news—particularly not this news—from home three weeks after disappearing, but one morning I’d gone online and stared, dumbfounded, at the headline, Three Riverside Men Arrested for Bold Cranston Robbery.

I’d always known that Dean and his two best—and stupidest—friends Nicky and TJ dabbled in petty crime. He’d come home with items he couldn’t have afforded or money he couldn’t explain, and I wouldn’t ask questions. And while Dean had gotten into the occasional fight, he’d never been particularly violent, which made the details of this case all the more shocking. Guns? I’d never known him to carry a gun or even want to. And Nicky beating the security guard over the head with the butt of his gun while the employees screamed and cried? Dean stoically collecting the jewelry while TJ kept watch? If he hadn’t pled guilty—and I hadn’t later managed to score a copy of the surveillance footage that was used in Nicky’s trial—I’d have never believed it. But sitting here, resenting him like I do, I believe it.

“I’ve told you what I want,” Dean says flatly. “You’re the one keeping things.”

My jaw drops. “What?”

He shrugs, hitting me with his big shoulder. “I tell you I want to fuck you. I tell you how I want it. You agree. If you want something different, say so.”

I
want to sleep with someone who doesn’t hate me.
I
want to find someone who doesn’t bore me with golf stories.
I
want to find someone who turns me on the way you do and still respects me in the morning.
I
want things to be how they were before you walked into that damn store.
And I want them to be different too.

Of course I don’t say any of this as we ride into the city and things finally start to feel familiar and safe again.

“You still coming into Camden every day for your interviews?”

I sigh tiredly at the prospect. “Probably.”

“You like doing that?”

“Yes and no. It’s exhausting. This is my stop up ahead.”

Dean slides over so I can reach the aisle, pausing before the way is completely clear. “Listen,” he says, catching my wrist, studying the way his fingers easily enclose mine. “I’ve gotta come back up here on Wednesday. I’ll be finished around seven. If you want to keep going with this, come out in front of your office, I’ll be waiting. And if you don’t want to, go on and do whatever it is you do. I won’t bother you.”

I swallow the unexpected sadness that wells up at the offer, nodding stiffly and stepping past Dean.

“And hey.” He snags the bottom of my jacket and I halt, half turning to look at him as he avoids my eyes. “I don’t hate you. If that’s what you’re taking away from all this...don’t.”

My sinuses start to sting. It’s the closest I’ll ever get to an apology, assuming I even deserve one.

“See you,” I say, stepping away as we stop at the curb and the doors hiss open.

“Yeah.” I hear Dean sigh as he sits back in the seat. I don’t look over my shoulder as the bus pulls away, even though I want to, wondering if it’s the last time I’ll see him, and if that’s really what I want.

Chapter Ten

After stopping at home to change, I make it to work at twelve-oh-five. Parker must have had one of the security guards call up to tell him I’d arrived because when I hustle into my office he’s sitting cross-legged on my desk, polishing off a powdered donut.

“Tell me there’s more,” I plead, slumping in the doorway. “I’m famished.”

Parker shrugs and licks sugar from a finger. “Depends.” I move around my desk to sit down and switch on my computer, and he stands, turning to face me. “You look different,” he says casually.

“I didn’t have time to fix my hair.”

“Who’s in Camden?”

I hold up the stack of files for our completed interviews. “These people.”

“Did you stay out overnight conducting interviews?”

I flush. “No.”

“Is the person you were ‘interviewing’ included in those files?”

“No. Give me a donut.”

He selects a toasted coconut concoction and extends it halfway. “How many eyes does he have?”

I burst out laughing at the thought of Reginald and me. “Two! Now hand it over!”

Parker gives me the donut and I break it in half, cramming most of it into my mouth. I’m ravenous. I haven’t eaten since the meatball sub, and I’m pretty sure I burned off those calories somewhere between the hallway and being bent over the foot of the bed.

“You seem...healthier,” he comments, watching me eat. “I know these interviews have been hard. Whatever you’re doing—” He underscores this with an arched eyebrow. “—is working.”

“It’s nothing.” I feel a tiny pang of sadness at the word. Funny how “nothing” can say so much about someone. About me. Even though Parker is my closest friend, we both know I’m not going to discuss Dean. I rarely talk about my personal life; no one at the firm knows much about me outside the office, least of all that I’m banging an ex-con.

“You want another one?”

I’ve devoured the first donut in record time, just a few fallen coconut flakes remaining to prove that it ever existed. “I shouldn’t.”

“Who am I going to tell?”

“Is that sour cream chocolate?”

“Oh, I’m going to eat that one. You can have the cinnamon sugar.”

“Parker, you ass.”

He laughs and passes me the chocolate donut, then wipes off his hands and leans forward. “That was waiting for you when I came in.”

I follow his gaze to a large envelope sitting on the corner of my desk. I’d been so distracted by the donuts I hadn’t even noticed it. “Do you know what it is?”

“No idea.”

I study the return address, but it’s just a logo I don’t recognize, along with a Chicago zip code. I hesitate, then slide a nail under the flap, pulling out a formal-looking document printed on heavy card stock. “Oh my God,” I say, jaw dropping. “It’s official.”

Parker reads over my shoulder, then begins to laugh so hard he can barely breathe. “You have a naked mole rat namesake.”

I shake out the envelope and a photo falls onto the desk, an unflattering shot of a flesh-colored, bucktoothed...thing. “I guess Todd’s holding a grudge.”

Parker wipes away tears. “Can I have that?”

“No!”

“I’ll give you ten dollars.”

“Shut up.” I stuff the certificate and picture back into the envelope and shove it into a drawer. Truth be told, going through with the mole rat naming is the least Todd could have done to show his displeasure after I both dumped him and stood him up. I consider myself lucky.

Parker finally controls himself and takes a deep breath. “So. About this job we have.”

“Uh-huh?”

“Sterling wants me to handle the interviews for the next few days to give you time to catch up on other cases.”

“Sterling wants that?” It sounds more like something Caitlin would suggest.

“Yeah. After I finished up in court yesterday he called me in for an update and said he wanted me to head out with Adrian. How was it working with him?”

“Okay. He got better after the first day. He speaks Spanish.”

“Terrific. As if I’m going to believe anything that asshat translates.”

“Did you see the stuff about Hector Nunes?”

“Yeah. Baxter came by with some follow-up questions.”

I sit up straighter at the mention of the firm’s investigator. “That reminds me. I had a message from him on my phone this morning. He found nine Dr. Donna Cortezes currently practicing in the United States, six on the east coast. He’s ruled out four of them and is checking out the other two on Monday.”

“Sounds promising. Hector trusts you. If he’s Patient Zero like Adrian’s claiming and we can prove it, Haines might let you second chair. That’s a huge deal.”

“Remind me again why you don’t want it?”

Parker shrugs. “You deserve it. And Haines likes you. And I’m a generous man.”

Name partner Lee Haines is our tort litigation specialist, and he’s made the company a ton of money successfully suing corporations just like Fowler Metals. Any lawyer with an interest in class action would cut off a leg to sit second chair while he tried the case, and I know that everyone conducting these interviews is desperately hoping to be the one he picks, myself among them. It would be the case that put me on the map and made me more than just another overeager fourth-year associate.

Parker leaves, and I stay behind to get a head start on my email. I work again all day Sunday, catching up on the cases I’ve been neglecting in favor of the Fowler interviews, and I’m back bright and early on Monday. At ten o’clock Baxter knocks on the door and enters.

“Morning,” he says, lifting a paper coffee cup in greeting before lowering himself into one of the two empty chairs.

“Morning. Have a seat.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Baxter is tall and lanky, probably six-five and a hundred and fifty pounds. He’s got shaggy auburn hair that flops into his eyes and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. He wears a faded denim jacket year-round, and today he’s outfitted in mustard-yellow cords and skateboard shoes. A few years ago a rumor floated around that he was Sterling’s son and that’s why he managed to get away with such a careless appearance in an otherwise dress code-adhering office, but nothing ever came up to substantiate it. In any case, I like him the most out of the half dozen or so investigators the firm employs.

“Any luck finding Dr. Cortez?”

Baxter shakes his head. “I looked into the last two this morning and ruled them out. One Dr. Donna Cortez is a sixty-year-old with a PhD in theology and the other’s been working in Baltimore for the past eleven years, no record of employment and no taxes filed in the great state of Illinois.”

“Damn.”

Baxter shrugs, finishes his coffee and tosses the cup across the room into the trash bin, raising his hand for a high five that I decline. “You got coffee on the wall.”

“Maybe this will make you feel better—all hope is not lost.” He pulls a folded-up piece of lined paper from his pocket and slides it across the desk. “When that angle didn’t pan out, I put on my thinking cap, did a search for Dr. Dona Cortez, spelled with one
n
and came up with three—one of whom works nearby in Springfield, one in Florida and one in Texas. I also searched public records for any Dr. Cortezes who may have gotten married in the past year and changed their surnames—that turned up two, one in Montana and one in beautiful Cranston.” My heart leaps into my throat when he names the town ten miles from Riverside. I’m sure I’m being paranoid when I think I see a knowing look cross Baxter’s face, quickly replaced by his normal guileless smile.

“Good work.”

“I’ve got a few other things I’m working on, but I’ll look into these ladies this week, probably Wednesday. Want to come on a road trip to Springfield?”

A trip to somewhere other than Camden? An excuse to leave this glass cage? “Seriously?”

“Yeah, why not? Parker mentioned you weren’t doing interviews this week and I could use the company.”

“Okay. Count me in.”

Baxter unfolds his lanky frame and pulls open the door, stepping through it backward. “See you Wednesday.”

“Thanks again.”

He waggles his eyebrows and leaves just as my phone beeps.

“Reginald Howard on line five,” Belinda announces.

I freeze and stare at the phone.

“You there, Rachel?”

I clear my throat. “Yes. Thanks, Belinda.” For some reason I feel anxious as I press the blinking button and say, “Rachel Moser here.”

“Greetings, Rachel Moser. You are speaking to Reginald Howard here.”

I smile against my will. “Good morning, Reginald.”

“I’ll cut right to the chase.”

“Terrific.”

“I got another letter.”

“From Ruthie?”

“That’s the one.”

I run a weary hand over my face. “What does it say?”

“It’s from her lawyer, technically.”

“The same one who wrote the other letters?”

“No. A real one this time. On fancy paper. It’s long.”

“Sum it up for me.”

“She’s saying she wants half of my business.”

“What?”

“And the lawyer’s saying she’s entitled to it.”

“Why would she think that?”

“Cause she’s crazy?”

“Can you scan the letter?”

“What?”

“Do you have a computer?”

“What for?”

I speak slowly. “Do you have access to a fax machine?”

“Yeah. At the drugstore.”

“All right. Fax me a copy of the letter. I’ll take a look at it.”

Reginald groans and I picture him walking around the gym in his green tracksuit. “That’s too much work for an old man like me. Dean’s got to come into your part of town on Wednesday, I’ll ask him to bring it over.”

I chew on a fingernail, an old nervous habit. I haven’t decided whether or not I’m going to be standing in front of the building at seven o’clock on Wednesday. “I don’t want you to put him out.”

A snort. “If Oscar Hall didn’t kill him, a piece of paper certainly won’t.”

I think of Dean, butterfly bandage and bruised ribs nothing more than a nuisance as he’d loomed over me, under me and behind me Friday night and Saturday morning. Reginald had said he was on painkillers, but he seemed fine.

“That fight didn’t seem like the big deal you made it out to be.”

“That one, maybe. He hid it well. But yesterday? That’s a different story.”

I frown. I don’t want to know, but I do. I glance around but no one is paying me any attention. Even still I turn my chair so my back is to the office and I’m looking out over the city. “What are you talking about?”

“Our friend Dean got back in the ring yesterday. You didn’t know?”

“Why would I know that?”

“Beats me. Just checking. Anyway. He went back for another round. Got banged up a bit.”

“Why does he fight if he keeps losing?”

“I didn’t say he lost. But you don’t fight Oscar Hall without taking some hits.”

“Is he hurt?”

“Dean or Oscar?”

I sigh. “Dean.”

“He’s a big boy. You’ll see on Wednesday.”