Time Served (13 page)

I fix Baxter with a suspicious stare as we take a seat in the corner, moving magazines so we can sit side by side. “Appointment?” I echo in a low voice, ignoring the fake name.

He shrugs. “No walk-ins.”

“You said this was a spontaneous visit.”

“It is. I had an appointment for Friday, but after the meeting in Springfield I called to move it up. My symptoms have worsened.”

“I think I might know the problem,” I bite out. “You’re a huge liar.”

He elbows me in the ribs. “That’s my job.”

Walking in we’d garnered a few odd stares, Baxter’s colorful outfit and my “drinking wine on a moored boat” ensemble out of place among the denim shorts and T-shirts apparently favored by Cranston’s sick and unwell. By now everyone has returned to their own bored musings, staring idly at an infomercial playing on a flickering television, children fighting over cheap plastic toys.

We’re in the row farthest from the front desk, and at the end of the aisle is a middle-aged man with a young girl in a wheelchair. I watch out the corner of my eye as he whispers in her ear, making her giggle and wave her arms in uncoordinated glee.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” I ask Baxter when a few minutes have passed. “I’m here, now spill. Who do you think contacted Dr. Cortez?”

“Adam Jones?”

“I’ll know for sure in a minute,” Baxter whispers, standing.

I roll my eyes and cross my arms, glaring at his back as he follows a nurse down a dingy hall and into a waiting room. Because there’s nothing else to do, I sigh and pick up an old copy of
Reader’s Digest
, skimming the jokes and trying not to fidget too much. I don’t like doctor’s offices; I never have. This isn’t the one I’d visited on very rare occasions growing up, but it feels the same: small, cluttered and hopeless. I peer down the hall, willing Baxter and his fake symptoms to hurry up and find a cure so we can get out of here and back to our real lives.

“I thought that was you.”

I freeze, certain the comment isn’t for me, but the appearance of a denim-covered knee near my own defies that logic. I lift my head, guilty eyes turning to meet those of the man I’d assumed was middle-aged but who, it turns out, is just two years older than me.

“Kurt Cafferty?”

He smiles, revealing the chipped front tooth he’d gotten as a ten-year-old playing stickball with a rock after we’d lost our tennis ball in the weeds.

“What are you doing here?” I ask stupidly. “No, I mean, that’s obvious—” I cut myself off, blushing furiously as I glimpse the wheelchair-bound little girl peering down the aisle at us. “What I’m trying—”

Kurt shakes his head and laughs, a familiar sound, even as the wrinkles around his eyes and the receding hairline make the gesture seem odd and out of place. I know from Dean that Kurt has a wife and three children, one of whom is smiling at me from over his shoulder, waving at me with her pinkie finger.

I paste on a smile and wave back, feeling ridiculous.

“What the hell are you doing in Cranston?” he asks. He looks me over from head to toe, expression never changing. I feel like he’s committing my appearance to memory so he can tell people about it later, but I don’t discern any judgment in his gaze.

“My friend,” I say weakly, gesturing down the hall. “He had an appointment.” This is technically true, so why do I feel like such a liar uttering the words? Knowing that Baxter and I are taking up time and space when so many people need it more? Are the walls closing in? Is that why I suddenly feel so hot and sick?

“Are you living here now?” Kurt’s pale eyes flicker to the thin gold chain around my neck as though it contains the answer.

“Ah, no. Chicago. You?”

Kurt nods, still smiling. “Yeah. We rent a place in town. Ally’s working at—” He cuts himself off. “I guess you wouldn’t know, actually. Ally and I are married now, we’ve got three girls. Triplets.” He nods at the daughter who has gotten bored of us and is now watching television. “That’s Sabrina. She’s six. The other two are at home.”

“Congratulations,” I say past the lump in my throat. I don’t know why I don’t tell him I know this, or maybe I do—I don’t want anyone to know about Dean. And I don’t want him to know that deep down, what I’m really thinking is,
Thank God it’s not me.

“Thanks.” He looks at me speculatively. “I’ve gotta tell you, Rachel, I never thought I’d see you again. We all figured you’d run off with some rich guy and made a new life for yourself.”

The hypothesis isn’t that far-fetched. Ally and I had been best friends forever, born a week apart. We’d known Dean and Kurt all along, but it wasn’t until Dean and I got together that Kurt and Ally had been thrown into constant cantankerous proximity. Kurt’s interest in Ally was well-known, evidenced by him poking fun at her every time the opportunity presented itself, and her cursing him out with words I still don’t have the nerve to say out loud. He’d waxed poetic about the four of us growing old together, living side by side, our kids falling in love, all that romantic crap. Our futures were laid out for us, and sad carbon copies lined the cracked strip of asphalt we wryly referred to as “Main Street”: girls who’d planned for lives away from Riverside—New York and Hollywood, Miami and Dallas—anything but this. And then they’d meet somebody, think it was love and the next thing they knew they had a trailer of their own, a baby to feed and a shackle around their ankle, tying yet another generation to this wasted land. Ally always said she didn’t want to be one of those women, but she never said what it was she wanted instead. I’d kept my hopes to myself for the most part, but they’d always been there, the thing that kept me going, the thing that would ultimately take me away.

“No,” I say with a forced laugh. “I ran away by myself.”

The smile fades. “That’s good. That’s real good.”

“I just...” I don’t know what to tell him. I didn’t want to turn out like you? I didn’t want to be anchored down to a place that was slowly sinking? “That’s all,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t know what I was going to say.”

Kurt looks as though he’s ready to add something, but Baxter interrupts. “Rachel,” he calls, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. “Ready?” He’s got the same tight, angry look on his face that he had this morning in Springfield. Whatever he’s found out isn’t good.

I’m suddenly so dizzy it’s a struggle to stand, even though I desperately want to make a mad dash back to the car. “I’m ready.” I rise and turn back to Kurt. “It was great seeing you again,” I lie. “Say hi to Ally. Bye, Sabrina.”

Sabrina flicks a hand in my direction, eyes glued to the television.

“You coming back next weekend?” Kurt asks, halting my escape.

I freeze, slowly turning, hoping I don’t look as guilty as I feel at the mention of the anniversary of my mother’s death. “Maybe. Work and stuff...” Why have I forgotten how to speak intelligently? Is this what happens when I get close to Riverside—my brain and common sense flee? “Maybe,” I repeat lamely.

Kurt nods, glancing between Baxter and me. “Well then,” he says with another small smile. “Maybe we’ll see you.”

My legs turn to jelly the second we exit the clinic and I clutch a parking sign for balance. Baxter grips my upper arm and drags me across the street, pulling open the passenger side door and stuffing me inside. I catch a glimpse of my appearance in the mirror. I’m as white as a ghost.

“Oh God,” I moan, lifting a hand to massage my temples, aware that my shirt is sticky with sweat. “What’s wrong with me?”

Baxter twists the key in the ignition, turns on the air conditioner and waits for the car to cool. “You’re having a panic attack,” he says calmly.

I sit up straight. “What? I am not.” Then the car spins—or maybe it’s the parking lot that’s moving—and I slump back in the seat. “I’m just...hot. And tired. And hungry. Too much driving.”

Baxter doesn’t argue, merely looks over his shoulder and backs out of the parking spot. I’m silent as he navigates his way back to the highway, pointing us toward home.

“Thank God,” I murmur, watching Cranston shrink in the rearview mirror, feeling my pulse slow. “I think I caught something when I was in there. Maybe I need antibiotics.”

“Valium, maybe,” Baxter answers, “but not antibiotics.”

I shudder in my seat. “I went to school with that guy. We used to hang out all the time.”

“He seemed to tolerate you okay.”

“I’m never going back there.”

“What about next weekend?”

“Absolutely not.”

“You said maybe.”

I glare at Baxter out the corner of my eye. “I lied. Your ‘illness’ might be contagious.”

He smiles, guilty as charged.

“What’d you find out?” I ask, remembering that the visit wasn’t just about me. “Was that her?”

Baxter nods, that angry tension filling his face again. “It was.”

“And...she didn’t want to help?”

He shakes his head. “Not quite.”

“Then what?”

He glances at me and sighs, irritated. “She’d already helped.”

“What does that mean?” I sit up straighter. “The same...”

“Yeah. The person who contacted Dr. Cortez in Springfield also contacted Dr. Ash in Cranston.”

I have so many questions. “But who...? And why? And how? And what did she tell them?”

Baxter runs a hand over his mouth as though tracing an imaginary moustache. “Do you know Derek Berry?”

I frown, picturing a stern face with close-set eyes and a pug nose. “I feel like I should.”

“He’s one of the other investigators at the firm.”

“Our firm?” The question is rhetorical; now that he says it, I can see Derek Berry walking the halls with his short, squat steps and stupid fedora.

Baxter nods. “Yeah. He normally works directly for the partners.”

“Are you saying one of the partners sent Derek Berry—” Now I get the strawberry ice cream connection, “—to Cranston to interview Dr. Ash? Without telling me? Knowing that we’re looking for her too?”

Baxter’s fingers tighten on the wheel, squeezing so hard his knuckles turn white. “No. Not a partner.”

“Then who?”

He glances at me then, and the look in his eyes tells me all I need to know. “Caitlin Dufresne?” I gasp.

He nods again.

“But how?”

“Who else knows about Nunes and the doctor’s note?”

“Just Parker. And Sterling. And I know she’s banging the partners—sorry—” Baxter shrugs. “But I don’t see Sterling telling Caitlin about this. Not when Nunes is my case and the note would confirm him as Patient Zero.” And then, even as I utter the term that Adrian coined, I feel a sharp pain in my stomach, as though he’d pulled that silver spoon out of his ass and stabbed me with it. “Adrian,” I whisper.

“Ash had the voice mails from him and Berry on her phone,” Baxter confirms, changing lanes and picking up speed. “He asked about the note and left her Caitlin’s number in case she wanted to check his story.”

“Did she?”

“Yeah. She wasn’t surprised to get a call. She knew this Harco-99 shit was bad and people were covering it up, so she made copies of her patient records and brought them with her, just in case. And I guess she found Caitlin’s story pretty damn believable, because she dug the note out of her old files and sent her a copy.”

My stomach drops. “You’re kidding.”

“No. Caitlin got it yesterday. And if I’m not mistaken...”

“She told the partners.”

“Most likely.”

“She’s trying to steal my case.”

Baxter nods. “She doesn’t give a damn about Nunes or the doctor’s note. But if she’s on record as finding Patient Zero—”

“Haines will give her second chair.”

Chapter Twelve

We hit traffic heading back to the city and it’s seven thirty when Baxter drops me off in front of the offices. We’d both agreed we were in no shape to see Adrian without ripping his face off, so I’d settled for sending Parker a text—Don’t trust that rat-faced fuck Adrian
—
and waiting out front for Dean, who I’d also texted to notify I was running late.”You made it.”

I turn from watching Baxter drive off to see Dean approaching from a bench by the building.

“Sorry I’m late.”

As always he’s wearing sweats and a hoodie, and as always, he shrugs. “Thanks for telling me.”

He’s got a dark bruise on his cheekbone and a cut on his lip. I want to ask about the fight, but know that I shouldn’t. So I hesitate, unsure of what to do next. “Do you have the letter from Reginald?” I ask finally.

I can’t be certain, but something flickers across Dean’s face, replaced almost instantly by that calm, cold mask. Disappointment, maybe?

“Yeah.” He sets his gym bag down on the sidewalk and crouches in front of it, rooting around before pulling out a cream-colored envelope with several folded pages inside. I squint at the bag, spotting what looks like a binder and a tie jumbled among its contents, before Dean zips it back up and stands, staring down at me. “That all?” he asks.

I hold the envelope in my fingers, recognizing the logo as that of another large Chicago firm. Why would Ruthie send fake legal papers when she had a real lawyer? Or did she only hire them after hearing from me?

“Rachel?”

I blink and look up at Dean. “Sorry,” I say at the same moment my stomach growls. Loudly. I blush. “Sorry,” I echo.

He nods, watching me.

“Um...” I look around at the people rushing by, suits and briefcases, high heels and manicures. No one notices me, but plenty of eyes linger on Dean, drawn to his size, his casual attire in a sea of businesspeople. “Are you hungry?”

The predictable shrug. “I could eat.”

“Okay. I know a place.”

He falls into step beside me, careful to keep space between us so we don’t touch. I don’t know how I feel about the distance he’s deliberately keeping, but I’m too distracted by my fury at Caitlin and Adrian to dwell on it. Baxter had suggested we use the car ride to vent our frustrations and after nearly two hours of rather extreme cursing and venomous, creative insult manufacturing, I’m spent. Or I should be. The mere recollection of their betrayal makes me simmer with renewed rage.

“This is it,” I say too sharply, stopping when we nearly pass the restaurant. Zadie’s is a small bistro that looks deceptively casual but attracts a decidedly upscale clientele. It’s always packed with businessmen and women, and the partners at the firm love it. I’d represented the restaurant in a wrongful dismissal case my second year at the firm—which I’d won—and I now merit a prime table every time I drop by.

George, the manager, spots me—well, he spots Dean—when we enter, and approaches with a smile. “Rachel!” he exclaims, kissing me on both cheeks. “Long time.” He gives Dean a curious once-over.

“Sorry.” I smile back. “Busy. Do you have room for us?”

“Do I have room?” George tsks. “Of course. Come over here by the window.”

Dean and I squeeze past a line of waiting customers and slide into seats at a table overlooking the busy street. Dean’s so big and the table so small that there’s no way to sit without touching. Eyes on mine, he wedges one knee between my legs, his thigh almost touching my chair. The position is decidedly...cozy.

I raise an eyebrow but don’t say anything, and his mouth quirks. “You come here a lot?” he asks.

“Not as much as I’d like,” I reply, smiling at George when he swoops by with menus. “But they’re a client, so they know me.”

“Huh.”

I open the menu and scan the familiar offerings, upscale pub food with a huge wine selection. “You don’t drink at all?” I ask, thinking how much I’d like some wine right now.

“No. But get whatever you want.”

“Is that weird? Or rude?”

Now Dean does smile, just a brief flash of teeth, the slightest crinkle at the corner of his eye. “I don’t have a drinking problem, Rachel, I just don’t drink. Get something. You look like you could use it.”

I roll my eyes. “Thanks.”

He shrugs. Of course.

A server comes by to take drink orders; I get a glass of house red, Dean asks for water. When we’re alone Dean leans in, folding his big hands in front of him.

“On Saturday you asked about my apartment,” he says, studying his scraped-up knuckles.

I remember the argument at the bus stop. “Yeah?”

He glances up at me. “My mother died four years ago.”

“I’m sorry.” I’d figured as much when he hadn’t mentioned her sooner, but the news is still sad. I’d certainly cared more for Camila than I had for my own mother.

He flicks his fingers in dismissal. “She’d been saving money, and when she passed it came to me. But I couldn’t touch it until I’d been out of jail and out of trouble for a year.”

I peer at him, confused by the sudden sharing, but he’s still looking in any direction but mine. “Anyway,” he plows on, “when I got out of jail, my parole officer got me the job at the warehouse. I found a cheap apartment nearby, and when the year was up I got the money my mother left and started looking for something better. Six months ago I bought the place I’m in now. I haven’t decorated.”

Dean breaks off when the server returns with our drinks. He looks relieved, shooting me a wary glance as he downs half his water. Then he adds, “That’s why it isn’t ‘homey.’”

I sip my wine and watch him, perplexed. “Well, you’re a wealth of information today. What prompted this?”

If I’m not mistaken, Dean blushes a little. “Oreo,” he mutters.

“Who? Reginald?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

“What does he have to do with anything?”

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. With him leaning in over his hands like this, I can smell him. Soap and pine. The temptation to reach out and touch the bruises on his face is so strong I almost have to sit on my hands to suppress it.

“When I said I wanted to fight on Sunday, he asked why. I tried not to tell him anything, but he’s got a way, Rach. And...”

I sit up a little straighter, alarmed. “What did you tell him?”

“About the stuff on the bus.”

“Our fight?”

He gives me an irritated look. “Yeah.”

I stiffen. “He knows about...us?”

Dean suddenly looks mutinous. “So? Who’s he going to tell?”

I open my mouth to argue, but falter. It’s true I’d rather no one know about Dean and me, but really, who would Reginald share it with? Then I realize that he knew about us when he’d called on Monday, insisting Dean be the one to deliver Ruthie’s letter. That rat. “What did he say?” I ask instead.

Dean finishes his water and glances out the window at a curvy blonde in a tight red dress. He watches her for a moment and I feel my blood boil. “He said I should have answered your fucking question,” he finally replies.

I laugh in surprise. “He did?”

“Yeah. Anything else you need to know?”

“Do you think checking out other women when I’m six inches away is a good idea?”

Dean chuckles and looks guilty, but doesn’t apologize. What he says instead is, “Who’s the guy at the bar?”

“What?” I turn to follow his gaze over my shoulder, freezing when I lock eyes with Todd. He’s sitting with two other firm accountants, bottle of beer in hand. He looks away the second our eyes meet, but the contact is enough for Dean to pick up on. “No one,” I say, when it’s obvious he’s waiting for an answer.

“He’s been sneaking looks at you the whole time we’ve been here.”

“Maybe he likes your hoodie.”

Dean’s lips curve, and damn if it’s not sexy as hell. “You think I should take it off?”

The server returns just in time to prevent me from answering in the affirmative. I order crab cakes and salad; Dean opts for steak frites and another glass of water. I’m surprised to realize I’ve finished my wine and order a second—and final—glass.

“So?” Dean says when the server has left. “What’s got you so worked up?”

“I’m not worked up.”

“You looked pissed when I saw you. And you drank that wine like it was going to fix something.”

“Enough wine can fix anything.”

“You don’t want to talk about it? Not even after I told you that great story about my apartment?”

“You’re a natural-born storyteller, Dean.”

He laughs, looking around the crowded bar. “Your call, Rachel.”

Maybe it’s the way his features soften when he smiles, or the flash of genuine emotion on his handsome face. Or maybe it’s just the way it’s nice to hear him say my name without scowling or cursing or bossing me around.

“There’s somebody at work I really hate,” I hear myself say. “And today I discovered she’s done something I think is really going to undermine the work I’ve been doing on this Fowler case.”

“That the thing you’re doing out in Camden?”

“Yeah. And...I went to Cranston today.”

Dean’s dark eyebrows raise, his second show of emotion in as many minutes. “No kidding.”

I shake my head, staring into my empty glass. “I had a panic attack.” I risk a look up through my lashes to see if he’s laughing at me, but the bland look is back, his dark eyes steady on mine. “And I met Kurt and his daughter Sabrina.”

“She the one in the wheelchair?”

I bury my face in my hands and nod, willing the tight knot in my throat to go away. I want to cry just thinking about it. And I can’t even decide why.

Our refills arrive and I take a sip—fine, a massive mouthful—of wine, praying it helps me calm down.

“Why’d you go to Cranston?”

“We were looking for someone. A doctor.”

“You find him?”

“Her. And yes. That’s how I know about this other person screwing me over.”

“Was it that guy at the bar?”

“No.”

“Who is he?”

“Todd. An accountant at the firm.”

Dean makes a face. “But you know him?”

“I work with lots of people. Just because I know his name doesn’t mean I know him.”

“You haven’t seen him looking at you.”

“Stop it.”

The food arrives then, and for a few minutes we eat in silence.

“Do you like working at the warehouse?” I ask finally.

“It’s all right.”

“What did you have to do in town today?”

Dean watches me as he chews a piece of steak, taking his time. Stalling. “A work thing.”

“Do you wear a tie to work in the warehouse?”

“What? No.”

“Then why do you have one?”

“You go through my bag and I didn’t notice?”

“I have X-ray vision.”

He points his steak knife at me. “I always knew there was something off about you.”

I watch Dean cut another piece of meat. “You aren’t going to tell me?”

He pauses, lips pursed, and then apparently recalls Reginald’s advice because he sighs and answers. “I have to take this course, maybe for management. I don’t know. It’s nothing. A waste of time.”

“Then why are you doing it?”

“Because I have to.” He shovels the steak into his mouth, obviously uncomfortable with the conversation.

“Someone thinks you could be promoted?”

He shrugs, Reginald’s instructions forgotten.

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

Dean swallows, then changes the subject. I give up and let him. “What’s the name of this person who’s bothering you?” His eyes drift back to Todd.

“It’s a woman,” I reply. “Caitlin Dufresne. She’s not here.”

“What’s she like?”

I think of the car ride with Baxter. How we came up with one thousand accurately evil adjectives to describe her awfulness. “She’s like all of the most horrible things you can think of,” I say, spearing an artichoke with my fork. “She’s deceitful and a kiss-ass and a liar and a cheater and a huge whore. But she’s smart, too, so she gets away with it. And—”

I break off as Dean covers my fork hand with his own, stilling me. “You’re going to break the plate, Rachel.”

I realize then that I’ve been stabbing the artichoke again and again, as if it’s a voodoo doll and I’m a raging psychopath. “Sorry,” I mutter, pushing the mangled artichoke to the side. “I hate artichokes.”

“That wine help you relax any?”

As I promised myself I would, I’d stopped at two glasses and switched to water. “I guess not.”

“Want to get out of here?”

I pause, eyes lifting to Dean’s. His face is still but his eyes are blazing hot. I guess my rage turns him on. Hell, I think it might turn me on, because suddenly that knee between my legs can’t get close enough.

“Yes,” I say.

Dean raises a hand to flag down the server, and I stifle a smile. I won’t kid myself that one semi-civil conversation and half a decent meal mean we’re in some kind of healthy, functional relationship, but after the day I’ve had, this is still the highlight. Maybe I’m setting the bar a little low, but then again, maybe I want to make sure Dean steps over it.

Things are looking up until I hear my name.

I freeze, recognizing Sterling’s cool, polished tone. It takes everything I’ve got to keep the horror I’m feeling from showing on my face as both Sterling and Morgan approach our table, whiskey glasses in hand. The server appears behind them and Dean asks for the check, then sits silently, watching me watch my bosses.

“Hello,” I say, aiming for polite and ending up at strained.

“Busy place tonight,” Sterling says. “Very popular.”

“Always.” I nod, gaze flitting between Sterling, Morgan and Dean, which is a mistake, because as soon as I look at him, Sterling and Morgan do too. “Um...” I say, when it becomes obvious I’m not making introductions. “Dean, these are the senior partners at the firm, Don Sterling and Joseph Morgan. This is Dean Barclay, my...friend.” I pray desperately that the infinitesimal pause doesn’t give away that Dean’s my trailer-park ex-boyfriend, ex-con and current preferred method of relaxation.

“Nice to meet you, Dean,” Morgan says, shaking his hand. To give both Sterling and Morgan credit, they appear completely unfazed by Dean’s size or his penchant for sweats. And Dean doesn’t do anything to embarrass me, like shrug.