Touch of the White Tiger (10 page)

He gave me a lopsided grin that creased the scar running from his temple to his upper lip. “I came lookin’ for you, honey.”

“Cut the crap, Brad.”

He shrugged and cut back a notch on the high-octane charm. “I stopped by your house, and your old lady said you’d come here. I want to help you get out of this mess. Don’t worry, I’m not thinkin’ of
you
. I’m concerned about
moi
. This little murder rap of yours is gonna send some heavy duty shit into fans all over the country, and its gonna land on any poor sap who has the balls to hang out a CRS shingle.”

“You’re a big, tough guy, Brad, you can handle the fallout,” I said. He was right, and I was worried about the same thing, but if I gave Brad an inch, he’d take a mile. I had to hang tough until I could ferret out his real motives.

His blond pin-cushion eyebrows, both adorned with four small hooped earrings, curled into an earnest frown. “Okay, so maybe I am thinkin’ about someone other than myself. We’re in a brotherhood, Angel. You know that. I have to watch out for my colleagues. Just like you.”

He had me there. Still, something in the back of my mind warned me to be wary. I crossed my arms until it hit me. “You mean to say that you dropped your own clients in New Orleans to come and help out in Chicago?”

“I was at O’Hare waiting for a connecting flight to California when I saw your beautiful kisser on the airport’s digiscreens. I decided to delay my trip, just for you. After all, it’s my vacation. I can do whatever I want with it.”

I placed my hands on my heart and said, dryly, “I feel so special.”

“Seriously, Angel, you need help. Consider me a consultant.”

I thought about the meeting we’d arranged with all the retributionists in Chicago. It might be good to have an outsider’s point of view. “Okay, but on one condition.”

“You name it.”

“Keep your hands to yourself.”

He looked genuinely disappointed. “Have you stopped to consider that you might seriously need to get laid?”

“Don’t even go there,” I snarled.

He raised his hands up in surrender. “Cool. We’re cool. Lead the way, Kemo sabe.”

Mama Mia

O
n the way home from the Leibman’s, I called and updated my lawyer on what I’d discovered at Roy’s house. I should say I updated his assistant. I couldn’t imagine that Berkowitz had a higher profile case at the moment, but he must have because getting through to him was like getting an audience with the pope. I guess ten mil doesn’t buy much these days.

Still, I felt I was in good hands. You don’t pay defense lawyers to be warm and fuzzy. You pay them to ruthlessly rip the heart out of the prosecutor’s case, to cannibalize the DA in front of the jury, and to stand triumphantly over the bodies of fallen witnesses when the prosecution has crumbled beneath his feet. And that’s if you’re innocent. I could only imagine what tactics my attorney would use if I were obviously guilty. But, as I had learned through my interview with the Diva, truth is no defense.

Mike offered to lead Brad through the labyrinthine bullet train rail system to the Retributionists Hall so Brad could help organize the meeting scheduled for the next day. I was looking forward to a nice cup of coffee before I set out on my next task, but that wasn’t to be.

“Psst! Angel, come here!” Jimmy said as soon as I let myself in the front door.

I flipped on the foyer light and saw Jimmy’s extended broken leg sticking out of the shadows of the ground-level studio. “What is it? Why are you down here?”

He wheeled a few inches forward until his long, handsome face emerged from the shadows like a scene from a film noir. “Do you know who’s upstairs?” he hissed conspiratorially.

The Cyclops? Santa Claus? I couldn’t even begin to guess, so I merely shook my head.

“Sydney Bassett,” he said, with an intensity that made a frisson of danger zip up my spine. “Very dangerous.”

“Sydney?” I whispered back. “Dangerous? Wait a minute, you’re getting carried away. She is my foster mother.”

“Are you sure?” he whispered, looking up as if she might be able to hear us through the ceiling.

“Yes! Of course.”

“She could be a compubot who has set you up with this whole murder rap,” he whispered dramatically. “You say she hired your lawyer? Maybe that’s just to make it look like she’s on your side.”

“That’s ridiculous. I know you must think the world is full of your kind, Jimmy, but you’re quite rare.”
Thank God,
I silently added. “Sydney is not a compubot. Now just relax and keep an eye out of the front window down here. Okay?”

He looked at me as if I were making a grave mistake, then reluctantly nodded. “Okay. But if anything happens up there, you scream. I’ll take the service elevator.”

I gave him a thumbs-up. “Ten-four,” I said with all the sincerity of a cartoon superheroine on her way to blithely save the day.

Sydney wasn’t a danger, but her presence here made me acutely uncomfortable. I’d never before invited my foster parents to my house. My abode never seemed good enough to show off to the Bassetts. It wasn’t as if Sydney and Henry were money conscious snobs. They’d always treated me as an equal, even though I was from an entirely different social strata.

It was more the fact that I didn’t have any of Sydney’s interior decorating skills. My flat was comfortable, but undistinguished. Plus, I’d always sensed that in some way, small or large, I was a social experiment of Henry’s. I didn’t want the Bassetts to see me in my own milieu and find out that I had failed the test.

More disturbing still, Lola was upstairs. My foster mother and birth mother had never met. When I threw open the door to my upstairs flat, I found them sitting tensely at opposite ends of the couch.

Sydney looked like the quintessential college dean’s wife. Her hair was richly frosted and tucked in a loose bun. An expensive but subtle strand of pearls wreathed her thin neck. And she gracefully wore a sporty peach-and-white skirt ensemble so tasteful that it didn’t even register in Lola’s consciousness.

In contrast, Lola wore a fitted polysynthe gown with orange, red, and yellow swirls that looked like custard flambé. Her hair was a brassy red-orange, as was the lipstick painted a quarter of an inch above her lip line, not to mention her nail polish, and her eyebrows, which looked like twin St. Louis arches in a blazing orange sunset.

I took one look at the two women—so disparate, each representing irreconcilable parts of my life—and blanched. They both jumped up when they saw me and said nearly in unison, with relief, “Angel!”

I cleared my throat and forced a casual smile. “Sydney, what a surprise. I see you’ve met my…Lola.” My mother, I almost said, but caught myself just in time.

I still hated giving Lola the satisfaction of being called “Mom,” considering how little mothering she’d done when I was young. And I didn’t want to hurt Sydney’s feelings, considering I’d never called her “Mom,” either, even though I think she’d wanted me to.

The Bassetts had tried to adopt me, but Lola wouldn’t allow it. Memories of that disappointment flashed painfully in my mind. I was tough, but I wasn’t sure I was tough enough to stand in the eye of that emotional hurricane right now.

I went to Sydney to give her my usual hello hug. Feeling Lola’s angry glare burning into my profile, I then gave her an awkward little embrace.

“Well,” I said, nervously clapping my hands together, “you two look like you’ve enjoyed your little chat.” The comment was so patently absurd that I blushed and cleared my throat. “Can I get you something to drink, Sydney?”

“I already served her tea,” Lola said in a bad, vaguely British accent as she waved her hand in front of the white, cube-like teacups in front of her and Sydney.

No, Lola, just be yourself
, I tried to psychically warn her. She had the most unrealistic view of how “the other half” lived. In her own way, she was a reverse snob. All wealthy people, she assumed, were stupid and heartless. She’d always told me you had to put on airs to get along with the well-to-do.

“Oh, yes, I see the teacups now. Silly me,” I said, forcing
a laugh that almost turned into a groan when Lola tried to sneak a quick pour of her flask into her cup. I could smell the alcohol from where I stood.

Lola had been dry ever since she’d moved in with me a month ago. I should have known Sydney’s arrival would be enough to knock her off the wagon.

I nonchalantly walked over to Lola’s side of the couch and pried the flask from her curled hand. I didn’t want to embarrass her, but I knew from experience she’d soon be swinging from the proverbial chandelier if I didn’t intervene. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

I went out to the kitchen, dumped the flask upside down in the sink, then clung to my ceramic countertop while I hyperventilated. I’d been through too much in the past few days to pretend I was up for a tea party. I had to get Lola out of here. Sydney had obviously come for an important reason, and we needed a chance to talk alone.

I spun around and marched into the living room. “Lola, I need you to run to the sto—” I stopped cold when I inhaled a telling whiff of tobacco. I focused on my birth mother with disbelief, then outrage. A trail of smoke curled up from a cigarette poised in her hand like a movie star’s. She took a long, hard drag, then exhaled in Sydney’s direction.

“Okay, that’s it!” I roared. “You know cigarettes are illegal. How dare you subject Sydney to that?”

“Don’t worry, Angel,” Sydney said in her gentle way.

“No, I’m sorry. Lola wouldn’t be doing this if you weren’t here.”

“How dare you talk about me as if I’m not in the room!” Lola said. “You and your hoity-toity foster mother think you’re both mighty special, don’t you?”

“You need to go now.” I strode to Lola’s side, forcefully helped her up from the couch, grabbed her purse and escorted
her to the door. “We’ll talk about this later,” I whispered harshly once we’d reached the top of the stairs.

“I was entertaining her until you got home,” Lola returned in a stage whisper loud enough to be heard in the balconies. “I tried to help, and this is the thanks I get!”

“If you want to help, take a long trip to the store. Pick up some groceries. While you’re there, get yourself a nicotine injection and stop by an AA meeting on your way home.”

“That’s not fair!”

“Life’s not fair, Lola. You taught me that.”

That silenced her. She mugged a conspiratorial, almost proud smile. “Yeah, I did, didn’t I? Aw, honey, I’m sorry. I embarrassed you. Will you forgive me?”

“Not today.” I shut the door, and she immediately knocked. I yanked it open. “What?”

“Tomorrow?”

“We’ll see,” I said through clenched teeth. This time I shut and locked the door. When I returned to the living room, Sydney was cleaning up the teacups. Together we brought the dishes into the kitchen and sat at the table. I poured myself the last of the tea and sank down in exhaustion.

“I’m so sorry, Sydney.”

“Don’t be, dear. I’m glad finally to have met your birth mother. She’s quite extraordinary.”

I laughed and nodded. “I’ll say. But I bet you didn’t come here to meet Lola.”

“No.” She reached out and covered my hand with hers. “I have some important news.”

I perked up. “What?”

“Your fath—I should say Henry and I managed to get temporary custody of Lin.”

My mouth dropped, then spread into a smile. “Oh! That’s fantastic.” I leaned over the table and threw my arms around
her and we rocked together in joy. “Thank you. Thank Henry! What would I do without you?”

I finally released her. “I can’t tell you what a relief that is. I know you’ll give Lin a fabulous home.”

A sudden blast of melancholy rushed through me and I wasn’t sure why. But, as was frequently the case, Sydney knew me better than I knew myself.

“It’s only temporary, Angel. I’m not going to replace you as Lin’s mother. She’ll be back with you as soon as Berkowitz clears up this debacle.”

I gave her a thin smile, morosely thinking that even Berkowitz wasn’t that good, but I didn’t want Sydney to think she’d wasted millions of dollars on my defense.

“Lin wants to come back here as soon as she can,” Sydney added.

My blue gaze pinned on her hopefully. “Did she say that?”

“Yes. And I can see it in her face whenever we talk about you.”

“I hope…I hope she won’t forget me.”

“I don’t think that’s possible. You’re her savior, sweetie. She knows that.”

“Some savior. Lola had her faults, but at least she was never charged with murder. She spent four years behind bars. I’m facing life without parole. Lin might never see me again.”

“No, Angel—”

“Let’s be realistic, Sydney. I was a foster mother—what?—a month? Already I’ve abandoned Lin.”

Sydney looked nonplussed. “Abandoned her! This wasn’t your fault.”

“I doubt it matters to Lin whether I’m guilty or not. She needs a mother. I just took that away from her. Isn’t it bad enough that she’s already lost one family?”

“Stop! I won’t have you doing this to yourself. Lin and
eleven other girls would be for sale on the black market right now if it weren’t for you.”

I couldn’t argue there. I treasured the admiration in Sydney’s soft green eyes, and her quiet determination to see the world in a positive light. It was that, even more than the Bassetts’ wealth, that set them apart from me. It was her hopefulness, and my cynicism, that made me feel I really didn’t deserve to be adopted into their family.

“Okay, so I’m not that bad. When I can I see her?”

“Not until you are cleared of all charges.”

“What?”

“I know, it’s going to be torture to keep away from Lin when you know she’s so close. But they wouldn’t give us custody until we promised them you’d keep your distance. You’re not even allowed to talk to her on the phone. Not until you’ve been found innocent.”

“Sydney, that could be months. Years, even.”

“I refuse to believe that. It will happen soon. It simply must. Meanwhile, she’s safe with us, honey. It’s the best that we can do right now.”

I nodded. “Thank you. For everything.”

“We love you, Angel.”

Thank God for small miracles.

I went downtown to meet face-to-face for the first time with Jack Berkowitz. He was exactly the kind of attorney you wanted to have for a murder defense. He was good-looking, distinguished, bright and he reeked of success. The odor was even more aromatic than his thousand-dollar cologne. You could tell he was the kind of man who could reach under a table and crush his opponent’s noogies without a pause in the drone of his legalize. Best of all, he had a winning track record and wasn’t about to ruin it with a guilty verdict in my case.

Gary agreed that the prosecution’s case stunk to high heaven and that whoever set me up had friends in high places. I was glad we saw eye to eye. I was also pleased that unlike some high-powered lawyers, Gary wasn’t a control freak. He’d had enough success to trust in synchronicity and encouraged me to continue my own investigation, though I was not to give any media interviews without first consulting him. Fine by me.

I left his office late in the afternoon feeling more hopeful than I had in days. But the ride home cast me in a blue funk. That was due, in part, to the fact that while waiting on the train platform, I caught a glimpse of someone who reminded me of the Cyclops.

He looked at me from the middle of the crowded platform, a hooded sweatshirt hiding most of his face and head. I couldn’t see his eyes, so I assumed they were intact. I knew it wasn’t Cy because he was locked up. Still, it gave me the willies. What if he ever got out of jail? Would he try to get back at me for destroying his only good eye?

I also found myself succumbing to the foul mood I’d been fighting ever since Sydney visited my flat. The state of Illinois saw fit to treat me like a leper when it came to my foster child. For the first time, I could relate to how Cy felt, being judged and separated from others for an act of fate. In Cy’s case, he had been badly burned. I had been at the wrong place at the wrong time.

By the time I arrived home, I was ready to go into a vegetative state. Nothing like a double-murder charge to force you to deal with all your emotional baggage all at once. Right now I just needed a break.