Time Served Page 17

  “I could be rich?”

  I roll my eyes. “No, Reginald. You might have some room for negotiation. Like, you wouldn’t ask for anything from her if she left the business alone.”

  “I bet she’s rich.”

  I stand to go. “Don’t be greedy.”

  “I—”

  There’s a sharp knock at the door then it’s pushed open to reveal an enormous hulk of a man, bigger than Dean, with a baby face that’s disconcerting on someone his size. He’s got golden hair and big blue eyes, and despite the yellowing bruise on his cheek and the stitches in his lip, his smile is almost endearing.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” he says, glancing from Reginald to me.

  “No problem,” I say, returning the smile. “I was just leaving.”

  “Not on my account?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Rachel Moser,” Reginald says hastily, leaping to his feet and shuffling around the desk. “This is Oscar Hall.” He gives me a pointed look, as though to say, This is the guy who’s been beating up your boyfriend. “Oscar Hall, this is Rachel Moser.”

  I do my best to keep my expression neutral as Oscar folds my hand in his ginormous paw, pressing gently. This is the man Dean’s been squaring off against? He willingly lets this massive baby-faced beast take swing after swing at him?

  “You work out here?” Oscar asks.

  I laugh politely. “No. Just visiting a...” I glance at Reginald, still irked by his deceit. “Just stopping in to see Reginald.”

  Reginald has the decency to look chagrined.

  Oscar finally releases my hand. “Well, if you ever want to spar, come find me.”

  “Ha. Will do. Nice meeting you, Oscar. Good night, Reginald.”

  I hold my breath and hustle out of the building, blinking in the brightness outside. I glance up and down the mostly empty street. Assuming Dean works eight-hour shifts, he won’t be done until ten, and it’s only six thirty. Without him there’s nothing for me to do in Camden, so with something that feels alarmingly like regret settling in my stomach, I call for a cab and head home, alone.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Parker’s office is much nicer than mine. It’s the same size and is located on the same side of the building, but whereas my office is sparse and functional, Parker’s is like a second home. There are pillows and a hand-knit afghan on the small leather couch that sits to one side, and while his walls boast the requisite degrees and diplomas, they’re also peppered with photos of his family.

  Today he’s added a giant bulletin board to the decor and we’ve been methodically arranging the cases we collected from Sonia Wheeler. I’d detoured to the office last night to start sorting through the stolen paperwork, cross-referencing the names with our list of potential cases. It was a lot to go through and by eleven o’clock I was only halfway done, so Parker and I had canceled this morning’s interviews, deciding to find the “best” cases and keep them for ourselves.

  “I think Sonia may have a real problem,” Parker says, concerned. “She took home copies of the paperwork of every patient recommended by Dr. Cortez. Ash. Whoever. What’s the term for a paper kleptomaniac?”

  “Whomever.”

  Parker sticks out his tongue before pinning the final case to the “keep” side of the board. “Okay. Sonia had records on one hundred and nineteen patients, all of whom appear on our lists. We’ve already interviewed forty-two of them, which leaves...”

  There’s a pause as we both struggle to do the math.

  “Seventy-seven,” I supply eventually.

  “Right. Seventy-seven interviews to be completed. These are all people for whom we have proof—”

  “Which was illegally obtained.”

  He waves a dismissive hand. “For now. We’ll subpoena BioShare later. What we know for certain at the moment is that all of these people were poisoned by perchlorodibenzene.”

  “Okay. We have two hundred and four interviews left to complete, giving us one hundred and two each. We’ll take these seventy-seven, add...”

  Another pause while we think.

  “Maybe somebody has a calculator,” Parker suggests.

  “Twenty-five,” I finish, “then give Caitlin what’s left. If she doesn’t know about Wheeler, she won’t have a clue how we divided the cases.”

  “Advantage Finch-Moser.”

  “Moser-Finch,” I correct.

  “But I’m older. Age before beauty.”

  “Don’t think you can distract me with compliments.”

  “The way you distracted me with your glowing complexion this morning?”

  We’re interrupted by a knock and turn to spot Adrian hovering in the doorway. His pristine blue suit and dark tie offset his shiny yellow hair and perfect tan, managing to make me hate him even more. Add a pair of fuck-me heels and he’s a younger, manlier Caitlin.

  “Um, hello,” he begins tentatively.

  “Get lost, dickhead,” Parker interrupts.

  I turn back to the bulletin board to hide a smile. Parker can hold a grudge like nobody’s business. It’s part of why I like him.

  “Rachel...” Adrian tries.

  “You heard him,” I say, not turning around.

  To his credit, Adrian doesn’t whine or get angry. His voice is level and contrite, ever the well-groomed professional. “Caitlin asked me to collect the list of interviews so we could get started today.”

  “Later,” Parker replies breezily. “We’re working on it. Come back, say...never.”

  The get lost has now been both implied and verbalized, so it’s with some surprise that Parker and I watch Adrian step inside the office and close the door behind him.

  Parker hits him with a withering stare. “You realize the walls are made of glass, right? People can see you. They all know you’re spying for Caitlin and they all hate you. Almost as much as we do.”

  I block the bulletin board as best I can with my body, but Adrian doesn’t even appear to see it. “I wanted to tell you how sorry I was,” he begins, voice slightly shaky. “I didn’t know what her plans were. She told me she’d been asked to keep track of everyone’s progress and when I was assigned to work with you two she told me you knew I was passing on the interview notes.”

  Parker and I exchange a considering look. “It doesn’t matter,” I say finally. “You can’t be trusted. I’ll email you the list in an hour. Don’t come back here.”

  “Please?” Adrian pleads. “Let me work with you two. I won’t... I won’t tell Caitlin what you’re doing.”

  Parker yanks open the door to usher him out. “We’re dividing the list fairly,” he half lies. “We don’t need your help.”

  “I’ll grab the rest of the files from my office,” I say, slipping out the door. “Be right back.”

  “You go too,” Parker orders, shooing away Adrian. “And never come back. I bought you empanadas and this is how you repay me?”

  I make it all the way to my office before realizing that Adrian is right on my heels. “Take the hint!” I snap, fishing the remaining files from my desk.

  “I could carry those for you.”

  “You heard Parker. We don’t want your help. You spied on us and now Caitlin’s trying to steal the best cases. Well, guess what? I want to be second chair. So do a lot of people. But we’re getting there by doing the work ourselves and earning the spot. I’m sure the idea of earning something is a novel one, but you can ruminate on that elsewhere. Now go.”

  Adrian’s cheeks turn pink but he stands his ground. “I’ll do anything,” he says hurriedly. “Transcribe your notes. Translate. Bring you coffee. Let me work with you.”

  I arch a brow, looking at him more closely. Sure, he’s as perfectly polished as ever, but there’s something...desperate about him. “What’s Caitlin doing?” I ask.

  “Nothing!” he exclaims. “Or everything, depending on how you look at it. Rachel, I’m really, truly sorry for betraying your trust. Honestly, I am. I didn’t know what I was doing. I though
t I was following orders for the right reasons. But working with Caitlin is horrible. I learned something when I worked with you and Parker—working with her...” He trails off. I know exactly what working “with” Caitlin is like; we’d been partnered on several cases over the years and I’d always had to fight for my share of the workload so she couldn’t take the prime pieces for herself and then boast about it to the partners, which was what she’d done anyway.

  I don’t know what it is exactly that makes me hesitate that extra second, but Adrian seizes on my moment of weakness, batting those baby blues. “I know I can’t get out of working with her entirely, but I’ll do anything,” he says sincerely. “I’ll carry those files. I’ll bring you lunch. Clean your office. Just...let me help. I want to do something more than make Caitlin look good.”

  “That’s ironic, since that’s what your betrayal did.”

  “Anything,” he repeats. “I know people say I don’t need this job because my family’s loaded, which is true, but I want this job. I like this job. I want to work.”

  I clutch the Fowler files to my chest, unwilling to let Adrian near them. But then my gaze lands on the Stockard Jones envelope on my desk, the one holding the letter from Ruthie Block’s pricey lawyers.

  “You want to do something?”

  “Yes. Absolutely.”

  “It’s pro bono.” Unless you count the hundred-dollar bill still sitting in my desk.

  “Fine. I want it.”

  I tip my chin toward the desk. “Pick up that envelope. Read it. Keep it to yourself. Then get in touch with Ms. Block’s lawyers and find out what the hell she wants.”

  Adrian snatches up the envelope like it’s made of gold. “I’m on it.”

  I fix him with my sternest look. “There’s nothing in there that will help you earn points with Caitlin.”

  “I don’t care about earning points with her. I mean, I did, until I realized it was impossible.”

  “And don’t think it will make me like you any better.”

  “I don’t. I won’t.”

  “Parker either.”

  “Never.”

  “Get lost. I’ll email the Fowler list in an hour.”

  “Thank you, Rachel.”

  I watch Adrian scurry down the hall, Ruthie’s letter clasped to his chest like a lifeline.

  * * *

  An hour later I hit Send, emailing Caitlin and Adrian their one hundred and two Camden interviews. Thirty minutes after that, Caitlin materializes in Parker’s doorway, so angry I swear I can see her devil horns peeking out from beneath her flowing hair.

  “We’re on lunch,” Parker informs her through a mouthful of Pad Thai.

  Caitlin strides in clutching two file folders, both containing what appears to be no more than three sheets of paper. “Where are they?” she demands tightly. Her lips are painted bloodred to match her carefully fitted dress, and her shoes are black and shiny. Everything about her is carefully polished and practiced, like the purest form of evil.

  Parker glances at me over the desk and bites into a piece of coconut shrimp. “Where’s what?” he asks finally, wiping his fingers on a napkin.

  “The BioShare patients,” Caitlin answers.

  Both Parker and I freeze, unwillingly giving away our only advantage.

  “The what?” Parker tries.

  Caitlin gives us a cold, knowing look, the kind a strict schoolmarm would use on misbehaving children, then sidesteps me to pull the bulletin board from its place behind the couch. Parker and I stuck it there so no one passing by could spot it, though it would seem that the one person we were really hiding it from knew exactly where it was.

  I meet his eyes, finding my own fury matched in his gaze.

  Caitlin scans the names pinned on our side of the board, then rips off half of them, thumbtacks scattering across the floor.

  “I want these cases,” she says.

  “You don’t even know what they are,” I point out.

  “They’re the BioShare patients you found in Sonia Wheeler’s stolen paperwork. They’re already on record as being poisoned, so of course you want to interview them, leaving me with the Fowler employees who may or may not have gotten sick. I don’t think so. There are close to eighty names on here, and I want forty of them on my list.”

  “How do you know about Sonia Wheeler?” Parker demands.

  “All you need to know is that I’m taking half the BioShare cases. If you refuse to play nice, I’ll go to the partners. I came back here to make our case against Fowler the strongest it could be, and your petty games are only hurting the firm.”

  “Please,” I snort. “You came back here to help yourself. As long as you’re not the one getting hurt, you couldn’t care less about who you run over.”

  Caitlin shrugs, not bothering to deny it. “That’s not how the partners will see it.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’ll send you a list by the end of the day,” Parker says, dismissively waving a piece of shrimp in her direction. “Get out.”

  “My first interview is scheduled for two o’clock,” Caitlin says with a smug smile. She places one of the file folders on the desk so it falls open, revealing three pages of names, similar to the interview list we’d emailed her half an hour ago. “Since you two seem to be having such trouble with the simple task, I took it upon myself to divide the cases for you. One hundred and two interviews each, BioShare divided right down the middle. See how easy it is to play fair?”

  She twirls on her sharp heel and stalks out of the room.

  Parker tosses the shrimp tail back into his half-full takeout container and closes the lid. “There goes my appetite.”

  I pull out my phone and call Baxter, who answers on the second ring. I recap what just happened, hear a keyboard tapping in the background and a minute later we have our answer.

  “GPS,” Parker moans. “Why did we not think of this?” All the company cars have GPS and Caitlin is sufficiently connected that it would have been no trouble for her to find someone to download our route and make note of our stops, investigating any unfamiliar addresses and learning about Sonia Wheeler.

  “I don’t know.” I sigh. All I do know is that every time we get an advantage in this case, she finds a way to do it even better.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I haven’t seen or heard from Dean since saying goodbye Thursday morning, so I’m not entirely confident he’ll turn up for our Cranston trip on Sunday. I buy a bouquet of flowers, and grip them tight enough to crush the stems as I exit the building at twelve o’clock on the dot. I can’t decide if the fluttering in my chest is nerves or pleasure when I find Dean leaning against the wall, waiting, hands tucked into his pockets. He’s not wearing sweats for once; instead he’s in dark wash jeans and a black T-shirt, with casual shoes instead of sneakers.

  “Hey,” he says, pushing away from the wall. He looks me over, his perusal as tangible as fingers tracing my body. I wasn’t really sure what one wore to place flowers on a grave, and had relied on my standard uniform of a black skirt, white silk top and strappy sandals.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d come,” I say, taking him in. Big and solid, terrifying and reassuring.

  “I said I would.” This is punctuated by the predictable shrug as we fall into step and head down to the end of the block where I’d parked the car.

  “This is us. I rented it this morning.” I don’t know much about cars; it’s dark blue, automatic, has four doors and air-conditioning. I wouldn’t know what to do with more features.

  “Cool.” Dean sticks out his hand. “Hand ’em over.”

  I glance down at the flowers. “What for?”

  He nods at the keys. “I’ll drive.”

  “Ha.” I start to walk around the car. “I don’t think so. Do you even have a license?”

  Dean snags me by the back of the shirt and pulls me into his chest. “Of course I do,” he says, dipping his head to speak into my ear. “You think they take your license away when you
go to prison?”

  I ignore the way my entire body lights up when he touches me and say, “You don’t even have a car.”

  “So? Neither do you.” He corrals my clenched fist and tries to steal the keys.

  “Dean. I’m driving.” I try to stomp on his foot but he evades me.

  “Try that again and I’ll dump you on your ass,” he warns.

  I lift my foot and bring it down, this time finding his toes. It’s not hard enough to do any real damage but Dean curses, the arm around my waist tightening, and he twists me around so we’re face-to-face, breathing hard.

  “Push me down and I’m never having sex with you again,” I warn, doing my best to keep my eyes locked on his and not get distracted by his mouth.

  He smiles slightly. “Can’t have that.” He backs me into the side of the car and trails his fingers down my arm, wrapping his hand around the fist clenching the keys. “Give it up, Rachel. You’re not driving.”

  I’m finding it a little hard to breathe, and as much as I try to tell myself it’s because of the anxiety I feel about the trip, my libido would swear that that’s not true. Wrestling with Dean is “relaxing” in all the right ways. “That’s bullshit,” I gasp when he nips the side of my neck with his teeth. “I rented the car.”

  His fingers squeeze the inside of my wrist, finding whichever tendon or ligament he’s searching for, and sure enough I feel my fist opening despite my determination to keep it closed. He snags the keys and backs away calmly.

  “Dean!”

  “Relax,” he says, pressing the button that unlocks the car. “I opened your door for you.”

  “You’re a real gentleman.”

  He winks at me and strides around, climbing in the driver’s side while I take the passenger seat, tossing the slightly rumpled flowers into the back. Dean’s smiling as he starts the car, turns on the air-conditioning, and adjusts the seat and mirrors.

  “You can pick the music,” he offers generously, shoulder checking and then pulling away from the curb.

  I watch in the side mirror as my apartment building shrinks, feeling my heart rate kick up as I remember why we’re in this car in the first place. I realize then that I’m sweating, and though I try to attribute it to struggling with Dean, I know that’s not it. My throat feels tight, my stomach is twisting itself up and my fingers are cold.