Time Served Read online

  “Bullshit. I don’t take things for free.”

  I open my mouth to argue, but his jaw is set, eyes stony, so I awkwardly take the money and put it in my pocket.

  Chapter Seven

  “We’re nearly done, Hector. Are you doing all right?”

  Hector Nunes yawns again, but nods. It’s Friday and both Adrian and I are exhausted; we completed our five scheduled interviews and were about to head home when Hector, with whom I’ve been trying to get in touch all week, finally returned my call and agreed to my request for a follow-up. We’ve only been here fifteen minutes and already his yawning is contagious. If he’d hurry up and agree to join our case, this would be much easier, but he’s been screwed over by “jerks in suits” in the past, and won’t sign anything without thinking about it first. And forever.

  “You said the doctor who wrote the original note to your bosses at the plant was named Dr. Cortez, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And she worked out of Arthur Street Medical Clinic?”

  “Yes.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  Hector’s gaze drifts around the room. “No idea.”

  “More than a year?”

  “About that.”

  I make a note. “Do you remember Dr. Cortez’s first name?”

  He nods.

  “What is it?”

  “Donna. Same as my ex-wife.”

  Adrian and I exchange a disappointed look. We’ve been trying to find Dr. Donna Cortez for weeks, but her former clinic is severely disorganized and understaffed and could barely confirm her name, never mind her current place of employment. I’d held out some hope they’d given us the wrong name so we could renew our search, but no luck. I make a note and smile at Hector, hoping my expression lands somewhere between professional and encouraging, not desperate and exhausted.

  If he’s remembering things correctly he could quite possibly be the first patient on record with a health complaint directly related to the Harco-99 exposure—Patient Zero, as Adrian likes to call him. The problem is, all our efforts to find Dr. Cortez or obtain a copy of that original doctor’s note have turned up nothing. According to the staff at the clinic, Dr. Cortez left nine months ago and hasn’t been seen since. The receptionist we spoke to had worked there for all of three weeks, and could only tell us that while current patient records are stored on computers, older records—like Hector’s—were on paper only, and had been stored in a basement prone to flooding. They’d look through the wet boxes when they had a free moment. No, we couldn’t look ourselves. Sure, we could ask the court to force them to produce the documents, but odds are they tossed the ruined records and aren’t willing to cop to it. Pissing them off isn’t going to help our case.

  “Was Dr. Cortez elderly?”

  Hector coughs out a laugh. “No. And she was beautiful.”

  “Can you guess her age?”

  “Young. Definitely young. She was new. I remember because she replaced my doctor and I thought, Thank God for that. Yellow hair and dark eyes—gorgeous.”

  I smile as if that’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever heard. “Was she from Camden?”

  “No. I don’t know where she was from.” He yawns again, a tiny trail of spittle dribbling out, connecting his chin to his collar.

  “Any chance you know where she is now?”

  “Not a clue.”

  A few minutes later we say our goodbyes and pack up our things. It’s once again raining as Adrian and I shuffle our way down the slippery wheelchair ramp and stone pathway. Adrian hurries ahead and climbs in the car while I watch my step and try to keep my umbrella overhead.

  “Ahem.”

  I look up at the sound of a throat clearing and spot two pairs of feet next to the front wheel of the sedan. One pair is clad in size fourteen polished black leather, the other in considerably smaller, well-worn Adidas. The Adidas owner is also wearing a green tracksuit. I sigh and stop, meeting his steady one-eyed gaze.

  “Hi, Reginald.”

  “Hello.”

  Jose looks between us.

  “Is everything all right?” I ask.

  Then Reginald smiles. “It’s fucking terrific!” he exclaims. “Your letter worked like magic. Sure, Ruthie came over screaming like a bat out of hell, but I told her she could take any issues straight to you at your fancy firm and leave me alone in the meantime.”

  I certainly hope that doesn’t happen. “What did she say?”

  “Oh, she was pissed, but I haven’t heard a word from her in two days, which is a goddamn relief. You’re a miracle worker.”

  “I’m happy to hear—”

  “I came to take you out for a celebratory drink.”

  I freeze and Jose glances at me. “Ah...” I begin awkwardly.

  “One drink. We’re just a few blocks from the bar, that’s how I knew where to find you. Well, that and there’s no way to miss this bucket of lard.” Reginald nods at Jose, as though he might have been referring to Adrian instead.

  “I don’t think—”

  “They make great drinks. Come on. You can have as many as you want. The buses run until midnight, so you got six hours. I’m only asking for one. Heck, thirty minutes. Twenty.”

  I don’t want to agree, but much like our meeting on Monday, I kind of feel like it would be faster to just give Reginald what he wants—and a letter and a drink aren’t that much—than argue about why I can’t. And I would like a drink, almost as much as I’d like to get back in the car and leave Camden behind.

  “This jerk can come too, if he wants,” Reginald adds generously, again referring to Jose.

  Jose looks at me, clearly unwilling to come along, and only in part because Reginald is being so insulting.

  “It’s okay, Jose,” I say finally. “I’ll find my way back.”

  “You sure, Miss Moser?”

  “I’m sure.” Then to Reginald, “But I’m off the clock now, got it? One drink and I’m out. And no free legal advice.”

  “As if I need it!” Reginald scoffs, offended.

  I slide my briefcase in the car, where Adrian has moved to the seat farthest from Reginald, likely hoping to avoid a wayward insult. I ask him to leave the briefcase in my office and wave goodbye as I follow Reginald down the cracked sidewalk.

  “I’ve been trying to find you all day,” he says as we round the corner, the boxing gym up ahead on the left.

  “I have a lot of interviews to get through.”

  “So I hear. I seen a lot of men get sick from that shit.”

  “The perc—The Harco-99?”

  “That the cleaner?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then yeah. Had a bunch of ’em working out at the gym, coming in less and less, getting tired, eventually just disappearing.”

  “They disappeared?”

  “You know what I mean. No energy for anything. Forgetful. Coming in with bruises they don’t remember getting, lots of red eyes. I may only have one eye, but I notice this stuff. You watch men get knocked around all day, you learn to recognize the signs when something’s off, and these men were off.”

  “When did you start noticing this?”

  “I thought you were off the clock,” Reginald accuses. “Despite that fancy-ass lawyer outfit.”

  “You mean you aren’t taking me someplace nice?”

  We stop in front of a nondescript building with a miniscule window housing an even tinier neon sign advertising one all-important feature: beer.

  Reginald pulls open the door and gestures for me to enter first. “Camden’s finest.”

  * * *

  The bar is called Winner’s, and I can’t help but think someone was a little optimistic when setting up shop. It’s small and dark, with a long wooden bar on the opposite wall, darts and pool on one end, a tiny dance floor in the middle and a mix of tables scattered throughout. My Prada heels crunch through peanut shells as Reginald leads us to a tall table in the corner, already occupied by some gu
y turned around to watch the people playing pool.

  “Take off,” Reginald orders, rapping his scarred knuckles on the table.

  “Fuck off,” the man suggests, voice flat. But when he turns his face is creased in a smile that looks decidedly out of place on his hard face. A smile that quickly vanishes when he sees me.

  “Brought you a friend,” Reginald says proudly, oblivious to the instant tension that springs up between Dean and me, so heated and vicious I imagine it glowing between us like an electric fence.

  We open our mouths to say something—anything—to make up any excuses as to why we have to leave, but Reginald is already flagging down a waitress. “The usual,” he says, pointing between himself and Dean. “And...” He looks at me.

  “Corona,” I say, because it’s the first thing that catches my eye.

  The waitress nods and disappears.

  Reginald climbs into one of the tall seats, feet dangling off the ground. “Get comfortable,” he orders. “I got you for an hour.”

  “Twenty minutes,” I correct, reluctantly taking a seat and balancing my toes on the crossbar. The round table is small, barely enough for three drinks, never mind three people, and certainly not one as big as Dean. Turned to face us he takes up way too much room, his knees bumping my thigh as I shift, trying to find a position that doesn’t make contact but also doesn’t draw attention to the fact that I’m trying not to.

  The waitress returns with the drinks, scotch for Reginald, beer for me and orange juice for Dean. That’s his usual? I think, before reminding myself I don’t care.

  Reginald addresses Dean. “I was telling Miss Moser here that her letter seemed to do the trick with Ruthie.”

  “Uh-huh.” Dean’s dark eyes are on mine. He doesn’t look away as he downs half his juice in a single swallow. The bar is dim enough that it’s hard to distinguish the features on the people at the next table, but Dean’s scouring gaze makes me feel completely naked. I shift awkwardly on the seat, trying to cross my legs, but my pencil skirt is too tight and I manage nothing more than bumping both Dean and Reginald.

  I scrounge around desperately for something intelligent or witty to say, but all I can come up with is, “Do you always drink orange juice?”

  Dean’s halfway through a nod when Reginald interrupts. “He can’t drink right now, anyway. It mixes with the pain meds.”

  “Pain meds for what?”

  “Fractured rib, broken tooth. The kind of shit people get when they invite Oscar Hall into the ring for the wrong reason.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Dean growls, “Shut up, Oreo,” but Reginald—Oreo—ignores him.

  “It means that a man who spars for fun has no business fighting a man who fights for business. You’re lucky you didn’t get far worse done to you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I thought you only worked out at the gym,” I interrupt.

  “I do.” He doesn’t spare me a glance.

  “Came in with a shitload of energy last Thursday.” Reginald shrugs. “And Friday, and Saturday. Then finally Saturday night he started a fight.”

  “In the ring,” Dean grits out.

  “Sure. If you say so.” Reginald turns to me. “You know what upset him?”

  I shake my head hard enough that I feel my chignon loosen. I’m lying. If his sudden “energy” developed on Thursday, then that’s the day after our...thing. “No,” I reply.

  “Huh. Let me get you another orange juice, amigo. Restore your electrolytes.”

  “Forget it.”

  But Reginald is already out of his seat and heading to the bar, leaving Dean and me alone. I push the lime into the bottle and take a sip, fighting the urge to close my eyes and moan. What I wouldn’t do to go home and down a few more of these, watching house-hunting shows and erasing the past week—or just last Wednesday—from mind.

  “Thursday, huh?” The question comes out before I even know I’m thinking it.

  Dean turns his head very, very slowly to look at me. From straight on I see the faint hint of a bruise on his left cheekbone, a butterfly stitch above the same eyebrow. My gaze flicks down to his hoodie, imagining a swath of bandages covering his ribs.

  “What of it?”

  “Which tooth did you break?”

  “What do you care?”

  I shrug and take another drink, avoiding his dark stare. Sex does not equal civil in Dean Barclay’s new world.

  “Hey, Dean.”

  I look up to see a woman—a girl, really—sidle up to Dean. She’s wearing a yellow fringe dress that barely covers her ass, and clear platform wedges. I’m not convinced she’s not a prostitute, but keep my expression blank.

  “How you been?” he asks.

  My bruised ego pipes up. You didn’t ask how I was.

  I take another drink, relieved when Reginald returns and I don’t have to watch the girl lean into the table to rest her hand on Dean’s knee and shove her breasts in his face. Reginald meets my gaze and rolls his eyes, sending a clear message—groupie.

  You think I’d marry some prison groupie?

  Nope. But I think he’d bang a boxing groupie. And I think she’d blow him right here at this table if there was enough room beneath it.

  “So, Rachel, what do you do when you’re not working?” Reginald asks.

  I immediately recognize that he’s trying to take away some of the sting of Dean’s obvious rejection. I doubt Reginald knows that Dean and I have a history—and a not-so-distant past—but all the same, something in my chest tightens at the small act of kindness.

  I shift in my seat so I can look at Reginald and turn my back to Dean. My calf catches on something so my body turns but one leg stays put, effectively parting my legs and hiking up my skirt so it’s halfway up my thighs. I curse and look down, not sure what I’ll find, certainly not expecting to see Dean’s foot hooked around mine, holding me in place.

  He’s facing half-away from me so how he managed this I may never know, but when I nudge his leg he ignores me, and when I try to lift my leg—a challenge in this skirt—he adjusts his foot so I can’t get it over. I’m not sure what point he’s trying to make. That he can make me uncomfortable? That no matter how far I run he can always find a way to keep me in place? Or does he just want to remind me how easy it is for him to spread my legs?

  I tune out his inane conversation with Jailbait Sally and smile at Reginald. “I work a lot,” I answer finally. “And when I’m not working I’m usually running errands—all the things I didn’t have time to get done during the week.”

  “Sounds dull.”

  I’m struck with a pang of disappointment, but do my best to hide it. “Sometimes.”

  “Why’d you become a lawyer?”

  “The money. Why’d you buy a boxing gym?”

  He shrugs. “Better investment than renting. You like lawyering?”

  “I love it.” Usually. “Why don’t you fight?”

  He points to his eye. “Why do you?”

  “Because I’m good at it. How’d you lose your eye?”

  “Cheap shot. You take cheap shots?”

  “Nah. I like the good stuff. Why do they call you Oreo?”

  Reginald laughs. “I’ve got a sweet tooth. You got a nickname?”

  “No,” I answer. “No nickname.”

  Dean’s conversation with Jailbait ends and he turns back to the table, moving his leg so it pulls mine, the hem of my too-tight skirt cutting into my thighs, forcing me to turn toward him. I give him a warning look but he stares back blandly, lifting his orange juice with one hand and dropping the other down to rest on my thigh. He doesn’t even start at my knee, building up to a full-on grope, he just goes right for the thigh, pushing his fingertips beneath the fabric of my skirt, kneading.

  I down the rest of my beer and smack away his hand, standing before Reginald can notice that something’s amiss.

  “Thank you for the beer,” I tell him. “And the conversation.”

&
nbsp; “Leaving so soon?”

  “I still have to work.”

  “On a Friday night?”

  “Told you I wasn’t any fun.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  I feel Dean’s eyes burning a hole in my head but refuse to look at him. I accept Reginald’s proffered hand and we shake. “Good luck with Ruthie.”

  “Thanks again.”

  “Take care.”

  I give Dean a cursory nod, avoiding his glare, and wind my way out of the bar. I’m aware that I’m collecting stares as I go; even if people didn’t recognize me as the lawyer that’s been combing through the town for the past month, my outfit alone makes me stand out.

  I push through the door and blink in the gray light; somehow I thought it’d be darker, but it’s only seven o’clock. My stomach rumbles as I glance around: no cabs. And dammit if Dean didn’t make the call to the cab company last week, so I don’t have their number in my phone.

  I push open my umbrella and hurry down the sidewalk, turning onto the main street with its collection of shops and restaurants. The heavy rain has kept most people indoors, and traffic is sparse. There are still no cabs and I don’t want to spend all night navigating public transit.

  I duck into a tiny pizza shop and my stomach roars even louder. Against my better judgment I order a slice of Hawaiian and ask for the name of the local cab company. The cashier disappears into the back for a moment, returning with a phone number scrawled on a napkin. He hands me the number and the pizza and I stand at the window eating as I dial with my free hand and ask for a cab to pick me up at the intersection.

  “Thirty minutes,” the dispatcher tells me.

  “Thirty minutes?” Who the hell is taking cabs in Camden?

  “Thirty minutes.”

  I hang up and eat as slowly as I can, which isn’t easy since I’m hyper aware that conversation has died down and most eyes are on me. It takes three minutes to finish the pizza, one minute to wipe the grease from my hands, then I pick up my umbrella and head for the door.

  I’ve got one foot halfway out when I spot Dean approaching, head down, hood pulled up against the rain. He glances up and our eyes meet. As always, he looks me up and down, his burning gaze so acute that it’s almost tangible. I feel my skin heat, but stoutly refuse to acknowledge the memories that rose in me at the feel of his hand on my thigh. I know he meant the act to be insulting, not arousing, and I resent that it was both.