Acts of Malice by Perri O'Shaughnessy Page A

company and deduct the medical bills so we can cut her a check for the rest. Does she have some questions?’’
    ‘‘No. It’s a new matter.’’
    ‘‘Oh, no. She didn’t have another collision?’’
    ‘‘You might say that,’’ Sandy said, her expression never wavering. ‘‘She wants a divorce. She knows personal injury money is separate property. She says she’s gonna take the money and run.’’
    ‘‘Really? A divorce? Now I feel guilty. I never dreamed she’d do that.’’
    ‘‘She wanted me to be sure and tell you that you’re the best thing that ever happened to her.’’ Sandy delivered this news without a flicker of expression.
    ‘‘And the worst thing that ever happened to her husband. Tell her we’re blocked up. Make her wait at least a week, Sandy. She may change her mind. This may blow over.’’
    ‘‘Or blow up.’’ They were both thinking about Mr. Geiger. Sandy took a swig of diet Snapple. She had been drinking three or four bottles of the stuff every day, which must cut into her spending money, and where were the frosted Tastykakes that usually rested on the file cabinet?
    Nina took a good look at her. Sandy was wearing lipstick, and not only that, she had had a really good haircut, a blunt cut on her coarse black hair that left it full and swinging around her shoulders. She looked younger, even in the voluminous denim skirt and hiking boots.
    ‘‘Just sprucing up a little,’’ she said when she noticed Nina’s stare.
    ‘‘Are you going to tell me what you’re up to?’’
    ‘‘No.’’ Sandy handed her a message slip. ‘‘Collier Hallowell. He wants to meet at three-thirty in the afternoon instead of in the morning tomorrow. When did he show up in town again?’’
    ‘‘A couple of weeks ago. I ran into him at court. He’s back in the D.A.’s office, back to felony prosecutions. Right in the thick of it.’’
    ‘‘No kidding?’’
    ‘‘No kidding.’’
    ‘‘I thought he was toast.’’
    ‘‘Me, too. He seems to be over it.’’
    ‘‘It?’’
    ‘‘His wife.’’
    ‘‘Now what?’’
    ‘‘What do you mean, now what?’’
    ‘‘You know what. Him.’’
    ‘‘What about him?’’
    ‘‘Can we get real? Can we please not avoid the question?’’ Sandy wagged her finger.
    ‘‘If you want to know so badly, since my private affairs are open for your inspection, as opposed to yours . . .’’
    Sandy was immovable, a glacier filling a stenographic chair.
    Nina said, ‘‘Burned there, done that. Okay? Call Jim Strong and ask him to come in here tomorrow before we go to the D.A.’s office. I have to talk to him. And call Collier and confirm that we’ll see him at three-thirty.’’
    ‘‘So we’re gonna earn out that retainer. That’s good, because the rent is due next week.’’
    ‘‘Leave me to worry about that.’’ Nina went into her office and closed the door. Music sailed up from underneath it on a balmy tropical breeze and she inhaled deeply.

4
    BY THREE O’CLOCK snow occupied every crack left in town, dressing up the thrift shops and motels on the California side with another three inches of vanilla sugar. Bob would be catching the school bus about now, heading for Matt and Andrea’s house and his cousins.
    Nina lifted her head from the pile of folders on her desk, took a long yearning look out the window, and thought of snowmen, igloos, snow forts. Bob might be growing up in spite of her, but this afternoon he would be out with Troy and Brianna in the front yard under the snow-laden fir trees Matt loved so much, and the snowballs would be flying.
    Jim Strong arrived early. Wearing the same boldly colored parka, he came in shedding snow from his shoulders like a buffalo and sat down. Tiny puddles on the rug followed in his footsteps.
    ‘‘Whew! Hot in here!’’ he said. Standing up, he took off his parka, and her mind flashed back to the autopsy report matching him physically to his dead brother. He was a few