out.
âHis briefcase. The one I took from the hotel room. I want you to keep it until the investigation is over.â
I set the Landsâ End attaché on the edge of my desk, where it seemed to spontaneously generate a series of ethical issues worthy of a law school exam.
âEileen, this isââ
âLook, Rachel, if someone really killed him, they certainly didnât use anything in that bag. Believe me, nothing in that bag could hurt him. But the two pictures in there could ruin me. I admit I was stupid. All I wanted were the damn pictures, but I panicked and took the whole goddamn bag. Now Iâm stuck. I canât exactly sneak it back into the room, right?â
I stared at the attaché. It sat there like fresh roadkill. This truly had become the divorce case from hell. âI have a safe in here,â I finally said.
âGod bless you, Rachel. You have no ideaâ¦â
I held up my hand to stop her. âIâll keep it there for now. No promises about the future.â
âI understand.â She reached across the desk and grabbed my hand with both of hers. âThanks.â
***
A fierce spring thunderstorm was raging outside my office window. Cars were creeping down the street, their windshield wipers flailing at sheets of water. The rain came in waves, thundering across the roofs, clattering along the streets. Raindrops bounced off the asphalt like shotgun pellets. The office lights flickered. I glanced at the bulky safe in the corner.
Eileen had left almost immediately after I locked the attaché in the safe. An hour later, alone in my office, still feeling used, I had looked dully up as my secretary poked her head in to say good night. The sky was already dark by then, and the wind was blowing. The first crash of thunder sounded five minutes later, followed by the rain.
I stared at the safe.
Although she said nothing in that attaché killed him , I told myself, how can you be sure of that unless you look ?
But , I interrupted, itâs really none of your business whatâs in that attaché .
Are you crazy ? I answered. How about when the police get involved? What if thereâs evidence of a crime in there ?
Eventually, I won the argument. Closing the blinds, I opened the safe. Placing the attaché on my desk, I unzipped it and removed the contents, one by one, writing them down as I did:
1. one yellow legal pad (blank);
2. three blue felt-tip pens (medium pointâ0.5 mm);
3. three microcassette audiotapes (Leuwenhaupt Model 5400), each with a title written on the stick-on label:
â¢Â âDance Routineâ;
â¢Â âLow-Impact Workoutâ;
â¢Â âHigh-Impact Routine w/Jazz Stepsâ;
4. one calculator (Texas Instruments 2000G);
5. a handwritten outline of an article on breathing exercises that Andros was apparently planning to write for an aerobics magazine called Fitness 2000;
6. a Polaroid Impulse camera;
7. a vibrator (battery-operated);
8. a French tickler (I think); and
9. the two photographs that had caused me to inherit the bag.
I studied the photographs. Eileen was the star of both. In one, she was alone, âposedâ on her back on the bed, her legs wide apart, her right hand pressing the tip of the vibrator into her vagina. In the other, she was licking an erect penis (presumably attachéd to Andros). The second picture was off-center and slanted, as if Andros had taken it by holding the camera out to the side and snapping the shot. Both pictures were in focus, and Eileen was clearly identifiable in each one.
I could understand why Eileen hadnât wanted the police to have those pictures. But I couldnât understand why she had wanted Andros to have them in the first place. He seemed precisely the type who would collect pictures of his conquests the way others might collect hunting trophies. And like most mementos, his pictures looked like they existed to be displayed. I
âHis briefcase. The one I took from the hotel room. I want you to keep it until the investigation is over.â
I set the Landsâ End attaché on the edge of my desk, where it seemed to spontaneously generate a series of ethical issues worthy of a law school exam.
âEileen, this isââ
âLook, Rachel, if someone really killed him, they certainly didnât use anything in that bag. Believe me, nothing in that bag could hurt him. But the two pictures in there could ruin me. I admit I was stupid. All I wanted were the damn pictures, but I panicked and took the whole goddamn bag. Now Iâm stuck. I canât exactly sneak it back into the room, right?â
I stared at the attaché. It sat there like fresh roadkill. This truly had become the divorce case from hell. âI have a safe in here,â I finally said.
âGod bless you, Rachel. You have no ideaâ¦â
I held up my hand to stop her. âIâll keep it there for now. No promises about the future.â
âI understand.â She reached across the desk and grabbed my hand with both of hers. âThanks.â
***
A fierce spring thunderstorm was raging outside my office window. Cars were creeping down the street, their windshield wipers flailing at sheets of water. The rain came in waves, thundering across the roofs, clattering along the streets. Raindrops bounced off the asphalt like shotgun pellets. The office lights flickered. I glanced at the bulky safe in the corner.
Eileen had left almost immediately after I locked the attaché in the safe. An hour later, alone in my office, still feeling used, I had looked dully up as my secretary poked her head in to say good night. The sky was already dark by then, and the wind was blowing. The first crash of thunder sounded five minutes later, followed by the rain.
I stared at the safe.
Although she said nothing in that attaché killed him , I told myself, how can you be sure of that unless you look ?
But , I interrupted, itâs really none of your business whatâs in that attaché .
Are you crazy ? I answered. How about when the police get involved? What if thereâs evidence of a crime in there ?
Eventually, I won the argument. Closing the blinds, I opened the safe. Placing the attaché on my desk, I unzipped it and removed the contents, one by one, writing them down as I did:
1. one yellow legal pad (blank);
2. three blue felt-tip pens (medium pointâ0.5 mm);
3. three microcassette audiotapes (Leuwenhaupt Model 5400), each with a title written on the stick-on label:
â¢Â âDance Routineâ;
â¢Â âLow-Impact Workoutâ;
â¢Â âHigh-Impact Routine w/Jazz Stepsâ;
4. one calculator (Texas Instruments 2000G);
5. a handwritten outline of an article on breathing exercises that Andros was apparently planning to write for an aerobics magazine called Fitness 2000;
6. a Polaroid Impulse camera;
7. a vibrator (battery-operated);
8. a French tickler (I think); and
9. the two photographs that had caused me to inherit the bag.
I studied the photographs. Eileen was the star of both. In one, she was alone, âposedâ on her back on the bed, her legs wide apart, her right hand pressing the tip of the vibrator into her vagina. In the other, she was licking an erect penis (presumably attachéd to Andros). The second picture was off-center and slanted, as if Andros had taken it by holding the camera out to the side and snapping the shot. Both pictures were in focus, and Eileen was clearly identifiable in each one.
I could understand why Eileen hadnât wanted the police to have those pictures. But I couldnât understand why she had wanted Andros to have them in the first place. He seemed precisely the type who would collect pictures of his conquests the way others might collect hunting trophies. And like most mementos, his pictures looked like they existed to be displayed. I
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