condenser. Heather would oversee the
media coverage. Both she and Niall thought Caleb had done a good
job at the press conference, but there was a limit to how long he’d
be able to keep the jackals from sniffing around Felton and baring
their sharp teeth before Caleb started biting back. His fuse was a
few inches shorter than hers.
These things were all important. This was a
high-profile case, and ordinarily Caleb would be surging with
adrenaline. He loved big cases, tough cases, challenging cases.
But he was distracted right now. As Niall
described the petty politics of his home town and listed previous
outbreaks of corruption in Town Hall, Caleb struggled not to gaze
across the room at the jukebox on display against the far wall.
Would it play “Heat Wave” again? Or some other equally evocative
song? Not that “Heat Wave was particularly evocative…but the song
was still thumping inside his skull, tearing him apart.
No, the song wasn’t tearing him apart, even
if the women who sang the song claimed they were being torn apart.
That was them. This was Caleb. He was fine. Not torn at all.
He sipped his iced tea.
Heather was drinking merlot, Niall a beer, but Caleb wanted to be
clear-headed when he met with Meredith. He wasn’t concerned about
needing to be fully sober around her. It was more that he wanted to
be fully sober around himself. Because—damn it, he was being torn apart, and
he didn’t know why.
The heat. The freaking broken air
conditioning. The possibility that he’d have to drag the firm’s
landlord into court to get the damned thing properly repaired. The
possibility that he’d die of heat stroke before he had the
opportunity to do that.
The knowledge that in—he checked his
watch—eight minutes, he’d be saying goodbye to his partners and
cruising down Atlantic Avenue to the Lobster Shack. In about twelve
minutes, he’d be entering the restaurant. In less than a half hour,
he’d be eating dinner with Meredith.
He wondered how she’d look in one of those
Lobster Shack bibs. He wondered if she picked the lobster meat out
of the shell delicately with a miniature shellfish fork, or if she
tore the claws with her bare hands and sucked the meat directly
from the shell. He wondered how she looked when her lips were
glistening with melted butter.
“So, we’re agreed on Blanche Larson for the
forensics,” Niall said. “We’ve got to have her go through Felton’s
accounts. Caleb, you can arrange that, right?”
Caleb jerked his brain back to the business
being discussed at the table. “Yeah. We need a look at Sheila
Valenti’s finances, too. See if she’s stashed a sudden, unexplained
windfall in the Caymans.”
“Eight hundred thousand is too little to
bother with an off-shore shelter,” Heather argued.
“To a small-town treasurer,” Caleb pointed
out, “eight hundred thousand is a fortune. Who knows what she’d do
with it?”
“Let’s find out what she’s driving and when
she bought it,” Niall said. “We’ll check out her house. Any major
purchases.”
“If she has a husband, he could be earning
big bucks,” Heather reminded him. “He could be paying for the big
purchases.”
“We’ll dig. We’ll demand everything. God, I
love discovery.” Niall grinned.
Caleb nodded. The discovery process could be
tedious—lawyers asked the opposing side for all the documents they
could think of, and once they had those documents in their
possession, they examined every single scrap of paper, every email,
every ambiguous ink smudge. But when they unearthed the proverbial
needle in the haystack—the incriminating memo, the unexplained
money transfer, the charge card receipt from a hotel in the Cayman
Islands—the tedium was worth it.
He glanced at his watch again. “I’ve got to
go,” he said. “We’ll brainstorm more tomorrow.”
“Hot date?” Niall asked, his grin
widening.
“No. Dinner with an almost-client. And the
Lobster Shack is air-conditioned, so it
media coverage. Both she and Niall thought Caleb had done a good
job at the press conference, but there was a limit to how long he’d
be able to keep the jackals from sniffing around Felton and baring
their sharp teeth before Caleb started biting back. His fuse was a
few inches shorter than hers.
These things were all important. This was a
high-profile case, and ordinarily Caleb would be surging with
adrenaline. He loved big cases, tough cases, challenging cases.
But he was distracted right now. As Niall
described the petty politics of his home town and listed previous
outbreaks of corruption in Town Hall, Caleb struggled not to gaze
across the room at the jukebox on display against the far wall.
Would it play “Heat Wave” again? Or some other equally evocative
song? Not that “Heat Wave was particularly evocative…but the song
was still thumping inside his skull, tearing him apart.
No, the song wasn’t tearing him apart, even
if the women who sang the song claimed they were being torn apart.
That was them. This was Caleb. He was fine. Not torn at all.
He sipped his iced tea.
Heather was drinking merlot, Niall a beer, but Caleb wanted to be
clear-headed when he met with Meredith. He wasn’t concerned about
needing to be fully sober around her. It was more that he wanted to
be fully sober around himself. Because—damn it, he was being torn apart, and
he didn’t know why.
The heat. The freaking broken air
conditioning. The possibility that he’d have to drag the firm’s
landlord into court to get the damned thing properly repaired. The
possibility that he’d die of heat stroke before he had the
opportunity to do that.
The knowledge that in—he checked his
watch—eight minutes, he’d be saying goodbye to his partners and
cruising down Atlantic Avenue to the Lobster Shack. In about twelve
minutes, he’d be entering the restaurant. In less than a half hour,
he’d be eating dinner with Meredith.
He wondered how she’d look in one of those
Lobster Shack bibs. He wondered if she picked the lobster meat out
of the shell delicately with a miniature shellfish fork, or if she
tore the claws with her bare hands and sucked the meat directly
from the shell. He wondered how she looked when her lips were
glistening with melted butter.
“So, we’re agreed on Blanche Larson for the
forensics,” Niall said. “We’ve got to have her go through Felton’s
accounts. Caleb, you can arrange that, right?”
Caleb jerked his brain back to the business
being discussed at the table. “Yeah. We need a look at Sheila
Valenti’s finances, too. See if she’s stashed a sudden, unexplained
windfall in the Caymans.”
“Eight hundred thousand is too little to
bother with an off-shore shelter,” Heather argued.
“To a small-town treasurer,” Caleb pointed
out, “eight hundred thousand is a fortune. Who knows what she’d do
with it?”
“Let’s find out what she’s driving and when
she bought it,” Niall said. “We’ll check out her house. Any major
purchases.”
“If she has a husband, he could be earning
big bucks,” Heather reminded him. “He could be paying for the big
purchases.”
“We’ll dig. We’ll demand everything. God, I
love discovery.” Niall grinned.
Caleb nodded. The discovery process could be
tedious—lawyers asked the opposing side for all the documents they
could think of, and once they had those documents in their
possession, they examined every single scrap of paper, every email,
every ambiguous ink smudge. But when they unearthed the proverbial
needle in the haystack—the incriminating memo, the unexplained
money transfer, the charge card receipt from a hotel in the Cayman
Islands—the tedium was worth it.
He glanced at his watch again. “I’ve got to
go,” he said. “We’ll brainstorm more tomorrow.”
“Hot date?” Niall asked, his grin
widening.
“No. Dinner with an almost-client. And the
Lobster Shack is air-conditioned, so it
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