This Case Is Gonna Kill Me Read online

  My stomach growled. I looked up from the file, rubbed my burning eyes, and realized it was 1:15. Definitely time for lunch. I kicked off and sent my ball chair rolling back from the desk. It didn’t have far to roll—the room was tiny. I came up hard against the back wall of my office and nearly lost my balance on the ball. The framed print from the Santa Fe Opera, a time-lapse photo of stars over the theater, shivered on its hanger. I quickly rolled forward again. The way things were going, the picture was going to come down off the wall and brain me.

  I left my office and headed toward the kitchen on the seventieth floor. It wasn’t as nice as the one up in teak heaven—the plates were paper and the utensils plastic—but we did have an espresso machine and a big fridge. There was also a sunny and pleasant break room off the kitchen where the secretaries tended to eat. I had eaten there on Wednesday, but it was very clear I was not welcome. I couldn’t really blame them. It was their only chance to dish about the attorneys. After that I had taken to just eating at my desk.

  I snatched my brown bag out of the refrigerator, grabbed a plastic spoon, and hurried past the door to the break room. The whispers from the secretaries pursued me. I returned to my postage stamp–sized office. I pulled out an apple and a carton of yogurt from the bag, then found that my appetite had vanished. I stared morosely into the unblinking stare of my tiny wind-up toy Godzilla. He staked out a corner of my desk, ready to fight off any monsters that might threaten me. I wound him up and set him marching toward the tower of Abercrombie folders. He walked into them and promptly fell over. Abercrombie had defeated even the mighty Godzilla.

  I pulled back the foil top on the yogurt and thrust in the spoon as the odor of pineapple and banana washed up and crashed against my nose. It was gross. Whatever had possessed me to buy such a disgusting yogurt flavor? I jiggled the little container in my hand, then decided, to hell with it, I’d treat myself to lunch out. I would save the apple for a mid-afternoon snack.

  I decided to try to entice Chip to join me, so I stopped by his office. His door was closed, and his secretary, Norma, was in the break room eating. Chip’s basically sweet nature had won me over, and after two weeks we had pretty much stopped standing on ceremony with each other, so after a quick knock I opened the door and walked in.

  Chip was on the phone, studying a piece of paper, and I heard him say, “Of course it’s convenient, but there’s one more angle—” He broke off abruptly and muttered into the phone, “Gotta go.” He hung up and quickly shoved the paper deep into one of the piles on his desk.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  He waved off the apology. “No problem.” He grabbed an ice cream sandwich, unwrapped it, and took a bite. “Going out?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Want to join me?”

  “Nah, but thanks. I bought lunch from the Sandwich Girl,” he said, making it into a title.

  “Well, I guess that qualifies as a sandwich, “I said.

  He looked startled, glanced at the ice cream sandwich, then laughed and picked up a white paper-wrapped sandwich from the desk with his other hand. I smelled the greasy, garlicky scent of pastrami.

  “Life is short, eat dessert first. That’s my motto. Have fun,” he said, and turned back to the files.

  I gathered my courage and asked, “Chip, do we have any other cases other than Abercrombie that I might work on?” He looked up at me with an expression that clearly said he found the question baffling.

  “Why?”

  “Well, I just feel like I’m sort of wasting the firm’s money. I’m just going over the same ground, and I’ll never be as up to date on this case as you. So, I thought maybe I could take some … other case … off your plate.” I wound down, suddenly, desperately afraid I would discover that he didn’t have any other cases. But he had told me he did, I reminded myself.

  “Let me think about that.” Chip crammed the remaining third of his ice cream into his mouth. “Maybe after we get past this latest hearing. That witness dying really screwed us, and I like the idea of fresh eyes on the problem. You may see something I’ve missed. Let’s talk about it after you’ve read through all the files and helped me prepare.”

  “Okay.”

  I was feeling so low that I almost abandoned my plan to go out for lunch. But another glance into my office, where my ficus was dying from lack of light, made me head for the elevators.

  I’d seen this small seafood restaurant a block from the skyscraper that housed our firm. Seafood was good for you, and more to the point, I liked it. I wasn’t big on sandwiches, and salads always left me starving by late afternoon. Since I didn’t normally get dinner until nine or later, I wanted some real food.

  The heat shimmered off the concrete sidewalks as I walked over, and the city was ripe with the aroma of rotting refuse rising off the black garbage sacks set out for collection. Added to that was the smell of exhaust, hot dogs being hocked by street vendors, and sweaty people bustling along, accompanied by the music of blaring car horns, jackhammers, and a thousand conversations in a hundred different languages. It was New York. It was a grand, if somewhat dissonant symphony, and I loved it.

  I stepped into air-conditioned bliss and breathed in the smell of lemon, garlic, butter, and fish. Saliva burst in my mouth, and my stomach gave a loud growl. Then I noticed the table for seven off to one side. Six associates from my firm sat there, among them Caroline and Jane, and a man with his back to me. Caroline stared at me like I was one of those bags of rotting garbage and leaned over to Jane to share a remark. Jane laughed, and I felt my guts writhing.

  There were two options. One: Pretend I was looking for someone, and in a nicely audible voice ask the waiter if So and So (pick sexy-sounding male name) had arrived. When the waiter said no, ask the name of the restaurant and then declare (loudly) that I was in the wrong place. Leave.

  Option Two: Slink back out the door like a kicked dog without uttering the cover story. That was probably going to end up being the option, because my mind was a whirling blank, and I couldn’t summon up a single male name.

  Then the maître d’ asked, “Are you alone, miss?” in that snotty tone that seems to be reserved for waitstaff in nicer New York restaurants, and which guarantees you are going to get a table by the bathrooms or the kitchen.

  Option Three appeared, arriving courtesy of the temper my father had warned me against. I decided, what the hell. My coworkers couldn’t treat me any worse. Wanna bet? the cautious Linnet asked, but I ignored her and went with furious Linnet. I nodded toward the table.

  “No, I’m with them. I was just running late. They must have forgotten to mention it. If you’ll get another chair.” I threw the order over my shoulder as I started walking toward them.

  The man with his back to me turned at the sound of my heels on the stained concrete floor. He was a partner. Not one of the named partners, but nonetheless a real, honest-to-God partner. There’s a tension in law firms between the founding partners whose names appear on the letterhead and the partners added later whose names don’t appear. Some lawyers don’t give a damn, but if you have ambitions beyond litigation—like sitting on the boards of powerful corporations or advising presidents—you like to have your name chiseled into the building and printed on the stationery.

  The fact that I was crashing a partner’s luncheon made my steps falter, and I was about to give up on my “damn the torpedoes” approach and fall back on slinking away, but Ryan Winchester gave me a careful vampire smile that didn’t reveal the canines, and said, “Linnet, how lovely, please, join us.”

  The waiter, who had been ignoring my order for a chair, now leaped into motion. By the time I reached the table, he’d brought a chair and set another place next to Ryan.

  I had met Ryan Winchester a couple of times over the past two weeks, which was the only reason I went ahead and sat down. Ryan had been friendly. He had actually come down to my office to welcome me to the firm, and two days ago we’d run into each other in the library. I had been standin
g at the foot of a ladder, gazing up at a top shelf that held the book I was seeking. He’d offered to climb up and get it for me, for which I was eternally grateful. Heights were not my friend.

  Ryan had blond-streaked brown hair that women spent two hundred dollars to achieve, and blue eyes that he focused on you in rapt attention when you talked. I tried to tell myself it was just a technique, but it really felt genuine with Ryan. Ryan and the four human males all stood up. Vampires are all about the courtesy, and they insisted on the same old-fashioned manners from the male humans around them. Ryan pulled out my chair.

  “Linnet, I’m so glad you came in today. You’ve just been locked in your office working far too hard. Now I’ll have a chance to get to know you away from school, so to speak.” He gave me a warm smile, and this time I got a flash of tooth.

  I noted the frowns from my fellow associates, and I responded with a great big smile. I turned back to Ryan. “Well, I’m trying to get up to speed,” and I heard a muffled snort of suppressed laughter off to my left.

  I took a quick look, but couldn’t identify who was responsible. My guess was Doug McAllister, who was always making little digs at Chip, to which Chip seemed oblivious.

  I met Caroline’s cool gaze. She was above cutting remarks. She just existed, and that was enough to establish her superiority. For a moment, the therapist in the back of my head rummaged through my neuroses.

  Why are you so insecure?

  Because she’s tall and cool and elegant, and she knows the ropes. I hate not understanding the rules. And she reeks of money.

  And you’re from an old New England family with money and respect.

  “Linnet?”

  “Hmmm?” Ryan’s face was only inches from mine. It was a handsome face that looked totally normal, and those facts helped push back the involuntary shudder.

  “I said, I heard you’re quite the horsewoman,” Ryan said.

  “Ah, yes. Have been. Hard to do now. Here in the city.” The words emerged in tiny, disjointed sentences.

  “Well, I have a weekend place in the Hamptons, and a stable full of fat and lazy horses. Please feel free to come out and ride any time you like.”

  “Tha … thank you,” I stammered. “That’s very kind.”

  “No, it’s not. I have an ulterior motive.” He smiled. “I was hoping you’d give me some tips.”

  “I would be delighted.” I hoped Ryan had a good seat, because that whole predator/prey thing is amplified with horses. Before cars, most vampires had humans to handle their horses, and they rode in carriages rather than riding astride.

  But that was a problem for another day, and one that might never materialize. Right now it was time to savor my triumph. I looked down the table. The men were looking annoyed, but the women’s reactions were very different. Jane was looking down and away, almost hiding behind the swing of her long brown hair. Caroline stared at me. Her expression was harder to identify. I almost thought it was pity, but then it was gone, and I wondered if I’d imagined it. Perhaps I was stepping into a situation I didn’t understand. Maybe Ryan and Caroline had been an item? Though that would have been dangerous, since it’s drilled into a newly made vampire not to fraternize too closely with women. I needed to find a source of gossip in the office.

  The waiter came by with the others’ orders. It all looked wonderful. The baked seafood that Joseph was having smelled amazing, but I calculated the calories and settled on the bay scallops in a white wine and lemon sauce. Ryan wasn’t eating. The manager came over and leaned down to say softly, “We have a lovely organic-fed host in the back. A swimmer. Very healthy.”

  Ryan smiled up at him and nodded his appreciation. “Thank you, but I dined rather well last night. I’ll be fine.”

  The real money in the restaurant business is made in booze and hosts. Since it was noon, none of us was drinking, and Ryan wasn’t eating. The manager nodded and walked away, looking disappointed.

  The kitchen rushed out my meal (though it didn’t taste rushed; it was delicious) so I could eat with the others. The conversation was mostly about the firm, about cases that could be discussed without violating attorney/client privilege, about politics—we were approaching another presidential election—and Labor Day vacation plans. For the first time since I’d started at Ishmael, McGillary and Gold, I felt like I belonged.

  As we walked back to the office, the group fell into discrete clumps. Ryan, umbrella unfurled against the sun, fedora firmly in place, was flanked by Doug and Tom. Jane and Caroline walked together, and the final two associates, Sam and Paul, orbited the triumvirate in the front and tried to attract Ryan’s attention. I followed behind, feeling like the sick gazelle trailing the herd and wondering when a lion would pounce.

  I thought the guys looked like perfect idiots, capering jesters trying to attract the attention of the king. In some ways I couldn’t blame them. Being male, they actually had a chance to make partner with all the benefits (i.e., becoming a vampire). The few women who made partner only got to hold that exalted position just for their lifespan. They never got their names chiseled on buildings or placed on the stationery.

  There were a few wolf whistles from some construction workers on a nearby building. I decided to include myself in the whistles, because construction guys aren’t normally discriminating. I fall into the cute category, and that can be very disheartening when you’re surrounded by beautiful people. My dad says I have charisma, loads of it, but charisma only has practical application if you’re a politician or have power and want to wield it. I’m not the former, and don’t have the latter. All I have is a slim though short physique, jet black hair that I keep at chin length so it’s more comfortable under a riding helmet, and dark gray eyes.

  We reached the building. The doorman held the door and nodded respectfully to Ryan. We all trooped in after him, little human ducklings led by a raptor. Ryan closed his umbrella, and there was a scrum of people waiting at the elevators. Clashing scents of Coco Mademoiselle and Frédéric Malle and Chrome and even the occasional whiff of tobacco swirled around me. It was just dumb luck that left me alone on an elevator with Doug.

  Glances into his office had revealed diplomas from Harvard, and break room gossip had filled in a bit more. He came from an old Charleston family, and from a long line of lawyers. His suits were all Italian, and he’d been at pains to tell people he had his shoes made in London because he had such narrow feet. He was also going bald and tried to hide it.

  He leaned against the mirrored wall of the elevator as we whizzed up seventy floors and my stomach dropped slowly toward my heels. Just as the elevator began decelerating, he suddenly drawled in his warm molasses accent, “I work for Gold. He blackballed you. You only got in because of your family connections. Have a nice day.”

  The doors opened and he stepped out.

  I was so shocked I just stood there and ended up riding the elevator back down to the lobby level. I rode up and down three more times while I tried to gather my thoughts and my courage. I fought off the temptation to run home, crawl into bed, and pull the covers over my head. But if you run, you’ll never stop running, I thought on one of the rides up the length of the building.

  You’ve let them push you around too much already, was the thought on the second ride.

  The concluding thought on the third and final ride was, If you don’t stand up you’re going to end up a smear on the bottom of their shoes.

  I got off the elevator and stopped first at Doug’s office. I stuck my head in the door, gave him a brittle little smile, and said, “You know, I’ve never seen a bald vampire. Better hurry.” He came half out of his chair, face twisting in anger. I waved, left, and headed upstairs to confront Shade.

  * * *

  “I was third in my class. I did Law Review and Moot Court. I passed the bar on the first try. Not just the New York Bar, but the Connecticut and Rhode Island Bars too. I petitioned and was accepted to the Federal Bar. What’s wrong with me?” I wanted to sound pisse
d and proud, but instead it came out as the wail of a lost and hurt child.

  “Nothing,” Shade said. He sighed and leaned back in his chair, rubbed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re getting caught up in a battle between two partners. It’s never a good place for a human to be.”

  “Gold,” I said, and dropped into one of the high wing chairs on the other side of Shade’s polished cherrywood desk.

  The office was spectacular, offering a view of the Brooklyn Bridge and the sparkling water beyond. All the furnishings were beautiful Art Deco pieces, and the art interspersed with Shade’s diplomas and awards tended toward the soft, pastel, and impressionistic. The only odd note was the prie-dieu in one corner. The purple velvet cushion looked pretty worn. I tried to picture Shade kneeling there praying. It didn’t compute.

  Shade pulled me back. “He wants to take the firm in a certain direction—”

  “Would that be backward?” I asked waspishly.

  “I suppose you could put it that way. I’m resisting. McGillary is being pulled between us. Blackballing you was just an act of pettiness on Gold’s part. But in an effort to protect you I’ve put you in … well … a … a … how to say this? A less than vital position. If I had given you any real authority, it would have made you a target, and it might have ruined your future opportunities.”

  I gulped and stared at him. “Less than vital? I think this is a total dead-end job. And why are we still messing with this case? You could have told the Abercrombies years ago to accept a rational settlement, or find other representation.”