No Accident (20 page)

Alex knocked on Sheila’s door and heard her run to it on the other side. She flung the door open, looked at him with surprise, then threw her arms around him. He was too exhausted to react, but wobbled a little in her embrace.

“I saw it on the news,” she said.

“Then you know he’s dead.”

She took him inside and closed the door. For the first time, Alex saw a depth in her eyes that proved she cared about more than just money. He felt himself relax a little.

“When the call went dead, I thought you were gone, too.”

“Lost my cell phone,” he said.

Sheila gave him a penetrating look. “And the evidence?”

“Gone. The money, too.”

“Oh, who cares. I was so worried when I heard about the bomb. To think that I’d sent you to meet Beto, and if something had happened to you
—”

“I remember it being my idea,” Alex said.

“You know what I mean. I’m just glad you’re safe. Did you see it?”

“The slip of paper?”

“Yes.”

“Sure, I saw it up close.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think Beto was right.”

She looked him over, the bruises and the dirty clothes. Her gaze lingered on the backs of his hands, where a constellation of puckering purple cuts had started to scab over.

“From the glass,” Alex said. “Luckily, I hit the ground before the windows shattered.”

She raised a finger and let it hover over the swollen left side of his forehead. “You’ve got a bruise.” The concern in her voice made Alex feel a little better—he’d stopped thinking about his bruises an hour ago.

“I’ll take that over the alternative.”

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she said.

“I already cleaned up.”

“Where?”

“A McDonald’s bathroom.”

She responded with a crooked smirk that was half amused, half appalled. “Stay here,” she said, and she left the room. Alex remained standing.

“Did you see who set off the explosives?” she called from the bathroom. Her disembodied voice echoed through the apartment.

“I think so, for a second,” Alex said. “It was a man. A big guy. Does Crash have a birthmark on his hand?”

“Um
 . . . no. Did you see the man’s face?”

“No.”

“You talk to the police?”

Alex laughed. “I’m not ready to do that.” The police would have asked Alex questions that he didn’t want to answer, like what his business was with Beto.

Sheila returned from the bathroom with a tube of ointment and led him into the kitchen. It was brighter there. She propped him up against the refrigerator and unscrewed the cap.

“What’s that?” Alex said.

“Just a little medicinal cream. Stand still, it’ll stop the bruising.”

Alex took hold of her wrist before she could squeeze the cream onto her finger. He welcomed Sheila’s new awareness of his welfare, but she’d skipped a step on her way from frosty cooperation to attentive concern. “Why did you lie to me about not knowing Beto?”

“Oh,” she said, freezing in place. “That.”

“Yeah, that.”

He let go of her, they had a little staring contest, and she looked away. “I was embarrassed.”

“About what?”

“Beto and I had . . . a relationship.”

Alex’s eyebrows jumped.

“Not that kind of relationship,” she said quickly. “I lied about knowing him because I used him to spy on my husband.”

“And you couldn’t tell me that?”

“I was ashamed of it, OK?”

“That’s hard to believe,” Alex said. “You don’t try to hide your venom for your husband.”

“I didn’t want you to think I was . . . seedy.”

“I’ve seen a lot seedier than that. Why did Beto agree to help you?”

“I paid him.”

“In cash?”

She rolled her eyes. “No, in chocolate. Of course I paid him in cash.”

“How much?”

“Enough to matter to someone like him.” Her eyes begged him for a truce. “Why are you asking these questions?”

“I don’t like being used.”

“You’re not being used,” she said. Then: “If anything, we’re sort of using each other, aren’t we?”

“The thing is, if you lie to me about little things like not knowing Beto, it makes me wonder whether you’re lying to me about bigger things.”

She sighed. “I told you, I was embarrassed about using Beto to spy on Luke. I didn’t want you to judge me.”

“Too late.”

After Sheila had been so stingy and bossy and dishonest, it was satisfying to Alex to make her squirm a little. But she didn’t indulge him.

“Fine,” she said. “I can play that game. Sure, I told a little lie, but you’re not as noble as you pretend to be.”

“I never said I was . . .”

“Sure you did. ‘I just want the truth.’ You want money, pal, and you want it even more badly than I do.”

How did she guess that?
Alex wondered. Maybe he shouldn’t have told her about his five mortgages. He and Sheila were not morally equal.
Just apologize for lying to me
, he wanted to yell. Instead, he said, “Sure, but money’s not all I want—unlike you.”

“That’s not fair,” she said. She suddenly looked hurt, like she was going to cry.
“You don’t know what I’ve been through. Anyway, I’m sorry.”

Alex couldn’t tell whether the watering eyes were real or a put-on, but either way her reaction made him feel cruel. It was wrong to continue his attack after she’d raised the white flag.

“I’m sorry, too,” he said.

“You have every reason to be angry with me for lying.”

“You’re damn right I do.” Alex knew he shouldn’t have cursed at her, but in his mind her remorse hadn’t yet caught up with his indignation.

“And I shouldn’t judge you, either,” she said, “because I don’t know all you’ve been through.”

Alex was impressed at how calm she was despite his outburst. “You’re right,” he said.

“Five mortgages sounds like a lot.”

“Too many, it turns out,” Alex said sheepishly.

“At least you still have the houses,” she said.

“For now,” Alex said. Then, thinking of Pamela, he added, “But they’ve cost me other things.” Sheila didn’t need to know the details about Pamela—especially since Alex didn’t know or trust Sheila well enough yet to reveal his closest secrets—but all the same, he wanted her to know that she wasn’t the only one who had suffered.

For her part, Sheila looked puzzled. “Oh,” she said finally. “A girl.” Alex didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to confirm her guess, but part of him was relieved that she’d guessed right. He wanted her to understand, without having to tell her.

“Stand still,” Sheila said. She squeezed a dab of the cream onto the tip of her finger and lifted it toward Alex’s forehead. “Lower your head.” He complied, and she began applying the cream in light circles to Alex’s forehead.

“I know you think I’m a spoiled brat,” she said softly.

Right again
, Alex thought. But with her standing inches away and openly discussing her faults, he had lost the urge to strike out at her. “We all have our little entitlements,” he said.

“Most people do. But I know you’re not really like that.” She looked into his eyes, and this close, he could tell why Luke had found her fascinating for so long.

“Well, thanks for trying,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“For trying to help me. The way you put yourself out there with Beto—I thought it was admirable.”

“Oh, I’m not done with this case,” Alex said.

“Really? I mean, I just assumed that after the explosion . . . someone almost killed you, Alex.”

“Now it’s personal. I’ll never quit.”

Sheila took his hand and squeezed it, an encouraging, hopeful squeeze. He squeezed back.

“Luke’s dangerous,” she said. She rubbed in another dab of ointment but pressed too hard. Alex flinched from the pain, then gave an embarrassed little smile.

“So are you,” he said. He gently took her hand and moved it away from his forehead.

Their eyes met, and then their lips did.

After hours spent with the full Boswell & Baker team, which seemed to grow with every meeting, Luke now sat alone with Alan in a large conference room. The afternoon had been devoted to strategy regarding Grant Steele’s grand jury, which was considering whether to indict Liberty Industries—and Luke. Murder is a state crime, not a federal one, so as a federal prosecutor, Steele couldn’t bring an indictment for that. But Steele’s theory was that Luke had committed a host of federal crimes—wire fraud and the like—based on the idea that Luke orchestrated the accident in order to kill the employees and get the life insurance money.

Alan swiveled his chair toward his client and looked at him earnestly. “Luke, I know we’ve strategized about your testimony tomorrow from every angle, but I want to revisit one more time the question of whether you testify at all.”

Luke sighed. “Right. Prosecution targets like me supposedly
never
testify in front of a grand jury. But you still haven’t given me a good reason why
I
shouldn’t.”

“I’m happy to go through the reasons one more time.”

“I just don’t like the whole idea of a secret proceeding of people out to get me.”

“Don’t think of it as a proceeding. Think of it as a box that Grant Steele needs to check before he can actually prosecute you. And the grand jury process really is almost a formality
—Steele puts on all the witnesses, there’s no judge, no defense and no cross-examination.”

“So, I’ll just testify and make the process a little more fair.”

“Luke, we don’t know what tricks Steele has up his sleeve, or what evidence he has. I can’t prepare you like I would for a real trial.”

“Then what have we been doing in this conference room all afternoon?”

“It’s not the same. It’s all guesswork on our side. One wrong step, and you either make Steele’s case for him or set yourself up for a perjury charge.”

“Give me a break, Alan, I won’t perjure myself.”

“I know you won’t. But any little inconsistency becomes ammunition when he prosecutes you. If you testify, Steele gets to see under your toga but you don’t get to see under his. It’s a huge disadvantage in the criminal trial.”

“This is your whole problem, Alan. You’re looking at this like there will actually be a criminal prosecution against me.”

“Yes, Luke,” Alan said, his tone less polite than usual. “That’s what this is all about.”

“Wrong.” Luke leaned back in his chair and spread his arms wide. “Let me adjust your thinking, Alan. I’m going to testify to ensure there will never be a criminal trial.”

“That’s your
hope
.”

“The problem with you lawyers is you only look at the downside. You’re always playing defense. But, Alan, when you’re up against a stronger opponent, playing defense just delays the inevitable. I’m going to testify to go on the
offense
.” Luke pounded his fist into his palm for emphasis. “If the government’s targets
never
testify before grand juries, like you say, then I guarantee Grant Steele won’t know what to do with me. He thought he was just going to check a box, but instead, he’s got to win a street fight with me before he can even file charges. He’s probably more nervous about this than you are.”

“Luke, that’s
 . . .” Alan’s face slowly grew redder, until it looked like the vein in his forehead might burst. “That’s delusional!”

Luke just laughed.

“Luke, you’re fooling yourself. You’re not negotiating some oil patch deal over martinis here. You’re dealing with the federal government. They don’t forget, they don’t forgive, and they don’t run out of money. They can take everything from you, put you in jail. And Steele”—Alan reached out and grasped the hair on Luke’s head by its roots—“wants your scalp!” Just as suddenly, Alan let go of Luke’s hair and, embarrassed by his outburst, retreated to his chair.

Luke laughed more softly. “Alan, I’ve known you for years, and before this you’ve never shown any more emotion than an undertaker.”

“Forgive me, I—”

“Forget it; I’m proud of you,” Luke said, but Alan looked like he didn’t believe it. “Relax, Alan, you’ve washed your hands of this. You won’t get any blame if my little strategy goes wrong.”

“It’s not about blame—”

Luke held up a hand. “But you won’t share the glory when I succeed.”

* * *

Someone who ought to have known once told Luke that only drinkers drink on Monday nights. So maybe it was true, or maybe oblivion was just a state of mind. Luke found himself in a hotel bar near Alan’s office, and most of those there besides him were jet-lagged businessmen drinking quickly to fall asleep. Crash was there, too, drinking water. Luke had encouraged Crash to have a drink, but in Crash’s mind he was always on duty. Luke found Crash’s unflagging dedication impressive and, he admitted to himself at times like this, a little intimidating.

He and Crash sat together on stools at a tall table. The bartender brought Luke another gin and tonic and then wordlessly returned behind the bar.

“I dunno why Alan is so down on me testifying. He’s a quitter, Crash.”

“That’s most ungrateful of him,” Crash said, as formal as ever.

It was too bad, Luke thought
—he would have liked Crash as a friend tonight rather than just a servant. Luke gave Crash a rough pat on the shoulder. “At least I still got you on my side. I’m gonna go in there tomorrow and show everyone Grant Steele is full of bullshit.” The word came out like ‘bushit.’ Luke slumped over his glass. “It’s fuggin’ bullshit is what it is.”

Petra walked in. Luke sat up and lifted his head with surprise and delight. She wore a tight black evening dress, and the clap of her heels on the hardwood floor reset the tempo of everyone’s conversation.

Luke roused his gin-thickened tongue to call out a greeting, but stalled when he saw her eyes—two leaping flashes of blue that danced behind her lashes like flames in a gas range.

“You are drinking like woman, that is why you are crying like woman,” she said to him. “I get you man’s drink.” She barked an order in Russian to the bartender, who, whatever his ancestry, understood well enough to respond without hesitation.

Luke staggered to his feet and grabbed Petra by the shoulders. “You look like a million bucks,” he said, and she smiled. “But you don’t cost a million bucks. You’re a much better deal than my wife.”

She slapped him. Everyone looked over at them but the bartender. Luke drew her in and embraced her.

“I may go to prison,” he said softly.

Petra pushed herself away from him. “And for this you are special? I have two brothers in prison
—Russian prison. Do I forget them?”

Luke shook his head. He sat down and mumbled something. Then he said, more clearly, “I’m the biggest fish, honey.” Luke illustrated by curling his little finger like a fish hook inside his cheek.

“You are thinking like victim,” Petra said. “If you think like victim, you end up like victim.” She leaned in slowly, gently bit his earlobe and whispered, “And victims are soooo un-sexy.”

Luke stood, and Petra giggled as he swayed on his feet and tried to hold the two of them up. She pressed her body against his, and they swayed together. Crash shifted uncomfortably on his stool.

The bartender brought a tray with two shots of vodka poured into stylish narrow glasses. From his stool, Crash stretched out his thick arm to bar the man’s path. Petra casually reached across and took the glasses from the tray. She handed one of them to a beaming Luke.

“Drink for luck,” she said. “Drink for love.”

Luke stumbled when he tilted his head back to drain the shot glass. Petra took the glass from him and pushed him up under his arms. “You can still stand,” she said.

“I think you’re right,” Luke said. He kissed her neck sloppily, and she giggled.

“I have babysitter all night . . .” she said.

Crash rose and pulled Luke away from her. With an earnest expression on his face he whispered in Luke’s ear, “Sir, I think you really need to get some sleep.”

Luke looked confused for a moment, and then patted Crash reassuringly on the shoulder. “s’OK . . .” Luke said. “s’OK . . .”

Then Luke launched himself on a staggering path toward the door.

Crash and Petra watched him go, then Petra stepped in toward Crash, close enough for him to smell her perfume. She gave Crash’s chin a tight squeeze and said, “Come on and drive us home.” Then she quickly caught up to Luke and hustled him in the direction of the exit.

*
* *

In the back seat of the car, Luke was all over Petra, and she was loving it, or at least acting like she did, giggling, cooing in a susurrant blend of Russian and English. She caught Crash’s eye in the rearview mirror and paused from running her tongue up and down Luke’s neck to flash a malevolent grin at Crash and lick the air mockingly.

Luke didn’t notice. He was moaning softly in delight. Who wouldn’t, with a beautiful nymphomaniac wrapping her lithe body around him? But Luke didn’t know the truth about Petra, Crash thought. Crash had protected Luke from knowing that—and, he admitted, in so doing had protected himself.

Luke suddenly roused himself and energetically announced, “I’ll kick his ass, P
—you just wait.”

“Ooh, I know you will, Luke. This Grant Steele is little man with big problem
—you.”

“You got that right,” Luke said loudly. In his drunken fervor he was almost bellowing. “An’ you know what I’ll do next? I’m gonna adopt Dmitri.”

Petra turned serious. “Don’t joke, darlink.”

“I’m not joking. I know how much it means to you, and I already talked to an adoption lawyer. As soon as the divorce is final, I’m doin’ it. And then you and me”
—Luke took Petra’s hands and kissed them—“are getting married.”

Luke and Petra fell into each other and kissed passionately. Crash turned his eyes toward the road. Petra could get herself a husband for all Crash cared, but she couldn’t
—she wouldn’t—get Dmitri a new father. He wouldn’t let her.

Luke was insensate by the time Crash pulled up to his mansion, snoring like a twelve-year-old dog.

“You can’t let Luke adopt Dmitri,” Crash said to Petra.

“Why not?” she said venomously. “Why do you care?”

“You know why I care.”

“You’re not his father. You’re a sperm donor. Plus, you’re weird.”

Crash glared at her in the mirror. Petra pursed her lips into a sour frown. “Don’t piss me off,” she said, “or I’ll tell Luke where Dmitri really came from.” Then her expression changed to a sadistic smile. “I’ll tell him you forced yourself on me.”

“You
—”

“And he’ll believe me. You know he will.” She unsentimentally slapped Luke across the face to wake him up, which he did with a start, unaware of the violence that had woken him. “Oh, my sleepyhead is awake,” Petra cooed. “Let’s go inside so I can take care of you.”

Luke opened the car door and woozily exited. Before following him, Petra cast another glance toward the rearview mirror and gave Crash a full-pucker air kiss.