The Common Lawyer (38 page)

Andy abruptly hit the brakes and skidded sideways to a stop right where the trail ducked back into the shadows—right before the trail made a sharp ninety-degree turn north along the water's edge. They didn't. They rode straight off the trail, hit a low rock wall, and vaulted over their bikes and somersaulted into the lake like synchronized divers. They hadn't seen the turn in the shadows through their dark visors.

Andy didn't hang around. He crossed over a little bridge then rode up the bank to César Chávez and rode north on San Antonio past Silicon Labs. He didn't see the black sedans so he cut over on Third and rode behind the Music Hall and turned north on Rio Grande. He rode directly to the loft, unlocked the front door, and rolled the Stumpjumper inside. He set the bike against the entry wall, went straight to the refrigerator, grabbed a cold Corona, and popped the top. He sat in the leather chair in front of the television.

He downed the beer in one long continuous drink.

He was safe in the loft. They couldn't find him there. Tres' friend had not required a tenant app, and nothing was in Andy's name—not the title, utilities, mail, newspaper, land line, or Internet account. Andy Prescott had left no paper trail leading to this loft.

The attorney was safe from his client.

Andy's brief tenure as Russell Reeves' lawyer was over, as well as everything that had come with it: the girls, the clothes, the lounges, the loft, the money. Except the complications; Andy's life remained complicated.

One complication was the money in his trust account. Russell had wired $50,000 for Hollis McCloskey and $1 million for Sally Armstrong in San Diego. Andy had paid $25,000 to Hollis and $9,999 three times to Lorenzo. That left $995,003.

And got a legal pad and a pen and calculated his billable hours since his last bill to Russell: the Boston, Montana, and San Diego trips, tracking Frankie down, collecting her DNA, even the chase from UT. He came up with one hundred twenty hours. Times $500 an hour, he was due $60,000 in fees. Plus $12,000 in expenses, including the $1,000 he paid to Mickey and the $1,000 to Ramon. Less the $25,000 Russell had already paid him (the $10,000 for the DNA was a bonus), and Andy was owed $47,000.

He would transfer that sum to his checking account. That would leave $948,003 in his trust account. He was legally obligated to return that money to his former client, Russell Reeves. It wasn't Andy's money. He pulled out his cell phone and called home. When his father answered, Andy asked for Frankie.

"Andy, are you okay?"

Her voice sounded good.

"Reeves' people just chased me all over town."

"Why?"

"I wouldn't tell him where you are."

"I told you he'd come for me."

"Frankie, you got a bank account?"

"In Buda."

"How'd you get a bank account without using your social security number?"

"I used my mom's. I'm her legal guardian."

"Are you her sole beneficiary?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Give me your account number."

"Why?"

"Trust me."

"But you're a lawyer."

Notwithstanding that fact, she gave him her bank account number. He hung up. It was all his fault. If he had just taken no for an answer when McCloskey couldn't find Frankie Doyle, none of this would be happening. But he had wanted the money. He had wanted Suzie and Bobbi and everything else that came with the money. So he had gone to Lorenzo. He had found Frankie Doyle. He had brought Russell Reeves to her. Andy's mother was right: Money makes good men do bad things. Now he would have to make things right.

He wondered if a C student were up to it.

TWENTY-TWO

Andy woke early the next morning without the alarm. It was Friday, and he wanted to get to Wimberley. He needed to talk to Frankie. He showered and dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a T-shirt. He was starving, and there was no food or coffee in the loft; and coffee and a muffin at Jo's was out of the question.

But he needed carbs.

He decided to pick up breakfast tacos and a coffee at Whole Foods then hit the road. He grabbed his cell phone, the bike lock, and the Stumpjumper then stepped outside. He put on his helmet and saddled up. He looked around; no dirt bikes or black sedans were in sight.

The coast was clear.

He pedaled west on Fifth the two blocks to Whole Foods. He turned north on Bowie Street and entered the underground parking garage—just to be on the safe side. He parked and locked the bike outside the escalators. He went in through the automatic doors and stepped onto the up escalator.

The down escalator to Andy's left was crowded with shoppers heading to their cars in the garage with grocery carts piled high. The down escalator at Whole Foods was the kind that flattened out into one long ramp; the grocery carts didn't roll down the ramp because rings connected to the wheels locked the carts into the escalator grooves. So shoppers could take their carts down the escalator to the parking garage.

At store level, both sides of the escalator were protected by waist-high glass panels to prevent a customer from inadvertently falling down the escalator bay. As he rose into the store, Andy ducked slightly and peered through the glass panels for anyone who looked out of place. To his right was a dining area; to his left were the checkout lines. At the mouth of the escalator were the outdoor market and the floral department; beyond were shoppers gathered at the nut roaster. He saw tattoos and body piercings, shaved heads and unshaven legs, hippies and yuppies, and fit females in Spandex.

Just the normal Whole Foods crowd.

He got off the escalator and came around the checkout counters. He wanted to run straight down the gluten-free aisle and into "Beer Alley" and hide out in the walk-in beer cooler for the day with a case of Coronas; instead, he walked toward the food court with his head ducked down. He went past the Organic Clothes and Whole Body and Health & Beauty section selling environmentally friendly jewelry and was passing the juice bar when Team Member Charlene sang out, "Hi, Andy!"

He cringed.

For Christ's sake, Charlene, why don't you just announce over the store's public-address system that I'm here?

He stopped at the breakfast taco bar. Team Member Brad said, "The regular?" Andy nodded then scanned the food court crowd. Nothing out of the ordinary.

"Hi, Andy."

Except Suzie.

"Oh, uh, hi, Suzie."

"You haven't called me."

Still searching the crowd.

"I've been busy."

"With Bobbi?"

"Work."

"Do you like my new gym outfit?"

"What?"

Andy now turned his attention to Suzie and her gym outfit. She twirled around for him to see.
Sweet Jesus.
Now that was a gym outfit: a skin-tight white tube top that revealed much about her anatomy and white Spandex short-shorts that stretched the few inches from well below her navel to just below her cheeks. Body parts were snugly encased, ripped abs were exposed, and Andy's body was enthused. Spandex.

"That's a, uh, really nice outfit, Suzie."

When Andy finally looked up at her face, his peripheral vision caught two black figures standing at the sliding glass entrance doors to the food court; two Darrell-wannabes had just entered from the outdoor patio. They wore black pants and black knit shirts stretched tight around their muscular bodies; they looked like they had cornered the steroids market. Andy had the urge to cut and run, but (a) Suzie was standing between him and the men in black, so they didn't have a direct line of sight to him, and (b) he was starving. He needed those carbs.

"Hi, Andy."

Bobbi glided past Andy and Suzie and gave him a coy smile. Andy turned and stared at her Spandex. Wow.

"Andy!"

Back to Suzie.

"You're looking at Bobbi instead of me?"

Suzie was gorgeous, but Andy could never resist looking at other girls who walked by—why was that? Suzie put on her pouty face and stormed off. Andy turned his back to the front door then ducked behind a tall display for Electrolyte Enhanced Water. He peeked around at the brutes in black.

Christ, they were talking to Suzie.

Figure her to find the two fittest men in Whole Foods. And they were fit. But not fit in the Austin way. They were fit in the military way. Their muscles weren't carefully constructed by a high-priced personal trainer for the express purpose of attracting the opposite sex at Whole Foods—although they were sure as hell attracting Suzie. Their muscles were made for fighting. He could read their lips: "Have you seen Andy Prescott?"

Suzie turned and pointed at the breakfast taco bar.

Thanks a lot, Suzie.

"Andy, your tacos."

Team Member Brad was holding out two hot delicious breakfast tacos wrapped in aluminum foil. Andy pulled a $10 bill from his pocket, stood with his back to the men, and handed the bill across the counter.

"Keep the change."

Andy took the tacos from Brad, stuffed them in his pocket, and slowly turned. The men were ten feet away and closing. They had ear buds and were talking into their shirt collars. Andy walked the opposite way.

They followed.

Whole Foods employed an off-duty state trooper for store security. He was standing directly in front of Andy in his olive uniform, tan cowboy boots, and cream cowboy hat; he had a big gun in his leather holster and a bigger belly above it. He would be worthless in a foot chase. Andy walked up to the trooper and pointed back at the two men.

"Those guys are harassing the girls."

The trooper stepped in front of the men, and Andy broke and ran down the main aisle past the checkout counters and toward the escalators. He was almost there when two more brutes in black emerged from the outdoor market; they were blocking his path to the down escalator.

Shit.

He glanced back and saw that the first two men had evaded the trooper and were now running toward him. Andy ran down the Whole Body System Support aisle, ducked around a display for Complete Body Cleanse (who would do that voluntarily?), and flattened his body against the shelves. When the thugs rounded the corner, Andy stuck his foot out; they tripped and went tumbling into a chlorine-free diaper display.

Andy ran back up the aisle to the checkout lines. He had to draw the other men away from the escalators, so he ran directly toward them until they spotted him and gave chase. Andy cut left at the nut roaster and ran down the bulk aisle lined with large dispensers holding nuts, beans, seeds, and granola. Without slowing, Andy stuck his hand out and slapped open several dispensers, flooding the concrete floor behind him with raw filberts, garbanzo beans, flax seeds, soy nuts, and yogurt maltballs the size of marbles. The first man stepped on the spilled bulk items and slipped and slid like a kid on roller skates then hit the floor hard; the second man stepped on his fallen comrade and vaulted over the organic debris.

He was gaining on Andy.

Andy turned right into produce, grabbed a yellow squash and a purple eggplant, and hurled them at the man; the vegetables did not slow him. Andy came to cantaloupes displayed like a tall teepee; he pulled one from the bottom. The teepee came tumbling down; cantaloupes rolled across the floor in front of his pursuer. He fell.

Andy ran on past the raw foods counter to the rear of the store. He swung left through dairy and past fresh meat and poultry and skidded to avoid an elderly customer at the bread counter. He made a hard left at the chocolate fountain and ran past the olive bar. If he could make it out the food court exit he could run around the parking lot to the garage entrance.

But another thug was blocking the exit.

Damn.

That guy now ran toward him. Andy retreated and ran down the center aisle. He grabbed an empty shopping cart and rolled it at the guy, flung a few cans of organic refried beans at him—which he blocked with his arms as if they were sponges—then knocked over displays stacked high with cans of whey protein and energy drinks. Which slowed the dude down long enough for Andy to cut down the pet aisle offering socially conscious dog toys, through the wine cellar, and into Beer Alley.

Cases of beer were stacked high against the glass walls, so the view from outside the cooler was blocked. He hid behind a stack of Corona Extras. Dang, six-packs were on sale for only $7.99. He hated to pass up a sale, but there was no way he could get out of there carrying a six-pack. So he grabbed a cold bottle, placed the edge of the cap against the shelf, and slapped the top with the butt of his open hand. The cap popped off. He drained half the beer in one long drink.

He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and peeked out the glass enclosure; two of the men were arguing with the trooper over by the Bowie BBQ counter. Now was his chance. It was a straight shot up the chips and salsa aisle to the escalators. He stayed low to the ground until he got to the door of the beer cooler then—
damn—
one of the thugs spotted him.

Andy darted up frozen vegetables and ran full out to the checkout counters; the escalators were just beyond the counters. But the lines were packed with shoppers and grocery carts. So he dodged a cart, stepped on a stack of bottled waters, and leaped onto the moving belt at a checkout counter.