This Case Is Gonna Kill Me (16 page)

I tried to marshal my rattled thoughts. The cool girl had sat down at my table.
She
couldn’t have succumbed to Ryan. She was too beautiful, elegant, poised—

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“For what?”

“For not warning you.”

“
You
slept with him?” I asked.

“I did.”

“So why didn’t you warn me?” I asked. I was genuinely curious, which kept my tone from becoming accusatory.

“They throw us into competition with each other, until we’re like a bunch of caged badgers. We’re trained to think
if you’re up, I must be down.
I almost said something after Chip was killed.”

“Because you knew I’d be vulnerable?” I asked.

“No, because I admired you. I would have hidden that night. I wouldn’t even have tried to help.”

She looked so miserable and ashamed that I found myself reaching out a hand and saying, “You don’t know that. No one knows how they’ll react in a crisis.” I looked down at my plate and fiddled with my bagel, centering it exactly in the middle of the plate. “So how did Ryan woo you?”

She sighed. “I majored in fine arts before going on to law school. I always wanted to be a painter, but Daddy said that was foolish. Anyway, Ryan took me to the most prestigious gallery openings. To artist’s studios. It was all very flattering.”

“Wow, it sounds like you held out longer than I did. It just took one afternoon of being bribed with horses, and I fell into bed with him,” I said, and shame was like an oily taste on the back of my tongue.

Now Caroline reached out and touched my hand. “After what you’d been through, you
were
vulnerable, and he played on that.” She paused and fiddled with the salt and pepper shakers on the small table, a frown between her perfectly plucked brows. “Why does he have a bunch of horses anyway?”

“He likes horses?” I said a little quizzically. I couldn’t understand how anyone could ask that question. I would own a horse again in a heartbeat. “Or the barn was on his property and he had to accessorize?” That made her laugh a bit, though she quickly sobered and said, “And what you did today was incredibly brave too. You’ve just killed any chance you ever had of making partner.”

I shrugged. “I don’t think there was much likelihood of that anyway. The old white-mustache guys prefer that partners be vampires, and since there are no women vampires, it’s a hard climb for us to overcome that prejudice. I only know of a handful of White-Fang firms that have female partners, and that only happened because of a bunch of EEOC law suits. Most White-Fang firms elevate just enough women to keep the accusations of discrimination at bay.”

“So, we’re all just wasting our time trying to out-compete the men.” Caroline sounded bitter and weary.

“Maybe not. Shade seems more progressive.”

“Yeah, but
all
the partners get to vote before taking on a new partner. He’s just one vote.” She paused again. “What do they have against us?”

“I don’t think they have anything
against us
, per se. They’re just antiquated. Ryan said something in the car about the medieval tendencies of white-mustache vampires. Think about it. How well is your grandfather coping with women in the workplace?” Caroline’s eyes were widening as I talked. “And many of these guys are hundreds of years old. Their attitudes hardened in 1730, or 1260, or maybe even earlier.”

“But why would they … I don’t know, limit themselves? They could bite us and make us vampires too.”

“The official party line for both the vampires and the werewolves is chivalry, but I think it’s more about self-preservation, and not upsetting the peasants by going after their womenfolk. If you start threatening wives and daughters, you’re going to end up with an angry mob outside your house waving torches and pitchforks.”

“But women aren’t cherished little flowers any longer. The world has changed.”

“But they haven’t,” I countered. “Of course none of this applies to the Álfar. They seduce humans all the time. The difference is we can’t become Álfar. They’re a different species.”

“I don’t buy it.” She sounded a lot more like the woman who had dissed me than the new, complimentary Caroline. “The vampires and werewolves were hidden for thousands of years. Most people didn’t believe they existed, thought they were myth. There could have been plenty of female vampires and werewolves over the centuries. We would never have known.”

Yep, Caroline was smart. She had made the same analysis I had. “Look, I’ve asked the same questions about the party line, but I was living in a vampire household at the time, and when I voiced those doubts I got a very bad reaction.”

“So you just let it go,” she said, sounding disgusted.

“I was thirteen, and no, I didn’t drop it totally. I snooped a bit, but whatever the real reason for the taboo on women vampires, it’s buried deep. It began to feel … dangerous, really dangerous, so I let it go.” I paused and studied her disgruntled face. “You’re not happy.”

“No, I’m not. We’re being denied the chance to reach the top in our profession because of some taboo that has a bullshit explanation. The point is that times change, circumstances change. The Powers went public, which was a big damn change. People change and adapt.” She was ranting now.

“Sure,
people
can.” I stressed the word
people
, then stared at her for a long moment. She squirmed under my serious gaze.

“What?”

“Caroline, you have to remember something—
they’re not people.
Not anymore.”

She shuddered and looked away, then said with some heat, “I hate this. I was first in my class at Harvard. I deserve to be a partner. What can we do?”

“Open our own firm?” I joked. “And no, I’m not seriously suggesting that, at least not at this point in my career, but we
do
need to do something about Ryan. Starting with warning any new hires, and looking for every opportunity to humiliate him. If there’s one thing I know about vampires, they’re all about pride. They
hate
to lose face.”

“Well, you went a long way toward doing that yesterday. I expect it will blow back on you,” she said coolly.

“Hasn’t yet,” I answered with a bravado I didn’t really feel.

*   *   *

I spent the afternoon placing every bit of paper on the
Abercrombie
case in chronological order. That meant I had seventeen discrete (but huge) piles, and I wasn’t just pawing aimlessly through paper. I concentrated my search on the past year, assuming that whatever happened to get Chip killed must have occurred recently. I tried not to remind myself of that overused and really irritating saying that pompous and annoying people just loved to throw at you:
When you assume you make an ASS of U and ME.

I looked up when there was a soft knock on the door. “What? Yeah. Come in.”

It wasn’t who I expected. David Sullivan stood in the office door. He had his usual sour and supercilious expression firmly in place. I braced myself.

“You just love hopeless fights with impossible odds, don’t you?”

I blinked at him. “What?”

“Figure it out.” He walked into my office, and eyed the leaning towers of
Abercrombie.
“What are you doing?”

“Looking for a motive,” I said.

“So you think
Abercrombie
is the reason for the murder?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Want some help?”

“And why would you help me?” Suspicion sharpened the words.

“Because it will royally piss off their highnesses upstairs, who sent me down here and let a jackass like Winchester stay up there.” He jerked his chin toward the ceiling.

“Okay, that’s a good reason and one I can buy,” I said.

“You don’t think I’d offer to help you just because I wanted to help you?” he asked.

“No.”

For a moment he looked taken aback, then he nodded. I handed him a stack of papers.

10

The
clackity-clack
of the wheels on the tracks was nicely hypnotic. I dropped my iPad onto my lap, half-closed my eyes, and just let the sway of the subway take control of my body. I felt guilty for taking the weekend to visit my two homes, but Mother and Charlie had returned from Europe, and both my real and my foster dads had indicated a visit to both homes would be appreciated.

Since I didn’t have a car in New York, I was taking the Long Island Rail Road to Sag Harbor. I would spend Friday night at the Bainbridge house. On Saturday, mid-morning, I would take the Long Island Ferry to Newport, Rhode Island, where someone in my human family would be meeting me. Then back to NYC on Sunday afternoon. Just thinking about it made me tired.

I had loaded a number of mystery novels onto my iPad, hoping that the brilliance of fictional detectives would help me in my efforts to untangle Chip’s death and the reputed existence of the missing third will. But my brain was tired, and I didn’t want to think about knotty puzzles. I had dipped into a science fiction novel and a fantasy, but I had the same problem. I kept having to do mental work to envision the planets and aliens, or the mythical kingdoms and elves—

Well, actually, I wasn’t having a hard time picturing elves. One in particular kept floating to the front of my mind. I hadn’t heard from John since his report about Elizabeth May’s werewolf husband, and since I presently hated and was eschewing all men of any type and description, I hadn’t called him—though I wanted to.

I picked up the iPad and brought up a Georgette Heyer novel. The problems of a Regency heroine—how to make an impression during the season, how to capture and marry the man of one’s dreams—seemed quaint and charming, and I felt a certain nostalgia for the era. Life was simpler for women back then.

It was also confining, difficult, incredibly dangerous—death during childbirth was common, and women were the property of their spouses,
the sensible part of my brain reminded me.

“Yeah, those were the days,” I muttered to myself.

Georgette did her magic, and I soon forgot about work as I lost myself in the problems of a young lady who had, scandalously, driven her phaeton down a public street, past gawking gentlemen in their clubs.

One chapter later, we pulled into the Bridgehampton station. I grabbed my overnight bag and hopped off the train. Douglas was waiting. I noticed he was grayer and a bit more stooped, but he still touched the brim of his cap, then gave me a wink and a grin before taking my bag and laptop. He was still driving the same old black Lincoln Town Car that had picked up a terrified eight-year-old seventeen years before. I knew it was the same car, because the initials that brat Stanley Delvechio had carved in the wood around the door handle were still there.

A lump in my throat threatened to choke me, and my vision was blurry with tears as a memory swept across me, ash gray and cold.

I remembered the grilled cheese sandwich and ice cream cone Daddy had bought me in Newport, Rhode Island, before we’d boarded the ferry for Long Island. It had seemed like a good day because I had him all to myself. No Mommy and no squalling baby brother. We had stood on the deck of the ferry as it chugged its way across the sound. I knew intellectually that I was being taken away to live in another place, but like most children I had the capacity to think the moment would last forever, and that Daddy would never leave me behind.

When we reached Long Island, Daddy had knelt down in front of me with his hands on my shoulders. He had been very serious as he said, “Lennie, you must be very, very good and make Mr. Bainbridge very happy. Don’t do anything that might upset him and make him send you back. This is very important. But I know you won’t disappoint me. You’re my good girl, Lennie. You’ll make me proud.”

It had been a summer day, and the air reeked of diesel, fish, and rank water. Daddy stood up and Douglas took my suitcase. His hand replaced my father’s on my shoulder. Daddy turned and walked back onto the ferry. I started to scream, the sound mingling with the harsh cries of the gulls.

Daddy had turned back and called, “You’re not making me proud.”

I had swallowed the tears, but what I had learned on that day was that ferry rides end and people leave you behind all the time.

“We read about those terrible events in the city. The entire household is very relieved that you weren’t hurt, Miss Linnet,” Douglas said with quiet formality.

“Thank you, Douglas, I appreciate that.” I paused and added, “And I’m very glad to be home, even if only for a night.”

Inside there were more greetings. Susan, Meredith’s hostess, looked very chic in a lemon yellow dress and low heels, her perfect pageboy dyed to a rich chestnut. She hugged me tight. “I’m so glad you’re safe,” she whispered. “I’ve put Jessica in with Amy tonight so you can have your old room back.”

“Can I still escape out the window using the tree?”

“No, Meredith had it moved after a fosterling less agile than you took a tumble and broke his arm.”

“How many fosterlings do you have right now?” I asked as we walked up the grand staircase and Douglas followed behind with my case.

“The usual five, but when they’re released in three years we’re only going to take two. I’m slowing down, and Meredith agreed not to burden me with too many youngsters. This bunch will probably be the last fosterlings I see to adulthood.”

I gave her a hug. “Don’t say that. You’re still young.”

“That’s sweet, Linnet, but no, I’m not. And it’s all the more apparent when you live in a vampire household.”

Mine had been the last room on the left. As we walked down a long hall, we heard screams of female terror from one room, and a boy’s voice cried out, “Oh gross, how cool.” It had the tremor and crack of a boy in the throes of adolescence.

Beneath the shrill cries of fright, there was the eerie thrumming sound of a Hunter. Susan stormed over to the door of the room. I couldn’t resist. I followed her.

Seated on the bed and on pillows on the floor were five teenagers, two girls and three boys, in front of a TV. The girls sported the latest fashion affectations, and the boys slouched as if they’d suddenly become too tall and they didn’t know when or how it had happened. There was the usual spray of acne across their faces, which were turned to us as we entered. My skin wanted to break out in sympathy.