Booby Trap (3 page)

“Geez, it’s not like I left a trail of bloody bread crumbs from Newport Beach to here.” I started to say more, but he stopped me by raising a hand like a flesh-colored stop sign.

“Let me finish.” He ran his hand through his styled, longish hair. “I’m not thrilled about this, to say the least. But I tried ranting and raving once, and it didn’t work. So, here’s the deal, and it’s a three-parter, so please keep your panties on and don’t interrupt.”

In an uncharacteristic wise move, I kept my mouth shut and heard him out.

“The first part of the deal,” he began, taking both of my hands in both of his, “is that whatever you get involved with, I’m your partner on it. I’m your partner in life. I might as well be your partner in crime, so to speak.”

My mouth fell open with surprise. “
You
want to help Lil find out if her son is the Blond Bomber?”

“No, I want to help
you
. It’s important to me to keep you safe, and if helping you help Lil will do that, I’m in. The second part of the deal is, you do not, under any circumstances, try to find the Blond Bomber. You are only to look for proof that Brian Eddy is
not
the killer, not flush out the real killer. Leave that to the professionals. You understand?”

“Are you kidding? I have no intention of mixing it up with the Blond Bomber.”

Greg chuckled. “I know you don’t, sweetheart. But you do have a knack for finding trouble you never intended on finding.” He paused and locked his eyes onto mine. “The third part of the deal is that you have to promise to always keep me informed.”

“Absolutely.” And I meant it. After spending the bulk of my forty-eight years alone, it felt great to have a partner—to belong, not
to
someone, but
with
someone. It was no longer Odelia Patience Grey versus the world, but me and Greg in a loving and strong partnership, ready to take on whatever life threw our way—even if that “whatever” was murder and mayhem. We probably should have had that written into our wedding vows.

“So,” he said. “What’s next? Telling Dev?”

“No, not yet, for exactly the reasons Lil fears.”

Greg nodded in understanding.

“What’s next,” I continued, “is talking to Mike Steele. First thing tomorrow morning.”

At this point, Greg threw back his head and laughed out loud. When he stopped laughing, he said, “Too bad I have an important meeting tomorrow. I’d give anything to be there for that. Could you video it somehow?”

When I lived in
Newport Beach, I used to walk most mornings around the Back Bay area with Zee and some of the other members of Reality Check. Originally organized to offer advice and support for women of size fighting it out in a skinny-obsessed world, it now offers support to anyone who feels they don’t fit into what society considers
normal
. In addition to plus-size men and women, the group now has members who are little people, who are deaf, and who are in wheelchairs.

Now that I live in Seal Beach, I walk with Wainwright. Greg is not a morning person. Before I moved in, Wainwright’s morning exercise consisted of dashing through his doggie door to relieve himself and running laps around the back patio while his master snoozed. These days, he and I walk around the neighborhood and down to the beach. The big, friendly animal is happier than a pig in a mud puddle with this arrangement. Meanwhile, back at Casa de Stevens-Grey, Seamus remains curled up, warm and snug, with Greg. It’s a win-win on all fronts. I miss walking with my friends, but to perk me up, Greg bought me an iPod, so now it’s me, Wainwright, and a playlist of upbeat rock ’n’ roll oldies walking the early morning beat.

This morning, it about broke my heart to see Wainwright standing by the back door, his leash hanging from his mouth. I soothed my guilt with the knowledge that Greg took the dog to work with him every day. The animal is far from neglected.

As Mike Steele is an early bird and his day is usually jam-packed, I decided the best time to get his attention would be early in the morning, before the office officially opened.

I am a corporate paralegal at the law firm of Wallace, Boer, Brown and Yates, or “Woobie” as we people in the trenches affectionately call it. Although I technically work for all the attorneys in the firm, my supervising attorney is Michael Steele, a brilliant attorney who considers arrogance a virtue and sarcasm a grace. Steele also had the bad habit of going through secretaries like the Tasmanian Devil. It was a toss-up whether they left because of his obnoxious work habits or because they eventually had an affair with him and decided it wasn’t worth the aggravation to stick around when it was over, which was in pretty short order.

Now don’t get me wrong: to my knowledge, Steele has never sexually harassed any of these women. That wouldn’t be his style. No, he’s more of the “woo them with charm and attention” type. Then, after they got to know him, they usually ran screaming from the office. My guess is a lot of the women thought the affair would turn into a commitment or at the very least a cushy job.

Much to everyone’s happiness except Steele’s, those days seem to be over. For nearly five months, Jill Bernelli has worked as Steele’s assistant. She also assists Jolene McHugh, another attorney, and myself. Jill is the domestic partner of Sally Kipman, a former high-school classmate of mine, and is the picture of efficiency and patience. No matter what Steele throws at her, she catches it and throws it back like a catcher destined for the Baseball Hall of Fame. In a short time, Jill has become a favorite with Woobie attorneys and staff alike. And something tells me that even Steele secretly adores her. He may not have a secretary he can bed, but he definitely has a secretary who can match him in both his work and his wit.

I let myself into the office suite at about seven thirty. Woobie opens officially at eight thirty, with most of the staff arriving around nine. In my hands were two large cups of designer coffee, one for me and one as an offering to Steele. The coffee didn’t come from one of the ubiquitous chains but rather from a little independent café near the beach that I knew was a favorite brunch hangout for Steele on weekends.

Yes, I’ll admit it, the special brew was a bribe, an offering at the altar of knowledge and egotism—an attempt to soothe the bear before I asked him to share his honey.

I found Steele right where I expected to find him—at his desk, his suit jacket already off and carefully hung on the wooden hanger on the back of his door. His fingers were busy on the keyboard of his computer, probably reading and responding to e-mails that had accumulated since last night.

I knocked lightly on his doorjamb. He looked up, surprise registering on his handsome, freshly shaven face.

“Jesus, Grey, a little early for a newlywed like you, isn’t it?” His fingers continued to stab at the keyboard while he spoke.

“I need to ask you something, Steele. Got a minute?”

“What? Greg filing for divorce already?” He looked back at the computer screen. “Whatever you do, ask for shared custody of the dog. That’ll force Greg to give you anything you want in the settlement.”

I stepped into his office and carefully put one of the cups of coffee down on his desk in line with his peripheral vision. As soon as he spotted the familiar logo on the paper cup, he stopped typing and gave me his full attention.

“This must be pretty serious, Grey, for you to come bearing gifts.” He picked up the cup, took off the lid, and took a long, appreciative sniff.

“A little half and half, no sugar, right?”

He took a small sip and smiled. “You know me too well.”

He took a bigger sip. After he swallowed, he turned in his chair and faced me. I set my own coffee down, shut the door, and took a seat across from him.

“A shut door conference?” Steele narrowed his eyes at me. “You leaving the firm, Grey? Is that what this is all about?”

I honestly couldn’t tell if his question held a tone of disappointment or of hope.

“No, I’m not leaving the firm, so you can just keep the cork in the champagne.”

It was my turn to take a sip of coffee, but for me it was a stall tactic. I wasn’t sure quite how to open the subject of a serial killer.

Steele leaned back in his chair and swiveled slightly. The chair gave off its familiar squeak. For all his obsession with perfection, Steele seems to love that damn squeak. Everyone has tried to get him to oil it. Tina Swanson, our office manager, even sent an office services person down once with a can of WD-40, but Steele banished him back to the copy room with the threat of termination if he ever touched his chair. Personally, I also like the squeak; it’s like a bell on a cat. When we hear the squeak, we know Steele’s in his office hard at work and not prowling the halls, looking for someone to annoy.

He took a deep drink of coffee and waited.

I also took another drink of coffee. “You won’t believe this,”
I began.

“I believe everything you say, Grey. No one could make up the shit you get into.”

He laughed. I didn’t.

When I didn’t respond on cue, he leaned forward and put his coffee firmly down on his desk. He stared at me, eye to eye.

“Please tell me you haven’t gotten yourself involved with another stiff.”

“No, at least not technically. I mean, not directly.”

“Okay, so how
indirectly
have you gotten yourself involved with yet another corpse?”

“I’m not involved with any corpse,” I insisted. “I just need some advice. That’s all.”

“Uh-huh,” he said with a slight snort. “You came into work at seven thirty, armed with my favorite coffee, just for some simple legal advice?”

“Yes.” I took a big gulp of coffee to avoid his stare.

“Look me in the eye, Grey, and swear that this simple legal advice has absolutely nothing to do with anyone’s death—past, present, or in the future, in any way, shape, or form.”

This time, I looked Steele square in the eye. “I can’t do that.”

He smacked the top of his desk with his left palm. His coffee cup gave a little hop. “I knew it!”

“It’s not what you think, Steele.”

“Who is it, Grey? Your manicurist? A second cousin twice removed? Who managed to get themselves killed in your screwy little world this time?”

“No one, Steele. I just need some advice about my responsibility in a certain situation.”

“
Your
responsibility?” He looked at me, his face serious and full of curiosity. “Did you witness a murder? Plan one? Commit one?”

“No, no, and no.”

“An assault?”

“No, and if you’ll quit playing twenty questions, I’ll tell you.”

Steele studied me a few seconds, then picked up his coffee, took a big swallow, and leaned back in his chair again. “I’m all ears.”

I took a deep breath. “Someone told me that they think they know who the Blond Bomber is.”

Steele catapulted forward in his chair, eyes wide with disbelief, his coffee splashing onto his shirt and desk. If it hadn’t been for his big, black lacquered desk standing between us, he and his coffee would have ended up in my lap.

“The Blond Bomber? Are you kidding me?”

“Afraid not. But it’s all supposition. She doesn’t have any real proof except for coincidences and a gut feeling.” I paused. “Anyway, she doesn’t want to go to the police, but she told me who she suspects it is.”

Steele sat back down and fussed with the coffee spots on his shirt. It was the second time in just a few days that the mention of the Blond Bomber had caused spillage. Fortunately, Steele kept extra shirts in his office.

“My question is, Steele, do I have any legal obligation to say anything to the police?”

“Why don’t you ask your pal Dev Frye that question?”

“You know darn well why. If I say anything to Dev, even in a hypothetical way, he’ll end up snooping around. And if this man is innocent, just a suspicion could ruin him.”

“He’s a prominent guy?”

“Very. But does that matter? A suspicion of this type would ruin anyone.”

Steele closed his eyes and swiveled in his chair.
Squeak
…
squeak.

“Have you met this guy?” He asked the question without stopping the swivel or opening his eyes.

“No, I haven’t. Does that make a difference?”

“No, it doesn’t. But what you have here, Grey, is a sticky problem, not a legal one.”

He stopped swiveling and looked at me. “Legally, you have no responsibility to report what you’ve been told. Under the law, there is no legal responsibility for any private citizen to report knowledge of a crime to the police. A private citizen needs to take affirmative action to assist in the crime either before or during the crime, or be an accessory after the fact, such as concealing evidence or harboring a known fugitive, to share in the responsibility for the crime.”

“But morally?” I squirmed a bit in my chair.

“That’s where it gets sticky. If you don’t do anything and this guy is the killer and kills again, could you live with that?”

It was the same question I’d asked of Lil.