Dime Store Magic (17 page)
"Let's get it over with, then," I said.
"Good. Now, are you sure I can't get you something?"
I shook my head. She settled into the seat across from me and leaned across the table, hands almost touching mine.
"I know you didn't do this alone," she said. "I heard what happened to Grantham Cary. I doubt Mr. Universe could do that to a person, let alone a young woman your size."
So this was the good cop. The one who was supposed to make me spill my guts, an older woman, maternal, understanding. I wanted to leap to my feet and tell her to take her act and go.
As I sat there, I realized why such an overused police routine worked.
Because, after hours of being yelled at and made to feel like a lowlife degenerate, I was desperate for validation, for someone to say, "You're not a cold-blooded killer and you don't deserve to be treated this way."
I knew this woman didn't give a damn about me. I knew she only wanted a confession so she could high-five her colleagues watching through the one-way glass. Yet I couldn't help wanting to confide in her, to gain a smile, a look of sympathy. But I knew better, so I fixed her with a cold stare and said, "I want a lawyer."
A smirk tainted Flynn's warmth. "Well, that could be difficult, Paige, considering he's just been taken to the morgue. Maybe you don't understand the seriousness—"
The door opened, cutting her short. "She understands the seriousness perfectly well." Lucas Cortez walked in. "That is why she's asking for her lawyer. I will assume, Detective, that you were just about to honor that request."
Flynn pushed back her chair. "Who are you?"
"Her lawyer, of course."
I tried to open my mouth, but couldn't. It was sealed shut, not by desperation or fear, but by a spell. A binding spell.
"And when did Paige hire you?" Flynn asked.
"It's 'Ms. Winterbourne,' and she retained my services at two o'clock P.M. yesterday, shortly after firing Mr. Cary for sexual harassment."
Cortez dropped a file folder onto the table. Flynn read the first sheet, frown lines deepening with each word. I managed to strain my eyes far enough left to see Cortez. He pretended to study the poster behind my head, but his eyes were on me, as they had to be during a binding spell.
So spell-boy knew some witch magic. Surprising, but not shocking. I knew better spells, several of which I deeply yearned to cast his way at that moment, but being unable to speak curtailed that impulse. A bit disconcerting, too, that he could cast a binding spell, something even I hadn't fully perfected. Wait. Brain flash. If I couldn't cast a perfect binding spell, could Cortez? Hmmm.
"Okay, so you're her lawyer," Flynn said, pushing Cortez's papers aside. "You can sit down and take notes."
"Before I have a few minutes in private to consult with my client?
Really, Detective. I didn't pass the bar exam yesterday. Now, if you'll please find us a private room—"
"This one's fine."
Cortez gave a humorless half-smile. "I'm sure it is, complete with one-way glass and video camera. Once more, Detective, I'm requesting a private room and a few minutes alone…"
Cortez was still talking, but I didn't hear him. All my mental power went into one final push. Pop! My leg jerked. Cortez kept talking, unaware that I'd broken his spell.
I stayed still, saying nothing, waiting. A minute later, Flynn stalked from the room to find us a private chamber.
"Forging my signature on legal documents, sorcerer?" I murmured under my breath.
To my disappointment, he didn't jump. Didn't even flinch. I thought I saw a flicker of consternation in his eyes when he realized I'd broken his spell, but it may have been the lighting. Before Cortez could answer, Flynn came back and escorted us to another room. I waited until she closed the door behind her, then took a seat.
"Very convenient," I said. "How you just happen to be around every time I need a lawyer."
"If you are implying that I am somehow aligned with Gabriel Sandford or the Nast Cabal, let me assure you that I would not debase my reputation with such an association."
I laughed.
"You're too young to be so cynical," he said, returning to his papers.
"Speaking of young, if you are working for Sandford, tell him I'm pretty insulted that he couldn't even bother sending a full-fledged sorcerer. What are you? Twenty-seven? Twenty-eight?"
He sifted through his papers. "Twenty-five."
"What? You really did only pass the bar exam yesterday. Now I
am
insulted."
He didn't look up from his file or even change expression. Hell, he didn't have an expression to change. "If I was working for the Nasts, then, logically, they would send someone older and presumably more competent, would they not?"
"Maybe, but there are advantages to sending a guy closer to my age, right?"
"Such as?"
I opened my mouth to answer, then took another look at Cortez—the cheap suit, the wire-frame glasses, the perpetually funereal expression—and I knew no one was playing the seduction card in this game.
"Well, you know," I said. "I might be able to relate better, be more sympathetic…"
"The disadvantages of my youth would far outweigh the advantages of our age similarity. As for how I conveniently show up whenever you need a lawyer, let me assure you, that doesn't require insider information or psychic powers. Murders and Satanic altars are hardly everyday occurrences in East Falls. An enterprising lawyer simply has to cultivate an equally enterprising local contact, and persuade him to make contact with any new rumors regarding your situation."
"You bribed someone in town to inform on me?"
"Sadly, it's easier—and cheaper—than you might think." Cortez pushed aside his papers and met my gaze. "This could be a career-making case for me, Paige. Normally, the competition for such a case would be stiff, but, given that you are a witch, I doubt any other sorcerers will be vying for it."
"But you're willing to make an exception. How… big of you."
Cortez adjusted his glasses, taking more than a few seconds, as if using the pause to decide how best to proceed. "It's ambition. Not altruism. I won't pretend otherwise. I need your case, and you need a lawyer."
"Then I'll find one myself."
"If you choose to replace me later, that's fine. But, for now, I'm the only person here. Your Coven is obviously uninterested in helping or they'd have found a lawyer for you. At the very least, they'd be here to offer moral support. But they aren't, are they?"
He'd almost done it, almost gained my confidence, but then, with those last comments, he undid all his efforts. I stood, strode to the door and tried the handle. Locked from the outside, of course. An unlock spell was out of the question. I was in enough trouble already. As I lifted my fist to pound on the door, Cortez caught my hand from behind. Didn't grab it.
Just caught and held it.
"Let me work on your release," he said. "Accept my services, free of charge, in this one matter and, afterward, if you aren't satisfied with my performance, you may discharge me."
"Wow. A free trial run. How can I refuse? Easy. No deal, Counselor. I don't want your help."
I wrenched my hand from his and lifted my fist to bang for the detective. Cortez put his hand against the door, fingers spread, blocking my fist's path.
"I'm offering to get you out of here, Paige." The formality fell from his voice and I thought, just for a second, that I detected a note of anxiety.
"Why would I do that if I was working for the Nast Cabal? They want you in here, where you can't protect Savannah."
"I'll get out. They'll set bail and I can make it."
"I'm not talking about setting bail. I'm talking about getting you out.
Permanently. No charges."
"I'm not—"
"What if they don't set bail? How long are you willing to stay in jail?
To leave Savannah in the care of others." He met my eyes. "Without you to protect her."
Trie arrow hit its mark. My Achilles heel. For one brief moment, my resolve wavered. I glanced at Cortez then. He stood there, waiting for me to agree. And, though there was no smugness in his face, I knew he assumed I would agree.
I whammed my fist against the door, catching Cortez off guard. On the second bang, Flynn yanked it open.
"This man is not my lawyer," I said.
I turned my back on Cortez and walked into the hall.
After Cortez left, they put me back in the private meeting room.
Another hour passed. Flynn didn't return to question me. No one did.
They just left me there. Left me to sit and stew, then to pace, then to bang on the door trying to get someone's attention.
Savannah was out there, unprotected, with strangers who had no idea of the danger she faced. Yet again I was constrained by human laws. By law, they could hold me here for any "reasonable length of time" before charging me. What was reasonable? Depended on the person supplying
the definition. Right then, for all I cared, they could go ahead and charge me with murder, so long as I could post bail and take Savannah home.
Nearly two hours passed before the door opened.
"Your new lawyer," said an officer I hadn't met.
For one fleeting moment, one desperate moment of naive hope, I thought the Elders had found someone to represent me. Instead, in walked… Lucas Cortez. Again.
