Indicted (Bad Judgment #1) (16 page)

“It’s overrated,” I mumbled, not wanting to get into it right now. I had much bigger, uglier fish to fry. “But yes, of course I know you earned your job. Of course I know you’re smart. And clearly, you’re much prettier than me.”

“Broden Walker doesn’t think so,” she said, looking a little plaintive. She shook it off. “But that’s not why we’re here. Why are you asking me about David?”

“I need to know if you trust him,” I said.
I need to know if I can trust him,
I thought.

“I don’t know if I trust
you
, Nicole,” she said.

“I don’t know if I trust you, either,” I said, “but that’s kind of not the point at the moment.”

Alexa drank some more and looked at me like I had three heads. She motioned to her waiter-boyfriend for more beers. “So…do I trust David Proctor?” She asked, and shrugged. “No. My father’s in politics, and what you learn from growing up in politics is that you can trust people for the moment, but when things change, so do people’s loyalties. Why are you asking me about him? I need to know that, Nicole. So I can see whether I can trust
you
for the moment.”

“Because Walker is worried,” I said. “He’s worried that someone is following us. That someone is listening to us. And I’m wondering who
I
can trust for the moment.”

“Is Walker paranoid?” she asked. “Are you really being followed?”

“Yes,” I said, “He’s completely fucking paranoid. But I don’t blame him, because the client he’s worked for for years turned on him. And I’ve seen stuff to back up his fears.

“It’s not just that,” I said, feeling shaky and a little sick. I took another sip of beer, hoping it would help. “I came in today to tell you and Mandy to watch your backs, and Norris Phaland just jumped out on me in the bathroom, making all sorts of nasty accusations about me and Walker. He’s always made me nervous — but now I’m petrified of him. And I don’t know what, if anything, to tell David Proctor. I don’t know if I can trust him with the whole truth,” I said, feeling miserable.

“Well, you don’t need to tell him Norris Phaland is an asshole,” Alexa said. “Everybody knows Norris is an asshole. But that doesn’t mean he’s a criminal. Nicole — you know how crazy this conversation is, right? Are you insinuating that Walker is being followed by the government? And that Norris Phaland is actually out to get you? I mean, it’s not even rooted in any sort of reality. You know that, right?”

“I know. But people
have
been following us.”

“Who is it?” she asked.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Different people. People who could be in here, right now.”

“I fucking hope not,” Alexa said, looking over her shoulder. “Unless it’s that hot waiter and he wants to kidnap me for the afternoon.” She turned back to me. “Do you have actual evidence?” She sounded like she didn’t believe me.

“No,” I said. “But he’s scared. And Walker’s not the sort of guy who gets scared. You know what I mean?”

“He’s a total Alpha. I get it,” she said. “But did it ever occur to you that some of these guys are crazy? The super-successful ones? They didn’t get to where they are by being normal. Most of them have a lot of issues, a lot of emotional baggage. You ever think about that?”

“Of course,” I said. I’d admitted to myself when I first met him that Walker was anything but normal. He was a complicated, successful man who was used to getting what he wanted. He was used to people doing what he wanted, too. I didn’t see it as a problem. Except if he was actually crazy.

At this point, his being actually crazy would be a real problem. For all sorts of reasons.

I motioned to the waiter and got the check. “Just think about what I said, even if you don’t believe me. Don’t say a word to anyone except Mandy. Don’t tell David. I’ll talk to him when I’m ready. Just watch your back,” I said to Alexa, “and tell Mandy to watch hers. Keep an eye on Tammy for me, too. I don’t want her getting harassed by anyone.

“And use the buddy system when you go to the bathroom.”

I
couldn’t sleep
that night. I couldn’t stop thinking about everything that was happening, about Norris Phaland’s scaly face and how angry he’d been. My firm was no longer my safe place, and that made my heart ache. I wished Norris would slither away somewhere forever, preferably to an early retirement in a Florida town far, far away.

I also couldn’t stop thinking about my secret-secret, the object of which was asleep on the floor in his boxer shorts, snoring lightly.

Tragedy is not one-size-fits-all. It comes in all sorts of clever forms. Still, even though it was clearly a tragedy in the making, I was strangely happy. Happy that I got to be with Walker, and that I got to experience this burning feeling for once in my life. Even though the feeling was forbidden and would never be fully realized. My heart ached at its fullness, and also at its loss.

I woke up in the morning at the foot of the bed, my hand dangling down towards his. Like I’d been reaching for him.

W
e worked
all through the next day, side by side, finishing the tax records. I made copies of almost everything, and sent them to the new email account I’d created from the other new email account I’d created. I’d found some things that were disturbing me, and I wanted everything for myself. I didn’t want anyone to know what I was up to. I was worried that Norris Phaland was going to have me taken off the case; I wanted to be prepared in case that happened.

I didn’t tell Walker what I was up to, either, and I didn’t tell him about Norris jumping out at me in the bathroom. He didn’t need to know. Not yet. If he got angry, he would get dangerous. We had a meeting tomorrow. I didn’t need him angry for that. I needed him safe.

Once my stomach started snarling, I looked over at him, helplessly. “The boss says we must have pizza again. And she also says open that next set of files and start reading, stat,” I said, and tossed him a highlighter. “And make sure to use those color-coded tabs I like.”

"I like it when you're bossy," he said, leering at me. "But you have a job, too," he called, as I went out into the kitchen "Order that pizza and pick out some wine, wine wench."

"Watch it," I called, not meaning it.

"I prefer white," he called back, absolutely meaning it.

I smiled to myself as I grabbed my phone, scrolling through my contacts until I got to my favorite pizza delivery place. I called them, ordering two pizzas (because Walker could probably eat a whole one by himself, and because I was suddenly starving), mozzarella sticks, and large Greek salad for us to share. I looked out the window as I ordered, feeling ridiculously, inappropriately happy, in spite of everything, looking at all the beautiful brownstones in the slanting late-afternoon light.

And that's when I noticed the white Range Rover parked across the street. With the blond sitting inside. My mouth went dry. "Walker?" I called. "Can you help me find the wine opener?" I walked around the room, my heart thudding, not wanting to stare.

He was beside me in an instant.
Look
across the street,
I wrote, with shaking hands. The Rover hadn’t been out there all week. Not that I’d seen. The fact that it was the same car, with what looked like the same woman in it, seemed ominous to me. Like whoever it was knew that we knew, and no longer cared.

He read my note, brow furrowed, and seamlessly started talking in his fake-voice. "The wine opener is over here, Nic," he said, sounding calm and relaxed while he frowned and looked out the window. "You really need to remember that."

He came over and deposited the opener in front of me. "Did you order our food?" he asked, and grabbed the pen from me.
It’s officially official,
he wrote.

"Yes," I said, breathlessly. I watched the car and tried to watch inside the car.

We sat and watched. And waited for our pizza.

“So, tomorrow is our big outing,” Walker said. “We’re seeing David Proctor at ten-thirty.”

“I’m going to bring some of the files back,” I said.

We need to see Lester Max first. I have more questions,
I wrote, and he nodded.

A little while later the delivery guy pulled up at the curb; I could see the
Pizza Primo
sign on top of the red sedan. “Pizza’s here,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. He grabbed my hand and I grabbed my wallet.

We went outside like that, Walker’s hand in a vise-like grip over mine, and dragged me towards the curb. With one hand, I handed the driver my debit card while Walker glared at him, and then glared past him at the Range Rover, ready to strike. As the guy swiped my card through a gadget attached to his smartphone, the white Rover pulled out and drove away. It was the blonde. The same one. My stomach plummeted and I broke out in a cold sweat — but she didn’t give us a backwards glance. Maybe we both were just totally fucking crazy paranoid.

“Thanks,” I mumbled to the driver, as Walker turned his glare from the retreating car to him. He finally let go of my hand so I could sign the slip. We grabbed the pizzas and the other bags full of food, and Walker gave the driver one last nasty look. The driver, who looked hot and tired in a rumpled button-down, looked at me helplessly. I smiled at him and handed him a twenty, way more than I’d ever tipped a delivery person before, to make up for Walker’s rudeness.

We got into the coolness of the house and Walker dropped the pizzas down and immediately started pacing. I scrambled past him, grabbing the bottle of wine we’d left on the counter. I got two glasses and grabbed the opener as he paced silently, the tension rolling off his body, telling me everything I needed to know about what he was thinking. The next time he stalked by, I held out a rather full glass of wine for him; he took it without speaking. He kept pacing and I finally opened a box of pizza and unceremoniously started eating it. I grabbed the Styrofoam box of mozzarella sticks and started eating them, too. Followed by a healthy gulp of wine.

I grabbed some paper and wrote a note.
Could be a coincidence? Maybe?
I wrote desperately, even though I didn’t believe it. I was trying to talk myself into believing that everything was going to be okay.

He stopped and read the note.

We should talk so they don’t think we’re writing,
I scribbled.

He nodded at me and grabbed the pen.
You first,
he wrote.
I’m too fucking pissed.

“This pizza is delicious,” I said, sounding like a very bad actress to my own ears.

“It’ll do,” Walker said. “But I know a better place that delivers.” He smiled at me in spite of himself and popped a mozzarella stick in his mouth.

“Here’s some salad,” I said, sticking to the most obvious statements. I plated some for him, setting it in front of him. He smiled at me, in spite of all the tension he was holding in his massive shoulders.

“I love it when you wait on me, wine wench,” he said. There was an undertone to his voice that made me think he wasn’t kidding.

“I’m not waiting on you. I’m serving you,” I said, and gave him a naughty wink. He looked at me darkly, almost like he was going to pull me to him.

I swear to God, I almost ran into the bathroom right there to smack myself across the face. I had to stop doing this.

“I want you to serve me,” he said, with a growl, and leaned into me. I jumped back.

“I was just kidding!” I said, nervously, and threw some more pizza onto my plate. I also drank some more wine. Just because it seemed suddenly, impossibly necessary.

“I can’t wait to eat dessert,” Walker said, leaning towards me still and smiling at me. Like I might be dessert.

“Ha,” I said, unsure of what to say now that I’d said too much. At least he’d stopped pacing.

“Dessert is no laughing matter, Nic,” Walker said, looking at me with hooded eyes. I felt all sorts of hidden muscles clench inappropriately, deep inside me.

“We should finish those files and get ready for tomorrow,” I said wistfully. Those muscles were not going to get exercised anytime soon. Probably not ever. So dessert was sadly going to remain…dessert.

“Okay, boss,” Walker said, his eyes returning to normal. And instead of angry or inappropriate — the way I preferred him — he just sounded tired now, like all the tension and the guessing and the stress had all been too much.

I grabbed our wine glasses and brought them with us to the living room.

We worked listlessly for another two hours, not talking. I caught him intermittently watching out the window, waiting for something. And when he wasn’t staring and I wasn’t staring at him we just read, collated and checked things off the list that David had sent us.

“I’m beat,” Walker said, finally. He tossed his document onto the coffee table. It was almost ten o’clock.

“Me, too,” I said. Between all of the flirting and all of the fear, I was exhausted.

He got up and came back a few moments later with more wine and a plate full of brownies and cookies. “Thanks,” I said. He sat down on the couch next to me and grabbed the remote control, turning the enormous flat screen on. I settled in next to him, relishing his proximity and his warmth, even though both of those items were strictly forbidden. I ate a brownie and drank some wine instead of stroking his pectoral muscles like I wanted to; at this rate, this case was going to make me extremely overweight. And intoxicated.

He watched part of the Red Sox game, and part of the Bruins game, and then settled on the local news.

There was a teaser about the weather, about humidity and thunderstorms that I groaned at. I loved New England, but the humidity was something me (and my hair) could live without. Then they did highlights of the Red Sox and Bruins games, promising to dissect them both, play by play, later in the program. I yawned. “Now for our top story of the night,” said the anchor. She was over forty but had the look of a freakish, troubled twenty-year old imposed on an older person’s body, in a tight wrap dress, unnaturally perky breasts and a dark, insidious-looking spray-on tan. “There’s been a tragedy. A carjacking and homicide in Back Bay,” she said.

I froze.

“A pizza delivery man was apparently carjacked, robbed and executed in the early evening hours tonight on Storrow Drive,” she said, solemnly. “This marks the 49th murder in Boston this year. Crime has been on the rise in the city since the early 2000, but this is one’s unusual because of its location and the earliness of the hour. Police responded to the crime scene at slightly after eight pm this evening. It appears that the man had been shot, his wallet, phone, and all company cash and receipts taken from him. Police are urging the public to turn in any information they may have about the crime, as well as to be careful on the roads. If the driver of another car approaches you or even bumps your car in this area, do
not
pull over. Instead, take down the license plate number and go someplace safe. Then call the police.”

My mouth was hanging open. My heart was frozen in fear. I looked over at Walker and he looked stricken.

"Oh my god," I said to Walker, finally, when I could get my voice to come out. Waves of horror kept crashing over me, threatening to pull me under. I turned to Walker: he looked sick, like he might throw up.

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God," I said, getting hysterical. Walker looked down at me and grabbed my hand. He squeezed it, more gently this time, and shook his head at me.
Don’t. We couldn't acknowledge this. We can't speak.

I grabbed the pad next to me.
We need to tell the police,
I wrote.

Walker was breathing heavily as he took the pad from me.
We don’t have any proof, and we don’t have any real info.

I yanked the pad out of his hand.
I have the Rover’s license plate,
I wrote.
We have information that could help.

I don’t think it’s safe to help,
Walker wrote, and looked at me miserably. He put his arms around me and pulled me to his chest.

I started taking big gasps of air, hyperventilating all of a sudden. Walker rubbed my back and there were sobs coming out of me now, drenching his shirt in tears. I was utterly horrified. This was real, this was happening, and that driver was dead because of
us
. He was dead because he swiped my credit card and somebody wanted it.

What? The? Fuck?
I was trapped in a feeling of misery so thick, so deep, that I thought it might drown me.

I must have moaned louder because Walker turned the volume on the television way up. He rubbed my back and let me cry. He just rubbed my back and let me cry.

I
don't know
how long we stayed like that. It was a long time until I stopped crying. Eventually my breathing went from ragged gasps, to sobby little puffs, to just sad and slow. Walker never stopped rubbing my back, and he kept the volume up for as long as I needed.

Should we leave?
I wrote on my legal pad, with a shaking hand.

Not yet,
he wrote back.
If they wanted to get to us here, they already would have.

We have to make a plan,
I wrote.

Not we,
he wrote back,
me
.
He wrote over the word “me” several times, angrily, making it stick out against the yellow background.
I have to make a plan. You have to be safe. This is my problem. They're after me. Not you. You're innocent.

So are you,
I wrote back. He leaned over and stroked the side of my face, briefly. I shuddered inside, just wanting to grab him and press myself against him. Instead, I just looked at him and sniffled.

Let’s go to bed,
he wrote.

I nodded at him. "Are we done with discovery?" I asked, for show, trying not to sniffle. Personally, I felt like I'd discovered so much in the last few hours that I never wanted to do it again. I was done discovering new things, thank you very much.

"I'm exhausted," Walker said, and even though it was a statement for show, I could see it was the truth. His eyes were hollowed out, his face had a grayish cast.

"Let's stop for the night," I said. He stood up and held his hand out to me and I took it, smiling at him weakly. "We can get some sleep and figure out our next move in the morning."

Per our newly-established routine, I pretended to leave, then he closed the door and locked it. I wanted to sigh in relief, but there was no relief. Only horror. They could be planning to hurt us. To hurt other innocent people. The driver’s face flashed in front of me again.

“Will you stay right with me?” I whispered, looking up at him. I was afraid. I was literally so afraid, so confused, that I didn’t want to be alone for a second. I might ask him to stay in the bathroom when I peed. It was that bad. He nodded at me, his dark eyes flashing. He was right there. I reached out and touched his chest.

A wave of heat shot through me when I felt his body, his chest rock hard underneath that tee-shirt.

He looked down at me and he looked like he might cry. I did what I shouldn’t do — I did what I wanted to do. I put my face against his chest and he wrapped his arms around me, holding me, making me feel safe in the middle of what was now clearly a cyclone of trouble.