Protection for Hire (6 page)

A sickening jolt went through him.

“It wasn’t hard — an irritable backhanded thing like swatting a fly. But I saw my little boy on the carpet crying, and it just shook me up. Like I’d been sleeping and I woke up.”

“How old is he?” Charles asked. His throat was tight and his voice came out sounding a little strangled.

“Three years old.”

Heath had hit a boy who had just begun to walk.

“That’s when you ran?” Tessa asked.

“I packed up and went to a small hotel near Union Street. I used a different name, but Heath found me that night. I took off with Daniel and just the clothes on our backs.”

A woman alone with a three-year-old boy at night in San
Francisco. She was lucky she hadn’t encountered someone even more dangerous than her husband.

“A homeless man saw me on the street and was saying some strange things, so at first I ran away from him because I was so scared. But then he said he wouldn’t hurt us, he only wanted to lead us to someplace safe. He … he must have seen the bruise on my face.”

It covered almost the entire left side of her face, making her cheekbone puffy. The scarf she wore around her head hid some of it, and he had noticed her sunglasses on the table, which probably helped too.

“He started walking, and he kept looking back over his shoulder at us. He wasn’t making much sense, but he wouldn’t leave us alone until we started following a few feet behind him. He led me to Wings.”

“Wings domestic abuse shelter?” He donated money to that shelter anonymously every month. His legal secretary, Abby, had told him about it.

“That’s where I met Tessa.”

“You did?” He had been successful in avoiding looking at her, but he turned to her now. A member of the yakuza at a shelter for abused women and children?

His disbelief must have shown on his face, because Tessa grudgingly answered, “My cellmate Evangeline got out a few months before I did and ended up there one night because of her abusive boyfriend. After she got away from him, she started volunteering there. When I got out, she told me about Wings and I started volunteering there too.”

“Why?” he blurted out.

Tessa’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, why?”

The martial gleam in Tessa’s eyes made him back off. He didn’t
want to cause an even bigger scene than what he’d already done.
Be cool and professional, Charles. Stop acting like a Neanderthal.

“Tessa’s doing me a huge favor,” Elizabeth said. “She’s agreed to be my bodyguard, but she won’t be paid until I can get my money back.”

“Did you put it into a joint account with Heath?”

She slowly nodded. “He froze my account. I’m penniless.”

“You’re not penniless. California law entitles you to your inheritance plus half of everything the two of you made while you were together, and if he’s making as much as he said he is, you might come out of the marriage with more than you brought into it.”

“But I still need to get that money.”

“I’ll start the paperwork for you,” Charles said. “It shouldn’t be hard to get him to give you what’s rightfully yours.”

But Elizabeth was shaking her head. “He doesn’t want this. He’ll fight you. He’ll try to come after me.”

“We’ll get a restraining order on him.”

“That won’t help. He doesn’t just want his son. He wants to kill me.”

The words seemed a bit hysterical. Sure, Heath beat her up, but the majority of abusers Charles saw weren’t murderers. It was a pretty big leap from one to the other, and they didn’t often cross it voluntarily. He glanced at Tessa, who also seemed confused. “Well …” He cleared his throat. “You have Tessa to protect you. If he comes near you, just call the police —”

“No. They’ll call child services to take Daniel away from me, or worse, they’ll give him to Heath, because who looks like the better parent — the friendly, responsible businessman or the unemployed, homeless Southern belle?”

“Elizabeth, the police will know you’re in need —”

“No, I won’t trust the police ever again,” she replied viciously.

Her tone surprised Charles. From Tessa’s raised eyebrows, it surprised her too.

“A neighbor called the police once,” Elizabeth said tightly. “Heath charmed the two officers. He even charmed the neighbor who called it in. Then he beat me and I … I miscarried.”

The rage built up in him, like a dust devil in his gut. Heath had killed that child.

“I hate the police,” Elizabeth bit out. “I won’t lose another child because of them.”

There was a long moment of silence. He understood her anger at the police, although he knew officers who were honorable. “Can’t you go home?” Charles asked. He’d be more than happy to help her move back to Louisiana.

Elizabeth’s eyes filled with tears. “When I first came to Wings, I called my daddy, but he wouldn’t even talk to me, wouldn’t call me back. I tried my daddy’s sister and brother — the entire St. Amant family wouldn’t help me. My uncle told me that I’d made my bed and I had to lie in it.”

The coldness and cruelty made him press his lips together. He’d known families like hers, though — stubborn, proud, and unfeeling.

“That’s why I called your mama. My mama’s family is gone, but your maternal grandma was such good friends with mine …”

He couldn’t imagine a family turning its back on a daughter. It was almost worse than what Heath had done to her. “We’ll help you with this,” Charles told her. “Consider us your family now.”

The words made the tears fall faster. “Thank you so much.”

A few people in the coffee shop glanced their way, then turned aside and ignored her. Tessa hesitated, then put an arm around Elizabeth as she cried.

He didn’t know what to make of Tessa. She’d been interviewing for a job at OWA, now working without pay as a bodyguard for Elizabeth. And volunteering at Wings. Was she trying to go legitimate or was this some strange scheme of hers? Or maybe her uncle was putting her up to it? Had she had some falling out with her uncle, and would it cause problems for Elizabeth?

Whatever it was, he intended to keep a close eye on her. If she stepped even an inch out of line, he’d be there to rescue Elizabeth and Daniel and make sure Tessa Lancaster was sent back to prison.

T
hey were being followed.

And not by very intelligent pursuers, either. Tessa completed a fourth right turn in a row and saw the same gray Nissan Sentra follow suit. Then again, this was San Francisco and some tourists got so lost they finally emerged twenty years later from the Lombard Street time warp.

So she did a U-turn at the next light.

The gray Nissan followed.

Her heartbeat tapped against the base of her throat. Who were these guys? How had Heath found Elizabeth? It had to have been a fluke; maybe he saw them on the walk from the parking garage to the coffee shop or the opposite direction.

Or was she just being paranoid? She’d imagined zombie attacks when she was younger — why not conjure up a car tailing them now that she was in her thirties?

“Tessa,” Elizabeth said, “I feel like those ballerina dolls on those music boxes, going around and around and around. Please tell me we’re just lost.”

“Okay. We’re just lost.”

Elizabeth twisted in her seat to look out the back window, a difficult feat considering how cloudy the glass was. Tessa actually heard her swallow.

“Can you see who it is? Is it Heath?”

“If it is, the man dyed his hair black and grew a full beard in the week since you last saw him.”

“So it might not be Heath.”

“It could be because of me,” Tessa said softly. Except that she’d been out for three months, and no one had tailed her before today.

Plus, with the exception of a rather unhinged Greek banker named Pollux, most of the people who might want to ensure she never again applied to be on
Survivor
were Asian, and this guy was definitely not Asian.

“Can you see a license plate number?” she asked Elizabeth.

“He doesn’t have one on the front.” Elizabeth turned back in her seat and said firmly, “We’re not calling the police, regardless.”

Well, she was the boss. Sort of. If she paid Tessa.

The problem was, this wasn’t the best car for doing any fancy maneuvers — not with the Corolla’s putt-putt engine — and because of its age and decrepitude, it also wasn’t exactly the most inconspicuous car on the road, even in San Francisco’s eclectic streets.

Still, she had to try something.

She signaled to make a left turn, but when there was an opening in traffic, she didn’t go.

Cars behind her started honking furiously, and Elizabeth shifted in her seat. “What are you doing?”

“Relax.” A wave of cars was fast approaching from the opposite direction. “And hang on.”

Tessa threw it into first gear, revved the poor, abused engine, and whipped the little car into a U-turn directly in front of a black Porsche.

Elizabeth screamed and grabbed at the hole in the ceiling upholstery.

The Porsche’s tires screamed too.

Tessa screamed with pure adrenaline and slammed her foot on the accelerator.

The car responded, guttering and screaming in a tantrum that would have ripped the tail lights off if they hadn’t already been missing. Tessa could have sworn the mulish Corolla slowed down instead of sped up. The Porsche loomed large in her rear view mirror despite the cloudy glass.

Okay, maybe she’d timed that a little too close.

She wanted to wince but didn’t want to close her eyes, expecting the sports car to ram their rear bumper — what was left of it — any second.

“Lord God Almighty!” Elizabeth shrieked.

Then with a gagging cough, the engine popped out a short burst of speed and the car hopped forward. Clouds rose up behind them — from both the Corolla’s exhaust and the Porsche’s burned tires.

They puttered down the avenue, safely embraced by a chorus of car horns.

Elizabeth had sunk down in her seat, one hand grabbing the top of the car, the other twisting the seatbelt. “You. Are. Crazy.”

“Yup,” Tessa said cheerfully. “I took an extra course of Insane. Got my PhD in Nutty.”

Elizabeth began hyperventilating.

“Cover your mouth and one nostril,” Tessa told her. “It’ll help you take in less oxygen and raise the carbon dioxide level
in your —”

“Shut up!”

“So what did you promise God?” Tessa asked, not at all offended.

“What?”

“When we were about to get slammed by that Porsche. What did you promise God if we survived?”

Elizabeth grew still, then pale. “Oh, no.”

“Come on, it can’t be that bad. Your firstborn son into a monastery means he’ll always have job security.”

“No, nothing like that. Worse.”

“What?”

“I promised to give up Dr. Pepper,” Elizabeth moaned.

“Oh.” Tessa pressed her lips together and gave Elizabeth a sidelong glance. “Good luck with that.”

Elizabeth started to cry.

“Is there some crazy virus going around or something?” Rick Acker demanded as he stalked into Charles’s office.

Charles looked up from his desk, not entirely surprised to see Rick but a bit confused by his ranting. “What?”

“First some psychotic driver in an ancient Corolla in front of me in a left turn lane deliberately stalls, then pulls a U-ey practically up the nose of the sweetest Porsche I’ve ever seen — I almost wept, I tell you — and now I hear you’re giving the Butler case to Randy McDonald. Randy? Really?” Rick leaned against Charles’s desk. “You’re going to give me an ulcer.”

“You already have an ulcer.”

“That’s because my eldest wants to go to Stanford instead of
Cal. Travesty. You, on the other hand, are causing me a second one. Randy McDonald?” Rick demanded.

“The only reason you don’t like Randy is because he can beat you stupid at soccer.”

“He didn’t beat me, I had a cold.”

“Every week for the past month.”

“It’s a long-term illness,” Rick said with a sniff.

“Look, Rick, the Butler case is going to be open and shut, and I felt like an errand boy doing it.”

“So now multimillion-dollar corporations are beneath you.”

“They are when their CEO drops fifty large at a horse race and writes a company check.”

“Sure, John Butler’s an idiot, but he’s only a puppet king, you know that. We’re working for the Jedi High Council, not the little apprentice Jedi.”

“Which means Randy McDonald will do fine. I have another case.”

“It better involve lots of supermodels and Dom Pérignon.” Rick gave him a hard look.

“It involves a wife-beater and an old Southern family’s inheritance money.”

Rick rolled his eyes. “Sounds like a Nancy Drew mystery.”

Charles hadn’t expected Rick to understand — the man had the compassion of Norman Bates, and might even be less sane — but he had to admit that Elizabeth’s case sounded a bit insignificant compared to his normal bill of fare. And yet the Butler case had the lowest number of anticipated billable hours out of his entire caseload.

“Look, Charles, you work a lot harder than even I do and you’re not a bad soccer player either, but —”

“Was that a compliment? I think I’m going a little deaf …”

“Don’t screw this up, man.” Rick rose to his full six foot height so that his now serious blue eyes could meet Charles mano a mano
.
“You are so close to making partner.”

Partner. The magic word that drove him through the early hours, through two hours of sleep a night, and two-hour meetings. Was he really screwing things up by doing this? Couldn’t he just refer Elizabeth to a divorce lawyer? He knew a few. Granted, they were all as overworked as he was, but she’d eventually get her money back.

Except for her, it wasn’t about the money. It was about her son. She needed to feel grounded again after being numb and adrift for so many years.

The bruise stamped on her face made his gut clench even in remembrance. He’d seen worse. And at the time, he’d been too scrawny and scared to do more than cower.

Never again.

“I’m submitting the memo for this pro bono case, Rick,” Charles said.

“It’ll annihilate your career. You think that taking this nothing case isn’t going to hurt you in the eyes of the senior partners, but it will.”

“Like the Butler case isn’t a nothing case?”

“The cases involving the idiots always make you look good.”

“Well then, this will make me look like Superman, swooping in to rescue the damsel.”

“Yeah.” Rick turned to leave. “Superman … or Braveheart, stabbing at men with big swords.”

Charles felt like a circus clown.

It was his maroon button-down shirt. It was his favorite — most days, it made him feel powerful and yet understated.

But not today, and not in front of a senior partner.

Charles had received the phone call at four o’clock, and he presented himself in Mr. Greer’s office promptly at 4:05 p.m.

Manchester Greer was entirely shades of gray, from his steel-colored head to his Italian leather shoes. The only spot of color was a topaz ring on his right hand.

He regarded Charles under bushy flint brows, and an arctic wind swept through the room. Why would the venture capital and private equities lawyer need to see him? He didn’t have any cases with Mr. Greer — the man dealt with the big guns. What had Charles done to get his attention?

He thought of Elizabeth’s case, which the pro bono coordinator had approved, but she said he needed one of the firm’s partners on it. She had sent out an email to all the partners to ask if one of them would be lead on this case. Charles thought Rick would have grudgingly agreed, or one of the other newer partners in the firm. Was it possible Mr. Greer was taking him on?

No, why would he? This was far beneath him.

Then again, if he had agreed to be the lead partner on this case … Charles stilled his suddenly racing pulse. If Greer was the lead partner for Elizabeth’s case, and Charles did a good job, he’d be on the fast track to partnership.

“How do you know Elizabeth St. Amant, Charles?” The deep voice sounded like gravel chugged around at the bottom of the man’s throat.

“She’s a family friend through my mother’s side.”

Dark gray eyes pierced like a lance, trying to probe his soul,
maybe draw blood and see what color it was. “And why does she want to separate from her husband?”

“He beats her and their son. He’s also holding onto her funds right now.”

Mr. Greer frowned and stared at a corner of his massive mahogany desk. “It’s not a normal case for you.”

“She’s a close family friend.” But how would family ties matter to a man like this, a senior partner in one of the most elite law firms in San Francisco?

“Do you think you could do a good job with this?”

“Yes, sir.” He clenched his teeth. His nervousness was showing if he was resorting to “sir” like a proper Southern boy.

“I have to admit I was surprised when I saw you were taking this on.”

He had to sell this. He could sell this. “My pro bono work so far has been for struggling companies, a few underdogs to generate sympathy, and one or two favors for a legislative official. This case, however, could create positive media buzz.”

“Yes, that media buzz concerns me.” Mr. Greer toyed with a Montblanc fountain pen, his long fingers caressing the gold finish. “You can’t embarrass us, Charles.”

“The media buzz wouldn’t be embarrassing. On the contrary, it’ll polish our sterling reputation.”
Sell it, Charles.

“That’s dependent upon how you handle this.” Mr. Greer gave him a hard stare. “I need to know you are going to take care of Elizabeth St. Amant.”

“Sir?” What was going on? He felt like he’d been having one conversation and his boss had been having another.
Just don’t act like it, dimwit. Nod and smile.

“I’m sure you’re already aware that the St. Amants are one
of the oldest and most powerful families in New Orleans,” he said. “This type of service to one of their own would make them extremely grateful and bring prestige to this law firm.”

The St. Amants. Mr. Greer didn’t know Elizabeth’s father’s family had cast her off. But there was a good chance that Charles’s working on Elizabeth’s case would make the St. Amants grateful.

Mr. Greer almost — almost — smiled. “That’s why I decided to agree to be lead partner on this case.”

The magic words floated through the air. Charles would be working with Manchester Greer on Elizabeth’s case.