Page 26 of The Wrong Side of the Law

Chapter Eight

Emily

Ileft ASA Cooper’s office on the edge of tears, but as I walk up to my car in the parking structure I’m back to angry. Where the hell does this guy get off thinking he can treat people like that?

I could have gone out tonight to see my brother. Robert Ferry’s tour is in Miami tomorrow night, putting a big show at the American Airlines Arena, but tonight they’re doing a smaller show right here in Point Lookout. Some sort of exclusive for satellite radio subscribers, only three hundred seats, and I could have been there.

Except that I was working. And not only was I not getting paid to work on Gabriel Cooper’s stupid wild goose chase, he threatened to fire me for trying to do the best job possible on it! Insult added to injury.

I almost want to call Lisa and ask her what the hell she was thinking, feeding me into this situation, but I won’t do it. I’ll make it here or not, but I’ll do it myself. I’m not going to be the weak little girl in front of one of the people I most look up to in the world.

Instead, I shift my brain into analysis mode, still sitting there in the empty lot.

Where did things go wrong?

Obviously the other day I startled him but that was an accident. He thought I’d laughed at him. That’s a pretty sure way to get off on the wrong foot with a man. Any man, even if he’s not your boss. Which this one is. And on top of that, I’d even clumsily suggested that he was just trying to get his face on television. Well, no, actually. I hadn’t even suggested it. I’d just… I told him I’d heard that.

God. Does he think I was spreading office gossip? I hardly know anyone well enough even to talk to them. Even if I did, I’m not the type to spread that kind of crap.

The other paralegals, though? It’s gossip central down there. I couldn’t avoid it if I tried, but I definitely listen to everything around me. They’ve got their fingers on the pulse of the entire State Attorney’s office. And they’d warned me: Gabriel Cooper is in it for himself. He’ll use anyone as a stepladder to get to the top, and once he’s climbed over you that’s it. He’s done with you.

I listened, but I didn’t pay enough attention. I put aside the confrontation the other day and worked my butt off for the guy… and tonight I managed to almost get fired for no more reason than that I’d done my best to solve a problem when he wouldn’t even give me clear instructions.

By the time I get home, the weather matches my mood. Angry blasts of thunder tear the air, louder than Francis’ concert that I’m missing; and lightning, brighter than the pyrotechnics they’ll have on stage tomorrow in Miami. I guess I don’t get to unwind with laps in the pool tonight.

I do have the house to myself, though. Margaret and Francis Junior are staying in suites at the Hyatt with the rest of the concert people, so maybe I can still stick with the water-based theme? The tub in Margaret’s master bathroom is awfully large, after all, and maybe a nice hot soak will be the thing for relaxation? One of Margaret’s hundred-dollar bath bombs will make it extra perfect, and when she finds it missing and complains? That’ll be the cherry on top.

Petty and vindictive? Sure. But then, on the other hand, I think I’m entitled to a little bit of minor payback.

While the water’s running, I put together a quick plate of cheese and crackers and fruit to snack on in the bath—that’s about all there is, since I was working late for my ungrateful dick boss instead of buying groceries—and grab a book from one of the long shelves in the living room.

The bath bomb explodes into a swirl of color in the hot water, pinks and greens and yellows mixed like rainbow sherbet. It looks almost good enough to eat, but I’d learned my lesson onthatmistake by the time I was six years old. Instead, I step into the tub and slide into the hot water. It’s pure bliss.

Well,almostpure bliss. I’ll never understand why there’s no bathtubs deep enough to cover your knees and boobs with water at the same time. One or the other, but not both. Bliss, with the minor complaint of cold knees, then.

The water hasn’t even begun to cool, and my snack plate and book remain untouched, when bliss is interrupted by the phone.

“You gotta be kidding me!” I say to the walls. Of course I left it on the countertop, well out of reach.

It’s stopped ringing by the time I get out of the tub and dry off my hands enough to pick it up. Because, hey, of course it has. The caller ID says it was Francis Junior, though. The concert must have just ended. With yet another pang of regret at missing his performance tonight, I hit redial.

The man who answers is not my brother.

“Who are you?” I ask. “And please tell me exactly what in the hell you’re doing with my brother’s phone?”

“David Mayfield, ma’am,” he says. “Point Lookout Police Department.”

Oh, no.

I close my eyes and instantly I’m overrun with fear.

“What are you doing with my brother’s cell phone?” I ask. “Is he okay? Please tell me he’s okay.”

“Are you Emily Wilson?” Mayfield asks, ignoring my questions.

“Yes, dammit, I’m Emily Wilson. I’m Francis Wilson Junior’s sister!” I almost scream the words into the phone. “Now your turn:is my brother okay?”

“He’s… not in any danger,” the policeman says, using words chosen with obvious care. “If that’s what you’re asking. He’s not injured or anything.”

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