borrow to make another midnight run to the Moonlight Inn. The only decent thing about it were her knock off Prada boots, the perfect made in Taiwan replicas of the pair I’d tried on yesterday. Cute, but, like everything else about Jasmine, fake.
A few minutes later Jasmine came back through the frosted doors, Althea in tow. Althea was dressed in a striped jumper that reminded me of a private school uniform. Boxy and shapeless. She shuffled toward me, talking in hushed tones.
“Maddie, what’s wrong? Has something happened to Richard?” she asked, genuine concern lacing her voice. Then she paused. “What happened to your eye?”
“Nothing. Bar fight. Tripped. Whatever.” I waved the question away. “Anyway, Richard’s fine. I actually just want to ask you…” I paused, glancing behind me at Jasmine.
I’d hoped she’d leave for her date, but she suddenly seemed in no hurry, picking up a nail file and trying to look like she wasn’t listening in.
I sighed, resigned to her eavesdropping and pulled the newspaper photos of Bunny and Andi Jameson out of my purse. “I wanted to know if you’ve seen either of these women come into the office.”
Althea took the photos, pursing her thin lips together as she studied them. I could feel Jasmine leaning over the desk to get a better look.
“No,” Althea shook her head. “Sorry, I don’t recognize either of them. Who are they?”
I tried not to sound too disappointed. “Women Greenway dated. I thought maybe one of them could have slipped in and gained access to Richard’s files.”
Althea gave me an apologetic look. “I really wish there was something I could do to help Mr. Howe. We all miss him around here.” She bit her lip, then turned awkwardly and shuffled back through the frosted doors.
I put the photos back in my purse, trying not to feel defeated. I mean, just because Althea hadn’t seen anyone, didn’t mean no one had snuck in. I looked up at Jasmine, still tying to appear uninterested behind her desk. Did I dare ask her?
I watched her for a second, filing her nails, her legs crossed so one Prada knockoff stuck out from behind the desk. They were pretty good knockoffs actually. I resisted the urge to ask her where she’d bought them. I looked closely, taking in the details. Unlike most knockoffs, the metal zippers were clearly embossed with the Prada logo and the stitching was tiny and precise, not puckered. And, as Jasmine uncrossed her legs, I noticed they had that soft ease of movement unlike the usual stiff imitations. In fact… I took a step closer, openly staring at her shoes now.
Oh my God. Those weren’t knockoffs. Those were a genuine pair of five hundred dollar Prada boots.
And suddenly it hit me. Where did Jasmine get the money for Prada?
Chapter Twenty
I stared, my gaze riveted to the imported calfskin. I felt like a Jeopardy contestant, suddenly faced with all the answers if only my brain would catch up quickly enough to find the right questions to ask. The blonde hairs in the motel room. Access to Richard’s files. One expensive cosmetic surgery after another on a salary that made mine look decadent. Ohmigod. Jasmine was mistress number four.
I swallowed hard, realizing I was still staring. Then looked up to find Jasmine watching me. Our eyes locked and I felt my blood turn cold.
“Are you still here?” she asked, her voice oddly flat.
“Me?” I squeaked out. “Nope. No, I’m done. I’m gone. I mean, I’m leaving now. See, here I go.”
She cocked her head to one side, looking at me funny as I turned and all but ran out the door. I didn’t wait for the elevator, instead taking the stairs two at a time, hoping I didn’t fall and break my neck as theories swirled through my brain at an alarming pace. Had Greenway met Jasmine on one of his visits to Richard’s office? What if he’d had an affair with her? With Jasmine’s eavesdropping habit, she was sure to have overheard something of Richard and Greenway’s less than legal money shuffling. And she had easy access to all Richard’s files. Including bank account numbers. Jasmine had shot Greenway, I was sure of it.
Breathing heavily, I ran outside into the heat and got halfway to the parking garage before I remembered I didn’t have my Jeep. Crap.
I paused on the sidewalk between Bernie’s Pawn Shop and Starbucks. I pulled my cell phone out, poised to call Ramirez and tell him what I’d learned. But I hesitated. As sure as I was that Jasmine had done it, I didn’t have a shred of proof. And I had a feeling that when Ramirez heard about my latest shoe clue, he’d have a good chuckle and I’d get the Big Boy speech again. Add to that my promise to leave the whole thing alone (never mind I’d had my fingers crossed) and I wasn’t really excited about facing Bad Cop again.
What I needed was proof. Anything that definitively tied Jasmine to Greenway. Something more than a designer shoe. I had to get to her computer. It hadn’t escaped my notice that her computer screen closed with lightening speed whenever I walked into the reception room. I’d bet my favorite slingbacks that the numbers to an offshore account, recently twenty million dollars richer, were buried somewhere between her solitaire games. Ramirez and his crew had no doubt torn Richard’s hard drive inside and out, but who would have bothered with the receptionist’s computer?
I looked down at my watch. Five-fifteen. In another couple hours the office would be empty. One thing I’d learned dating Richard was that if lawyers were going to work late, they were damn well going to charge their clients for a steak dinner while doing it. After eight the offices would be deserted. And Jasmine’s computer unmanned.
I ducked into the Starbucks and ordered a mocha frappuccino, which I took to a seat by a window with a good view of Richard’s building. I hadn’t been there two minutes when Jasmine exited the building, her Prada boots calling to me as she walked the two blocks to the garage. I sipped my drink and waited, watching one law clerk after another leave the building. Althea came out a few minutes later, a patchwork bag with a picture of a cat on it slung over her shoulder as she made her way to the Metro Rail. Finally Donaldson left the building, getting into his Mercedes and pulling away from the curb just as it was beginning to get dark.
I forced myself to wait another half hour, just in case an important file or brief had been left behind. The after dinner crowd began to arrive, filling the coffee house with hand-holding couples. I ordered another frappuccino, watching the theater goers and homeless converge on the downtown streets. After my butt became numb and my pupils were fully dilated from caffeine overload, I finally grabbed my purse and made my way back across the street to the offices.
The building was eerily quiet as I rode the elevator up to the fourth floor. I knew the doors stood unlocked for the cleaning crew, but the only noise I heard as I got off the elevator was the steady hum of abandoned computers.
Slowly, I pushed through the frosted doors of Dewy, Cheatum and Howe, my limbs buzzing with nervous energy. Not to mention two grande frappuccinos. I tiptoed through the dark office, the plush carpet swallowing up the sound of my heels as the light from Jasmine’s idle monitor guided my way.
I quickly tiptoed to Jasmine’s desk, slipping behind the mahogany behemoth. Luckily, like everyone else, she kept her computer on when she left for the day. She’d logged out of the system, but I entered her back in easily enough with Richard’s password. Briefs. How original. I did a mental eye roll.
Once in, I wasn’t really sure what to look for. I knew I wouldn’t be lucky enough to find a file marked “Swiss bank account number” but I was at a loss for where to look. I’ll admit, I’m not a computer genius. I can do AOL and iTunes, but beyond that I’m kind of clueless. I began opening random files, hoping to stumble upon something useful. I could feel the clock ticking behind me and I knew it was only a matter of time before a man with a vacuum came in and asked what I was doing here.
I opened her Internet Explorer and checked her online history. Yestheyrefake dot com, a plastic surgery site came up. No big surprise. I clicked around a little more and stumbled across a pay per play cybersex site. Livelovelyladies dot com. Ugh. At least Jasmine was keeping busy at work.
I’d almost given up, deciding Ramirez was right, I was grasping at straws, when I noticed a group of files that were numbered instead of named. I’d seen files like this on Richard’s computer before. Usually these numbers indicated a case number, and contained Richard’s typed trial notes. I clicked, opening the files one by one. As
