Lifting his hand to signal a question, Nico threw me for a loop. I presumed it would be about money. I was wrong. “What about cheating?”
“I don’t care who you are fucking. Neither does the court.”
“Not me.” His voice soured. “My wife.”
“It doesn’t matter, since we’re a no-fault state.” I kept my tone neutral. “Emotions have to be kept in check. Are we clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He saluted me. “By the way, you’d make one hell of a dominatrix.”
“How do you know I don’t moonlight as one after work?”
A small chuckle escaped his lips, and I liked the sound of it. Even better, Nico was relaxing in his chair, leaning back into the leather, becoming less rigid.
We were making progress.
“Be glad we aren’t in New Mexico, where you can sue the lover of your spouse if they’re withholding affection.” I raised a brow. “Or in Mississippi, where a reasonable cause for divorce is being an ‘idiot.’”
“I wonder what baseline they use,” he joked, “to determine if you’re an idiot or a stupid idiot.”
“And worse yet”—I laid a finger against my cheek—“in Tennessee, it takes your spouse poisoning you before you have grounds for a fault divorce.”
“So moral of the story, be glad this is a no-fault state?”
“Exactly.” I gave him a smug look. “However, it is a community property one, which gets everyone twisted up inside. But consider this from both angles. Any children?”
“Three.”
“Did your wife give up a lot to raise the kids so you could advance your career?”
“No. She has a nanny and spends her time shopping and cheating.”
“Duly noted.”
“Also, be forewarned, Mrs. Bradford.” Nico frowned. “I’m not out to play dirty, and though you don’t want to hear the sordid details, you might want to hear at least one part.”
“Which is?”
“Her lover is trying to blackmail me.”
And that was the beginning of my introduction to Nico Marcona, who is no longer in need of my services.
Dammit, Nico. I punch the steering wheel angrily with shaking hands. Was it him who ran to the partners and tattled about our evening together?
As I watch my hands tremble, it’s as if a 6.9-magnitude earthquake is flowing through my veins, making me convulse in agony.
In the rearview, I see a stiff-lipped and staunch attorney, Jeff Carsten, passing behind me, his voice growing audibly louder. Assuming he’s talking to me, I sink down deeper in the leather, fearful I’ve been spotted.
A sigh of relief escapes my lips as I realize his earbuds are in, his gesticulating arms almost laughable as he talks to someone on the other end.
He’ll be unhinged at my abrupt dismissal, I think sourly.
I try to call Leslie, but it goes directly to voice mail. I’m indecisive about whether I should wait for her to arrive so we can have a private conversation or hide my tail between my legs and call her later. Eventually I choose the latter.
Forcing myself to drive, I head toward the busy freeway. It’s still early morning and a peak time for rush hour traffic.
Upset and humiliated, I’m in the mood to speed, but it’s impossible in the dense morning commute. All I can do is maneuver through the traffic to the far left side, reserved for motorcyclists and high-occupancy or electric vehicles. Then an incoming call flashes on the large screen.
I know the number by heart, yet I’ve never saved his name in my phone. We don’t bother with a greeting since he despises those. It took him a long time to break me of that, a midwestern habit of asking a few generic questions before getting to the “meat on the bone” or the “heart of the matter” ingrained in me.
So I begin with, “Find Christine yet?”
“Looks like she’s headed to a loft on Seventh.”
“Really?” I tap a finger to set the car on autopilot. “That’s too predictable.”
“Does it matter where she’s headed?” He never usually asks, but this time, he does. “What’s it to you who Nico’s soon-to-be ex-wife bangs?”
“She has something up her sleeve,” I protest. “And it’s affecting my client.”
“If you say so.” I hear him spit. “But it’s a community property state, so why do you care?”
“It’s personal,” I say bluntly.
“My point: it shouldn’t be.”
Tapping my finger to keep the self-driving feature on, I think of my options. Not ready to confide in Chuck all my suspicions, especially since he knows those involved, I stay silent.
We are longtime acquaintances, and we both know that “friends” would be too far of a stretch. He doesn’t make friends with his clients, nor should he. That’s why Chuck’s excellent in his line of work. As a retired former detective and now a private investigator, he typically researches fraud cases, which prompted his services in the first place. Even with his standoffish demeanor, he’s been a mentor and guide since day one.
“We’ll just call it your fiduciary duty.” He grunts. “By the way, I hear you’re on a required sabbatical.”
“Already?” I groan. “That was lightning speed.” I tense up. “Let me guess, one of the attorneys called you?”
“No shit! You would’ve made a good Sherlock. Maybe even Nancy Drew. Real insightful. Tanner got to me first.”
Opening my mouth to offer a sarcastic retort, I hear him mutter “Fuck” under his breath, then again, with added emphasis.
“Chuck—”
“It’s not a loft. It’s a house. Gated.”
“So?”
“I’m watching her speed through the front gate.”
“Congratulations.” I’m snarky in my reply. “That’s typically what people have to do to enter . . . go through them.”
“Yeah. No shit, except it’s Seventh and Campbell.”
“Wait,” I plead. “Tell me Seventh Avenue, not
