'Tell me about it. So don't freak out that I'm calling to give you a
heads-up. T. J. Caffrey just called. He's rabid. Seems your defense
attorney has subpoenaed him to the prelim.'
I couldn't say I was surprised. Slip knew he stood little chance of
getting the case kicked at a prelim. He was trying to give us a
preview of the mess he'd create for us at trial. Fortunately, Duncan's
own trial experience wasn't too far in the past for him to recognize it
was inevitable too.
'I told him there was nothing I could do,' he said, 'but his attorney
wants a courtesy sit-down with you tomorrow morning. I told him you'd
oblige.'
It gave me something to look forward to.
Nine.
Grace had left a voice mail while I was in Duncan's office. 'Hey,
Sammikins. Want to grab some dinner tonight? And before you say
you're busy, I'm just warning you; you're turning into one of those
women who dump their girlfriends when they're getting laid. I'm
thinking cocktails and truffle fries.'
That could only mean one place: 750 ml, a cool but cozy Pearl District
wine bar. Even though we were the only declasse martini drinkers in
the joint, the main attraction was the french fries tossed in white
truffle oil.
Grace likes her drinks the color of Maybelline nail polish, and this
week's preference was a ginger-infused something or another. Beach
vacations aside, I usually stick with the standards, switching
periodically between my favorite gin and my favorite vodka. Tonight,
Bombay Sapphire beat out Grey Goose.
I tried to fight Grace when she told the bartender to jazz it up for
me, but Grace just couldn't help herself. When a guy's that gorgeous,
she'll find any excuse to talk to him.
He turned away to muck up a perfectly good olive by stuffing it with
bleu cheese, and Grace's eyes were anywhere but on me. 'Ahem, my dear,
but I do believe you accused me today of ignoring my girlfriend in
favor of the boy du jour.'
'Well, in your case, that'd be the boy du decade.'
It dawned on me that her jab was accurate. Literally. Truly
pathetic.
'Now does this mean we're going to have an evening without the boy
talk?' she asked.
'Unless you've got something.'
She eyed the bartender again. 'Not yet,' she said, smiling and taking
another sip of her pink drink. In truth, Grace has a fairly routine
dating life, but she enjoys hamming up the sex goddess persona. 'So
why didn't I hear from you last night? Another evening with Chuck?'
'I'm afraid so. We're moving toward boring domesticity remarkably
quickly.'
I thought about mentioning the weirdness with my father, but talking
about it would only upset me more. The truth was, I knew I'd been
keeping myself busy to avoid calling him. Part of me was afraid he
might actually tell me whatever he was holding back. From the look on
his face the other night, it seemed pretty disturbing.
Instead, I talked about work, confessing my guilt over the accusatory
tone I'd used the previous day with Susan Kerr.
'Susan Kerr with sort of wild brown hair? A little older than us?'
'Wild to you, maybe, but take a look at who you're talking to.
Actually, she had it pulled back when I saw her.'
'That's because her hair's completely uncontrollable. She's a
client.'
'What do you think of her?'
'She's awesome my kind of chick. Did you really accuse her of sleeping
with her dead friend's husband? I don't even want to think about how
she handled that.'
'No, luckily I kept that suspicion to myself and found out the visit
was perfectly innocuous. But I did ask whether she thought it was
possible Clarissa was having an affair.'
'I suspect even that was enough to set her off.' It was.
Grace shrugged her shoulders. 'She always speaks her mind. She
started coming in probably a year before her husband died, right around
the time I opened. When word started to leak he was losing it, she was
ferociously protective. I remember her telling me about this one woman
who was the source of most of the gossip. Susan found out the cow had
a nasty little coke habit, cornered her in the gym, and threatened to
out her unless she started singing another tune.'
