Bad Bitch (18 page)

He continued, “Yeah, four years. He left in May of that year. The bar’s document retention policy is five years, right? After five years, Evan can destroy all her records dealing with any cases or clients before that five-year window. I’m certain she has plenty of records that are over five years old that document the DiSalvo family dealings. So all she has to do is ‘dispose’ of her records—the ones that now belong to the
son
—in an inefficient sort of way.”

“You mean, give them to us? If DiSalvo filed a bar complaint—”

“You think he’d do that?” Wood swatted the thought away with his thick palm. “He’ll have a lot bigger troubles than his ex-attorney by then.”

“What about attorney-client privilege? Wouldn’t Leon be able to keep those documents out of evidence?”

Wood smiled, actually smiled. It was winsome. “That’s the beauty of it. We’ll be prosecuting his
son
.
His son has no attorney-client privilege with Evan, so we can use the documents however we see fit. Leon would be in no jeopardy and would have no basis or standing to object to our use of the information.”

“No,” I said. “It’s probably still a violation of the ethics rule. She’d have to give up her license.”

Wood frowned, the wrinkles in his forehead like waves on an ocean of unhappiness. “Maybe, maybe. But I think that’s a chance she’ll have to take at this point. If she wants to stay in this city and stay alive, she’ll have to risk it.”

I knew Wood was right. His plan was the best shot we’d have at getting Evan out of DiSalvo’s web while still allowing her to continue her practice.

“Where is she, by the way? In Jonesy’s office?”

I stood, worry shooting into my breast like a leaping flame. “No, she’s at my place.”

“You left her to her own devices after a night like last night? A pistol like her, she may have hired her own hit squad and sent it to Cuba by now.” Wood smiled, looking pleased at the thought of Evan exacting her own brand of vengeance. He truly did worship the woman.

“Shit. I should call her. What time is—”

His secretary buzzed his line. “Mr. Woodhall?”

“I told you no calls, Rita.”

“It’s Evangeline Pallida. She says it’s urgent.”

The fear went from a flame to a blaze in an instant.

“Put her through.”

I stood at the edge of Wood’s desk, as if getting closer to the speaker would get me closer to her.

“Wood?” Her sweet, high voice had a somber note to it.

Wood’s voice boomed in comparison. “Evan. I heard you’ve run into a little trouble.”

“Is Lincoln there?”

“Standing right here.”

“Good.”

“Where are you?” I asked.

“That’s not important. Here’s what is. I have arranged a storage building in Jersey. The details will be left with Trish at Sal’s. Wood, you know where that is, right?”

“Sure. He’s a real treat, especially when wielding a baseball bat. I’ve had a few run-ins with Sal over the years.”

“Of course you have. Anyway, Trish will have what you need to find the storage building. Inside, you will find a treasure trove. Lincoln . . .” Her voice cracked as she said my name. She tried again, stronger this time. “Lincoln, everything you need to do what we talked about, what you originally had planned when you came to the city, is in that storage building. There will be more than enough information, especially when combined with Castille’s data, for you to trace money, accounts, individuals, everything. You can get them all, repair some of the things I’ve done, have the courage that I didn’t.”

I didn’t like her tone, the finality of it. I wanted to rush home and make sure she was there. But the sinking feeling in my chest told me she was already gone.

She took a deep breath and let out a long exhale. “But I do have some terms. Wood, pick up the receiver.”

“Are you sure there isn’t more you’d like to say to Lin—”

“God damn it, Wood, don’t make this any harder than it already is.” A muffled sob shot through the speaker.

I reached for the phone, but Wood snagged it first. He lifted it to his ear.

I strained to hear her, to get some sense of what she was telling him. I couldn’t hear anything except the hum of her voice.

He held my gaze, giving a “yes” or an “uh-huh” here and there.

“Great minds think alike. Right, five years.” After a while he frowned, something she said not sitting well with him. “That’s not going to be easy, Evan.”

Her voice grew louder, but I still couldn’t make out the words.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Wood gave in. “You got it, just give me the details.”

She quieted down. Wood once again repeated his assent here and there.

I couldn’t focus on anything else. Just her, the tenuous grip I’d had on her disappearing right out of my hands.

“I think we have a deal. Take care of yourself, Evan.” Wood hung up the phone. His friendly brown eyes held solace for me. I didn’t want it.

I felt the rage rising to the surface, ready to do some damage. If I had been as foolhardy as I was a decade before, I’d have committed a felony right then and there.

As it was, I slammed my fists down on his desk. “Where is she?”

“She’s gone, Lincoln.”

“Where?”

“I can’t say.”

“If you don’t tell me where she went right this fucking moment, I am going to tear this fucking office apart.” I meant every word.

Wood held up his hands. “This is the only way that she can be safe, Lincoln. The only way. Think.
Think.
You know she’s right. The less we know, the better. She has to start over.”

I sank down, my knees giving way as I collapsed back into one of Wood’s chairs. “I can’t just let her go.”

“You have to.”

“I won’t.”

“She told me to tell you something.”

I looked up, hoping it was some sort of a breadcrumb trail that would lead me to her. “What?”

“She said she’ll always be your angel.”

I let the blow land, felt the sting of pain that shot along my jaw. I struck out hard with my right, answering with power launched from my back.

He wobbled, stunned. Through my one good eye, I saw the opening I needed. One swift uppercut with my left, and my bloodied opponent lay sprawled on the ground. Glass jaw. He curled over onto his side in the fetal position as the crowd around us roared, some with glee, some with the unhappiness of money bet and lost.

I wasn’t in this for the money. I was in it for the pain, giving and receiving.

Evan was gone. I hadn’t been able to trace her. Wood had talked me down again and again from trying to find her. He told me I had more important things—like breaking the crime racket—and that I had to let it lie. To let her go. I couldn’t. But she was too smart. Gone. Her apartment held no clues. The documents we’d recovered from the storage unit gave no insight into her, other than the notepads and notepads of detailed information.

I spent my days wading through information, speaking with private detectives and informants. I set my sights on DiSalvo, but I had plenty of other fish to fry along the way.

Wood had assigned Jonesy to work with me, the cases becoming too myriad for me to handle on my own. He didn’t pry, didn’t bring up Evan. Wood had told him the score. We worked together far better than I would have predicted. He was even more detail-conscious than I was, teasing out bits of information to get the whole picture. Our cases were rolling right along, building to indictments and then ending with guilty pleas or trials. Only a few months in, we had taken down a handful of lower-level criminals, given them plea deals to get information on the higher-ups.

Evan’s notes led the way. I became so familiar with her writing style, wispy print, that I felt like I could serve as an expert witness on her handwriting should the need ever arise. I hadn’t realized she’d been a doodler. She didn’t seem the artistic sort.

I would pore over her information, the copious details of her clients’ misdeeds covering line after line. Dark, dirty, treacherous renderings. But off to the side, maybe when she’d had a brief reprieve from the tales of wrongdoing, would be a dove, a clock tower, or a tree.

The tree was her favorite. On one page, it would be done in black ink, stark and barren. On another, in red, as if made of blood. Then in blue, then the black again. It was never green. The branches never sprouted leaves, never grew into the sun. I copied several of her drawings, cutting them out and lining them up along the wall of my tiny office. I glanced at them from time to time as I continued digging deeper and deeper into the gloom of her past dealings.

The same darkness drove me to this fighting pit, made me spend my blood on the unforgiving floor. It linked me back to her, somehow. Or maybe it was my long-hidden violence that ruled me. I looked to my knuckles, bloodied and bruised. The double life was taking a toll. Three months of it, the fights, the bruises, the blood.

Some men came up behind me, knocking me from my thoughts. They wanted to congratulate me on making them richer, wanting to know when my next fight was.

“Back the fuck up.”

“Whoa, Rebel Rager, don’t get mad. We just wanted to say we’ve got your back.” The guy was dressed in typical Wall Street clothes. Not an ounce of dirt on the outside. But I was certain if I had a look at his books, he’d be filthy. I spat a wad of blood on the floor at his feet.

He backed up. I stalked off past him, past the fight that had just begun, past the cheering crowd.

I was done. I showered in the grungy locker room. I picked up my winnings on the way out.

“See you here tomorrow night?” The fight boss opened his cash box.

“No.”

“Couple days?” He licked his thumb before counting through the money bill by bill.

“No.”

He handed me the cash. “Worked it all out, did you? Had enough pain?”

Not yet.

I left. It was only a few blocks to an even sketchier part of the city. This town was like no other. One street would be brimming with young families and hipster restaurants. Two streets over, prostitutes and secret fighting rings.

I was looking for a row of ink slingers. I found them. I walked into the first one I came to. The woman behind the counter gave me an appraising look, lingering on my swollen-shut eye. She was older, covered in tattoos, and smoking a blunt. The buzz of two, maybe three, tattoo machines carried from the rear of the shop.

“What’s doin’, sugar?”

I pulled out my wallet and tried to grasp a slip of paper I’d slid between some bills. My hands, swollen from the fight, were not cooperating.

“Let me get that for you, hon.” She removed the scrap of paper I’d been pawing at and slid my wallet back across to me. “You want this?”

“Yes.”

“How big?” She snubbed out her blunt and dropped into a drawer under the counter.

She drew out a sheet of drafting paper and grabbed a pencil from a drawer. A purple lotus blossom, still bright, covered the back of her weathered hand.

I pulled my shirt over my head and turned. “Center of my back, between my shoulder blades. Big.”

Her fingers, surprisingly nimble, were already drawing the tree out to fit the space I’d shown her. She copied Evan’s strokes so precisely that I doubted a printer could have done it better. “You want color?”

“No. Black. Just like the drawing.”

“How much time you got?” She managed to create the wizened branches perfectly, giving them the same twists and turns as Evan had.

“However much time it takes.”

“How much money you got?”

I pulled the roll of bills from my pocket. “However much it takes.”

She smiled, the first change in demeanor she’d had the whole time I’d been in her shop. “Welcome. Let’s get started.”

Evan

“You’re fired.” The words still felt good. Some things never changed.

“You can’t fire me. Only Mrs. Sawyer can fire me!” The angry financial adviser on the other end of the line, Richard Blackmon, wasn’t impressed. He would be as soon as the process server dropped Mrs. Sawyer’s complaint in his lap.

“Funny you should mention that. Mrs. Sawyer and her lovely son Greg are sitting in my office right now. You’re on speakerphone, by the way. Say hi, Mrs. Sawyer.”

“Hi,” the white-haired octogenarian crooned.

“Anyway, Mr. Blackmon, as I was saying, we have been in here all morning going over her account statements from your investment, 4680 Greenmont. You know, the real estate investment you set up to rebuild housing along Lake Pontchartrain after Katrina?”

Sputtering on his end of the line.

I continued. “It looks like you’ve been falsifying all of these. I called the fund manager you have listed here at the top of her paperwork. And, wouldn’t you know, there is no such fund at all. So, by my count—and don’t hold me to this—I’ve found about $132,000 or so that you’ve stolen from Mrs. Sawyer. Sound right to you?”

“You can’t—I don’t—I didn’t—”

“That’s all well and good, Mr. Blackmon, or do you go by Dick? Either way,
Dick
,
the money is gone, and I know you have it. Now, either I will file the complaint that’s sitting on my desk, ready to go, and drag your practices out into the light of day
or
you will repay every cent owed, plus six percent statutory interest, to Mrs. Sawyer by this Friday. On top of that, you will pay my fee, which totals $52,800, directly to my firm, Angel & Associates. Got it?”

Silence.

“If Mrs. Sawyer and I don’t receive the funds, I will file the complaint Friday at five p.m. sharp. I will then contact the media. After that, there will not be a day when I or the media or one of the other people you screwed over won’t be calling you on the phone, knocking on your door, or waiting for you around the corner. I hope you got all that. And, just to assure you that I’m not fucking around”—I covered the receiver with my palm and mouthed “sorry” to Mrs. Sawyer for the profanity before resuming my tirade—“I’ve already drafted an e-mail to the SEC’s southeastern region head of compliance. It’s very thorough. I have it right here in front of me. All I have to do is hit send and the feds will come down on you and level your entire life.”

I smiled at Mrs. Sawyer and her son and enjoyed the look of shock on their faces. When she first rolled in on her walker with the neon yellow tennis balls on the bottoms, Mrs. Sawyer wondered if “the pretty blond lady” had any chance of recovering her money. Over the course of a few hours, I showed her and her son what this “pretty blond lady” was capable of.

I waited a few moments, maintaining the silence, letting Dick languish in the bath of his wrongdoing.

Then I asked, “You need me to do the math for you again, hit the high points?”

“I, uh, yes. I mean, no. Let me get a pen. Give me your address.”

“This Friday,
Dic
k
.
No going back. Understand?”

“Yes, I understand.” He was deflated now, terse and quiet.

“I’m transferring you to my secretary. She’ll arrange your payment information.” I clicked him over to Carol and settled back into my chair.

“Angel is the right word for you.” Mrs. Sawyer dabbed at her eyes with a hand-embroidered handkerchief. “I didn’t know. He just, he just took it all. But you got it back!” She blew her nose. “I mean, look at you. Tiny little lady with that blond hair looking like a short Barbie doll, but you nailed him!” She pumped her fist in the air, to the chagrin of her middle-aged son.

I smiled and stood. “We’ll have to wait and see. He may still make the wrong choice.”

“He won’t. He’s a coward. You showed me that. And you got him by the balls!”

“Mom!” Greg pinched the bridge of his nose.

I laughed. Mrs. Sawyer had turned out to be a spitfire. We had something in common after all.

“I’ll have Carol call you as soon as the money hits.” I had a feeling Dick would pay. They usually did when I let them know upfront I had enough evidence to take down a Gotti.

I walked over to Mrs. Sawyer. She clutched her son’s arm and pulled herself up. I knew the hug was coming, so I just stood and took it. She smelled like flowery soap and some intense hairspray. Aqua Net?

“Bless you, Ms. Angel.”

“The pleasure was all mine.” It really was. My day had started off with a bang, thanks to her.

Mrs. Sawyer scooted her way out of my office behind her walker. Greg followed close behind, though she didn’t need any help. She almost had a spring in her step.

Once they were out of the office, I closed my door and plopped down on my pleather couch. My office was small, and nowhere near as swank as I’d been accustomed to, but it was home. I finally felt like I was on the right path, doing the right things. I was helping people, crushing the shysters that preyed on the vulnerable. I was in a much better place mentally and emotionally, calm even.

I’d been in New Orleans for six months, slowly building my small practice.
This city
.
I shook my head. It was beautiful, hot, steamy, and more of a home than anything was back in New York. I’d even made a few friends here and there. They didn’t ask too many questions about my past, and I returned the favor. Maybe something about New Orleans made people a little more hesitant to ask about your past and a little bit more ready to accept you as they found you. At least that’s what I’d surmised.

I even adopted a cat from the local shelter. Romeo was an orange tabby who was missing an eye and all of his tail. He walked right up to me at the shelter and nuzzled me, as if introducing himself. Though he’d been the tough kitty on the block when he was younger, he was definitely a lover now, not a fighter. He would sleep next to me, making biscuits, kneading the blankets until he fell asleep. He lived like a little king, the finest toys, the best food, and all the attention from me his furry butt could stand.

Even so, something was missing. I moved here to set up my new identity and my new shop. But I wasn’t kidding myself, Lincoln was the reason I chose New Orleans. I wanted to feel close to him, even though he was still in New York City prosecuting Lester DiSalvo. I followed the case closely, enjoying every tidbit of dirt that came out on the younger mafioso.

I kept up with the whole fiasco, the tabloids headlining the “return of the king” as the elder DiSalvo was set to land in New York and support his “unfairly maligned” son at trial. Lincoln had even managed to make some charges stick against Leon without the help of my files. Or maybe my files helped, but DiSalvo would never be able to prove that’s where Lincoln got his information. The look on Leon’s face when he was arrested at LaGuardia was enough to warm even my sad heart.

He made bail in short order but disappeared on his way back to the Four Seasons. A good deal of his blood was found in the car, leaving no doubt as to his fate. The media had a ball with the “what happened to the mob kingpin” stories.

Not long after, I received an express package from New York with a “for Ms. Angel’s eyes only” notation on the outside. Inside were three of the most delicious cannoli this side of heaven and a note in Sal’s stark scribble:
Come back and see me anytime,
bella
. It’s safe now.

I imagined Sal, and maybe some of Vinnie’s cousins, putting a vicious hurt on DiSalvo. It didn’t feel like justice, exactly, but for the first time since I’d fled New York, I felt some semblance of safety. Not home free enough to let anyone in on my secret; I still kept my head down, my nose to the grindstone. But I didn’t look over my shoulder quite as much. And I didn’t let fear rule me. I enjoyed New Orleans, the French Quarter, the river. I was a solitary wanderer. I imagined that Lincoln had walked along the same paths, had eaten in the same restaurants at some point in the past.

Lincoln was making a name for himself. He was already moving up into the big time. Talk was buzzing around the city that he was a shoe-in to be the next U.S. attorney for the New Orleans region. Wood was the figurehead in charge of the Castille cases, but the news stories always quoted Lincoln and Jonesy. They were on the front lines, scrapping it out in court on a daily basis, fighting to keep the pressure on many of my former clients.

Castille had fallen quickly. Once Vinnie jettisoned him, the prick caved and accepted a plea deal. He turned state’s evidence and was Lincoln’s star witness. I might have been a wanted woman, but Castille couldn’t walk outside without fearing a sniper bullet.

Even though I kept up, I was far removed. New Orleans was my home now. I felt like there was a piece of Lincoln here that I could keep close. And the city was big enough so that we’d never cross paths. I referred out any federal cases and stuck to the state courts. That all but guaranteed we’d never meet. Making sure I never saw him again hurt like a bitch. Even so, this was the way it had to be. I had to let him go, for his own good, more than anything else. That’s what I told myself, anyway, on the warm afternoons that turned into twilight as I sat in my creaky porch swing and watched the streetcars roll by.

Lincoln wasn’t here with me, but I still felt him. He was in my heart for good and always, even though I’d resigned myself to living without him. Somehow, I was less lonely knowing he was out there somewhere.

I actually ran into Kennedy at the state courthouse once. I thought it was Lincoln at first, standing with his back to me. My heart leaped, and I fought the urge to run to him, to just throw my papers down and jump into his arms in front of the clerk’s office. Then Kennedy turned toward me and I saw the deep brown of his eyes and his high cheekbones that were a perfect match to Wash’s. I knew instinctively that he and Lincoln were brothers, both men tall, handsome, and built solid. Kennedy was gorgeous, but not the one my heart sought. He gave me a rakish wink before stepping into the clerk’s office and out of sight. It took me a few weeks to recover from that day. Even now, I still wished it had been Lincoln standing there.

Would Lincoln even know me now that I’d dyed my hair blond and changed my ways? Now that I wasn’t the bad bitch? Well, maybe I was still a little bad, but nothing like my former glory. I had flipped the coin, choosing the shiny side for once and for all. I would never slide back down into the pit of fear that had ruled my life for far too long. I sometimes imagined Lincoln would have been proud of my choices.

Honestly, I would have spent all my time imagining the life I could have had with him. But it hurt too much. So I buried myself in my work, and for the first time, I actually felt rewarded after a long day at the office. That odd feeling let me know I was doing the right thing. I often wondered if the right thing would ever come naturally to me again, the way it did to Lincoln.

I forced myself to stop thinking about him—something I had to do multiple times a day, like popping my wrist with a rubber band.

I relaxed my legs, letting them slide and catch down the surface of the pleather with a rubbery squeak. No luxurious top-grain leather here, no sir. My stomach rumbled. It was already lunchtime.

Carol buzzed my phone. “Your noon appointment is here.”

I maneuvered from the couch and arranged my blouse and skirt before realizing I never set noon appointments. “Wait, Carol, I have an appointment right now?”

“Yes, ma’am. I set it yesterday when you were in that deposition.”

Ugh. “Try not to set anything at lunch again. I’m starving.”

“Sorry, Ms. Angel. I’ll run out and grab us some lunch while you’re in the meeting. It’ll be waiting for you when you get back to your desk.”

Now, that was a good save. “Thanks, Carol.”

I checked myself in the mirror next to my door. I was almost used to the blond locks, though I missed the red a bit. Even so, I couldn’t be too obvious. I didn’t feel threatened now that I had a new identity and DiSalvo was room temperature, but I still needed to be careful.

I paused at Carol’s desk. “What sort of case?”

“Some elder law issues, sounds like.” She handed me a thin paper file of intake information before grabbing her bag and hurrying out the back way. “I’ll get Sandwich Sam’s. Back in fifteen minutes.”

“Perfect.”

The conference room was at the front of the office. My heels click-clacked on the tile floor of the hallway, announcing my arrival.

I swung the door open and dropped the file. The edge hit the floor, sending the sheets scattering at my feet.

“Ms.
Angel
.
” Lincoln stood.

My legs were suddenly tired. I leaned on the nearest chairback just to stay standing.

Lincoln ate up the distance between us in two strides and took me in his arms.

“It’s you” was all I could say.

“You think I wouldn’t find you?”

The deep rumble of his voice was like a shot of morphine. I was euphoric. Lincoln Granade was my drug of choice.

“I . . . I . . . didn’t know. I hoped. But we can’t—”

He lifted me off my feet so we were at eye level. He was smiling, green eyes sparkling even under the fluorescents. A fresh dose of his scent washed over me, far stronger than what was left on his dress shirt that I slept with every night. I wrapped my arms around his neck, a reflex, as natural as tucking my hair behind my ears.

“You know what happens when you tell me no, angel. And you’re already in for some rough treatment for running away, among other bad behavior.” There was mischief in his voice.

He grew fuzzy in front of me, tears overcoming my vision. He took my mouth. Gently, despite his words. After a long, sensuous kiss, he pulled away. The morphine pump was working overtime. I’d dreamed of kissing him again, tasting him. I was far too jaded to ever believe dreams came true, especially for people like me.

“Don’t cry, angel. I never want to see you cry.”

“It’s not you. I mean, it is. I just, I just wanted you so bad. And now you’re here—”