Impasse (18 page)

Hranic had blamed accounting, but he suffered felony embezzlement charges along with his bookkeeper. According to Stu, Hranic had provided a statement implicating the bookkeeper in exchange for reduced charges. The bookkeeper, however, wound up on the medical examiner's table with a bellyful of crushed OxyContin. Hranic received a misdemeanor and a recommendation for thirty days of local time converted to community service for his cooperation. The audit findings put the fraudulent amount in the hundreds of thousands, but only a few thousand were recovered. And the assistant DA handling the case was none other than Clay Buchanan.

The way Stu told it, Clay had been furious when the bookkeeper died and Hranic got the huge break for nothing, but as Clay prepared to sit down with the fat man for lunch, he didn't seem furious.

“How the hell are you, Frank?” Clay said after his cursory introductions.

“Concerned,” Hranic mumbled.

“About your weight? Because it's gonna kill you.”

“Considering all the other things that can kill you, I'd just as soon it was food. But you didn't call me to talk about my health.”

They sat. Hranic could have perched his soup bowl on his belly and eaten off it, but he stuffed his paunch back under the table.

“It's time to chat about my legal services, Frank.”

“Can we talk in front of her?”

“The attorney-client privilege extends to all my staff.”

“But she's just your partner's wife. Can't she be subpoenaed?”

“No. I've brought her here in her official capacity as client liaison.”

Katherine almost laughed.

Clay remained serious. “First of all, if anyone ever connects you with me, you need to say that you sought my legal advice. That way, everything we do is confidential, especially where it relates to your prior criminal matter.”

“Okay.”

“Secondly, I'd like the balance of my fee in a lump sum now. You know the amount. I'm just accelerating the payment schedule. Let your sister know that she's going to get a bill from us for legal services. She'll write the check to our firm, as usual.”

Hranic groaned.

“She still has it, right?” Clay asked.

“It's all still in an account. She shows me the statements.”

“Is she distributing small amounts to you on schedule?”

“Yes, but my cash flow is shit. I need a new car.”

“You can't hold money or buy expensive niceties, Frank. You can't even smell like money unless it objectively appears to be within your earning capacity, which is just about minimum wage right now thanks to you getting caught with your hand in the cookie jar. Criminal restitution remains owing. And then there's the civil judgment. They're still watching you. If you need a car, I'd say you're due for a used Toyota Corolla. Economical. Good gas mileage.”

“It's been years. Can't I just get the rest from her?”

Stu darkened. “You'll eat it. Or drink it. Or gamble it. You have no self-control. I know that. Your sister knows that. That's part of the reason she won't give it all to you at once. Hell,
you
know that. Just look at yourself, you fat fuck.”

“She can call it a gift. It's my money, not hers.”

“And then you'll declare it on your taxes? Cast suspicion on her? Hell no. You need to practice some trickle-down economics here, my friend. Do nothing that will attract attention. Continue to draw one thousand a month and bleed it into your budget as cash to pay for groceries and gas. After five years or so you'll have it all, and you won't have blown it. That's my legal and gratuitously friendly advice.”

“So you can take your full cut now, but I can't? That's what you're saying?”

“I'm not the convicted criminal, Frank. I'm just the lawyer. I provide a service for a fee.” Clay patted him on one meaty shoulder. “Look, I can't legally force your sister to give you the money anyway. It doesn't exist as far as the law's concerned. If you want to put real pressure on her, you'll have to go back to our friend in Providence.”

The fat man paled and squirmed, his belly jostling the table. “I'm not bringing him into it again. I paid him off.” Hranic absently touched his round scar. “Besides, she's my sister. I don't want anything bad to happen to her.”

“Then take your lawyer's advice. And pay me for it.”

After a bit more grumbling and some small talk, Hranic hauled his bulk out of the chair and dismissed himself. Katherine waited until she heard the bell on the front door tinkle, signaling his exit. Then she looked at Clay, aghast.

He smiled and put his legs up on the chair beside her, reclining like a man who'd just had a particularly satisfying meal. “I see from your expression that you have questions,” he said. “Go ahead.”

“Does our firm represent Mr. Hranic as a criminal defendant?”

“In a sense.”

“Because you know Stuart won't approve of it.”

“You see there, this is a good example of his inflexibility. Our firm is a perfect fit for criminal defense. Always has been. Criminal law is what we did for years, for Chrissakes. Nobody knows it better than us.”

“It's the principle of the thing for him,” Katherine said. “But it sounds like you've already been dealing with this man.”

“We've been getting regular payments from Hranic's sister for years. She has a different last name. And you're right. Stu wouldn't approve, so it's billed through me.”

“Stu doesn't know?”

“Strictly speaking, I'm not doing any criminal defense work for Hranic yet. He's not charged with anything. He's done his time. I'm just helping his sister with a civil issue—how to manage money for a brother with an addictive personality.”

“The money he stole.”

“Let's be clear. Hranic owes money. But his sister is paying our bill.”

“She's paying you off with the stolen funds she's holding for him. Is that clear enough?”

Clay grinned. “It's all in how you characterize it. She pays regularly from her personal checking account. The lump sum will be a cashier's check.”

“You prosecuted Hranic. Isn't this a conflict?”

“A client can waive a conflict. No one knew his case better than me, and I knew the money was still out there; his suicidal twenty-five-year-old bookkeeper certainly didn't have it. When I went into private practice, I contacted him, and he quickly saw the wisdom of having me as an ally instead of an enemy. Sound familiar? Besides, he got a pretty sweet plea bargain.”

“You asked him for a share of the dirty money.”

“You're still not saying it right. His sister pays our firm fees—nine hundred and ninety-five dollars a month—for my advice. It's logged under estate planning. And, by the way, you've been accepting half of that money for the last five years. This month's check probably paid for those brand-new thigh-high leather boots I see you wearing.”

Katherine blushed. “Do you like them?”

“They look right on you, and I'll bet you've wanted them for a long time, haven't you?”

“Maybe.”

“And now you're getting what you wanted, correct?”

“You're sure it's not illegal to take money from a criminal? I mean, I don't necessarily agree with Stuart's ban on criminal defense, but I don't want to
do
anything illegal.”

“Criminal defense lawyers get paid by criminals, Kate,” Clay said. Then he waited for the simplicity of his reasoning to sink in.

Katherine retreated behind her menu to think. He made her feel like a little girl; it was hard to argue with an attorney. But the real question was: Why did she want to argue? The handsome man sitting across from her was taking control and whisking her along for what was turning out to be a thrilling ride, just as she'd always wanted Stu to do.

 

CHAPTER 22

Katherine walked along the waterfront with her lips pursed. It had been three days, and for the first time she thought seriously about what she was going to tell her husband about the goings-on during his absence.

“Don't overthink it,” Clay had advised.

She wondered how Stu was doing. She didn't expect that he'd slain a deer and made himself venison steaks. More likely he was eating canned beans, and there were worse things than eating cheap beans. She just couldn't think of any at the moment.

The harbor was busy, with boats drifting in and out in a slow, orderly fashion, as they'd done for centuries. Tall, triangular sails scraped the sky, pulling sleek craft out into the bay, while chugging diesel engines shoved their wider burdens through the waves. Whaling photos and memorabilia hung in store windows. She noticed none of it.

Things were happening that Stu wouldn't be comfortable with, and she'd have to discuss them with him when he got back. She wasn't looking forward to it—he had a way of arguing without arguing. He calmly pointed out fact after fact, each followed by
Have you considered that?
It was annoying, effective, and annoying because it was effective. But he would miss the big picture. The drab state of their life was all the proof she needed. Stu did all the little things right, and they still weren't winning.

The beach house needed to be discussed. She wanted it so badly that she was furnishing it in her head. She had to find a way to get Stu on board and keep him from hoarding the Molson money. They'd talked about trading up before, and now they had the money. From that angle, she had a solid position.

Justifying the unexpected office expansion was Clay's problem, though she would side with her husband's partner on that, too. And Stu wouldn't approve of Hranic's sister as a proxy client. He wouldn't condone using phony associates to get clients, either. These items were touchier, although Stu couldn't complain about the results. Clay was already writing them hundred-thousand-dollar checks. He was moving forward. That was the difference between the two men. One was in motion; one was stagnant.

Then there was the little matter of the favor she'd done for Dugan. She winced. It sounded so bad out of context. But it wasn't romance. He wasn't going to fall in love with her; she could see it in his cat-that-ate-the-canary expression afterward. And she wasn't leaving Stu. Technically, it wasn't even mutual sex. Besides, it was working.

It didn't need to come up, she decided. Stu wasn't an overly jealous man, but he'd overanalyze it. The act was almost too simple for him to understand—Dugan wanted something and she had provided it. Period. Stu would drive himself nuts trying to make it more complicated than it was. Then he'd cope. He had before. He was reasonable and loyal that way. He'd forgive her. But why put him through it? There were more important things brewing. The house, for instance. A more pleasant thought. They needed to put together an offer as soon as he got back.

The waterfront restaurant was nestled between a women's apparel shop that sold nautical clothing and an exchange for used marine equipment. Katherine pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Its interior was dimly lit with paper lanterns. There were no chairs. Instead patterned couches of different shapes were arranged around wagon-wheel-shaped coffee tables. Upscale customers sat or reclined in suits and skirts, casually taking bites of food from large communal trays. No one was in a hurry. There was no rush on the part of the staff, which dressed all in black and circulated with appetizers apparently available to all. Not a place for a quick lunch.

A young woman with her raven hair pulled back in a tight bun greeted Katherine with cool detachment.

“Reservation?”

“I'm not sure. I'm meeting someone.”

“Okaaay…” Bun Hair gave her a shallow smile. “Is it possible this someone you are meeting has a reservation?”

Katherine's hackles rose, and she parried Bun Hair's smirk with an oversugared smile of her own. “Sorry. It might be under Hanstedt. First name is Margery. Perhaps you know her?”

The woman's face transformed, her aloof expression twisting into a cross between forced warmth and fear. “Yes, of course. Welcome. I'll seat you now.”

She led Katherine toward the rear of the restaurant, making hurried small talk as though they were old friends. She selected a table near the window, apart from the rest. Semiprivate, which was good, considering the conversation Katherine intended to have.

“Would you like some wine?”

“I shouldn't.”

“It's complimentary. And quite good.”

Katherine shrugged her assent, and Bun Hair fled to fetch it.

When Margery entered, it was as though the First Lady had walked in. Conversations fell to a low buzz. Customers and staff alike glanced at her and then away. The braver among them waved. She nodded in return, then held her coat in the air until Bun Hair spirited it away. She didn't miss a step as a handsome young waiter put a glass of wine in her hand, and she walked straight to Katherine's table. She arrived and stood over the couch.

“Welcome to Stationbreak.”

Katherine stood to greet her with one of her society hugs—friendly but formal, a light squeeze to imply familiarity and trust, but not too needy.

Margery was decked out in what Holly Plynth called “slut gear”—a black miniskirt, leather boots with heels, and a white see-through blouse with a push-up bra which served up her substantial knockers for customers to admire. She looked like a walking dessert cart without the guilt.

“Did my hostess, Sondra, greet you politely?”

“Are you working right now?”

“I own three small businesses. I'm always working.”

Bun Hair's horrified look had been amusing, but it wasn't punishment enough, Katherine decided. She'd put in her own time serving people when she was young, and now it was her turn to be served well. “She could take it up a notch.”

Margery nodded, making a mental note of it, and slid in next to Katherine instead of on the opposite couch.