The Jezebel Remedy (34 page)

“There was no hesitation,” Lisa told Joe. “She came right back with the ID on Lee.”

“That's hardly the best security question,” Joe said, still studying the paper.

“Actually it's not too bad, and it was the first thing that came to mind. It's her, Joe. We just need to find her.”

“Next go-round, ask her whose cat she had last time she was in the office. Or her sister's address.”

“She has a sister? I didn't know that.”

“It's a trick question,” Joe said. “And why the hell is she contacting you and not me?”

“Still no word on the prints from the cardboard you gave Toliver?” Lisa asked.

“We should hear soon. Usually takes around sixty days.”

“It would flat erase our problems if we can locate her,” Lisa said. “Most of our worries would disappear. The court case would be moot, and Garrison would have to surrender the VV 108. I'm still checking by her place, and I've started scanning the Token Rock site too.”

“True. And
if
frogs had wings…”

M.J. met Lisa inside the front entrance to the Village Tavern, a Winston-Salem restaurant they both fancied because of its grouper Hemingway and leather-bound wine list. They hugged and separated, and then M.J. blithely caught Lisa's wrist and led her away from the door, M.J. bubbly and chatty and merry, as if she were a twenties jazz darling showing her ingenue friend to a Prohibition powder room for gossip and a nip of flask gin. “Okay,” she said, “I know you didn't call me completely worried and wrung out and use our Agent Ninety-Nine secret codes and drive nearly an hour to hear my happy news and zany reports, but we both realize I can be a selfish bitch occasionally, so there you go, but before we dive into your dilemma du jour, let me tell you about my recent good fortune, and while I'm blabbing, please act like you're thrilled for me and throw in a couple
wow
s and
reallys
at the right spots, even though you're just marking time until we arrive at your issue which, truthfully, I'm sure is important and more pressing than what's on my agenda.”

M.J.'s chatterbox greeting was still in progress as they walked past the hostess stand and three men wearing conservative suits and into the main dining room. They sat in a booth that connected to a wall, the bench seats, high backs and sturdy table all made of the same shellacked, dark brown wood.

“I can't wait,” Lisa said as she was sliding across the smooth bench. “Let me guess: They've finally taught the royal stallions to ice skate, hired Yanni to compose the soundtrack and the touring version's coming to North Carolina?”

M.J. laughed. “Wouldn't that be spectacular.”

A waitress brought water and silverware and menus and politely interrupted them by announcing her name—Alicia—and telling them she'd be taking care of their table. Lisa had no interest in alcohol but asked for a glass of chardonnay, the first choice that came to mind.

“I'll try a mojito,” M.J. said. “No food right now, thanks.” She smiled at the girl and returned to the conversation with Lisa while the waitress was still writing the drink order. “Okay, so a week ago I'm leaving the office and a red Mercedes SLK pulls beside me, right there in the parking lot, and this beautiful man, who claims he's never done anything like this, informs me he saw me walking to my car, random as random can be, pure luck of the draw, and he introduces himself and after I Google him on my cell phone and confirm who he is, I follow him to this happy-go-lucky bar in Chapel Hill called the Crunkleton and we hit it off. Amazing. As a bonus, I experienced my first mint julep.”

“Wow. Seriously.”

“His name is Craig Wilkins. He's a lawyer from Durham, a litigator. He's divorced. He has a kid starting college this fall, so I'm not potentially subject to any significant stepmoming chores. He was at our building interviewing a witness for a case, some woman down on the sixth floor. And believe it or not, he's a year older than I am. Actually, seventeen months older. So far, and it's only been three dates if you count the initial trip to the bar, he seems to be my kind of man. I understand it's still early and this could turn into Bear Brian, but I'm incredibly optimistic about Lawyer Wilkins. I've been in the best freakin' mood.”

“I'm happy for you,” Lisa said sincerely. “I am. Really.
Really
.” She grinned. “You absolutely deserve it.”

The waitress delivered the wine and mojito and reminded them she'd be glad to bring food if they decided to eat.

M.J. tasted her drink. “Not bad,” she said. “Thanks for letting me monopolize the conversation. I wish the timing were different for you—it's always hard to appreciate somebody else's jackpot when you're under a black cloud yourself.”

“Actually, it makes me feel better. Lets me believe that karma or kismet or providence or whatever else will eventually do right by the people who deserve it.”

“Tell me about your lawsuit,” M.J. said. “I read the fax you sent. Can you do that in court—just completely make up shit?”

“What a gobsmack. Who the hell could've seen this coming? I never thought they'd go on offense. It's crazy. It's as if Seth Garrison can conjure up facts and a plausible case out of thin air. It's suddenly an absolute mess and tar pit.”

“Thanks to my shiny new communications director, I learned last week we're not supposed to say ‘tar
baby
.' This was totally surprising information for me. Every year, there's a new faux pas word. She gave me an avoid list to remember when I'm in public: pussy willow, pussycat, titter, Oriental and niggardly—meaning cheap, a word I'd never even heard of—are also definite no-no's in the corporate world. There're more on the list too. Some I'm supposed to skip because of the guffaws, others because I'd seem insensitive.”

“Lord, you
are
giddy,” Lisa said. “Were you at the bar before I got here?”

“Sorry. I'm just trying to be amusing and cheer you up. Lighten your load.”

“We never could've imagined Garrison's counterclaim,” Lisa continued. She kept her voice low, always concerned about eavesdropping. “I'm scared to death about what they might find in the Bahamas. I don't think Benecorp was following me while I was there—they didn't have any reason to, and I'm assuming they discovered my trip after the fact. But it'll be a legal and marital nightmare if Garrison's aware I wasn't with you twenty-four-seven, and you can bet your butt they've been busy in Nassau since the suit was filed.”

“Have you checked with, uh, damn…his name's on the tip of my tongue…Brooks? Brett Brooks? Is there a chance he was in on the scam and gigoloing for Garrison? You think Brooks will complicate things—well, heck, I'm not even sure what you'd want him to do. Is it better if he lies or tells the truth? You're right. This is messy.”

“The worst of it is, I can't stand to see Joe under all this pressure. This suit might crush us. He's worried sick, and it's killing me. His law license is on the line. He's
such
a good man, M.J.”

“Here's my advice,” M.J. said, her tone blunt. The giggles and cocktail gushing were altogether gone. “You should stick to your guns and don't bail the first time some predator takes a bite at your stock.
Stand your ground. Very little has changed in the big picture. Garrison didn't respond exactly how you thought he would, and he's blown serious smoke and done a fine job of firing back at you, but you're the best lawyer I know, and I know a bunch of them. Keep the faith. More to the point, what other options do you have?”

“Where Lettie VanSandt is at the very beginning of an equation, faith doesn't help. She's always plagued me and been a thorn, dead or alive.” Lisa lifted her wineglass by the stem, then set it down without drinking. “I hate to ask,” she said, focusing on the glass, “but if we have to—”

“I'm completely on board if I can ever help you,” M.J. insisted. “Whatever—I'm your girl if you need me. I'll swear on a stack of Bibles I was with you.” She leaned forward, her chin past the mojito, both palms flat on the table. “Not much scares me, Lisa. I've seen the junior version of Seth Garrison over and over and over, starting with the Craps Pirate and the repulsive little troll sales managers who'd offer to trade extra orders for a quickie blow job in a dealership toilet. I shot a man who needed shooting, but I didn't kill him even though I could've and damn well would have enjoyed it. To me, Seth Garrison is the exact same creature, except he has a fancy-pants yacht instead of a Sea-Doo over at the redneck marina. And you're the friend who looked after me when I was broke and an embarrassed failure living with my parents. So yeah, you give me my script and I'll read it.” She relaxed, sat normally again.

Lisa continued staring at her wine, and she could see a slice of the restaurant reflected on the glass's pregnant side, was able to make out tables and chairs and the yellow-and-purple paisley in a woman's summer dress, the scene elongated and shrunken, capped by an overhead light distilled to less than a pinpoint, burning in the midst of the chardonnay. “I hope,” she said softly, “I can sort through this.” She didn't look at her friend. “Thanks. Thank you.”

Still rattled and paranoid three days later, Lisa decided to visit Brett Brooks at his office, but she didn't phone or e-mail before leaving Martinsville, just traveled an hour to Roanoke with plans to appear unannounced,
hoping to avoid intercepts and wiretaps and catch him cold, before he had time to prepare a lie or, perhaps, ask Seth Garrison for his marching orders. It was the beginning of August, and her car was blistering hot when she cranked the engine, didn't cool down—even with the controls dialed completely to cold—until she reached Bassett Forks. She nervously kept watch on the road behind her, accelerated to eighty-five when there was no other car in sight, parked at the Hotel Roanoke's lot, hurried into the lobby, had the concierge arrange for a cab, changed clothes in a restroom stall, crammed her hair into a hat, departed through a side door, used the pedestrian bridge to walk downtown and met her taxi next to an Italian restaurant.

Riding to Brooks's office, she let her head rest against the window glass, watched the city pass by cropped and unnatural, mostly the tops of high concrete buildings, thick black power lines and snatches of heavy, humid sky. She debated whether she should've simply driven herself to Brooks's address, whether her sneaking and plotting were wasted on surveillance that didn't actually exist or, if it did, was floating miles above in a satellite and wouldn't be fooled by her changing highway speeds and exiting side doors. She glanced at her driver, who seemed unusually poised and clean-cut. They stopped for a traffic signal. Shit, she even wondered about M.J.'s new beau, this lawyer who'd miraculously sprung from Zeus's head and tumbled into a parking lot. “Poor Downs,” she mumbled as they accelerated and switched lanes.

Brooks's receptionist was pleasant, then firmly professional and finally irate. “Mr. Brooks is with a client,” the lady said. “I've explained that, okay? You can wait until he's finished, and I'll ask if he'll see you without an appointment, or we can schedule something later, but I'm not going to interrupt him just because you're a lawyer and want special treatment.”

So she was forced to wait in Brooks's reception area, wasting time on a leather sofa with squishy cushions, absently thumbing through a copy of
Garden & Gun
, then
Time
, the mailing labels precisely clipped from the magazines' covers, a precaution that she and Joe didn't bother with given how simple it would be for an unhappy client to locate their address. She was accompanied in the lobby by an elderly husband and wife who sat across from her, glaring, put off by the commotion, no
doubt concerned she'd try to leapfrog them on the schedule. Lisa was nervous, embarrassed, unsettled, on the brink of seeing a man she'd been naked with not so long ago, then done her best to erase and forget, the biggest calamity of her life. She caught herself jiggling her foot and quit it. “Do you have a restroom?” she asked the receptionist.

Fifteen minutes later she heard Brett's voice migrating down the hall, and a frail man trailing a green oxygen tank appeared and shuffled through, leaving the office. She stood from the quicksand couch and Brett spied her as he reached the archway to the reception area, and his expression—pure delight, no disdain, mischief or guilt, nothing contrived—made her exhale and smile despite her frazzled mood, and she paused to adjust a necklace that was hanging cockeyed before walking toward him, didn't rush or kowtow, and he met her and wrapped an arm around her and cheerfully welcomed her and told her he couldn't think of anyone else he'd rather have materialize in his office on a dull Tuesday afternoon. “Why didn't you let me know Mrs. Stone was here?” he asked the receptionist, whose mouth narrowed and shoulders sagged.