I was still scribbling on the margins of the document I was working on, not looking up.
“Sell it to me,” I barked.
Claire gave me the elevator pitch. The bare bones of the case, as they were.
“Sexual harassment lawsuit against a former employer?” I asked, tossing a red Sharpie that had run out of ink into the trash can and uncapping a new one with my teeth. “Sounds standard.”
“Not just any employer.”
“Is it the president?”
“No.”
“SCOTUS justice?”
“Um . . . no.”
“The pope?”
“Christian.” She flicked her wrist flirtatiously, her giggle husky.
“Then it’s not a big enough case for me.”
“He’s a power player. Known around all the right circles in New York. Ran for mayor a few years ago. Friend of every museum in Manhattan. We’re talking real big fish here.” I glanced up. Claire ran the heel of her stiletto around her shapely calf, scratching it. Her voice wrapped around the words with a quiver. She was trying to tamp down her excitement. I couldn’t blame her. Nothing gave me a semi like knowing I was about to land a juicy case with hundreds of billable hours and win it. There was only one thing more exciting to a natural-born killer than the scent of blood—the scent of blue blood.
Swinging my gaze from my notes, I dropped my Sharpie and leaned back in my chair. “Did you say he ran for mayor?”
Claire nodded.
“How far’d he get?”
“Far-ish. Got endorsed by the former White House press secretary, some senators and local officials. Mysteriously dropped out of the race due to family issues four months before elections. Had a very pretty, very young, very not-his-wife campaign manager who now lives in another state.”
Getting warmer . . .
“Do we believe the family-issue excuse?” I stroked my chin.
“Do we believe Santa slides down chimneys and still manages to be jolly all night?” Claire tilted her head, pouting.
Picking up my Sharpie again, I tapped it against my desk, mulling this over. My instincts told me it was who I thought it was, and my instincts were never wrong. Which technically meant I shouldn’t touch this case with a ten-foot pole. I was familiar with the key players and held a grudge against the defendant.
But should and could were two different creatures, and they didn’t always get on well.
Claire launched into all the reasons why I should accept this walk-in like I was some C-grade ambulance chaser until I held up a hand to stop her.
“Tell me about the plaintiff.”
Funny, how admirable my impulse control was in every other area in life—women, diet, exercise, ego—until it came down to one family. Riggs was wrong. Not about the demons part. I had plenty of them. But I knew exactly where they’d lead me—to this man’s doorstep.
Claire’s blush deepened as she relished my eyes on her. I made a mental note to screw her senseless tonight for that sultry look.
“Reliable, trustworthy, and forthcoming. I did get the sense that she is lawyer shopping. It’s going to be a big case.”
“Give me five minutes.”
Claire headed for the door, then stopped. “Hey, there’s a new Burmese restaurant opening in SoHo tonight . . .”
She left the sentence hanging. I shook my head. “Remember, Claire. No outside relationship.” That was our agreement.
She tossed her hair with a huff. “What can I say? I tried.”
Ten minutes later, I was sitting in front of Amanda Gispen, CPA.
Claire was right. Ms. Gispen was the perfect victim. If this case went to trial, the jury would likely be taken with her. She was educated without coming off as condescending, middle aged, soft spoken, attractive without being sexy, clad head to toe in St. John. Her carefully highlighted hair was pinned back, her brown eyes intelligent but not shrewd.
When I entered the conference room Claire had made her wait in, she rose from her seat like I was a judge, offering me a respectful bow.
“Mr. Miller, thank you for making the time. I’m sorry for showing up unannounced.”
No, she wasn’t. She could’ve tried to book an appointment. The fact that she hadn’t, that she’d honestly believed I’d see her, made me curious.
I sat opposite to her, sprawling over a Wegner swivel chair, my latest Christmas splurge. Obscene luxuries were a constant in my life. I had no family to shop for. The swivel chair was supposed to stay in my office, but Claire, who very much enjoyed taking liberties and straddling invisible scarlet lines, sometimes wheeled it into conference rooms and used it as a sign of our friendship and intimacy. Everyone else knew they could never get away with such a thing.
“Why me, Ms. Gispen?” I cut straight to the chase.
“Please, call me Amanda. They say you’re the best in the business.”
“Define they.”
“Every employment attorney I’ve visited the past couple weeks.”
“Word to the wise, Amanda—don’t believe lawyers, myself included. Who’d you end up hiring?”