Even When You Lie, page 25
He smiles at me and sips his lemonade. “I have a feeling you’re very careful with your drinks when you’re out.”
I shrug. “Do you think it was a stranger? It’d have to be someone you’d grab a drink with on a Thursday evening.”
“Well, whoever it was, know I’d rather have been at our place drinking with you,” he says. “And doubly so now.”
I drag my backpack out and open it to smash in the bag of our dirty laundry. “Rafi will probably be here soon with my car. I can go get more clothes for us and pick up anything you want from home. Do you need anything in particular?”
“I’m leaving here by lunch tomorrow,” he says. “But I suppose shoes would be helpful.”
“You don’t think you’d like to walk out of here in pajama pants and loafers?” I ask.
“No.” He laughs. “Shorts, a T-shirt, and a pair of running shoes, please.”
I hand over my laptop, the file from Miller, and the envelope Heather brought us. “Is there room for those in your case? I’ll be able to fit more in here without them.”
He nods and tucks everything away. “I’ll take good care of them.”
“Speaking of taking good care of things,” I say. “Your car has probably been parked by that bar all day today. Rafi and I can go get it, or I can grab an Uber, but I’d like to move it for us to have it tomorrow when you’re discharged.”
Cade leans back against the pillows, frowning. “I don’t usually let anyone else drive my car.”
“Bullshit,” I say. “You let them drive it to service it, don’t you? To wash it and wax it and check the tires?”
“That’s different,” he says. “It’s a closed lot then. Not on the streets.”
“And have you considered that your doctor may say that you can’t drive through the weekend?” I ask. “Wouldn’t you rather the car is here and then comes home with us, instead of sitting over in a lot in Highland Park?”
Cade sighs and chews the edge of his lower lip. “There’s that.”
“I’ll be very careful,” I say.
“This is just …” He pulls his car keys from his bag and twirls them on one finger. “It’s a big step for our relationship.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Bigger than moving in together?”
“You make a good point.” He smiles sheepishly and hands me the keys. “Take good care of her.”
“Her?” I ask.
“What can I say?” he asks. “I’m a sucker for a Texas redhead.”
“It’s a German car,” I say.
“Bought in Texas,” he retorts.
His phone rings and I stash the car keys inside my backpack before he changes his mind. If I slip away now while he’s distracted, he’s less likely to complain any further, so I request an Uber from my phone. Rafi is probably occupied with Evangeline, and there’s no sense in interrupting him.
“Hey, man,” Cade says into the phone, and to me, whispers, “It’s Armando.”
“Of course,” I say.
“Reag says hi. So no one’s said a word?” Cade covers his phone, and says, “Can you bring me my pillow, too?”
I can’t make out what Armando says on his side of the phone conversation, but Cade narrows his eyes.
“Are you kidding?” he asks.
“I’m sure everyone misses you,” I say.
Cade flips me the bird, but says to Armando, “Hell, I didn’t expect balloons and flowers, but I thought someone would’ve asked or something.”
I kiss him goodbye. “Back soon.”
He grins and winks. “I love you. Be careful.”
“Oh, I won’t hurt your car,” I say. “I love you too.”
It’s half a relief to step out of the hospital, even if the air is warm and heavy, smelling faintly of smog and concrete, but it’s preferable to the sterile fluorescent hallways and industrial tile floors. Daylight fades, draining the city’s color with it, jeweled fingers glittering on the downtown skyline and casting long shadows, and I wish Cade’s doctor had cleared him to go home tonight. I decide I’ll smuggle in some moonshine and a burger from that place Cade likes, the one right around the corner from his apartment building, where he took me the first night that we ate dinner together.
I close my eyes, breathe in the city, and summon memories of moonshine in a shared flask, salt from the french fries, and the bacon in his burger, all the flavors I tasted when he kissed me.
A car engine startles me from my thoughts, and I check my phone, match the car to my app, and wave to the driver.
I slide into the passenger seat of the sensible sedan, beige upholstery smelling of air freshener and carpet cleaner.
The driver meets my gaze with an apologetic smile. “It’s rush hour. Hope you’re not trying to get anywhere in a hurry.”
My evening will probably consist of Cade falling asleep halfway through a baseball game while I read a book on the small sofa next to his bed.
I buckle my seatbelt and say, “It’s fine.”
Cade can manage on his own for a bit. He’ll probably doze back off and not even notice how long I’m gone.
Taillights seethe red along I-35, bumper to bumper traffic like last night, when Rafi brought me here, and I almost text him to ask that he go sit with Cade.
But maybe he’s having the Friday night with Evangeline that Cade and I should be having together. And he’ll fuss that I’m leaving at all, that I’m by myself, and I roll my eyes and shove my phone into my bag. I’m not the one who’s recovering from a GHB overdose.
Knowing what I know now about Cade’s kidney, it only makes sense if whoever slipped him the GHB didn’t have the same information. If the plan had Cade wrecking the Porsche on the expressway home from the bar, this might not just be about scaring me. It would be about having Cade out of the way—
But from what?
I lean back in my seat and comb through Cade’s current caseload in my mind.
Certainly none of his clients benefit if Cade is out of the picture.
Nor the firm either; Cade may be suspended temporarily from profit-sharing, but they do need him bringing in retainers and billable hours.
What did Bridger say about the NFL that night at his house two weeks ago, with that smirk of his so like Stu’s, like he knew something no one else did?
Bridger, Cade’s mentor from the time he started law school.
If he knows why Cade isn’t playing pro football, why Cade is an attorney instead, then he can’t have been the person to dope Cade.
I’m missing something, I tell myself, something big and important.
My head aches suddenly, and I rub the side of my face.
“Too warm?” the driver asks and reaches for the temperature control. “We’ve been lucky so far, that the summer’s been so mild. But this heat today—the weatherman said it’s the hottest day of the year so far. Some rain sure would be nice, wouldn’t it?”
“Mm-hmm,” I say automatically. “But be careful what you wish for, or we’ll have a tropical storm on top of us. This is Texas.”
He laughs. “The weather here.”
I pick up my line of thought where I dropped it when the driver interrupted and retrace my steps.
It makes sense that it would be Bridger that Cade met at the bar. There would have been a promise that they could work something out over a round of drinks, a restoration of their long-standing mentor/mentee relationship, and Cade could be Bridger’s golden boy once again.
“Son,” Bridger calls him, when he barely acknowledges Stu.
Maybe the GHB really is just a warning to me, maybe just to scare me off, that I’m too close to something that can embarrass Bridger or the Holcombe family, a reminder that they know about Cade and me and they can hurt him in more ways than just costing his partnership.
But if it isn’t Bridger …
A shiver runs up my spine and I close my eyes, allowing my intuition to steer me the same way it pushes me when I’m running down a rabbit hole online, following the bread crumbs.
Stu can’t access his trust until he’s thirty, even if Bridger is dead, even if Cesar is out of the way.
So someone who needs Bridger and Cade out of the way, and Bridger’s oldest, illegitimate son.
Colleen wouldn’t benefit if Cesar inherits, but if something happened to Bridger before Stu is thirty, she’d have control of the trust—
Except that isn’t a given, I remind myself. Not after how Bridger’s sister left Kirby without access to her trust, leaving it all in Bridger’s control.
I sit up so suddenly in my seat that the driver glances over at me. “Are you all right?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, but tuck my hands under my thighs so he doesn’t see they’re trembling.
Kirby.
Bridger’s best friend from pre-kindergarten, his college and law school roommate, his brother-in-law, his original law firm partner—
Only for it to all come crashing down around him eighteen months ago when his wife died. But why act now, why kill Cesar and Heather, and why try clearing Cade off the board like he must have yesterday?
The car slows.
I open my eyes as the driver steers us into a shopping center parking lot in Highland Park. Cade’s Porsche gleams in the setting sun, and I say, “This is fine. You can drop me here.”
“Nice car,” the driver says. “Park Cities don’t mess around.”
He’s harmless enough that I grin. “It’s not mine. I just have the keys tonight.”
“Better enjoy it then,” he says.
He waits without me asking until I unlock the car and give him a thumbs up. I watch his small sedan chug away, off to his next stop, and tip him and give him a five-star rating on my phone before I open the door.
The familiar smell of leather and Cade’s cologne washes over me.
I duck into the car, the seat warm from the day’s sunlight. Papers are strewn across the passenger seat, as if someone carelessly tossed them there, and I lock the door, shove my backpack into the floorboard, and start the car before gathering the documents.
Cade’s partnership agreement.
Notes and underlines in purple ink, only I know I didn’t make these.
I remember the blue pen in Cade’s coat pocket, the blue pen he always carries, and then a second memory surfaces, of Kirby passing me in the hallway, laughing over his shoulder that he borrowed a pen from my desk.
That bastard.
I skim through the scribblings, clearly not in my handwriting or anything resembling it, so maybe Kirby’s plan isn’t to frame me. It’s almost as if he left these to point out potential leverage for Cade in the agreement, with a running list of Cade’s cases and the dollar amounts compared to Cade’s shares in the firm, and how much of Cade’s raw income goes to Bridger as the managing partner.
Like Kirby needs to convince Cade that he isn’t getting his fair share and what he could earn if someone besides Bridger was in charge.
But why would Kirby need to divide Cade and Bridger?
And what could this accomplish that the scene yesterday in Bridger’s office didn’t?
I frown and tap my fingers on the Porsche’s shifter.
Despite the income Cade generates for Holcombe & Donaldson, his partnership agreement has no loopholes for him to leave without significant financial penalties, none of the wiggle room here Cade can find in the criminal code to delight juries with during arguments in the courtroom. I recognize the syntax and pacing from the last couple of months reviewing law firm documents; this is obviously written by Bridger, and it makes me wonder what Kirby’s and his partnership agreement must look like, if the junior partners’ agreements have this elegance.
The Porsche’s engine idles at a low growl and the air conditioning kicks in, cooling the interior to a pleasant chill. Outside the car, other vehicles arrive, couples in business casual attire laughing and chatting on their way to the bar, a few window-shopping at the jewelry store.
It’s Friday night.
Cade and I ought to be together right now, maybe having a drink on his balcony, debating over what to order for dinner, planning our weekend while his green eyes flirt with me over his glass, his fingers playing with my hair and promising more to come.
Only right now he’s laid up in a hospital bed.
I lean back in my seat, let the warmth of the leather soak into me, and consider my options.
If I go to the apartment and return to Cade, tell him my theory that Kirby is behind Cesar and Heather’s deaths, he’ll listen. But his first phone call will be to Bridger, and their inclination will be to handle this in-house. Mitigate risk to the firm.
Bridger, after all, doesn’t seem very inclined to cooperate with a police investigation into the deaths of Cesar Morales or Heather Hudson; even the knowledge that Kirby might have been behind them likely won’t be enough to sway him. He’ll only want to cover up any scandal.
Kirby being arrested for murders—or accessory or conspiracy to commit—in conjunction with the attempted coup will be the talk of the Dallas legal community.
However, the law firm is on the way to the apartment, and it will be empty.
I have Cade’s keys, and there are no cameras right now. Besides, I can always say I’m just cleaning out my desk if there are questions.
But maybe I can slip into Cade’s office, use his computer, his password, and poke around on the network. There, I might be able to find Bridger and Kirby’s partnership agreement, and maybe even the proof that Kirby may have committed or been party to the murders.
Or at least that he had motive.
I can take that to Miller, who won’t give a damn about any Uptown scandals. He’ll arrest Kirby if it means closing a case.
I can tell Cade about it if I find anything. There’s no point in worrying him needlessly if I don’t.
It’s a gray area, not quite a lie of omission, but not exactly the truth.
I pray silently for Cade’s forgiveness, that I’m adjusting his mirror and his seat, that I’m borrowing his car and maybe skirting a boundary. I push the clutch in, move the shifter into gear, and drive south toward Uptown.
CHAPTER
28
CADE’S PORSCHE CRUISES into the parking garage, easily navigating the hairpin turns and growling up the ramps, making me half envious that this will probably be the only time Cade lets me drive it. Maybe I’ll slip out later, I promise myself, once Cade is asleep, and I can take it for a run up the North Tollway or around the Bush Turnpike, where no one will care how fast I’m driving.
And if I do get a ticket, Cade can manage that.
The garage is deserted, because of course it is. It’s Friday night, and even the reserved slots for the partners and senior associates are empty. I park in Cade’s spot and eye the employee entrance to the law firm.
No one should be there except the security guard stationed on the floor until the cameras and sprinklers are fixed next week, but he won’t know I quit yesterday. I consider taking my bag but decide to leave it; the more I carry in, the more suspicious it looks. With no holster and no way of discreetly holding my pistol, I leave it in the backpack. But my knife might be useful, so I clip it into the center gore of my bra and tuck the bag behind the driver’s seat where it won’t be obvious.
I slide out of the car, slip my phone into the back pocket of my jeans, and click the alarm, flinching at the chirp that seems to echo more loudly than usual. For a second, I hesitate, listening to it reverberate off the cement walls, wondering if anyone else hears it.
But so what if they do? If anyone stops me, I’m just picking up my things, I have a perfectly valid reason for being here.
Stop looking so damn guilty, I tell myself. Get in there or don’t; no one is making you do this.
Cade’s keys are warm in my hand, reassuring somehow. I find the key to the law firm’s entrance, turn it, and pull the door handle, only to realize the door is now locked.
I twist the key again and pull.
The door opens, having been unlocked all along.
Only it shouldn’t be, not at this time, not with all the cars gone from the employee spaces. No one should be at the firm.
I clutch the keys against myself at a low ready, wishing I can make them the pistol I probably should have brought with me, and pad down the hall.
The front desk is empty, the lights lowered. The security guard isn’t in his chair.
Everything appears exactly as it’s supposed to be.
But I try the glass door back to the offices before I use a key, and it’s unlocked too.
A faint shiver of fear tickles my spine and runs the length of my tattoo, but I shake it off. Of course the door would need to be unlocked if the security guard is in here, making his rounds.
Still, I keep my footsteps soft and watch every shadow as I make my way to Cade’s section.
Its door is locked.
I breathe a sigh of relief, but then I hear men’s raised voices.
Bridger and Kirby’s voices.
In Bridger’s office.
I press Cade’s keys into my pocket so they won’t rattle and tiptoe toward the back of the firm.
If Bridger and Kirby are in Bridger’s office, maybe Kirby’s is unlocked.
Kirby’s office, the firm’s other corner office, tucked behind the secretarial pool next door to Bridger’s that I’ve never been into, that I’ve never needed to enter.
Only now it may have everything I need to bring him down.
I duck through the secretarial cubicles, sneak to Kirby’s door, and turn the handle.
It opens.
I push it wider and slink inside.
Like Bridger’s office, it boasts thick carpet; I can feel its richness beneath the thin soles of my sandals. Its windows don’t overlook downtown like Cade’s and Bridger’s, though, but the neighboring buildings, so only their lights and what filters up from the street beneath us soften the darkness of the deepening dusk.
I creep toward the desk and file cabinets.
“Goddamn it,” Bridger shouts from his office, and I freeze, my ears straining to hear more.
But there are only low, harsh tones, a masculine chuckle—Kirby, maybe—and I resist the urge to press my ear to the wall between us.
