J. Jance - Edge of Evil

Chris drove in silence for several miles before saying anything more. “You do know he’s screwing around on you, don’t you?” he said at last.

“He’s what?” Ali demanded. She felt as though a bucket of icy water had been flung in her face.

“He’s got a girlfriend. More than one actually.”

Ali could hardly believe her ears. Chris was her son. Surely she couldn’t be having this conversation with him.

“I don’t know,” Ali managed stiffly. “And if you do, maybe you should let me in on it.”

Chris gave his mother a questioning look. With his attention momentarily diverted, a gust of wind, blowing through the mountains behind them, sent the Cayenne wandering across the lane-edge warning bumps along the shoulder of the freeway.

“You really don’t know?” Chris returned.

Years of sitting in front of a camera reporting on all kinds of catastrophes had taught Ali Reynolds how to master her own emotions and maintain control. She did that now.

“Tell me,” she said.

“April Gaddis, Paul’s new administrative assistant, is the older sister of a friend of a friend,” Chris explained. “That’s how I heard about it, sitting around having a beer with the guys after a basket ball game. The brother asked me if it was true you and Paul were getting a divorce. According to him, April is telling all her friends that they’ll be married by the end of the year.”

There was a long pause. At last Ali found her voice. “Well,” she said, “if that’s the case, he’ll have to get a move on, won’t he. From what I hear, there’s no such thing as an instant divorce in California.”

“Don’t joke about this, Mom,” Chris said, his voice tight with concern. “It isn’t funny. And then there’s Charmaine.”

“Charmaine?” Ali repeated stupidly. “You mean my Charmaine?”

Charmaine Holbrook, an intently cheerful young woman, had been Ali’s personal assistant for the past three years. She had come through a temporary staffing agency and had turned into a permanent employee. Ali would have trusted Charmaine with her life.

Chris nodded miserably.

“What about her?”

“One Friday night, I had a few too many beers and one of my buddies gave me a lift home. I went inside to take a nap. You were at work. When Paul came home, my car wasn’t in the garage and my lights weren’t on. He must have assumed I wasn’t home, either. A while later, I heard them carrying on out in the pool. That’s what woke me up. He and Charmaine were both in the pool naked, but swimming isn’t all they were doing.”

“Why didn’t you tell me at the time?” Ali demanded. She felt betrayed, as much by her son’s silence as by her husband’s infidelity.

“I thought you knew, Mom,” Chris declared. “I swear to God. I figured you must have decided to make the best of a bad bargain. Lots of women around here do that, you know. They find out what their husbands are up to, but, for one reason or another, they decide to just put up with it instead of throwing the bum out.”

“I had no idea,” Ali murmured.

“I know that now,” Chris said. “And I’m sorry, but hearing him ordering you around like you were some kind of servant…”

“How many people know about this?” Ali asked suddenly.

Chris shrugged. “Lots, I suppose,” he answered. “I mean, if I know, then other people must know, too. They probably haven’t taken out an ad in the Times, or anything like that, but…”

Ali’s phone rang. Paul’s number showed in the display. “It’s him,” she said. “I’m not going to answer.”

And she didn’t. The cell rang five times before it went to message. A few seconds later, the lights started flashing, indicating she had a voice mail waiting.

For ten miles or so, Ali did nothing; said nothing. Finally, she reached for her phone.

“Don’t call him back,” Chris pleaded. “Please don’t.”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not.”

Instead, she picked up the phone and scrolled through the called numbers until she located the one for Marcella Johnson’s cell phone. Marcella answered on the second ring.

“Hi,” Ali said. “It’s Alison Reynolds, your newest client.”

“Did you change your mind?” Marcella asked.

“Why would you ask that?” Ali returned.

“I just came from Leonard’s office-Leonard Weldon, the senior partner. He called me in right after your husband called here.”

“Paul Grayson called you?” Ali asked.

“Oh, no. He didn’t call me. He called Leonard and hinted very strongly that we should think about returning your retainer. That if we did, he’d make sure some of the network’s very lucrative business got thrown in our direction.”

“That underhanded son of a bitch!” Ali muttered under her breath.

“Yes,” Marcella said. “That more or less covers it.”

“So I suppose I need to go looking for a new attorney.”

“No,” Marcella said. “Not at all. I believe Leonard pretty much told him to stop throwing his weight around and put a sock in it.”

“He did?”

“Leonard told me he was in the same foursome with Paul Grayson at a charity golf tournament a number of years ago, and Paul kept shaving strokes. If there’s one thing Leonard Weldon can’t tolerate, it’s someone who cheats at golf!”

Among other things, Ali thought.

“So if you’re in, we’re in,” Marcella continued. “Weldon wants us to pursue this case to the bitter end.”

“Oh, I’m in all right,” Ali declared.

“So what did you need, then?” Marcella asked.

“Does anyone at your firm handle divorces?” Ali asked.

“I don’t,” Marcella said. “Not personally. But we just brought in a lady named Helga Myerhoff.”

“Wait a minute,” Ali said. “I’ve heard of her. I seem to remember she specializes in high-profile divorce cases. Don’t people call her Rottweiler Myerhoff?”

“That’s right,” Marcella laughed. “Or Helga the Horrible, depending. Most of the time, though, the only people dishing out those names are Helga’s opposing counsel after she takes their clients to the cleaners. Her clients praise her to the high heavens.”

“She works with you, then?” Ali asked.

“That’s right,” Marcella said. “Three months ago, Helga’s long-term partner retired. She and Leonard Weldon went to law school together a hundred years ago. When Helga decided she didn’t want to be a sole practitioner, she came knocking on Leonard’s door. But who’s looking for a divorce attorney?”

“I am,” Ali said in a small voice. “At least I think I am.”

“Do you want me to have Helga call you?”

“Not right now. My son and I are driving to Sedona. At the moment, we’re in the middle of the desert between Palm Springs and nowhere. Have her call me tomorrow.”

“Will do.” Marcella hesitated. “I don’t know you very well, but you sound down. Are you going to be all right with whatever’s going on? If you want me to call her right now…”

“No,” Ali said. “Tomorrow will be fine. As I said, my son’s with me, and he’s been a brick.”

“All right then.”

“So I’ll need to send another retainer?”

“Talk to Helga first,” Marcella advised. “Then you can decide, but if you’re talking to an attorney about this, you should probably also get in touch with your banker. You could find yourself up a creek without a credit card and without a checking account, either.”

“I think I’m okay there,” she said. “I’ve got my own checking account and my own credit card as well.”

“Good,” Marcella said. “Lots of women don’t.”

Ali closed the phone and put it in her pocket. When she looked over at Chris, he was grinning. “You’re going to hire Helga Myerhoff?” he asked.