Lisa Scottoline - Running From The Law

“You coulda been killed, Rita.”

“So could you, Dad.”

“Is that why? You think my bein’ here is your fault?”

Of course. “Nah. You needed the vacation. I’m glad you got shot.”

He closed his eyes. “Miss Fresh.”

Thank you, God. “Did you have fun with David and his boyfriend?”

He smiled drowsily. “They were tellin’ me how to bake bread. They said put carrots in, but I’m gonna leave out the carrots. Carrots don’t belong in bread.”

“No.”

“They think I should sell the store. I think so too.”

Hallelujah. “Good idea, Dad.”

“I was gonna give it to LeVonne,” he said, but his sentence trailed off and his head dipped to the side. He was falling asleep. I pulled the coverlet down over his feet and he roused slightly. “So what are you gonna do, Rita?”

“Go to sleep, Dad. You’re half-asleep.”

“You got a choice to make.”

He meant Paul or Tobin. I had told him the whole story when we were alone. He had insisted on it, and truth to tell, it felt good to tell somebody.

“I bet you go back to that jerk.”

I felt a twinge. “It would help if you kept an open mind about Paul, Dad.”

“Either way, I love you. So bet me.”

“On who I end up with?”

“Yeah.” He smiled in a muzzy way, heavy. lidded as an aged cat. “I’m retiring, I need the cash. Fifty bucks says you marry Paul in a year.”

“You can’t bet about stuff like that, Dad.”

“Why not? I raised you better.”

I laughed. “Fifty dollars?”

“You heard me.”

“I hate to take your money, old man.”

“Hah. You’re just chicken.”

“Say what? I went after an armed man with a fish knife!”

“He was a lawyer.”

“So what?”

“Like I said,” he said, but dropped off to sleep before I could demand an explanation.

Sunlight struggled through the leaded-glass windows of Fiske’s library. Classical violins screeched away on the CD player. Central air-conditioning forced frigid gusts onto my sandaled feet. And just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, my client wanted to play chess. Who says lawyers have it easy?

I made my first move, pushing a white wooden Pawn up two squares. “Ta-da.”

“No,” Fiske said.

“No?”

“No.” He reached across the chessboard, picked up the little Pawn, and put it back down in front of my Horse.

“Don’t I get to move my own pieces?”

“That’s not the opening you want, dear. Remember what I said about dominating the center of the board?”

No. “Yes.”

“It’s like playing squash. One dominates the T.”

“Italians don’t play squash, they eat it. With a little bit of oregano, in olive oil.”

He smiled, relaxed today in a polo shirt and white cotton cardigan. “You play tennis, don’t you?”

“No, I work. A lot.”

He smiled. “But you’ve seen people play tennis. Paul, for example. Paul is a first-rate tennis player.”

Hmmm. Suddenly I suspected where this was heading, why Fiske had asked me here. And it wasn’t to move Pawns around. Or maybe it was.

“Unlike some players, Paul knows instinctively when to stay at the baseline and when to charge the net. He has a natural advantage in his height and he exploits it. When he does take the net, he becomes a real threat. Do you know why?”

Because he’s God’s gift? “No, why?”

“Because he understands the power of the position. He dominates the court. He’s quick and sure in his reactions and nothing gets past him, not even down the alley. In effect, he takes the center of the board, every time. Like this.” Fiske reached over the chessboard, picked up the Pawn in front of my King, and placed it two spaces in front of its former home. “Do you see what I’m doing?”

Duh. “Yes.”

“Now you’ve taken a power position vis-à-vis the rest of the board. You’re asserting dominion. You’ve taken your advantage, being white, and exploited it. In effect, you’ve charged the net.”

“Ooh, I feel tingly all over.”

Fiske eased back into his tall leather chair. “Do you know why I didn’t move the Queen’s Pawn?”

“What if I told you I didn’t give a shit?”

“I’d tell you anyway.”

“I figured.” I laughed. Fiske wasn’t really a bad guy, it was just his upbringing. He’d had a stable family, a stone mansion, and a trust fund, when what he really needed was a butcher and a vinyl stool.

“I didn’t move the Queen’s Pawn because that would have exposed your King and made him vulnerable to attack. Too much risk without good reason.”

I booed.

“Exactly.” He smiled, then it faded. “You know, Rita, you took a risk-too much risk-in that gambit of yours at City Hall. I should never have agreed to it.”

But you did. “You didn’t have a choice,” I said, and let it go at that.

“I am grateful to you. Thank you, if I haven’t said so already.”

“You have, and you’re welcome, but I didn’t do it for you. I did it for me. I had a good reason.”

He paused. “That’s just what Paul said, you know, when I took him to task for going to City Hall after you. He said he couldn’t just sit back and see you harmed. That’s the kind of man my son is, Rita.”

I felt a guilty twinge. “I do appreciate what he did.”

“I know you do. But I also know he’s moved out. He told me you two were having problems. The stress of the trial, the demands of your two careers.”

I guessed Paul hadn’t told him about Patricia. Wise move. “Is that what he said?”

He nodded. “He wants to come home, Rita.”

“I understand that.” Paul left messages on the machine every day, but I didn’t call back.

“He loves you very much.”

“I understand that, too.”

“You have a lot invested in this relationship, a lot of time. You own a house together, you’ve made a life together.”

Hadn’t I heard this somewhere before? “Like you and Kate.”

“Yes. Like Kate and me. Although I feel terrible for what happened with Patricia, I’m lucky to have Kate. We’re happy together.”

I thought of Kate’s French plates, the figures facing each other on the kitchen walls. “And you want me to take Paul back.”

“I do. Whatever he has done, whatever is your point of disagreement, there is one fact that cannot be denied and certainly shouldn’t be overlooked. He risked his life for you, Rita. He put himself in jeopardy, for you.”

Ouch. “So I should take him back, out of guilt?”

“Of course not. But the point is, how many men would do something like that?”

I thought of Tobin, wondering. “Did Paul put you up to this?”

“No. In fact, it would be more accurate to say that I put him up to this.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s your move, Rita,” Fiske said, and looked beyond me, over my shoulder. I twisted around.

There, in the open doorway, with a look of surprise on his bruised face, stood Paul.

My secretary Janine shivered with excitement as she closed the door behind her. “Are you ready?” she asked, mascaraed eyes agleam.

“Ready.” I nodded and sipped a steaming mug of coffee. It felt good to be in the office again. My gray couch was covered with case files, large trial exhibits were stuffed between the cabinet and chair, and correspondence wafted on my desk in white drifts, like new fallen snow. Everything in disorder. I wiggled my toes happily.

“Are you sure you’re ready?”

“Show me, child.”

“Okay, here goes.” She strode to the front of my desk and yanked up her black blouse to the edge of an orange bra. Sure enough, pierced through the tender pink fold of her navel was a golden ring. It glinted cruelly in the morning sunshine. “Cool, huh?” she bubbled.