Lisa Scottoline - Legal Tender

“Thanks a lot for last night, for everything you’ve done.”

“Forget it.”

“No, I know you’re in trouble. This must be the last thing you need.”

“I don’t mind helping you, but I’m no expert. The man on the hotline said you should check into a rehab center. He was telling me the Bar Association even has a service for lawyers with drug problems, there are so many.”

“No. Never.” Sam scowled. “I’m not doing it that way.”

“He said Eagleville is good, not far from here.”

“I don’t need it. I can do it myself. I’m halfway there, you said so yourself.”

“He said it’s a pattern, though. A behavior.”

Sam’s face flushed. “I’m not going to any frigging rehab. I’m not losing everything I worked for at Grun, not for this. No. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, I know it was a bitch, but don’t push the rehab. That’s all, folks.”

“But you need therapy-”

“You want to shock me, too? Like your mother?”

It stung. I didn’t know what to say. A lump formed in my throat.

“Shit.” He rubbed his forehead irritably. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

You want to shock me, too? I couldn’t get past the phrase. It had a hangtime of its own and it lingered, suspended in the air between us. It was true. I had shocked my mother. Pushed a giantRESET button on her brain. Rebooted her. How was she? We lived not ten minutes from here. Did I dare go over in the daylight?

“Bennie, I didn’t mean to say that. I was angry.” Sam reached for my hand, but I was heading for the apartment door. I wanted to go. Maybe get some food, maybe stop by my mother’s if it was safe.

“I’ll be back,” I told him.

“Bennie, I’m sorry. Don’t go.”

“You and the cat need food. Wait here and don’t answer the phone.”

“I didn’t mean it.” He got up unsteadily and almost stumbled following me to the door. “Bennie-”

“Take care of the cat,” I said and closed the door behind me.

Outside the building, I fumbled for my sunglasses in the bright sun. I felt nervous, exposed. Too many people around Rittenhouse Square. A runner knocked into me, and I jumped.

“Watch it, buddy!” the doorman shouted. “You all right, Miss?” He rushed over, an older man in a maroon cap and a jacket with epaulets.

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?” His watery eyes looked concerned. “I thought he bumped you. Did he bump you?”

“I’m fine.”

“They’re not allowed to do that, cut under the awning. This is Manchester property, not public property. It’s private, not public, you know what I mean?”

“Yes. Thanks, but I have to go.”

“They’re runners, what do they want the shortcut for anyway? They’re supposed to want the exercise, am I right?” he called, even as I walked away. “What are they doin, takin’ the shortcut?”

But I was gone, eyes scanning the street behind my dark sunglasses. There was no police car, marked or unmarked, anywhere in sight, and the Square was crowded with Philadelphians enjoying the weather. Runners lapped the Square, lovers cuddled on the park benches over the newspaper. I walked quickly down the sidestreet next to Sam’s apartment building, bypassing the gourmet grocery on the corner because I shopped there all the time.

I headed down a sunny Twenty-second Street, past the exclusive boutiques serving this upscale residential district. I kept my head down, hoping I wouldn’t see anyone I knew, and barreled toward the supermarket on Spruce. It was huge, anonymous, and I never shopped there.

Only one block to go, but I was already warm in my wrinkly suit. My eyes shifted left and right behind my sunglasses, checking the parked cars on either side of the street. No Crown Vic, but when I turned the corner there was a squad car sitting there.

Christ. I sucked wind. A white police cruiser, with the turquoise and gold stripe of the Philadelphia police. The engine was running, but there was no cop inside. It was parked in front of a Chinese restaurant. Maybe he was grabbing coffee, maybe not. Were the cops looking for me around my mother’s house, or Center City? The business district was small enough.

I hustled past the supermarket, skipping the errand. Instinct told me to run, to hide. I picked up the pace and rounded the corner, getting off Spruce Street and out of the cruiser’s line of vision. I started a light run, fake-glancing at my watch. I was a woman, in a linen suit, in a hurry on a Sunday. Late for church? Late for brunch?

I jogged lightly, trying not to look too panic-stricken. I didn’t know where to go. I couldn’t return to Sam’s, too risky. I was too far from my mother’s house, even if I could go there. I had nowhere to go. I was running scared.

Ahead of me, a few blocks down the street stood the Silver Bullet. A gleaming spire. Grun. Why not? It was as good a place as any, and I was still Linda Frost. A New York lawyer working on a Sunday? It was a natural.

I kept the pace up, passed the shoppers and tourists, and headed for the building. I was sweating, but not puffing too badly. Thank God for the stadium steps and the rowing. Thank God I was still free. Come to think of it, maybe I did believe in God. I slowed to a lawyerly cadence and pushed through the revolving door to the Grun building, where I suddenly lost my religion.

At the desk, talking to the security guard, were two uniformed cops.

I couldn’t turn around and leave. I couldn’t run. For a split second, I didn’t know how to react. Then I did.

In character. I approached the front desk with an authoritative air. I was Linda Frost, New Yorker. A top-tier lawyer in a one-horse town. I hadn’t had a decent tiramisu in weeks; I couldn’t find an Ethiopian restaurant to save my life. I pushed my sunglasses up with a stiff index finger and reached for the sign-in notebook, ignoring everyone around me.

“His office is on the 35th floor?” one of the cops was saying to the security guard, Will, whom I’d met the first day.

“That’s what it says on the directory,” Will said, checking behind him. “Mr. Sam Freminet. He’s at Grun, he’s a partner there. I see him most mornings. He’s always in early.”

Sam. They were looking for Sam. My heart began to thud inside my chest, but I wrote my name in the book as coolly as possible.

“Maybe Miss Frost could take you up there,” Will said to the cops. “You need a security card to get through the gate, but she’s a lawyer at Grun, too.”

What? I swallowed hard but kept writing, oblivious to all needs but my own. A bona fide New Yorker.

“Miss?” asked the cop. “Miss?”

I looked up. I had to. “Yes.”

“Would you mind taking us upstairs, Miss?” The cop was about forty, with light blue eyes, furry blond eyebrows, and a brushy blond mustache. A certified hunk, but he wasn’t my type. I sued his type.

“It’s police business,” added the other cop, tall, thin, and black. They both wore chrome badges and nametags, but I was too scared to read them.

“We’d appreciate it,” said the blonde, expectantly.

Gulp. “I’ll take you up.” I turned on my heels like an automaton and led the police to the elevator bank. I fought to control my panic. My throat tightened. I wanted to run, but instead I pushed the elevator button and reminded myself I was not guilty of a triple murder, but was going to work to pad some pretrial time.

“Shame you have to work on such a nice Sunday,” the blond cop said. He slipped his hat off with the cool of a major league pitcher.

“It can’t be helped. I have a trial to prepare for.”

I scanned his handsome features from behind my dark glasses and determined I didn’t know him from my cases. He seemed to appreciate the appraisal, however, and if I didn’t know better, I would have said he was taking a shine to me. COP FALLS FOR FUGITIVE.