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“I’ll help you.” The words surprise us both. Have I just offered legal representation to this man? At least I’m licensed in New York.
“What are you, a lawyer?” He chuckles.
“Yeah, I am.” This would be an out of court settlement, so I don’t need to worry. And maybe a good way to ease back into things. “Load the truck, then come back up and explain everything to me.”
“I can’t afford a fancy lawyer who lives in a building like this one.” He shakes his head, like my offer is the most preposterous idea he’s ever heard.
“You can after I win, and I always win.” Something splashes through me, a current, making my heart race and my fingertips tingle. I grab two boxes with ease. The sensation is thrill. “But you wouldn’t need to. I’m taking your case pro bono, Alonso.”
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can, and you will, or I’m not paying you for the move today.” I’ve never shied away from threats. I earned my first three million working for criminals. Not that pressuring this poor bastard is in any way similar, but here we are. I guess it’s like riding a bicycle. A habit I can’t shake.
“Mr. Cressard…” He rubs his hand on the back of his neck, but then chuckles. “Okay. We load the truck and then I’ll tell you everything. You’re really something.”
I grin. “If you knew the half of it…”
We finish the last load, and as the two of them take the boxes downstairs I walk back to my apartment and make a pot of coffee. The hallway looks much bigger—the boxes really cluttered it up. I snicker, thinking of my neighbor.
A white envelope shines in the middle of the dark floor. I pick it up and quickly realize it’s not mine. Why is there an envelope addressed to a hospice in Harlem in the middle of an upscale building on the Upper East Side?
I shove it into the back pocket of my jeans. Alonso appears half an hour later, still shaking his head about my charitable offer, but he gives me all the details and we discuss his case over coffee.
As soon as he leaves, I sit with my laptop and get to work. I don’t know how long I’m at it, but the energy thrumming through me makes me want to jump out of my skin. Maybe it’s too much coffee. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge, and when I close the door, the three items I scribbled a few days ago glare at me.
With a sense of unhealthy satisfaction—my achievements have become laughable—I cross off one task. Boxes are gone. Perhaps I should shave and then go work off some energy in the gym. Get rid of this stupid to-do list.
When I sit down at my computer again, the envelope in my back pocket crinkles. Huh—forgot it was in there. Curiosity gets the better of me, so I pull the paper out and read it.
It takes me a few searches to learn how the envelope ended up on our floor. She must have dropped it when she trashed my things. London Lowe. She owns the hospice’s building and is the chair of the hospice’s board.
She also runs the Kyle West Foundation. It looks like Kyle was a young boy who succumbed to leukemia at nineteen. His parents must have started the foundation in his honor.
There are more charitable activities on the record, and they all lead to my neighbor. Photos online highlight her enticing greenish gray eyes, and the lips I could kiss some more. This persona is so far removed from the woman I’ve met that it piques my interest.
This construction notice must be creating havoc for the hospice. I quickly check zoning codes in that part of the city, then on an impulse, call my researcher in Chicago.
“Dominic, how are you?” Theodora asks with surprise. Shit. I forgot I shouldn’t be calling.
“Listen, T, I need help looking into Felicia Warren.” This looks like I’m working, but I’m not. I’m just curious.
“Why?” Her question is so loaded with layers I could peel them off and chew on them. It’s not just why I need info on Warren. It’s also why do I need anything? Why am I calling? How am I doing? Am I still on the verge of collapse?
But T doesn’t specify. She lets me decide which of the whys I want to answer. I choose my close coworkers well.
“Just someone I came across. Can you do it? Today?”
“Are you asking me to get you a file on a woman because she is a woman?” Mockery replaces her carefulness.
“Shut up, T. It’s not like that. When have I ever asked you to screen a woman for me? She’s a developer and I need to know how dirty she is.”
“Why do you think she’s dirty?”
“She’s a developer.” Why did I call for help? I need to tame my impulses.
“Fair point. What should I bill it against?” T sighs.
“Pro bono,” I say without thinking, but then I realize it might trigger interest from my partners. “Or could you do it off the books? I’ll pay you.”
