Chapter 12
CHAPTER 12
Sylvia was easy to spot in spite of the crowds in Union Station. Elevated by what I could only assume was a pair of four-inch stilettos, the leopard-print fedora atop her bouffant coif stood out like a tacky Vegas billboard. I stood on my toes and waved, catching her attention over the masses of commuters. She started toward me, her red leather handbag slung over one arm and held out in front of her like a phalanx. The other dragged a carry-on suitcase behind her. She smiled wide enough to reveal the lipstick on her teeth when we got within clear sight of each other. She peeled off an enormous pair of sunglasses that, coupled with her faux-fur stole, made her look like the cartoon version of some nocturnal jungle creature I’d seen in a Disney movie with my kids. Sylvia slowed, her smile collapsing as she scrutinized me from head to toe.
“Oh, god. It’s worse than I thought,” she said. For one interminable, hopeful moment, I thought she might cancel the meeting and get on a train back to New York. She rose up on the toes of her shoes and held her glasses in front her eyes, squinting through the lenses to the far corners of the terminal. “There!” she said, pushing her way past me with her wheelie bag in tow. It bounced unapologetically past briefcases and over other people’s feet as she forced her way through the crowd.
“The exit’s the other way, Syl. Where are you going?” I had little choice but to follow her as her heels clacked ferociously through the depot and into the nearest ladies’ room.
“It’s a good thing I brought a suitcase. See? I knew there was a reason I couldn’t find a train back to New York tonight. It’s kismet. Put this on,” she said, digging into her carry-on and shoving a wad of nylon and spandex at me.
I felt the blood drain from my face. “What do you mean, you couldn’t find a train back?”
“All they had was coach. You know I don’t do coach. I booked my return trip for tomorrow. I’m spending the night at your house. I hope you got everything on the shopping list I sent you. I only drink Evian. And I don’t sleep on anything that doesn’t have at least five hundred thread count.”
“Sylvia—!”
“Have you seen the prices of hotels in DC? If you wanted me to stay at the Ritz-Carlton, you should have written a better book.” She pushed me backward into an empty stall, slammed the door shut, and slung a pointy, heavily padded bra over the partition. She dropped a pair of stilettos on the floor and kicked them under the door.
“Those are never going to fit me.”
“Small breasts are nothing to be ashamed of, Finlay.”
“I was talking about the shoes!”
“So we’ll tighten the straps. On the bra, too. Please tell me you at least shaved your legs. Never mind,” she said when I didn’t answer. “It’s a nice place we’re going to. I’m sure they’ll have tablecloths. Just don’t let him play footsie with you unless he’s wearing socks.”
“Sylvia!”
“I’m kidding. Sheesh! I’m your agent, not your pimp. I would never let him put a hand on you… unless he can get us Joe Manganiello to play the cop. If he can pull that off, he can have me, too.”
“That’s not funny.”
“Just put on the damn dress and let’s go! We’re going to be late.”
I stared at the dress, then down at my damp clothes. Then at the wall behind me, praying there was a window I could crawl out of so I could go home.
This will be fine , I told myself.
It was just a meeting over a meal with a powerful man who wanted to negotiate a deal with me. At least this guy had a pulse, which was a step in the right direction.
With a resigned swear, I stripped off my sweats and sports bra and kicked them out from under the stall. I fed my arms through Sylvia’s bra and cinched the straps as far as they would go. “There are still gaps in the cups.”
“The universe only gives us as much as we can handle. Try these.” My balled-up socks flew back over the partition, and I scrambled to catch them before they could fall in the toilet.
“You want me to stuff my bra with socks?”
“Men stuff their underwear all the time. Especially celebrities.”
“I’m not a celebrity.”
“Not yet. But after this meeting, you will be. I feel it, Finlay. This lunch is going to be your big break.”
Assuming a sock ball didn’t come bursting out of my bra when I shook the producer’s hand. “Great. No pressure,” I said, pulling the dress over my head. My hair crackled with static as I adjusted the stretchy material to cover as much of Sylvia’s undergarments as possible. “What’s that smell?” I asked, wrinkling my nose at the disturbingly familiar scent that wafted from a sock ball as I stuffed it into place.
“It’s lavender. I told you I came prepared. It’s great for masking odors.”
A dark laugh bubbled out of me. This did not bode well. I gritted my teeth as I stepped into her shoes.
She beamed at them when I opened the door. Her smile crumbled as her gaze climbed up to my hair. “Come here,” she said, rummaging through her handbag. She pulled a bottle of Aqua Net from its depths like it was Mary Poppins’s carpetbag. I forced myself not to contemplate murder as she ran her hands under the faucet, then through my hair, and scrunched. The jail time wouldn’t be worth it. At least that’s what I told myself as she sprayed a cloud of hair spray around me that could have raised the global temperature by at least five degrees.
“Can we please just not?” I swatted her hand away as she swiped ruthlessly at my mouth with a tube of burgundy lipstick.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t push my luck,” she said, returning her arsenal of cosmetics to her bag and checking her handiwork. “Let’s get out of here. Hollywood awaits.”
Ten minutes, a twisted ankle, and three blisters later, we were standing on a street corner in front of a restaurant called The Palm. I’d heard of it before, mostly through local name-droppers. It was a popular lunch spot among politicos and the who’s who of DC, the kind of place an aspiring politician like Brendan would probably want to visit, if only to tick it off his bucket list.
I stepped aside, making room for a group of businesswomen in Ann Taylor suits as they left the restaurant. I could do this, I told myself. The producer would take one look at the ridiculous getup I was wearing and change his mind about wanting to meet with me at all. There was no way he’d want to turn my book into a movie. At worst, he’d take pity on me and make an unreasonably low offer. That wouldn’t be so bad, right? Those kinds of deals never made it into the headlines. And nobody bothered to watch low-budget films, anyway.
Sylvia took me by the arm and dragged me inside the restaurant.
“There he is,” she said, standing on her toes and waving her fingers at a man seated alone in a far corner of the dining room. The man stood to greet us as the hostess led us to his table. Randall Wolfe looked exactly how I expected a Hollywood producer would. His teeth had been bleached an unearthly shade of white, his wrinkles and crow’s-feet had been spackled over with fillers, and the plugs in his hairline were the only remaining evidence of his age. I was quick to shake his hand when he offered it, if only to fast-forward the nightmare to the part where I got to sit down.
“See? Tablecloths,” Sylvia whispered as she claimed the seat beside me.
Randall held his silk tie to his chest as he sat. “I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to finally meet you, Fiona.”
Sylvia nudged my leg under the table.
“Oh, right!” I said. “Please, call me Finlay.”
“Fiona Donahue is her pen name,” Sylvia explained. “Randall Wolfe, meet Finlay Donovan, your future star.”
Randall leaned in. “A secret identity! How apropos.”
I choked on a laugh. “If you only knew.”
Randall folded his ring-laden hands atop his menu. “You have such a gift, Finlay. The danger, the intrigue, the sexual tension. It all feels so real. So authentic! I love how you put me so deeply inside the head of a killer. It’s all so inspired.” He leaned closer. “Tell me everything. You must have an inside source.”
“Nope. No source,” I said, snapping open my menu and hiding behind it. “It’s all just… right up here.” I fired a finger gun at my head.
“Don’t be silly,” Sylvia said. “Of course, she has a source. Tell him about Nick.”
Randall raised an eyebrow. Sylvia pushed my menu down and jabbed an elbow in my side.
“Sylvia, I really don’t think—”
“Nick is a detective,” Sylvia said with gravitas. “And he’s every bit as hot as the cop in her book.”
Randall rubbed his hands together. “Now we’re getting somewhere. That’s just the kind of angle that could help me pitch this as a series.”
I could practically see the dollar signs twinkling in Sylvia’s eyes. She gestured above her to an imaginary marquis. “Steamy legal drama featuring a star-crossed romance?”
“Better,” Randall said with a flourish. “Gritty, sexy procedural based on real-life events. The networks will eat it up. Tell me, Finlay, how do you feel about the small screen?”
My mouth went dry and I nearly dropped my menu. “I guess that depends…” on how small the TV screens are in prison. I reached for my ice water, spilling some down the front of my dress. The smell of wet lavender hit me square in the face as I sucked down a huge gulp.
“I think what Finlay means,” Sylvia said coolly, passing me a napkin, “is that it really depends on the deal your studio is prepared to make. We have several other parties interested in her book.”
If we were counting crime lords, detectives, the IRS, and my ex-husband’s divorce lawyer.
An ice cube clanked against my teeth. I held up my empty glass and looked around the room for a server. With any luck, they’d sense my desperation and bring me something with booze in it.
“I’m sure you do,” the producer said as he perused his menu. “But not everyone can attach the kind of talent that I can to a project like this.”
Sylvia narrowed her eyes. “What kind of talent?”
“We’d plan to go out exclusively to A-list actors for reads.”
“Keep talking.”
“And of course, there’s the issue of expense if we want to stay true to the source material. Between the set pieces, the pyrotechnics, the extensive stunt work, and the high-end sports cars, it would require quite an investment to get it off the ground.” He stared at me as he stroked his chin. “Not just any production company can commit to that kind of budget, but I’m prepared to make a big up-front commitment for this.”
“How big?” Sylvia asked eagerly.
“I can get Finlay fifty thousand for the rights if you take it off the table today.”
“A hundred,” Sylvia countered.
I fought back a laugh. That might be enough to cover my bail bond.
“Seventy-five,” Randall said. “But I’d insist on bringing in her source as a consultant.”
Great . Maybe they can hire Nick to consult at my criminal trial, too.
“Throw in executive producer fees with her own card in the opening credits, the surf and turf with the tiramisu, and we’ll call the whole thing good.”
“Sure you didn’t miss anything?” I deadpanned to Sylvia.
“You’re absolutely right. I almost forgot.” She turned to the producer. “We want a cameo in the pilot, too.”
“Done,” he said, shaking her hand across the table. “I’ll even throw in a bottle of bubbly to celebrate.” I covered my face as Randall signaled to a waiter.
Sylvia clutched my knee under the table and whispered, “See? The socks really did the trick. You’re going to be huge, Finlay. The talk of the town. In a few months, you’ll be headline news. Hometown Mystery Author Locks in a Killer Deal for Her New Hit Series. ”
I just hoped my killer deal included a decent plea bargain.
“Would you excuse me?” I slid out from behind the table as the waiter popped the cork, leaving Sylvia and Randall to toast their victory without me. I hurried between the rows of tables, desperate to get to the ladies’ room and splash water on my face. How was this happening? How had I just accepted an offer to adapt a television series based on my own crime?
My feet wobbled in Sylvia’s gaping heels. I stumbled, nearly tripping over them, when a set of familiar hazel eyes found mine across the dining room.
Julian Baker did a double take. His bored, tuned-out expression grew suddenly intense and alert. The attractive older man seated across the table from him didn’t seem to notice. I pretended not to notice, too, as Julian rose from his seat.
I covered the side of my face as he navigated between the tables toward me. Julian and I had only dated for a few weeks last fall. Our relationship had been hot and liberating and refreshingly honest, but I had known early on it wasn’t going to work. He was nine years my junior and still in law school, and I was a single mom in the aftermath of a divorce. We were at very different places in our lives, and yet somehow the universe kept throwing us together.
He called my name before I made it to the ladies’ room. I turned, crossing my arms self-consciously over the sock balls in my bra.
“Julian! What a surprise,” I said, pretending I had not just sprinted through The Palm to avoid him. The smell of lavender bloomed from my sweaty cleavage and I discreetly stuffed the errant sock ball back inside its cup. “What are you doing here?” I asked, trying and failing to ignore his befuddled glance at my chest before he forced his eyes back to mine. He had seen under my brassieres enough to know exactly what I was (and was not) packing inside them.
“Business lunch,” he said, hitching a thumb toward the table he’d just escaped from.
“Going well?”
“Yeah, great. You?”
“Very.” We were both terrible liars.
He glanced over his shoulder at the colleague he’d been meeting with. The man bore a striking resemblance to Julian, with the same athletic build and sun-kissed skin, but the man’s honey-blond curls were streaked with silver.
“Come on,” Julian said, hooking an index finger around my pinkie. He led me to the emergency exit at the back of the restaurant. We emerged in an alley behind the building. A weight seemed to fall from his shoulders as he leaned back against the brick.
His tie fell askew, the late February wind tossing a curl over his eyes. They closed with relief as he took the first full breath either of us had probably drawn since we’d entered the place.
“That bad, huh?” I asked, slumping against the wall beside him.
His laugh was as dry as his sidelong look. “My father,” he explained. “Courtland Baker. Senior partner at Baker & Stratton.” The title sounded sour on his tongue. “He thinks I’m wasting my talent. Why should I sling drinks at a bar after slaving away at the county courthouse all day as a public defender when I could be following in his footsteps, doing lunch with investment bankers and highbrow clients at The Palm? He thinks it’s beneath me.” Julian sighed and shook his head. “Forget it. I haven’t seen you in weeks and here I am, wasting a perfectly good five minutes in an alley with you to bitch about my dad.” He rolled sideways on one shoulder, smiling as he tugged the edge of the sock ball peeking out of my blouse. “I’d say you look great, but honestly, you look like your meeting is going about as well as mine. Everything okay?”
I cringed. “I think I just accepted an offer for a TV show.”
Julian’s eyebrows disappeared under his curls. “Seriously? That’s amazing. So why don’t you look happy about it?”
I considered kicking off my shoes, sitting down on the pavement, and venting to him about everything. He was the only person aside from Vero who knew the truth about what had happened between Harris Mickler and me. Or how closely aligned that story was to the book I’d written. I knew he would listen—and probably give me great advice—but it didn’t feel right to use him as a sounding board for things I hadn’t confided to Nick. “It’s… complicated.”
Julian nodded as if that somehow made sense. “How are things with Detective Anthony?”
“Good. I think. I don’t know,” I confessed, resting my head against the wall. “That’s also complicated.”
He nodded as if he understood that, too.
“How about you? Are you seeing anyone?” His roommate, Parker, was a brilliant young prosecutor. She was gorgeous and crazy about him, and I had assumed it would only be a matter of time before they got back together.
His shrug was noncommittal. “No one I’d accept a ride in a minivan with.”
I laughed, careful not to hold his gaze too long. I didn’t have any regrets about ending things with Julian, but I would probably always hold a soft spot for him. By the look on his face, he’d hold one for me, too.
“I was going to call you last night,” he said. “I got worried when I saw the story on the news, but I didn’t want to overstep. I read up on the Dupree investigation, just to make sure…” He paused.
“That I wasn’t the new person of interest in the case?” I asked. A guilty flush rushed to his cheeks, and I shook my head. “This murder, at least, has nothing to do with me.”
“What about your ex-husband?”
I stuck a finger in Sylvia’s shoe and rubbed the blister on my heel. “I don’t think so. I suspect someone else, but I don’t have any evidence to prove it.”
“Then I guess I can’t be mad about you dating a police officer,” Julian teased. “That doesn’t mean I have to like it, but at least I know you’ll be safe if there’s a killer running loose in your neighborhood. Maybe Nick can help get your ex off the hook, assuming that’s what you want.” It came out like a question, and honestly, I wasn’t sure I knew the answer. To some degree, Steven had made his own bed, and a broken, bitter piece of me wanted to watch him sleep in it. The same piece of me that wanted to believe that Penny and Mrs. Haggerty were right—that I would be better off if he wasn’t in the picture. I wanted my kids all the time, not just some of it. I wanted the security that came with not having to pay my ex-husband rent, and a life that didn’t necessitate coparenting strategies and custody agreements. But my gut—the piece of me that had been niggling at me since I’d left Penny’s house—was screaming at me that Steven didn’t do this. And I didn’t want my kids’ relationship with their father to be reduced to visiting days once a month within the walls of a state prison.
“I don’t think there’s much Nick can do for him. Steven insisted on using one of his buddies to represent him—a divorce lawyer. The guy’s good, but I’m worried.”
“Want me to make a few calls?” Julian offered. “I can at least make sure he’s in capable hands.”
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
He tipped my chin up to look me in the eyes. “You can, and I would. Let me know if you change your mind.”
I released a held breath. “Thank you.”
He pushed himself off the wall and extended a hand, helping me upright. “I should get back inside before my dad leaves me with the check.” He opened his arms for a parting hug. “I’m happy for you, Finlay. Nick’s a great guy.” Julian’s smile was wistful when he finally pulled away. “If things get too complicated, you know where to find me.”
I watched him walk back into the restaurant, feeling both lighter and heavier than I had in a long time. Talking to Julian was like confessing to a hot priest. I felt cleansed and absolved after every conversation with him (and wouldn’t have minded occasionally worshipping under his cassock), but I couldn’t make myself feel about him the way I felt about Nick.
There was only one man I truly wanted to be with, and confessing my sins to him wasn’t an option.
Steeling myself, I walked back into the restaurant. Nick wanted me to tell him something that scared me. This damn TV series was only the start.