Hanging on a String (9 page)

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Authors: Janette M. Louard

BOOK: Hanging on a String
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I still wasn't convinced that Mariah had anything to do with Chester's murder, but Raymond was right. I decided to change the subject.
“What did you want to see me about?”
“I'm giving you the Vincent Crown case.”
The words left my mouth before I had a chance to stop them. “Have you lost your mind? This is a high-profile case. Your partners are going to have your head for this.”
His voice was cold and steady as he gave his reply. “This is my firm, and the partners all know it.”
I couldn't reply to that. It was indisputably true.
“Are you saying that you're not up to handling this case, Jasmine?”
“Of course, I'm not saying that, Raymond,” I replied. “You know that I've never backed away from assignments, and there's no reason I'd back away now, but in light of everything ... I'm not sure I'm the one you want to handle this.”
My instincts, which were now on red alert, were screaming at me that the Vincent Crown case was one to avoid, but my pride, and something else I couldn't define, prevented me from refusing the case outright.
“You're the only one I want to handle this case.”
“What does Vincent say about this?”
“He doesn't know yet,” he replied.
Vincent was going to be less than thrilled, I knew. I was a good lawyer. A damn good lawyer. But I was small time compared to Chester and many of the other criminal attorneys in the law firm. I couldn't imagine that Vincent would be very happy with me being the designated hitter.
Perhaps,
I thought, brightening a little,
he'll fire us, and the whole point will be moot.
“Vincent is coming to the office this evening around six. We'll all have a meeting then,” said Raymond.
My day had suddenly become very busy, and it seemed as if I had very little to say about the matter.
Some days,
I thought as I looked out of Raymond's window and to the street below,
I wonder why I ever became a lawyer.
8
I remained in my office, reviewing the Crown case or as much of it as I could get through in one sitting. There were fifteen files on the case, which struck me as being somewhat excessive. True, it was high profile, but the amount of paper that it had generated struck me as being unnecessary.
In addition to the various criminal pleadings and other legal documents, one of the files appeared to contain every article, both newspaper and magazine, written about Vincent and his encounter with one of New York's finest pretending to be a lady of the evening, or more appropriately, a lady of the early morning. Vincent was arrested at 4:00 a.m., trying to convince the woman in question to accompany him to a nearby hotel, which folks booked by the hour.
“A complete misunderstanding,” Vincent had explained to the
New York Daily News
a week later, in an exclusive. “The woman appeared to be in distress, and I was concerned about her. I just wanted to help her out.”
That's what you get for being a good citizen,
I thought sarcastically as I read through the various accounts of Vincent's walk on the wild side in Lower Manhattan. The articles dealt with everything from Vincent's four marriages, his recent divorce, and prostitutes who claimed to have shared their favors with him on a regular basis to his meteoric rise to the upper echelons of the moneyed and the powerful, and his humble beginnings in the Bronx. A New York success story gone wrong.
I shook my head as I read more from Vincent's interview in the
New York Daily News.
According to him, he was being framed by unnamed political foes. (“They know who they are.”) Being set up, apparently, hadn't stopped Vincent from actively pursuing a plea bargain almost from the day he was arrested. I did not want this case.
I opened another file, which contained more articles, and saw a picture of Vincent standing next to Chester's “wife of the heart.” There were a few other people in the picture, all of them attending an opening of a new childcare facility in Harlem. Chester's wife of the heart was smiling directly into the camera, and Vincent was looking at her quite carefully. From where I sat, I thought that he was looking at her with distrust, but I was sure that recent events had colored my judgment a bit regarding men. In the caption underneath the picture, the woman was identified as Winter Reed, Vincent Crown's assistant.
I suppose Winter wouldn't be the first lover to masquerade as a secretary; still, I wondered which came first, the relationship or the job title. Her beauty was undeniable, and I understood why men would be attracted to her. The grainy black-and-white photograph showed a slim, young woman, with a face that looked as if it regularly graced fashion magazine covers. What part of the puzzle did Winter fit? Did Vincent know about Winter and Chester before the news conference? Did she know about Chester's embezzlement? It sounded like a soap opera to me, and unfortunately, I was in the middle of it, at least until Raymond figured out what he was going to do to save his firm, and my livelihood.
I turned my attention to the newspaper on my desk. SECRET LIFE OF SLAIN ATTORNEY screamed the headline, with a picture of Winter Reed staring into the camera. Her eyes had a look of determination, and I thought to myself that she seemed too young to have such hard eyes. Calculating. That was the look the camera caught. As well as beautiful. I read the accompanying article briefly, but I didn't learn much about Winter, except that she was from a small town in upstate New York, and she was a former beauty queen. There were a lot of quotes about Winter having numerous boyfriends back then, but that was about it. There was one quote from Winter's mother, which I found memorable. “I don't know nothing about it,” she was quoted as saying to the reporter. “I didn't raise my daughter to be no tramp. Winter made her bed, and she's got to lie in it.”
She made her bed, and she's got to lie in it.
I had heard that saying on numerous occasions, usually as a prelude to a cautionary tale. But Winter looked triumphant in her front-page picture. She looked smug. The bed that Winter was lying in was apparently quite comfortable.
The sound of the phone ringing interrupted my thoughts, and I picked up the receiver. My secretary informed me that Detective Claremont was here to see me. I glanced at the clock on my wall. Exactly three o'clock. The good detective was apparently very prompt.
“Send him in,” I said, with as much enthusiasm as someone about to meet a firing squad. I was still embarrassed about our earlier conversation.
In a few moments, a knock on my closed door signaled his arrival.
“Come in,” I called out.
Marcus Claremont opened the door and walked into my office, closing the door behind him. I rose to greet him, and we shook hands, rather ceremoniously, over my desk.
“Please sit down,” I said, in an attempt to show that I was not at all fazed by our earlier conversation.
Once again the attraction that I felt for him gripped me as I stared at his handsome face. He looked great ... and the wide smile with which he greeted me was warm and inviting. I didn't understand the effect he was having on me. I'd met many handsome men, but no one, not even my ex-husband, had caused me to feel such a strong and immediate attraction.
“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” he said as he sat down in the same chair he had yesterday.
I sat down as well, and we faced each other, my desk providing the dividing line. I watched as he placed one strong brown hand on his knee and had a vision of that hand being somewhere else far more intimate.
Clearing my throat nervously, I said, “Detective, I'm extremely busy.”
He smiled at me. “So you keep telling me. Are you always this direct, Miss Spain?”
“Absolutely,” I replied. “I don't believe in playing games. Call me Jasmine. The only people who call me Miss Spain don't like me.”
“Well,” he said, looking straight into my eyes, “I certainly don't fall into that category.”
He was flirting with me again, and what's more, I was beginning to enjoy myself. I needed some sort of intervention. I needed someone to talk some sense into me.
“Well, if I'm going to call you Jasmine, then you'll have to call me Marcus.”
This was definitely not the kind of intervention I needed.
“Fine,” I replied, hoping to get this conversation over quickly. I wanted to leap across the desk and fling myself at him. I most definitely needed a vacation.
“I need to ask you some questions,” he said.
“Go right ahead.”
“When was the last time you saw Chester Jackson?”
Chester. Right. The reason Marcus Claremont was sitting in my office. I immediately felt guilty. A man was dead, and here I was thinking inappropriate thoughts about the handsome detective.
It took me a moment to figure out when I'd last seen Chester. Then, I remembered.
“I saw him the night before he was murdered.”
Chester had been working late with Nina. I had seen them working in the conference room, with papers spread out over the conference table. I relayed this information to the detective.
“Did you speak to him?”
“No.” Chester had looked up and seen me staring into the conference room. He'd smiled and said, “Working late, Jasmine?” I didn't reply. Instead, I kept walking toward my office. That was the last communication we had. At the time, his pleasantness had struck me as odd; usually, he was either sullen or uncommunicative. But that night he was positively bubbling over with good cheer. Nina, too, looked quite happy. They looked, to me, as if they were sharing a private joke. I now knew what the joke was.
“Did he appear to be upset about anything?”
“Not at all. He seemed quite happy,” I replied. “I hardly spoke to the man. Maybe you should ask someone who was close to Chester these questions.”
“I appreciate your trying to help me out,” Detective Claremont replied, “but you're really going to have to trust me on this, Jasmine. I do know how to do my job. I'm good at it. Got the citations and everything to prove it.”
“What do you want to know?” I asked.
“I want to know whether there is any reason why your business card was found in Chester's pants pocket the morning he died.”
“What?”
I asked, not sure whether or not I'd heard the detective correctly. He repeated the question.
“I have no idea,” I replied, taken aback. “We were working on a case together. Other than that, I can't imagine why he would have my business card.”
“I've heard that you two were quite close at one point.”
Damn Raquel and her big mouth.
“Ancient history,” I replied. “Really, really ancient history.”
“I heard it was a bad breakup,” he continued in a neutral tone, as if he was discussing the weather or the latest Knicks score.
“Is there any other kind?” I asked. As charming as he was, he was starting to annoy me. I didn't like talking about failed relationships, especially failed relationships with murder victims, more especially murder victims with my business card in their pockets.
“I had to ask, Jasmine.”
“I understand,” I said, but my voice was tight. I was very uncomfortable talking to Marcus Claremont about Chester. I wondered if he knew that Chester had dumped me. My pride stung. I didn't want him to know this.
“Personally, I think he was a fool.” Detective Claremont's words interrupted my thoughts.
“Excuse me?” I asked, not sure that I'd heard him correctly.
“I think that Chester Jackson was a fool. Any man that could let a woman like you go is a fool.”
“Could we change the subject, please?” I asked. The last thing I wanted to talk to Marcus Claremont about was my personal relationship with Chester.
“I hope I didn't upset you,” he said.
“Not at all,” I lied.
Detective Claremont spent the next hour asking me questions about my professional relationship with Chester, past and recent, as well as Chester's relationship with other employees at the firm. I was glad that he had left the personal inquiries behind. At the end of the interrogation, he stood up and thanked me.
“I'll be in touch,” he said. Once again, his words sounded like an intimate promise, and I suppressed a shiver, although in the back of my mind, I hoped that Detective Claremont had not added my name to a list of potential suspects.
“What about Raymond Bustamante?” he asked as he walked toward my office door. “Any bad blood between the two?”
Absolutely,
I thought, but prudently, I decided to keep this information to myself.
“As a lawyer, the one thing I always counsel my clients not to do is speculate. Any answer to that question would be pure speculation,” I replied.
He gave me a smile. “Damn, you're good. I hope I never get in trouble, but if I ever do, remind me to look you up.”
“Have a good day, Detective Claremont.”
“I thought we'd moved on to a first-name basis.”
I stretched out my hand, letting him know that our meeting was over. “Have a good day, Marcus.”
He shook my hand. “It's been good seeing you again, Jasmine.”
As I stared into his eyes, I thought to myself that this charming, handsome man was definitely trouble. Big trouble.

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