Authors: James Patterson,Mark Sullivan
Private L.A. (35 page)
First Jennifer and then Thom Harlow nodded.
“Smart move,” I said. “Term three: financial control of Sharing Hands, including the endowment fund, will be turned over to an independent and impartial trustee, who will manage it the way it is supposed to be managed. In this case, that trustee will be Cynthia Maines.”
All eyes turned to the Harlows’ former personal assistant, who said, “I feel like I have a lot to make up for.”
Sanders looked ready to argue but said, “We agree. Anything else?”
“Yes, one last term,” Justine said before staring at Thom Harlow. “The Harlows will sponsor Anita Fontana, Maria Toro, and Jacinta Feliz for US citizenship. The Harlows will also pay Ms. Fontana a sum of three million—”
“What!” Sanders thundered.
“Three million dollars,” Justine insisted, “and guarantee that Ms. Fontana will be given unrestricted access to her son, Miguel, and to Malia and Jin. The cook and the maid will receive a million apiece.”
This last exchange caught the Harlow-Quinn team completely off-guard.
“Wait a second,” Camilla Bronson said. “Miguel’s Anita’s—?”
“Deal,” Jennifer Harlow said.
“Excellent doing business with you,” I said, standing up and pocketing the check Terry Graves had given me. “Once Ms. Maines assures me that all the money you siphoned from the orphans’ fund has been repaid in full, I’ll cash this, use it to fund pro bono work.”
“THAT WENT BETTER
than expected,” Justine said when we’d gotten back to her car and were heading to the office.
“It did, didn’t it?” I said, feeling like we’d actually righted wrongs.
“Karma will still find them, you know,” Justine said. “The Harlows. What goes around comes around.”
“Let’s hope they avoid it for a little while longer,” I replied, then glanced over at her. “You look happy.”
“Do I?” Justine said. “Well, I suppose I am.”
“For a while there, I thought you were sick or something.”
I caught a hesitation before Justine said, “Maybe I was. I’m getting over it.”
She didn’t say another word, and I figured that was the way she wanted it. I looked out the window the rest of the drive back, past Disney and Universal and up over Barham Boulevard to Mulholland Drive and down into Hollywood, thinking that there was no real truth in L.A., only the clever stories people choose to tell themselves and to believe.
“Want to go somewhere, get another drink?” I asked Justine when we pulled up in front of Private’s offices.
“Doctor’s appointment,” Justine said.
I peered at her. “You okay?”
“Getting close,” she replied.
“You ever want to talk—”
“I know,” she said.
I got out, watched Justine drive away, and suddenly felt exhausted and in need of a vacation.
“Jack Morgan?”
“Yes,” I said, turning to see a stocky bald guy walking toward me, hand reaching inside his jacket.
My mind screamed,
Gun! Carmine’s hired someone else to—
“Consider yourself served and subpoenaed,” the bald guy said, slapping a sheaf of court papers against my chest.
I took them, opened them as he walked away, found that the subpoena had been filed by Shank, Rossi, and Petard—one of the premier criminal-defense firms in the country—in the case of
California v. Thomas Morgan, Jr.
TOMMY WAS WASTING
no time in bringing me into an airing of his dirty stories. The trial date was at least four months away, but he and his high-dollar lawyers—courtesy, no doubt, of one Carmine Noccia—were letting me know in no uncertain terms that they planned to put me on the stand.
I almost went inside. But it was all so depressing that I just started walking. I didn’t want to think about my brother, or Carmine, or whoever might have hired the hit man who’d tried to kill me at Justine’s. I didn’t want to rethink the Harlows and how we’d played them. I didn’t even want to think about Del Rio and the fact that he’d be leaving for a more aggressive rehab unit in the morning.
I just wanted to walk until I had a clear mind, and then maybe go look for a little fun, a little peace, a little time away from me. I set off down Sunset Boulevard, a man without a car, a freakish thing in L.A., moving with no particular place to go, hoping for serendipity to—
My phone rang. I stopped, closed my eyes, and prayed it wasn’t someone like Sherman Wilkerson, my client who’d discovered the first bodies in the No Prisoners case, telling me about some emergency I had to attend to, clean up.
But it was a number I didn’t recognize.
I answered, “Jack Morgan.”
“I was thinking again that we’ve had enough dress rehearsals, Jack,” crooned Guin Scott-Evans.
I smiled. “Were you really?”
“I was,” she said. “I am.”
“Where are you?”
“My place,” she said. “I got home yesterday.”
“You have plans tonight?”
“That’s why I called. I was hoping
you
might have a plan, Jack.”
My smile broadened. I crammed the subpoena into one of my pockets, feeling serendipity swirling my way, and said, “Meet me at my place in an hour. I’ll be showered, changed, and ready. I’ll take you out for a first-class meal, an excellent bottle of wine, and … well.”
“A grand opening night?” she teased.
“I was thinking
Masterpiece Theatre
.”
“Oooh, I want front-row seats for that performance.”
JUSTINE DROVE NORTH
on the Pacific Coast Highway. The sun had set. She’d just left her fifth session with her therapist, Ellen Hayes, since returning from Mexico. Things were better. Not perfect. But better. She’d gotten perspective on what had happened to her in the jail cell in Guadalajara, and on the Harlows, especially now that she and Jack had put the screws to them.
But Justine remained unsure of how and where to talk to Paul, and what she should say to him. She hadn’t gone to Crossfit once since coming back for fear of running into him. Her therapist had recommended the direct approach in a quiet, neutral venue, like a Starbucks.
Was that the way to go?
I need a man’s perspective
, Justine thought, and it became clear to her that she had to go to Jack’s. And then she realized that subconsciously she’d already been on her way there.
I’ll tell him
, she decided.
Everything. I’ll ask his advice
.
A few minutes later, Justine almost pulled into his driveway but saw two cars she didn’t recognize. That wasn’t unusual. One of Jack’s few vices, besides Midleton Very Rare Irish Whiskey, was a love of high-performance cars.
He bought and traded them all the time.
Justine parked up the street, thought about calling ahead but figured Jack wouldn’t be upset if she just knocked on his door.
He said any time I wanted to talk, didn’t he?
Jack’s house was set slightly down the bank. A high hedge helped block it from the highway bustle. Justine was almost to the end of that hedge, almost to his driveway, when she heard a door open, footsteps, and a woman laughing.
Jack joined her, saying, “I swear to God!”
The woman said, “I like you, Jack Morgan. You are a funny guy.”
Justine knew that voice, that accent, didn’t she? Australian? “And I don’t think I know a smarter, funnier, or more beautiful woman,” Jack replied.
Unable to help herself now, Justine peered through the hedge and saw Guin Scott-Evans climbing into the passenger side of a black Mercedes sports car. She looked absolutely stunning.
Justine’s stomach fell a long, long way, and she was suddenly hyperaware that she was horribly alone in life. Jack was dating Guin Scott-Evans? When had that started? The memory of what Justine had once had with Jack seemed almost suffocating right then.
“Not sexy?” Guin said, and shut the door of the Mercedes.
“Oh, you’ve got that sexy thing in spades and aces,” Jack said, climbing into the driver’s side, shutting the door, and starting the engine.
For a second there, as Jack was getting into that Mercedes, Justine saw him clearly in the light. He looked genuinely happy, the kind of happy you didn’t see often. It was that rare a thing.
Justine spun around and hurried away up the sidewalk as the Mercedes backed out and drove off, heading south. She stood by her car, watched them leave. Jack’s taillights blurred into every other taillight in Los Angeles and disappeared.
For a long moment, Justine just stood there, staring off at the point where she’d lost them, telling herself it was good that Jack had someone new and exciting in his life, even though it made her realize she had feelings for Jack that she just couldn’t ignore. She couldn’t stop herself from hoping that maybe one day, they would make it work.
You’ve done a lot of things tougher than this, little sister
.
Wiping away a few tears, Justine already felt stronger, as if she’d shouldered the weight and was ready to do the heavy lifting in her life again.
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Version 1.0
Epub ISBN 9781448108435
Published by Century, 2014
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Copyright © James Patterson, 2014
James Patterson has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
First published in Great Britain in 2014 by
Century
Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,
London SW1V 2SA
Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at:
www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm
The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Hardback ISBN 9781780890210
Trade paperback ISBN 9781780890227