Wasted Heart (Special Edition) Read online

  I watched where they went before heading in the direction of my loft. Call me paranoid, but eight years in the commonwealth attorney’s office before becoming an AUSA here made me aware of the “things that can happen.” I felt fairly safe here, not as safe as I did in Virginia but safe enough.

  Virginia. Don’t start thinking about that again. Seattle was a great career move, a healthy personal move, and a beautiful place to live—once you get used to the rain, and the grey, and the dreariness. Locals promised me the summer would be worth the move. Yet it was June already, and so far, no sign of summer.

  Turning the corner onto my block, I counted the number of people still on the street and calculated my reaction time if someone approached me. Only then did I allow myself to take in the view of Lake Union. Sailboats drifted through the ship canal over to Lake Washington, a pontoon plane took off for destinations unknown, and luxury yachts hosted private parties, many with live music aboard. This was a beautiful spot, and I almost felt comfortable. We can talk about that later.

  I keyed into the security door of my building and waited for the resounding thump of the heavy door to close behind me. Bypassing the elevator, I hustled up the staircase to the third floor. This and the staircase in the courthouse served as my only exercise some weeks. One of my Virginia friends, Jessie, a personal trainer who obsessed over all things fitness related would kill me if she knew.

  “Hey there,” a voice called out from the top of the staircase. I heard familiar whimpering sounds before either the owner of the voice or the dogs came into view.

  “Hi, Helen,” I responded, shifting my briefcase to my shoulder and sticking out both hands to use as dog blockers. My dry cleaning bill suffered the most when I couldn’t resist getting in my doggy time with these two. “Hello, Clesy. Com’ere, Cleo.” I encouraged both dogs into a manageable love fest.

  “One last walkies before bedtime,” Helen informed me. Her friendly eyes radiated worry about her dogs and my black suit. She reigned in the leashes to keep the dogs from total fur devastation of my outfit. I envied her strength and balance. I’d gotten the impression that she’d not always been the specimen of fitness she was today and savored the new physique more so than someone who’d always been trim. No doubt it was responsible for her being better at living than most people.

  We shared the top floor of the building that housed her restaurant. There were four lofts one flight below us, and her restaurant and a kayak shop owned by her husband took up the first floor. It was small by Seattle standards, but perfectly situated on the bank of Lake Union.

  “It’s turned beautiful after the rainy day,” I told her, knowing that it wouldn’t matter. Helen walked, ran, rowed, biked, swam, hiked, and pretty much anything else rain or shine.

  “You just getting home?”

  “I’ve got a trial starting tomorrow. If you hear me talking to myself tonight, pay no attention. I’m still tweaking the opening.” I gave a final pat to each dog.

  “Knock on my door if you want a mock jury to try out your opening.” Helen wrangled the dogs past me and started down the stairs.

  “Thanks for the offer.” I climbed the remaining two steps to our floor.

  “Oh, Will called to ask if I’d seen you this week. She’s in town and said she couldn’t get you on the phone. Guess she thought she’d utilize my proximity.”

  I wiped the guilty look off my face before turning to say, “That’s right, she’s here this week. I’ve been so wrapped up in trial prep I haven’t had time to call.”

  “I told her I hadn’t seen you. There might come a time when I want to avoid her and rely on you not to give me up.” She laughed easily, very used to dealing with her sister’s protectiveness. When she laughed, she sounded like her sister. Her honey blond hair, hazel eyes, button nose, and longer frame differed from her sister as much as a stranger’s would. But that laugh, well, it was Willa’s. Yes, I live next door to my best friend’s sister. Unhealthy, I know.

  “Good deal,” I responded casually and watched her dogs pull her down the stairs.

  Gaining entry to my loft, I dropped my briefcase and slumped against the closed door. Tension drained out of my body. I loved being at home, especially this home with its wide open design, strategically placed furniture, and kitchen that would make professional chefs cry with joy. Yet another perk of moving to Seattle: the loft of my dreams rather than my studio apartment back in Virginia. Of course, this wouldn’t be possible if it weren’t for Willa’s generosity, but that was a whole ‘nother story.

  “Man, that was a long day,” I spoke aloud. I talk to myself, get used to it.

  My coat slid easily off my arms, and I tossed it onto the rack by the door then kicked off my heels to pad into the kitchen. My nightly battle with dinner selections was about to begin. I’m not a foodie. In fact, if I could hook up to an I.V. that provided enough nutrition to keep me alive, I wouldn’t miss a thing about eating.

  Three messages waited for me. Did I want to listen to them? No. Should I listen to them? Yes. We’ll go over me being unsociable at another time.

  “Hi, Austy, it’s Kami.” Great! My second Seattle disaster, I mean, date, had somehow tracked down my phone number. “I had such a great time last week at dinner I was hoping to hear from you. Then I realized that you didn’t have my number. I had to ask Ruth for yours when I ran into her last night.” Damn, Ruth! Wasn’t it in the Lesbian Code of Conduct that you didn’t give out someone’s phone number without her consent? Maybe the Code differed from state to state. Not even the most obnoxious matchmaker in Virginia would violate that policy. “I was hoping we could have dinner again?”

  “Of course you were,” I spoke to the answering machine. Not because I was such a dating delight, but because the date hadn’t been one I’d want to repeat in this or any of my next three lifetimes. So, naturally, with my luck, she’d want to go out again.

  When we’d met, Kami seemed both sure of herself and a pleasant conversationalist. That opinion might’ve had to do with my discomfort at being dragged to a bar by my friend Cyrah. I’d never been much of a partier, and I’d left the bar scene back at law school. In Virginia, I’d go with my group of friends to the only gay and lesbian club in town just so I could hang out with them. Here, it seemed the only way to meet other lesbians. Willa introduced me to Ruth who introduced me to Cyrah. I liked Cyrah, loved Willa, and managed not to strike Ruth whenever I ran into her. Now she was handing out my phone number. Yep, sure was great being a lesbian in Seattle.

  I’d wanted to decline when she asked me out. Then I remembered how nerve wracking it was to ask someone out, how unhealthy my love life was, and how it wouldn’t kill me to get some coffee with her. Yet, when coffee turned into dinner because of my work schedule, I grew increasingly nervous. I suck at dating, often feeling like I’m possessed by someone else on a date. Someone else who’s nothing like me. Where I’m eloquent in court, I’m stilted on a date. Weeks before every date, I take notes on anything interesting I saw or heard to make enough conversation to fill a dinner.

  Kami showed up in a definite date outfit, her full figure swathed in shiny silk and some sort of stretchy material that clung to her curves. Her short black hair held finger waves that looked like they’d taken hours to perfect. She had on more makeup than I could stand, but it was supposed to be a date after all. I’d come straight from my office in the same suit I’d worn for fourteen hours already. My own reddish-brown hair, shorter than hers, was styled by the Seattle mist and a swipe of my hand. I sincerely doubted if I had anything left of the light layer of makeup I put on every morning so as not to scare small children. Needless to say, one of us wasn’t taking the date seriously.

  During dinner, I found that I wouldn’t need my “interesting tidbits” notes. Kami did all the talking. Everything from a rundown of her last year’s worth of dates to her bitterness about being stuck on the line at her job instead of managing the line. I also got to hear just how much she struggled with her weight which seemed to bother her considerably. I get that a lot, probably because I’m one of those chicks that everyone labels as “tiny” and then promptly hates. I’m short and slender, but I’ve met people who are shorter and skinnier than me, so back off.

  The weight topic shifted through her dislike of her hair and her nose, both of which I thought looked nice, to her role in bed and how it had taken ten years to realize that she was more comfortable as a bottom, but not a pillow princess, mind you. That was when I called for the check. One, I don’t like discussing sexual roles under most circumstances. Two, I think adhering to them limits the fun of sex. Three, I don’t think you should be admitting that you don’t know yourself well enough to understand that you’re uncomfortable with your own chosen sexual role. And four, it’s definitely not a topic of conversation for a first date. Especially when the only clue I didn’t give about the fact that we wouldn’t be sleeping together was to have it engraved on her dessert cake. Now that’s an idea: cakes for the everyday awkward occasion. See what I’m saying about sucking at dating? I’m thinking up business ideas while she’s hinting at bedding me.

  We shared an uncomfortable goodbye outside the restaurant with me eluding her attempt at a goodnight kiss and her surprise at my proffered hand. She slid an arm up behind mine to squeeze me into a hug and asked for another date. I told her that I had a big trial coming up, and I’d have to check my schedule. Go ahead, psychoanalyze me. Avoidance issues, right?

  Now that she’d tracked me down, I’d have to contemplate utilizing my usual blow off by not calling back or being a grown-up and calling her machine when I knew she’d be at work to tell her that I’m just not in a place to start a relationship right now. That was true, sort of. Kami recited her phone number, and I grudgingly jotted
it down on the notepad by the phone. At some point, I’d have to start acting like a grown-up when it came to dating.

  The next message began to play just as I finished my purposeful scribble. “So, I heard it rained today.” Funny! My other best friend, Lauren, left her almost daily message. Got to love cell phone plans that allow for free long distance after 9:00 p.m. The three hour time difference was the only thing that Lauren reluctantly accepted as good about my move out here. She could call for free every day if she wanted. “We enjoyed a tropical eighty-six degrees back here, sister. And no frizzy hair. Doesn’t that sound nice? I miss you, I love you, come home! $255 one way ticket. We’ll all chip in, or Willa can buy you a plane to use. If you’re not getting a ticket right now, at least call me this weekend. Love ya, Young’un.” Her signoff brought a smile to my lips. She’d been a third year law student at UVA when I started, a year earlier than everyone else. I always considered it the luckiest day of my college career when I walked into the law library to check the mentor list and found her name assigned to me. Unlike other school mates, mentors, or advisors, Lauren had an immediate and genuine interest in my success at law school and my assimilation into Charlottesville. And unlike other friends, I took to her instantly because of it and we’ve been better than best friends ever since.

  My recall of that first meeting stopped abruptly when the next message began. “Hey, it’s Willa.” Just great! The phone call Helen mentioned. Helen I can fool with feigned forgetfulness; Willa would be a little more difficult. “I’m in Sea-town for the rest of the week. Let’s get together, hon. Dinner, coffee, breakfast, lunch, whatever you’ve got time for. We’re slammed over here trying to get this game done, but I’m going to need a break from the insanity. So call when you can, will ya?”

  I replayed the message just to hear her voice again. And again, all right, and again, you caught me. I’d hoped to avoid her this trip. All part of my self-prescribed therapy for getting over being in love with my best friend:

  1. Don’t see her.

  2. Don’t talk to her.

  3. Don’t think about her.

  Since moving here, I’d violated all three protocols on a regular basis. I had managed to minimize the number of times I’d seen or spoken to her over the last couple of trips. It was that third one that I still needed to work on.

  Not much I could do about it this time. I’d be seeing her on Friday for work reasons. Not that I really had to go, but I wouldn’t let my work suffer because of a self-imposed healing practice. At least I wouldn’t call her before I got there. And what was that third one again? Sure, like that’s gonna happen.

  Chapter 3

  “If I understand correctly, Agent Bridie, you’re saying that the defendant kept a second set of accounting records on his work computer?” I turned from the jury box to focus on Elise.

  Wow, she’s beautiful. Like the kind of exquisite splendor that makes you question whether or not it’s even legal to be that beautiful. I’m an attorney; I should really look that up. She wore her shoulder length, brunette hair in a French braid, highlighting the sweep of her cheekbones. A green blouse wrapped in a fitted charcoal suit complimented her eyes like a design expert picked the next hue down on the spectrum of greens. Everyone in the courtroom was riveted by her testimony. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out it had little to do with what she was saying. Why hadn’t I thought to request an ultra hot FBI agent for every case I tried?

  “That’s correct,” she spoke confidently. We were only ten minutes into her testimony, and it was burying the defendant. I thought I saw him visibly pale while she spoke of finding his undoctored books.

  “Why would someone leave a second set of accounting records on a computer that others can access at work? Especially records that would incriminate him?” The art of jury trials called for the questioning attorney to sound uninformed to allow for the expert witness to hammer home her testimony. Elise’s mouth twitched at my thespian-like skills, but so far, no sign of that slow, sexy smile that flared in my office on Tuesday.

  “I can only testify as to my experience with these kinds of cases,” she responded, saving me from arguing over the certain objection that would have come from the defense. Since taking the stand, she’d been a dream expert witness. I wonder if Marvel would entertain a new comic book with a superhero whose powers included warding off nonsense objections from defense attorneys. Probably not a huge seller, but those of us in the legal profession would be sucked in. “Usually, we find that people keep records on the most convenient computer. They assign a password to the file and think that makes it secure. In this case, the defendant had also deleted the file.”

  “Objection! Calls for conclusion,” the defense attorney called out from his table. He looked good in his $4,000 suit and $500 haircut. I’d come up against him twice before, and each time he hit on me before opening statements. Other female attorneys told me he thought it threw off the opposition to be distracted by his self-assessed grandeur.

  Sure to form on Wednesday morning, he walked up to my table and, in a show of shaking my hand, whispered, “You know you want to give me your affection, Austy. Dinner tonight?” I shook his hand and my head at his request then fought the urge to jump in a shower. Smarmy men and, while more rare, women made me want to scrub myself clean.

  “Sustained.” The judge looked as bothered by the garbage objection as I was but ruled appropriately.

  Before I could tidy up Elise’s statement, she did my work for me. “Excuse me, I assumed it was the defendant who deleted the file on his password protected computer because it incriminated him, but I can’t be certain he was the one who deleted the file.”

  Smart, sharp, and sexy. Everyone on the jury smiled at her response, taken in by her honesty and wise experience. Four of the male jurors looked like they’d spent the last ten minutes fantasizing about her.

  “If it was deleted, how did you get to see what was on it?” Was this question really necessary anymore? People had to be aware by now that deleting a file didn’t mean it was wiped from the hard drive.

  “There are a number of places that a deleted file can sit on a hard drive. I won’t bore you by naming every location.” Two men in the front row of the jury box edged forward in their seats. Did I mention that she was a dream witness? “In this instance, whoever deleted the file didn’t bother to clear out the trash folder where all deleted files sit indefinitely.” Six heads reared back in surprise at this revelation. Research done; jurors needed me to ask the stupid questions.

  Now that we’d established someone had tried to get rid of the incriminating file and that the file was intact when examined, I only needed to take her through the file’s contents to attach guilt. I had other witnesses and evidence, but Elise could peg him all on her own.

  For the next half hour, I confirmed that the second set of accounting books did indeed show fraud. He’d cheated his employees on their pension contributions, his stockholders on the earnings reports, and the IRS on corporate taxes. It was hard to say which of the counts would be the worst punishment for him.

  I’d offered a plea bargain for half of the max sentence in order to save the taxpayers the cost of trying this obviously guilty man. They almost never go for it, especially when they’ve got a hotshot lawyer like Gregory Stokes. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was Greg’s ego that kept him from accepting bargains that would save his clients the embarrassment of being pummeled in court. On only the morning of the second day, his client was sunk, thanks in most part to Elise’s testimony.