55

CONNOR’S COMPUTER CHIMED SOFTLY, ANNOUNCING THAT HE HAD A NEW e-mail. His leather chair creaked as he swiveled from his desk to his computer stand and pulled up his in-box. The message was from “Bahama Girl” and was marked urgent. The subject line said “Call this number now.” He opened the e-mail, which contained a phone number he didn’t recognize and the message, “Use a pay phone.”

He grabbed a pen and a pad of Post-Its from his desk and wrote down the number. But then he stopped. He stared at the e-mail, beating a rapid tattoo on the arm of his chair with his pen.

The firm had given him clear instructions: once he withdrew from representing Devil to Pay, he was to have no further contact with Allie. He would be the key witness in the Deep Seven’s case against Doyle & Brown, and he could not do anything that might undermine the firm’s defense. That, of course, included staying in contact with the very client that he claimed had betrayed him.

He had explained all that to Allie. And to make sure she understood, he had even given her a description of the line of cross-examination questions he would get if he didn’t stay clear of her. It would go something like this:

—Mr. Norman, you claim that Devil to Pay lied to you, correct?

—You claim that you had no idea that Ms. Whitman was using your services to pursue a fraudulent lawsuit against Deep Seven, isn’t that right?

—In fact, you say were shocked—shocked!—to discover that she had planted falsified invoices at Deep Seven, right?

—So, of course, you refused to have anything to do with her once you discovered her betrayal, correct?

—Oh, so you kept in touch with her?

—You even continued to help her?

—Are you familiar with the expression ‘actions speak louder than words,’ Mr. Norman?

He slowly pulled the Post-It off the pad, crumpled it in a ball, and threw it in the wastebasket.

He turned back to his desk and stared down at the brief in front of him, but he couldn’t focus on the words on the page. Allie knew he couldn’t talk to her, but she wanted him to call anyway. What if she had found what she was looking for? What if she had the goods on Deep Seven and was on the run now? What if she was in danger?

He grimaced and looked back at her e-mail. Call this number now. Use a pay phone. Urgent.

“This had better be good,” he warned the computer. He fished the Post-It out of the trash and shoved it in his pocket. There was a pay phone down by one of the neighborhood Starbucks.

Pulling his coat on as he walked out of his office, he called to his secretary. “Going out for a cup of coffee, Lucy. Want anything?”

“A raise.”

He grinned. Some variation of this dialogue was part of their daily routine. He’d miss it if he ever left. “If they’re out of those, how about a maple-nut scone?”

“That’d be great. Thanks, Connor.”

Ten minutes later, Connor was standing at the pay phone, sipping black Italian roast and waiting for Allie to pick up. The phone rang four times. Five. Six. Seven.

What would he say if Tom Concannon walked up and asked whom he was calling and why he wasn’t using his office phone? Chill sweat prickled his forehead and he looked up and down the street, wishing he’d picked a phone that was less conspicuous or further from the office.

Eight rings.

Enough. He put his finger on the receiver cradle and was about to press down when he heard a clattering sound followed by Allie’s voice. “Connor?”

“Yes. What’s up? Why did you e-mail me?”

“I almost got caught!” Her voice was a hoarse whisper, full of quavers. “They’re watching me. My boss, Franklin Roh—he hid a tiny spy camera over my desk. I was this close to taking some pictures of a document with my cell phone. If I hadn’t found out before I started snapping away— I don’t want to think about it.”

“So you’ve got evidence? You know what they’re hiding?”

“Well, not really. All I found so far is that they had a tax issue. But I can’t go back in there! What if they know?”

“That’s too bad, Allie, but there’s not much I can do about it. And I thought we agreed that you were on your own, that you wouldn’t contact me. Were you not clear on that?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think about that. I just… I’m scared and I needed to talk to someone.”

“Talk to someone else next time. Call Julian.”

“Okay, I will. I’m really sorry. But since I’ve already got you on the line—”

Connor felt his blood pressure rising. “Listen, if they knew about you, they never would have brought you back into the company. That would be incredibly dumb. Maybe Roh suspects, but that’s it. He knows Devil to Pay had an inside source at their company. He knows it’s not Julian because he never worked there. He might think it was you. Or he might just like to spy on female temps.”

“But I can’t go back to Deep Seven, can I?”

Now he realized what was going on. She wanted him to give her a pass, to tell her she could give up. An angry breath hissed out through his teeth. “Well, that’s for you to decide, isn’t it?”

Pause. “I was just hoping—”

Connor heard a familiar voice and turned to see two Doyle & Brown paralegals emerging from Starbucks. He could see them through the open glass and brass doors, but they hadn’t noticed him yet.

“Sorry, gotta go.” He hung up the phone and ducked around the corner. No one called his name. At least he wouldn’t have to come up with an explanation on the spot.

As he walked backed to the office, Connor’s irritation grew. There had been absolutely no reason for Allie to do that to him. None. She knew a lot better than he whether she was in serious danger and ought to bail. She knew contacting him would hurt him. But she did it anyway. Why? So that she could feel better about herself when she did what she had already decided to do. How incredibly selfish.

His steps slowed as he remembered the fear in her voice. The pleading. His anger began to leak away. He pictured the sweaty, bland Franklin Roh watching Allie on a hidden camera as he licked his lips with that bright red tongue.

That bothered him. He stopped and drained the rest of his lukewarm coffee, then wadded the cup into a tight ball and threw it hard into a nearby trashcan. Well, whether it bothered him or not, there was nothing he could do about it. It was up to Allie now.

Allie stood a few feet from the pay phone, sucking on a cigarette and trying not to choke. She didn’t smoke, but there was a pay phone at a convenience store ten yards from the smoking area outside Deep Seven. And it was out of view from the Deep Seven building.

The smoke stung her eyes and tasted awful, but she made the cigarette last as long as possible. Maybe Connor would call her back. Probably not, but maybe.

Minutes crawled by as the acrid blue smoke curled around her and the cancer stick slowly burned down to its filter. The phone stubbornly refused to ring.

Why had she e-mailed him in the first place? Because she started panicking and stopped thinking. She had fired off the message with nothing more than a half-formed idea that he’d get her out of this horrible box she was in. She would tell him about the camera and he would immediately suggest—no, demand—that she get out of Deep Seven. He would somehow take over the situation or get the government involved or something.

Stupid. Painfully, utterly, indescribably stupid. She had screwed up yet again. All she had managed to do was get Connor to yell at her again. And she had deserved it.

Her hope turned to ash with the cigarette, leaving an empty, sour feeling in her stomach. She stubbed out the butt and walked back toward the mouthlike front doors of Deep Seven, which gaped open to swallow her.