"Uh-huh." Maggie moved the walker forward a few paces. "When he asked who was helping Daddy I told him about you, Cynthia, and how lucky we were to have you. And he knew your name. He said you had defended a dear friend of his some little while ago, here in New Jersey. A Mr. Nicky Palmetto from Newark, was it? Such a small world."
"Cyndy? Palmetto. Isn't that the name of the concrete company guy you—well, you know," Sean Whitaker asked, taking hold of his wife's elbow as she staggered slightly in place. "But you got him off, so that's all right. Isn't it?"
"Shut up, Sean. For just this once, shut up. Salvatore Campiano," she said quietly. "That's who you mean, Maggie, right? Salvatore Campiano? Boffo Transmissions? And other stuff?"
"Well, he's more Alex's friend than mine," Maggie said, "but, yes, that's who I mean. Alex did his family a favor a little while ago, and you know how some people feel about returning favors. I told him—Mr. Campiano—that you're doing the very best that you can do for my father. Because you are, aren't you?"
"Uh ... well, yes ... yes, of course," Cynthia stammered. "The absolute best that I can. So you told Mr. Campiano that? That I'm devoting every moment to your father's defense?"
"Let's just say I told him what you've done so far," Maggie responded, not sounding quite so cheerful now. "He," and here she paused, a very pregnant, portentous pause, Saint Just thought, "sends his regards."
"Oh, shit ..."
"I beg your pardon? Shall I tell Daddy that you'll be by later, to talk about his case?"
"Huh?" Cynthia blinked several times, and then nodded. Furiously. "Oh, absolutely! Sean and Tate can go on without me. I mean, they're just going to go look at boats. Or yachts. Or something. Down in Cape May? It's much more important that I stay here, conference with my most important client."
"Yes, I rather think it is," Maggie agreed. Purred her agreement. "Alex? I believe I'm done here."
"Oh, wait a moment, Maggie," Cynthia said as Maggie turned for the door. "About that figure I quoted you as my fee?"
Saint Just discreetly coughed into his fist. If the woman wanted to, as the current saying went, score points with his beloved, she had most certainly chosen the perfect avenue.
"I've instructed my accountant to pay you the full retainer, yes," Maggie said, keeping her back turned to the lawyer. "You should have a check later this week or early next week."
"Yes, well, thank you, that's very ... very kind," Cynthia said. "But you know, you're Tate's sister, and I feel just terrible, taking advantage of Tate's little sister, and of this sad, sad situation. And it's Christmastime, and ... and, well, you know how that is. I was going to tell you later, but I may as well say it now. I've waived my fee. All of it. I'm going to defend your father pro bono. I couldn't feel comfortable any other way."
Saint Just hoped that Maggie wouldn't give in to impulse, and throw a fist high in the air or anything else so amateurish for a woman playing for all the chips. He wasn't disappointed.
No, outward glee wasn't going to give Maggie away.
But got ya did. The need to let Cynthia know she'd been bested did.
Females. So lacking in subtlety. They simply didn't understand the nuances of a gentlemanly game of one-upmanship or the joys of a quiet self-satisfaction.
Maggie turned her walker and looked straight into Cynthia's wide eyes. "Yes, I thought you might," she said, sarcasm fairly dripping from every syllable. "Don't choke on your meatballs. Alex, could you get the door for me?"
He waited until they were back outside to take hold of her arm and tell her, "You were brilliant, sweetings, right up until that last moment. Was it truly necessary to gloat?"
"You bet your sweet bippy it was," she told him happily as she pushed off toward the car. "You're the cool, controlled Englishman, and that works for you. But I'm more the rub your nose in it ugly American type. Personally, I like my way better. And now maybe she'll actually do her damn job and get my dad off the hook. Because she is supposedly very good at what she does. I looked her up online when I was in the city, which is how I knew about her last case. The ethics of a two-dollar hooker, but good at what she does. And now she's damn well going to do what she does."
"J.P. will be back in the city within the week. You could have simply terminated Mrs. Spade-Whitaker, informed her that her services were no longer required." Saint Just pointed out as he stepped forward to open the driver's door for the bloodthirsty love of his life.
"And what fun would that have been, Alex?" Maggie asked, grinning at him. "Plus, we aren't going to need J.P., unless it's to sue the police department here for wrongful arrest or general stupidity, or something. You and I are going to solve the case, right? Get Daddy off the hook ourselves? But in a weak moment I'd agreed to that stupid retainer Cyndy demanded. I wasn't going to pay that if I didn't have to. Not with us doing all the work. I just didn't know how to do it, until I saw the meatballs from your mobster buddy. That guy does come in handy, doesn't he? And it worked. Don't you just love it when a plan comes together?"
"You're that persuaded of our chances for success?"
"I am, yes. I don't know why I am, but I am. Bodkin bedded one too many wives—what else could be the motive, right? One of the husbands did it, Alex. I just wish there weren't so many suspects to choose from, that's all. Once we're back in the car you can get out the list again, okay? I'll drop you off at Lisa Butts's place on Second, and then hit my first target—just find me a name somewhere in that same area—and we can meet up at Second and Wesley and ..."
"Yes, you were saying?" Saint Just asked as he folded the walker yet again, resisting the impulse to inquire as to how she thought she'd fare, hopping, in an attempt to get the thing out of the backseat by herself. But Maggie was feeling powerful at the moment, in charge, and he was reluctant to burst her bubble of independence.
"Alex, keep the door shut," Maggie said, balancing herself with one hand on the rearview mirror as she pointed to the door. "Do you see that? Granted the car is silver, and the sun's beating on it, but do you see that? Right there, around the lock? Those are scratches, right?"
Saint Just propped the walker against the backdoor and bent closer to the lock. "Why, yes, I do believe those are scratches. Faint, but there." He stood up straight once more and said, "My felicitations, sweetings. It would appear you've discovered a clue."
"Somebody picked Dad's lock," Maggie said, nearly losing her grip on the rearview mirror in her excitement. "Somebody broke into his car, Alex. And you know what I think? I think Dad kept his bowling ball in the car. In the backseat, probably. I mean, if you live on the second floor, and you go bowling three, four times a week, would you lug the ball upstairs every time you got home, lug it down when you needed it again? I'm just surprised he locks his car. Cripes, Alex, Dad doesn't even lock the door to his bachelor pad. Come on, we have to go talk to him. Do you think he and Sterling are back yet?"
Maggie had her answer two minutes later as they pulled up in front of her father's building to see Evan and Sterling just mounting the stairs. Maggie honked the car horn and they both walked over to the curb as Saint Just lowered the passenger side window.
"And how was your morning constitutional, gentlemen?"
"Oh, Saint Just," Sterling told him, beaming, "Evan was brilliant, simply brilliant. He performed admirably at the restaurant, walking in with his chin high, his look every inch the warrior. I think it's your cane, frankly. Lends one such an air, and all of that."
"But then I blew it," Evan said, handing the cane in through the open window. "I gave the direct cut, whatever you called it, to a guy on the street, before I realized who he was. I see Father Forest from the back of the church, usually, and didn't recognize him right away. And he was all bundled up in his coat, you know, so I didn't see his collar or anything."