“Let me finish chewing,” he said with his mouth full. Apparently he hadn’t finished his previous bite before he’d tried to stuff another one in. I reminded myself to give him a lesson in table manners later.
I was worried his request might be some kind of trick, so I put some extra distance between us, making sure I had time to fire off a shot if he came after me. But he just sat at the table and chewed, watching me with wary eyes. Maybe he was trying to make sure his host didn’t choke to death while he was disabled. Electricity mucks with a demon’s control so badly that I wasn’t sure he’d be able to swallow once I shot him.
His face had paled a bit, and if I didn’t know better, I would have sworn he was scared. There was even a sheen of sweat on his upper lip. I told myself he had to be faking it, trying to think of some way to keep me from shooting, but I hesitated anyway.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I demanded. “You like pain, remember?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Yeah, but I don’t like being completely helpless.”
I sympathized. So I pulled the trigger before I had a chance to think about it any more, or I might have changed my mind.
Saul went rigid when the probes latched onto him, a strangled sound escaping his throat. His muscles were no longer in control enough to keep him in the chair, so he tilted sideways and hit the floor with a thud. This was the first time I could remember Tasering a demon and actually feeling guilty about it.
I ejected the spent cartridge and shoved the Taser back in my purse. Then I turned Saul over onto his back so his arm wasn’t trapped in an awkward position. He was sweating all over, and my guilt spiked.
“Sorry,” I said, and I meant it. “You’ll be back in control in ten minutes. Fifteen, tops.” Enough time for me to get far enough away he couldn’t stop me.
He tried to talk, but since he wasn’t in control of his tongue, all that came out was a garbled groaning sound.
“Sorry,” I said again, then forced myself to my feet and headed for the door.
CHAPTER 14
Jack Hillerman’s office was on Broad Street, within spitting distance of City Hall. A much nicer part of Broad Street than Barbie’s office inhabited, I might add. The building had probably been around since the turn of the twentieth century, and the lobby was dismal and depressing. The elevators were new, though, so they shot me up to the fifteenth floor fast enough to make my stomach have to run to catch up. The doors opened onto a very conservative, genteel reception area.
Despite the age of the building, the reception area was decidedly modern in decor, with spare, clean furnishings, good lighting, and abstract art on the walls. Three hallways led away into the depths of the firm. I saw a cubicle farm at the far end of one hallway, but the other two were lined with real, honest-to-God offices.
The receptionist was an older woman with tastefully gray hair arranged in a picture-perfect pageboy. A pair of chic red-framed glasses perched on her nose, adding a modern touch to her otherwise old-fogyish dark gray suit. She flashed me a practiced smile as I approached her desk, and she didn’t even give my sophisticated jeans-and-T-shirt outfit a second glance.
“May I help you?” she asked, and she managed to convey the impression that she genuinely wanted to help.
I returned the smile. “I’m here to see Jack Hillerman,” I said, knowing things were about to get dicey. I was pretty sure that talking to me wasn’t high on Hillerman’s list of preferred activities—not to mention that it was probably against the rules for him to do so without my attorney present.
The receptionist frowned ever so slightly. “Do you have an appointment?” she asked, in a voice that told me she already knew I didn’t.
I tried to look sheepish. “I’m afraid not. I’m here for personal reasons, not for a business meeting. Can you let him know I’m here? It’ll only take five minutes, I promise.”
“He’s in a meeting just now,” she said, and instinct told me she was lying. “Would you care to leave a message?”
“I just have a quick question for him, and it’s not something I can leave in a message.” I gave her my most pitiful pleading look.
Her gaze darted uncertainly toward the hallway on her left—one of the two lined with real offices. “I can let him know you’re here, but I’m not sure …”
I smiled brightly at her. “Thanks so much!”
She still looked pretty uncertain. “May I have your name?” she asked, picking up the phone.
I’d considered going the phony-name route, but I’d dismissed it almost instantly. I’m probably the world’s worst liar, so I didn’t think I’d fool anyone.
“Morgan Kingsley,” I said, hoping against hope that the firm had so many clients she wouldn’t recognize my name. But things never go that well for me.
Regarding me carefully, she hung the phone up once more. “I’m very sorry, Ms. Kingsley,” she said, “but unless you have your attorney with you, there is no chance Mr. Hillerman will agree to see you.”
“But this isn’t about the case!” Okay, maybe it kind of was about the case, but it was pretty obvious Hillerman had not only misplaced his ethics, he’d buried them in some deep, dark pit and built a parking lot on the site.
The receptionist shook her head. “It’s just out of the question, I’m afraid. I’ll let him know you stopped by, and he and your attorney can schedule a meeting.”
So far, this was all going about as I expected, with the added bonus that the receptionist’s nervous little glances let me know which hallway to go down to find Hillerman’s office. Without another word, I headed down that hallway.
I heard the receptionist say my name sharply a couple of times, but she didn’t follow me or physically try to stop me. I glanced at the name plates on the offices I passed. The doors were closed on most of them, and they didn’t have any convenient little windows I could look in. The name plates were discreet enough that I was almost past Hillerman’s office before I realized it was his. Inside, I heard the phone ringing—probably the receptionist letting him know I was storming his fortress. I pushed open the door.
Hillerman was sitting at his desk, phone to his ear. In front of him lay an enormous, greasy calzone, oozing cheese and tomato sauce into a Styrofoam takeout box. He smiled at me, but the smile didn’t come close to reaching his eyes.
“That’s all right, Marta,” he said into the phone. “No need to call security. I’ll talk to her.” Apparently, Marta had something to say about that. Hillerman listened politely to whatever it was, then said, “Yes, I’m sure.”
I think Marta was adding yet another protest to the list when Hillerman hung up.
“Please come in,” he said, gesturing me forward.
I closed the door behind me and remained standing. I hadn’t expected him to be willing to talk to me. I’d just hoped he’d let something slip as he was trying to kick me out. Or that somehow, looking at him would trigger a memory in my brain, give me some idea who he was and why he had it in for me.
“You’re not worried about your professional ethics?” I asked, stalling while I tried to figure out what his game was.
He pushed aside the calzone. “Not particularly.” He smiled again, and the expression gave me the creeps.
I shook my head. “Why not?”
“I have my reasons.”
Maybe I should have listened to my common sense and stayed home. He was looking way too happy about me being here. And way too cavalier about his career. Yeah, okay, he was obviously dirty, but it wasn’t like the whole world knew about it. Yet.
“Please,” Hillerman continued, dabbing grease off his fingers with a paper napkin, “come have a seat. I’d offer you something to eat, but all I have is the calzone.”
How hospitable of him! “Why are you eating a crappy takeout calzone at your desk?” I asked. “Aren’t you supposed to take two-hour lunches with lots of martinis?”