Bolinger thought for a moment, then broke the silence by saying, "Dean, I need this… as a favor I've never asked you a favor before."
Bolinger knew Dean knew what he was talking about. The FBI agent's wife had been dragged in one night for DUI, and Bob had quietly taken care of it. It was a big marker.
Wentworth emitted a bitter sigh into the phone and said, "You're right. I owe you. But I can't go chasing goddamn phantoms when every goddamn agent between here and Washington is wondering why I don't have these bank bandits locked up. Do you know what'll happen to me if those goddamn Texas Rangers get them before me? Can you say early retirement? Those big-hatted bastards are everywhere. They found that boxcar killer before me, and I had to go through hell with my back broke just to keep my goddamn job. I can't, Bob…"
Bolinger silently waited.
"Okay, listen," Wentworth said, "this is what I can do. You said you had a body with the same MO in Atlanta, right?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, I know Vittarelli, the number two guy in Atlanta. I'll call him and do everything I can to get him to put someone on it from Atlanta. Is that good?"
"That sounds good," Bolinger said. "I don't care where they're from. I'll help them out, too, calling around to the other cities where this guy's been doing his seminars. I know we'll find something, but I need a Fed to open the case and keep it alive. I appreciate it, Dean, I really do. I wouldn't ask you like this if it wasn't important."
"Yeah, well, if I can get them to do it, we're even, okay?"
"Okay," Bolinger said. "We're even."
Casey knew the letdown on the day after a big trial was as certain as a hangover the morning after a hard night of drinking. What she wasn't prepared for was the severity of the malaise. It began the moment her mind was sprung from an uncomfortable dream. She bolted upright in bed with a gasp. Taylor was tying his tie in the antique full-length mirror in the corner of the room. He looked her way only briefly before finishing the job and proceeding to his bureau, where he unloaded a stack of underwear and socks into a suitcase that lay across the arms of a high-backed chair.
"What are you doing?" she asked after she'd caught her breath.
"Getting dressed," he said indifferently.
Casey looked at the clock. It was early, just light. She remembered him coming in sometime late, very late. She'd been sleeping.
"You're packing," she said.
"That, too," he told her.
Casey felt a bolt of energy dance up her spine.
"Why?" she said, unable to hide the note of panic.
"Business."
"Where?" she asked, relieved and now angry with herself for the way she felt. If he was leaving her, why should she care? She'd come home after a grueling but successful trial, only to spend her evening with a book. He wasn't a real part of her life. If it wasn't evident before this trial, it certainly should be now.
" San Francisco," he answered.
Casey ran through the possibilities in her mind. There was an old flame of his in San Francisco, a society girl who fancied herself an artist. Taylor also owned a small ball-bearing factory outside the city. Why should she care what the trip was for?
"How long will you be gone?" she asked. She got out of bed and made her way toward the bathroom as if she didn't care.
"I'll be back Sunday night," he told her as she passed him.
"Business on the weekend?" she said.
He shrugged. "Some bankers from Hong Kong want to golf in Carmel."
Casey brushed her teeth, secretly watching him in the mirror. In her mind she knew it didn't matter. But a great fear had seized hold of her heart. She couldn't help it. If it didn't work, it would be a failure. She despised failures. She lived to win. She'd won him, and although in her mind she knew he wasn't worth winning, a sick but powerful part of her couldn't let go. Casey spit the paste into her sink and rinsed her mouth. She disappeared into her closet.
When she came out, Taylor was closing the suitcase. He looked up and saw her standing with one hand high on the wall and the other resting firmly on her milky-white hip. Her hair spilled down around her small, muscular shoulders in tangles of red. She wore nothing but white lace and heels, a spicy little setup he'd given her one Valentine's Day. It was something she rarely wore, maybe after some champagne and an evening of rubbing her foot up and down his leg underneath a particularly formal table.
Taylor looked at her hungrily and stopped right where he was. Without a word he undid the tie and began unbuttoning his shirt. He crossed the room and met her lips with his own. Without breaking the voracious kiss, he stripped himself naked and moved her hands toward his waist. When she found him, he emitted a guttural groan and began to grope her with adolescent desperation, finally lifting her off her feet and taking her across the room to their bed.
Ten minutes later, Taylor was back at the mirror adjusting his dark blue windowpane suit. Casey lay sprawled out on her back, watching him from the bed. When he was dressed, he picked up his suitcase and kissed her on the lips.
"That was good," he said.
"It was," she said, trying to believe. "We need to talk."
"Everything is fine." He flashed that million-dollar smile. "I'll be back before you know, but I've got to go now."
"All right."
"I'll call you," he said. "I've got to go or I'll miss my plane. I love you."
"I love you," she said.
Then he was gone. Casey lay alone for a long while, feeling worse about herself than she had the night before. Now, on top of feeling confused about the trial and her entire career, she felt cheap and suddenly helpless. Her life had been all about taking action, knowing what she wanted and getting it. She had gotten the husband she wanted. She won the cases she wanted. What was the saying?
"Be careful what you ask for," she whispered out loud, staring at a wedding picture that sat in a silver frame on the mantelpiece above the marble fireplace. "You might get it." Did she want him or didn't she? One thing she had to admit to herself as she dressed for work was that she didn't want to be cast aside. If it wasn't going to work between them, she'd be the one to pull the plug.
The garage underneath her office building was still nearly empty, but that was nothing unusual. Casey was usually one of the first people in the entire building to arrive. She parked in her spot, and as her heels clicked along on the concrete floor, echoing through the silence, she had an eerie feeling that someone else was in the garage. She spun around and blinked her eyes. Had she seen something move in the shadows behind an empty van? Or was it something within the van itself? She took two backward steps toward the elevator.
The van was tucked up near the bottom of the ramp on the opposite side of the garage. Casey looked around for someone else, but there was no one. Slowly, she edged toward the elevator without taking her eyes off the van. When she reached the elevator and the door opened with a quiet ding, she turned and entered the building, disgusted with her own squeamishness.
The day didn't get any better for her upstairs. The coffee wasn't made, Patti was late, and the first call of the morning was from Simon Huff. His voice was as loud as it was crass.
"Where the hell is my client's computer?" he demanded.
"What are you talking about?" Casey asked venomously.
"You know just what I'm talking about, lady!" Huff bellowed. "My next call is to the bar association. That computer is privileged material. This is more than unethical. It's criminal. What is this? Some kind of fucking shakedown?"
Casey was seething. "Don't you accuse me of being unethical!"
"If the shoe fits, wear it, hotshot," Huff remarked. "I want my client's computer back, and I want it back today! You got that?"