Judge & Jury - James Patterson [9]
I also had Ellen Jaffe there.
Ellen was a hotshot anesthesiologist over at St. Vincent’s, with wavy auburn hair, a small button nose, and long, slim runner’s legs that were a joy to behold. We’d met at a clambake thrown by a friend of mine and been together for the past two years.
Ellen was pretty, smart as a whip, and just as dedicated to her career as I was to mine. That was a problem. I worked days—and half the nights, lately, preparing the case. She was taking doctoral classes at Cornell Medical and doing her hospital rotations at night. We used to spend entire weekends together in bed. Now we could barely find a night to be in the same room and watch TV.
She said I was fixated on Cavello, and she was probably right. I shot back that she must be having an affair with Dr. Diprovan—Diprovan being the solution of choice when putting people under these days.
Whatever it was, it was killing me how things were sliding downhill between us. But you either fight for it or you don’t, and lately, neither of us was fighting a lot for anything.
So I stopped at Pietro’s on the way home and picked up an order of the best amatriciana in New York—Ellen’s favorite. She didn’t work Monday nights. Let’s not call it a party, but it would be the first quality time we’d spent with each other in at least a week.
Add to that a bouquet of sunflowers from the Korean grocer up the block. I had also left Ellen a message on the machine to set the table.
I turned the key in the front door and saw the table in the dining alcove set for one.
“Buonasera, signorita.”
“Nick?” I heard Ellen call from the bedroom.
She came out of the bedroom in her navy Burberry windbreaker and running shoes, knotting her long brown hair. Not exactly the fantasy I had in mind. “I’m sorry, Nicky. I was going to leave a note. Benson just called. They’re on overload tonight. They need me in.”
“Diprovan again.” I sniffed, trying to hide my disappointment, placing the food and flowers on the kitchen counter. Ellen’s cat, Popeye, brushed against my leg. “Hey, Pops.”
“I can’t help it, Nick.” Ellen’s eyes went to the flowers. She smiled, making the correct connection to a meadow in the Chianti District outside of Siena, an amorous urge we couldn’t hold back a couple of summers ago.
“Jeez, what’d you get fired or something?”
“Just a little carried away, I guess.”
“No.” She shook her head and sighed as if to say, Nothing’s going right for us, lately. “Not carried away. I’m sorry, Nicky. They’re waiting on me. I can’t even put these in a vase.”
“No sweat.” I shrugged. “Actually, they were for me.”
Ellen had these red glasses on that I found sexy as hell for some reason. Her small breasts peeked from under a tight-fitting top. I found myself getting aroused. Foolish. Maybe it was just this momentary feeling that I was free from the anticipation of the case. Or the sense that I had to do something . . . for us. I don’t even know. As she tossed a few things in her purse, I put my hands on her shoulders.
“Nick, I can’t. I’m AWOL.” She tensed against me. “I gotta go. Hey, I almost forgot. How’d it go today?”
“Well.” I nodded. “We got a decent jury. Everybody’s ready. Let’s just hope Cavello and his lawyers don’t pull any fast ones.”
“Nick, you’ve done everything humanly possible, so stop killing yourself. Manny would be proud.” She gave me a soft kiss on the cheek, not what I had in mind, but it made me smile.
“Tell Diprovan hello.”
“Nick . . .” Ellen shook her head, unamused. She turned back in the doorway. “I’m sorry about the dinner. It was a nice thought.” Then she looked at the sunflowers on the counter. “You’re such a romantic.”
Chapter 8
FOR A WHILE I just stood there. Popeye, my new dinner partner, purred against my leg.
I guess, like some spurned high school kid, I was hoping that Ellen might have second thoughts and come back. I had this feeling that the weight of our relationship was suddenly hinging on a hope no stronger than that.
But there was no sound on the