The Quickie - James Patterson [53]
My hand started trembling before I could reach the “delete” button, though.
Yeah, right. Who was I kidding?
How the hell would I pull this one off?
Chapter 76
AFTER A RESTLESS AND UNNERVING NIGHT with almost zero sleep, I decided to strap my gun and badge under my favorite Armani Exchange black suit. The skirt had a side slit in it that ordinarily would disqualify it as work clothes, but this wasn’t going to be a typical day at the office, was it?
I peeled off my bandage and teased my freshly razor-cut and colored hair before sliding into a pair of Steve Madden open-toed sling backs.
My meeting at the DA’s office was going to be combat, right?
I’d need every weapon I could come up with for this encounter with the law.
I gave myself plenty of time to swing by the Bronxville Starbucks for a venti. I finished it by the time I found a parking spot in Lou Gehrig Plaza across the street from the courthouse. I stared out at Yankee Stadium at the bottom of 161st Street, hoping maybe some of the Bomber mystique would rub off on me.
Unfortunately, from where I was sitting, it was looking like two outs in the bottom of the ninth.
It was nine thirty, a full half hour before my scheduled meeting, when I located Fisher at his desk on the second floor. He was sitting with three other male assistant district attorneys.
“Hey, fellas. How’s it going?” I said, staring into their eyes, one by one.
I’d done all I could to look my best. From the head swiveling of just about every male court officer, defendant, and counselor I’d passed in the marble halls, I figured that I’d cleaned up pretty well.
I popped a button on my jacket, giving the guys a peek at my Glock in the pancake holster pressed tightly against my stomach.
If this had been a cartoon, eyeballs would have been popping out and big red hearts would have been banging in and out of the lawyers’ chests. A hot chick and a gun? Hard to beat. Men are nothing if not predictable.
“You have the right to remain silent, guys,” I said, “but this is ridiculous. Don’t you think?”
There were “gotta go’s” and “see ya, Jeff’s,” and, one by one, the lawyers moved along until it was just me and my friend Fisher in the cramped cubicle. I nearly knocked him out of his rolling chair as I slid my butt up on the side of his desk.
The key to winning any battle is to put your opponent off balance. Hit the weak spot, and don’t let up until it’s all over but the shouting. The one thing I remembered about Fisher, a balding, hangdog-looking thirty-something, was the way he had tried to look down my dress at a Piper’s Kilt retirement party the year before.
“You said you wanted to see me, Fisher?” I said.
I watched his face flush the brightest red this side of a stoplight.
“Yes, uh, well, Detective,” the ADA stammered. “I mean . . . uh, it’s probably nothing. I’m sure it is. Where did I put that file? It’ll just take a second.”
As I watched him flail around over his desk, I had the feeling I’d already won this round. Interrogations were power struggles. Up until a moment before, with his cryptic message left on my machine, Jeffrey Fisher thought that he was in charge. But not anymore.
ADAs have a built-in inferiority complex when it comes to Homicide cops. The fact that Fisher was probably attracted to me kind of sealed the deal.
He would tread lightly. Whatever inconsistency he brought up, I would deny, and he would accept it. What had I been worrying about? I owned this meeting. Who was Fisher? Some nine-to-five schlep lawyer who was afraid to set foot on the dangerous streets of the Bronx? I would walk out of here blameless and free. I could feel it.
But then, out of nowhere, like some horrible apparition, Fisher’s boss, Jeff Buslik, appeared. Buslik didn’t look tongue-tied. In fact, he seemed extremely calm and collected. Malevolently calm. He didn’t even seem impressed with my outfit. He kissed me chastely on the cheek like I was his sister.
“Lauren, how’s it going?” he said. “Actually,