Mother May I(52)

Gabrielle’s mouth was set in a mild, pleasant smile, but over it her eyes blazed, furious.

“I need to get back to work,” she said.

“Come on, tell me.” Spence sounded like he was asking to wheedle a piece of candy off a secretary’s desk, the kind she’d set out in a dish for anyone. Faux naughty.

“What’s the question?” Marshall asked, coming all the way in. Spencer whirled around, surprised, and Gabrielle’s face flashed a huge relief.

“You walk like a cat for such a tall guy,” Spencer said, laughing, then clocked the folder in Marshall’s hand. “Is that for the Price case? You know you can get my girl to copy that shit for you. Do you even know how to use this machine?”

“I do,” Marshall said. He moved closer to the wall so he could see them both, turning their line into a triangle.

“Well, good on ya,” Spence said, overly hearty. “If I tried to mess with that behemoth, the whole building could take off like a rocket ship, crash into the sun.” He laughed at his own joke and looked to Gabrielle.

She forced a chuckle, but Marshall could see a red wash of anger retoning her skin.

He put on a puzzled look, like a hayseed yokel with a stupid question. “So what are you doing in the copy room? If you can’t work the machine.” His voice had an edge that belied his empty-eyed smile.

Gabrielle drew her breath in, short and sharp.

“Funny guy,” Spence said. “I’m talking with my colleague.” He said it in a way that drew a line between him and Gabrielle, both lawyers from wealthy families, and Marshall, a blue-collar hick who ran a team of investigators for a decent living wage. “But I have to go prep for that meeting.”

His gaze went flat, heavy-lidded, staring Marshall down. Unlike Gabrielle, Spencer wasn’t trapped. There was plenty of room for him to pass. But he wanted to make Marshall move, so Marshall stepped up against the wall. He felt no need to measure dicks with the guy.

When Spence’s footsteps were out of earshot, Marshall turned to Gabrielle. Her spine was stiff, her expression now guarded. He stayed by the wall, so she could leave at any moment she chose.

“Do I want to know the question he was so weirdly keen for you to answer?” He said it quiet and wry, no pressure. Like commiserating.

She softened. A little. “You didn’t hear?”

“No,” he said. “I felt that something was off, but I don’t know how off.”

He liked Gabrielle. They’d had lunch, together with a third-year associate and three paralegals, quite a bit last year, when they’d been part of the support team on the same big case. She was funny and sharp and more than pulled her weight.

“I thought you’d heard but didn’t want to—” She faltered.

“Take on Spence? I don’t, particularly. That said, does someone need to?”

Her eyes went pure acid. “You tell me. It’s hard to know if I’m being ‘oversensitive.’” She was quoting Spencer. He was sure from the inflection.

“Okay,” he said.

She swallowed and pressed her lips together. She didn’t look at him as she said, “He wanted to know if black women could have pink nipples. Or if they were always brown.”

Marshall’s eyebrows went up. Way up. “You’re not being oversensitive.”

She knew that, of course. He said it anyway, so she could feel sure that he knew; women, black women especially, often had to prove they hadn’t somehow caused the crime against them before anyone would help or even listen. He’d learned this from Betsy, who’d made him a better cop in so many ways. She’d made him a better man, too.

Gabrielle said, “He’s curious about a lot of things. He’s been getting curiouser and curiouser. Ever since Charlotte left him.”

“What do you want to do about it?” Marshall held her gaze, steady, with no expectations or pressure. Ready to follow whatever lead she took.

She shook her head, both disgusted and angry. With herself, in part, he thought. Of course she wanted to call Spencer to account. If she did, though, she could tank her whole career. He saw the complications, same as she did.

“I don’t know yet,” she said, her look daring him to judge her. When he didn’t, she added, “He was always the kind who would call a woman ‘hon,’ but he was never this offsides. Maybe he’ll calm down when the divorce stuff does? Or when he gets an actual girlfriend. For now I’m trying to stay out of his way. But if it gets worse . . .”

“If it gets worse, what?” Marshall tried to keep the same tone, but her temper sparked.

“Oh, what do you know about it?”

“Nothing,” he said, holding up his hands. “All I mean is, if it gets worse, I saw what I saw. And I’ll back you, whatever you decide.”

“And get fired with me? That sounds chummy,” she said.

He shrugged. “I’ll land okay. You have more to lose than me. To be honest, though, you need a better witness. Someone with more juice.”

Bree had that juice, and she’d seen Spence harassing Gabrielle in the Orchid Center. That felt like it was a thousand years ago, and it was moot now. Spence would not be bothering Gabrielle, or any woman, ever again.

Marshall looked at Adam, the liar, who’d expected to recognize the woman in Marshall’s final picture. He could feel sorry for a guy whose child was missing and still think him an asshole. His years as a cop had taught him how. Awful things happened to shitty people all the time.