The Ex(3)

“Nice to know we’ve got an iron spine at the front desk, Einer. Just give me the number. And tell Don not to worry. Just a stupid DUI.”

I opened my nightstand and pulled out a pen and one of the many notebooks I always keep nearby.

I had half the number entered in my phone when I felt the hand at the end of the forearm across my hip beginning to explore. Really?

I threw back the blankets, rolled out of bed, and started gathering items of clothing from the floor. “It’s late. Your wife’s flight lands in an hour.”


THE PHONE RANG ONLY ONCE.

“Hello?” The voice was eager. Clear, but low. I could tell why Einer had been uncertain about gender. Probably female. Not a little kid, not a woman.

“This is Olivia Randall. You called my office?”

“Yeah. I’m worried about my dad. He’s not answering his phone or his texts.”

Great. Had we reached the point where kids call lawyers the second their helicopter parents go incommunicado? I was tempted to hang up, but if I did, with my luck, her father would turn out to be someone important.

“I’m sure your father probably just stepped out for a little while, okay?”

“No, you don’t understand. The police were here. He left with them. He said everything was fine, but then the police returned, like, immediately.” My mind wandered back to Einer’s comment about Don being relieved to hear I wasn’t near the office. “They had the super with them, and they knocked on the door and told me I needed to leave the apartment.”

“Did they say why?” I asked, beginning to strip the sheets with my free hand.

“No, but I asked them if I was under arrest. They said no, and then they started being nice to me, calling me sweetie and stuff—asking if they could contact a family member for me to stay with or something. So at that point, I stopped asking questions and told them I had debate team practice and was supposed to spend the night with my aunt.”

“So you’re calling from your aunt’s house?” This conversation was starting to make my head hurt. Everything was making my head hurt.

“No, I don’t even have an aunt. But I figured I could do more on my own than if they put me in a foster home or something.”

“So you’re in foster care?” I tossed the top sheet onto the floor of my closet.

The girl on the other end of the line made a growling sound. “Oh my God. The police were here talking to my father. Now he’s gone. And there are cops at our apartment who basically kicked me out. I’m pretty sure they have my dad for some reason. In which case, I don’t have anywhere to go, in which case they might throw my ass in foster care. So I made up an aunt and called you instead.”

If I had to guess, the girl’s father had probably been arrested, and she spotted my name in the euphoric tweets from my latest celebrity client, Mindy Monaghan. I started into my usual blow-off speech, about how I wasn’t taking new clients, etcetera. She responded by demanding that I get down to the First Precinct to help her father.

“How do you know he’s at the First Precinct?”

“I don’t, not for sure. But the police cars parked outside our building have a one painted on the side of them.”

Bingo. That would be the precinct number. “I can e-mail you a list of referrals—”

“No, you have to help him. It’s the least you can do after the way you treated him.”

“You’re saying I know your father?” Too many clients think that just because you represent them for one thing, you’re their lawyer for life.

“My name is Buckley Harris. My father’s Jack Harris.”


JACK HARRIS. THE NAME HIT me in the gut so hard that I tasted last night’s grappa at the back of my throat.

Her voice pushed away the competing thoughts—images from the past—working their way into my consciousness. “I heard them talking about gunshots or something. So I assumed it was about my mom. And then I saw the news online, so now I’m totally paranoid, thinking it has something to do with that.”

After what had happened to her mother, I wouldn’t blame the girl for being paranoid. But, once again, I wasn’t getting the connection between one sentence and the next. What news?

“I’ll go to the First Precinct and find out what’s going on. Do you have somewhere to go in the meantime?” It was June. Were kids still in school? I had no idea.

“I’m headed to Charlotte’s now.”

Now there was a name I hadn’t heard in a very long time.

The second I hung up, I made my way to the living room. My briefcase was on the sofa, exactly where I had let it drop while Ryan was pulling off my suit jacket last night.

I slid out my laptop, opened it, and Googled “New York City gunshots.”

Someone had opened fire this morning on the Hudson Parkway. The number of injuries and fatalities was unclear. And my ex-fiancé, Jack Harris, might or might not be at the First Precinct for reasons that might or might not have something to do with it.


AS I APPROACHED THE FRONT desk at the First Precinct, a uniform nudged his buddy, followed by a quick whisper. Maybe they recognized me, either as a relatively successful defense attorney or perhaps from precinct gossip. (Though I was by no means what the cops would call a “Badge Bunny,” you can’t spend ten years on the criminal court scene as a single woman without a thing or two happening.)