Attractive Nuisance (Legally in Love Book 1) Page 7

  “Don’t even say that.” Camilla toyed with her cloth napkin, folding it into smaller and smaller triangles. “Now, what have you found? You sounded so excited.”

  “Uh-uh. I told you no more findings until after food.” He warmed his hands over the candles’ flames. “Have you ever been up here before?”

  “I don’t even know where we are, so probably not.”

  “The hills? We’re near the heart of the city, not five miles south. Wyatt’s grandfather built this cabin in the 1920s, and Wyatt turned it into a steak place a couple of years ago. He may be my best friend, but I think he makes a mean steak. And when I say mean, I mean tough. So I only come up here for the prime rib. That’s on Thursdays. You like a baked potato? He does those right.”

  Huh. Zane might be a foodie. A man who had a strong preference against certain chefs’ steaks? Most guys just grunted, Meat!, and ate whatever got dangled in front of them. Not Zane.

  “So you bring all your coworkers up here for dinner meetings?” She asked it but then wished she could slurp the words right back into her mouth. They sounded like she was asking if he brought all his dates here. And maybe subconsciously she was asking that. But she didn’t want him to think that.

  “Only the ones who look incredible in a pencil skirt. So you, Sheldon…”

  “Oh, so did Sheldon get the prime rib treatment or did you order him the Porter House?”

  “He refused to get anything but grilled cheese.”

  “Attaboy. I knew I liked Sheldon. He has his standards and sticks to them.”

  “Are you saying that to draw a contrast?”

  “To what? Oh, to you? I don’t know if you even have standards, Holyoake, let alone if you stick to them.”

  He frowned. She’d gone a little too far. She’d have to patch it up. “Fine. If we can’t talk about the case until Wyatt butchers the steer and roasts the rib, I’ll play along. Tell me, what makes you tick? Because if I were to guess, it’s not the rush a lawyer gets when he finds the lynchpin in a legal case.”

  Zane huffed. “Not hardly.”

  There was another one of those grammatical glitches. What did “not hardly” even mean, anyway? “Okay, then what?”

  “Before I answer, I want to know what makes you tick.”

  “I asked first.”

  “But I asked second.”

  His argument was full of holes. But fine. “Okay. The reason I do this, stay late nights, go after these suspects with as much vigor as I do, is going to sound really like a beauty pageant answer. And I know you’ll make fun of it.”

  “What—world peace?”

  “See? I told you you’d make fun of it.” She took the tines of her fork and ran them down the tablecloth, leaving four little troughs in the fabric. “I would tell you that I believe that justice is the source of peace, and that it starts at home, and that if we create peace through order in the chaos of homes and families and communities, it can radiate outward from there—however, clearly I shouldn’t tell you this because it’s not something I can talk about with someone who doesn’t take life very seriously.” She shrugged, realizing even as she said it that she’d hurled an insult. But maybe he deserved it. Maybe, just maybe, her words might be a wakeup call to him, wrench him from his apathy and play-around attitude so that a) they could win this case, and b) he could get more serious about justice and truth.

  Zane frowned. He held his palm over the fire longer than she would ever dare. He did have those crusty hands. Maybe they were Kevlar and impervious to heat.

  He was silent long enough she started to regret her cutting remarks. Just as she started considering a mild retraction of her words, he spoke up.

  “When I was thirteen, I went on another hike with my little brother. Not the Sprite hike. A different one.”

  Oh, man. Another story. This guy had an inexhaustible reservoir of them. But for once he sounded serious, so she focused and really listened.

  “My brother and I spent a lot of time in the hills, so we knew them really well. Just like you know case law. Our parents didn’t mind how far we went, as long as we got back for school on Monday morning.”

  That was trust. And indicative of a different time. What kind of mom let their kids do that nowadays?

  “But this one time, Hank had a fall. We’d been constructing one of those hunting blinds in a tree. Not that we planned to hunt anything on that trip, but we just wanted to sleep up there and watch for deer. So, we got up pretty high, maybe fifteen feet, and the branch gave way. We were kids. Dumb ones. We didn’t know which branches would hold two kids. Hank landed hard. Broke his arm and fractured his skull.”

  Camilla gasped. “How did you get him out?”

  “Had to pack him down. It was hard. I didn’t know I was that strong.” He probably meant that a few ways. “But I couldn’t call for help. No cell phone, and no service anyway. It was my only option.”

  “Right.” Oh, how horrible. She almost didn’t dare ask if the brother made it. Of course, it dawned on her that Zane always talked about his little brother in the past tense. Oh, dear. “And?”

  “And there wasn’t much they could do.” He shrugged. “If it had happened now, technology is different. Maybe they could’ve done some kind of surgery. There’s been research done on pediatric brain injuries. He might have been okay.”

  It came at her like a slap. Wishes for Kids. The stolen BMW—it was intended for an incentive to help raise funds for medical research for sick or dying kids. No wonder Zane wanted to get this guy so bad.

  “Veldon Twiss.”

  “He should swing.”

  Well, that was going pretty far, and it was outside the possible legal consequences for grand theft auto, but she could now understand the sentiment.

  With a tap of boots across the floor, Wyatt appeared, bearing gifts. “I hope you’re not a vegetarian.” He slid a hot plate in front of her with a soft clink. It looked like beefy heaven, surrounded by a shallow lake of savory juice.

  Zane cut the meat with the side of his fork and took a bite. After a pause for savoring, he said, “Yup. You’ve done it again. The prime rib tastes better here than it does on a McDonald’s McRib sandwich. I knew you could do it, man. Love it when you aim high.”

  Wyatt picked up a large mug from his serving tray and brandished it like he was going to splash it in Zane’s face. “Watch it, or you’ll be feeling the wrath of the hot chocolate.”

  Zane reached up and grabbed the cup, pulling it down and sipping it. “Oh, yeah. This is what this ice box of a restaurant called for.” He got a little foam mustache on his upper lip. “Give one of those to my date before she gets chill blains.”

  Chill blains aside, one sip and Camilla knew she’d need to drink this flavor of hot chocolate again no less often than fortnightly for the rest of her born days. A bite of the prime rib told her the same thing. She dug in. It was nice to have the food as a distraction now. The spell of Zane’s heartfelt story had been broken, and Camilla didn’t know what to say anyway. He’d lost a brother, a close one. And he was coping.

  “So, are you ready for dessert? Or do you want to see what I found online about our good pal Veldon Twiss?”

  That depended. If dessert tasted anywhere as good as the chocolate and the main dish, it was one of the first times she’d have to declare this question a toss up. “Is there cheesecake?”

  Zane raised a surprised eyebrow. “The lady can be distracted from work, I see at last.”

  “Just kidding,” she lied. “Show me what you found.” She scooted her chair around to his side of the table as he got out his tablet from his briefcase. “There’s internet access up here?”

  “Of course. This is Prescott proper, even if it’s rustic. Lookee here. Our suspect has a blog.” He swiped at the screen a few times and then held it up for Camilla to see the poorly designed website. “About the Beemer Bandit.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Co-Conspirator

  Oh. A blog. A blog could be a
powerful weapon in their arsenal when they went before the judge and jury. Camilla instantly dropped her interest in cheesecake. Mostly.

  “What’s this blog about? Does it have a theme, or is it mostly just ramblings?” Blogs had had their heyday, peaking about three or four years ago, and had started waning in popularity now. But the old posts still lived in cyber archives, never to expire until their owner removed them. And most owners didn’t, which was what made them a treasure trove for researching background for legal arguments. They showed insights into the mind and way of thinking the author willingly shared with the world—and could really help them build a psychological case against Veldon Twiss.

  In fact, it could show what kind of a guy would knowingly steal from sick kids.

  Wait. Camilla assumed the guy took the BMW knowingly, assumed he’d been made aware of the prize for the raffle, assumed he’d targeted it heartlessly. Huh. Maybe that was a stretch. Maybe he was more of an opportunist.

  “It’s called Good Old Robin Hood. Does that give you an idea of what he’s all about?”

  “Robin Hood. Like ‘steal from the rich and give to the poor?’ That Robin Hood?” She took a closer look at the titles of the posts. There weren’t many, no more than twenty or so. Most people did get bored of their blogs after a while and let them go dormant. This guy actually hung on longer than most. “Is there anything buried in there that’s a pattern? Does he advocate the Robin Hood way of life or anything juicy like that?”

  One of the blog posts had was titled “The Sheriff of Nottingham—Does He Really Need a New Squad Car?” Its purport was that people always spent other people’s money, like taxpayer money, a lot more freely than if they’d had to scratch for it themselves, and so government officials often built new fancy offices and drove newer cars than those they were serving. This bothered Veldon Twiss. A lot. But did it bother him enough that he’d act out in violence against it? It wasn’t clear. This post, for instance, didn’t advocate retaliation.

  Another was “Maid Marian Doesn’t Need a Housekeeper. Isn’t She Already a Maid?” It’s overall message was about royalty and the wealthy elite needing to teach themselves the value of hard work. That was rich, coming from someone who stole instead of earning his own possessions. Assuming he did. Which Camilla did, in fact, assume.

  “Oh, let me look at this one.” She took his tablet. “May I?” A tap on the screen made the post open up. “Where’s the Guy of Gisbourne Hit-man Guy When We Need Em?” he said.

  “Wow. He’s got quite a grasp of grammar.”

  “What’s the big deal about grammar? I never understand people’s superiority complexes on that topic. It’s language. It’s for communication. If it gets the job done, it works.”

  “I could never be with someone who doesn’t respect the power of words.”

  “Hey, I didn’t say I disrespect the power of words. Wait. Hold up. Did you just say you couldn’t ‘be with someone who’ and then describe something about me?” He chuckled and got that wrinkle by his eye. “What I’m inferring from this is that you had been considering being with someone like me. Or, was it maybe, with me specifically? Because this is information important to clarify.”

  Camilla reddened. She hated him more right now than she ever had before. She pulled the article to herself and scanned the words. Yeah, he titled the post something to do with a hit-man, but he didn’t say he wanted to put a hit out on anyone in particular. That would have been helpful. Twiss simply stated that the IRS was the modern day equivalent of government hired guns. Probably lots of people thought that. And posts like this would pretty much guarantee Veldon would get audited—if he hadn’t already.

  Maybe that was why he had to steal the BMW. To pay back taxes.

  Nah. This was a guy who earned so little he paid no taxes. So what was there to get all worked up about, anyway?

  She handed back the tablet. None of this would be admissible in court. At least not in Judge Harper’s court. He didn’t hesitate to sustain an “irrelevant” objection by the defense. She’d have to school Zane in that fact sometime before the case went to trial.

  Zane elbowed her, which alerted her to the fact she was still sitting by him. Quite close to him, in fact. His upper arm was flush with hers. Noticing the contact sent a ripple through her. She shook it off when he spoke. “I think our buddy Veldon Twiss might have just tied his own knot in his noose. Check out this post. Guess who he refers to and extols?”

  “Who?”

  “Seriously. Guess.”

  Ugh. She hated guessing.

  “Come on. I’ll give you three chances. If you get it, we eat cheesecake, which I know is your favorite.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then we have cannoli.”

  Ugh. Cannoli. Too much ricotta cheese. Cheese was her favorite thing in the world, but did it belong in dessert? No. “That’s quite an incentive.” She still didn’t want to guess, but even more, she didn’t want to be a bad sport. After all, he’d brought her all the way here for this incredible prime rib. “Okay, fine. He’s blogging about Jimmy Hoffa. He knows where the body is buried.”

  “Nope. But that’s a good guess. It’s important to guess Jimmy Hoffa in every guessing game, and so maybe I shouldn’t count it. It’s a gimme.”

  “So I get three more tries? Fine.” She almost said Elvis, but she remembered cheesecake was on the line. Wait. Cheesecake had cheese in it. And it was dessert. What kind of hypocrite was she? Ugh. Quick, she had to guess someone good. Was Veldon a conspiracy theorist? Was he a political nut job? Was he obsessed with DIY shows on TV? The choices were too broad. “Oh, I don’t know. The Beemer Bandit.”

  “Bingo! You are good.” He thrust an arm around her shoulders, squeezed and shook her. “Well played.” He clapped his hands loudly. “Garçon! Yo. Wyatt. Bring the lady her cheesecake.”

  Wyatt’s head popped up from behind a window into the kitchen. “Sure thing, boss.” He used a New Jersey accent.

  “What does Mr. Twiss have to say about the Beemer Bandit? Does it sound like veiled self-promotion?” Was it like those people who got a dummy account on social media, gathered friends and followers, and then spent the whole time promoting their real identity as a fake fan? Veldon Twiss was the Beemer Bandit, and so of course he’d be praising the Beemer Bandit.

  “Let’s see.” Zane scrolled through the post. “Here. It says this.”

  Camilla read it.

  A guy that keeps cropping up in the news nowadays I see is a fella I’d like to get to know. He’s over in Colorado, he’s up in Nevada. He gets around. And what’s he doing hither and yon? He’s playing his own version of Robin Hood. A Sir Robin of Locksley, but with a thirst for speed. And not the kind you get on horseback through Sherwood Forest.

  No, he’s got to have a fast car from Bavaria. The Beemer Bandit. He takes from the rich. That’ll show them. Then he gives to the poor. Or at least to the poor-er. Because it takes a lot of cash to get you one of those Beemers. Or Bimmers. Or whatchamaycallem. They cost more than what I’m driving, I can tell you that. But this guy is smart. He don’t steal from his lessers. He takes from thems who can afford to lose it.

  For that, I salute him. But I hope he isn’t doing foolish stuff with the proceeds. He’d oughta better be doing the right thing and making the world a better place.

  Huh. That didn’t sound too extolling, not per se. She took a bite of cheesecake. Wow. She could extol this—all the livelong day. It melted against her tongue with the perfect fluffy texture and just the right amount of sweetness. A chocolate layer was swirled into the cake, and it had hardened when the cake cooled, creating the perfect melting ribbon of cocoa deliciousness.

  “I don’t know if we can use this. I’m not sure it’s conclusive enough.”

  Zane put down his fork. His face became more serious than she’d ever seen it. “The man stole hope from sick children.” His eyes burned. “I will make it conclusive.”

  CHAPTER NINE

 
Complex Litigation

  Another week of paperwork entombment followed. Camilla barely peeked her head from her cubical crypt during daylight hours. She drank so much water from the office water cooler she was about to demand her own jug of Sparkletts at her desk. That way they could save money by letting her just use her Big Gulp cup instead of wasting all the little paper cones on her.

  Sheldon backed her up, though. He brought her lunch from the hot dog cart or from Taco Bell. Sometimes his wife packed an extra sandwich in Sheldon’s lunchbox for Camilla. Bless her heart. He reminded her to set an alarm to go home before eleven p.m., and he called her cell to check on her, to make sure she’d left the office by midnight.

  “You don’t have to do that, Sheldon.” Camilla told him this over and over, but she secretly appreciated it. “Actually, it doesn’t really matter how many hours I work, I still can’t get it done. So you’re right. I do need to go home.”

  “Lydia said to remind you that you need your beauty rest so you can bring a gorgeous hunky date to the office campout this weekend.” Sheldon thumbed through a stack of manila file folders and selected one to take back to his desk. “I think she’s sick of looking at my bald head and wants someone to salivate over.”

  “Oh, dear. Do you mind that?”

  “No. Not as long as she keeps the home fires burning. It’s just once a year. But she always looks forward to seeing who you’ll bring.”

  To her eternal shame, last year Camilla had hired someone to be her date. Not an escort service—not that at all. But she did scope out good looking men at the laundromat for a couple of weeks, and when she found one, offered him $350 to spend the afternoon and evening with her and pretend to be her date.

  He’d been horrible at it. He kept flirting with Falcon’s sixteen year-old daughter. It was an unmitigated disaster. Camilla might have lost her job if she hadn’t begged her boss’s forgiveness and sworn to never let it happen again.

  How was she supposed to know she’d stumbled across someone they all now referred to as “Statutory Sam” by chance? Her face burned even a year later, thinking of it.