Dead Lift Page 2

  He stood. “It’s not about Young?” The words sounded more like a challenge than a question.

  “I don’t care what you believe. You’re not my shrink and you’re not my father. And effective immediately, you’re not my boss anymore either. Find somebody else to insult and psychoanalyze.”

  I turned and walked away.

  “Come back,” he said behind me. “Let’s finish this.”

  I didn’t stop to answer, just shoved open the door and left, taking all my irrelevant opinions and unfounded overreactions with me.

  ***

  I did something new on my drive home—turned off my radio. So much noise was in my head that I couldn’t stand anymore. Mick Young had recently defended murderers, kidnappers, and world class racketeers and, as far as I was concerned, that made him unconscionable. By association, I brooded over what that implied about the character of his newest client.

  For all I knew, Young himself might even be part of the same criminal ring—still at large—that he’d recently tried to help. The FBI had chased that group for years and was still after its splinter groups today. I knew firsthand that its members were steeply networked into all sorts of professions. Having an attorney in the mix certainly couldn’t hurt.

  No, I told myself. Everybody who came in contact with that group was not necessarily linked to it. I forced the idea aside.

  Shortly before eleven, I let myself into my apartment, half expecting Jeannie to be nestled in Annette’s pink princess bed where I’d left her two hours ago. Instead she was unpacking shopping bags strewn across the sofa and loveseat, her suitcase open at her feet. I smelled toast and coffee.

  “I meant to shop for your birthday,” she said, “But I ended up shopping for myself. Happens.”

  She removed a cashmere sweater from a bag, folded it neatly, and added it to a stack of other new merchandise in her now very-full bag on wheels. “Saved you some brunch though.”

  I looked over her new clothes. “You got an early start.”

  “The boutiques were calling me.”

  I dropped my generic purse on the coffee table next to her Louis Vuitton tote. Unbuttoning my sleeveless blouse, I headed for the hall. “I need a run to clear my head.”

  “Silly girl,” she said. “Coffee clears your head, not exercise.”

  When I didn’t answer, she followed me into my bedroom. “If you’re going to run, you might as well do it at that fancy club, right? Get the 4-1-1 on Diana King?”

  I pulled on a dirty pair of shorts and an ancient tank top. “I’m not in the mood for your jokes.”

  Claire’s and Diana’s hoity-toity, women’s only gym had denied my membership request on the spot. When I’d tried to join, the front desk attendant, Starr, took a little too much pleasure in explaining that membership was by invitation only. Her sideways glances at my clothes and hair translated the euphemism for me: I wasn’t rich or pretty enough.

  Jeannie disappeared for a moment and returned with a luxurious envelope. She extracted the card inside and presented it with a flourish. Pressed flowers adorned the paper, through which a sheer ribbon had been woven. It looked like a wedding invitation.

  I read its message, incredulous. “They let you in?”

  “Of course. And now you’ll be my guest. Happy?” Her self-indulgent smile said she certainly was.

  “No,” I said. “I’m pissed.”

  “We have appointments at one.”

  She vanished into the hallway.

  I knelt on the floor and reached under my bed for a stray running shoe. Behind it I found an abandoned bowl of goldfish crackers and a cow flashlight that mooed when I grabbed it. “What kind of appointments?”

  She hollered from the kitchen. “Nails!” A cupboard slammed.

  My irritation edged up a notch. I laced up my shoes and reminded myself she was only trying to be nice. Then I got an idea and, still on my knees, reached for the phone.

  Richard sounded relieved to hear from me. “I thought you might call.”

  “I’ll help with your case.”

  “Good! That’s—”

  “On my terms.”

  He hesitated. “But you’re not—”

  “Yeah, I know I’m not. But that’s my condition. Unless you plan to suddenly go transgender, I’m your only ticket inside that gym. You need me.”

  Jeannie reappeared with a cup of coffee and set it on the floor next to me. She watched, impassive, and waited to openly eavesdrop on whatever was being said.

  “I thought you said they wouldn’t let you in,” Richard said.

  “I’m in now. Yes or no?”

  Jeannie smirked.

  “How’d you get in?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “What ‘terms’ do you mean?”

  “I don’t want to follow Diana anymore. It’s boring.”

  “I’ll find somebody else.”

  “And I want to attend any meetings with Mick Young.”

  He was silent.

  “Richard?”

  “That’s a bad idea.”

  “You need somebody on the inside of that club.”

  He muttered something. I thought he called me stubborn.

  “I’m sorry, was that a yes?” I said.

  “Good luck at the club.” He clicked off the line.

  I passed the phone to Jeannie, who returned it to my night stand, and then I leaned back against my box springs and mattress.

  “What’s up?” she said.

  “I went to the jail.”

  “Cool.”

  “Not really. Claire Gaston’s kind of…I can’t figure her out. She’s represented by Brighton and Young.”

  Jeannie’s lip curled in obvious disgust.

  “Richard didn’t tell me,” I added. “I found out during the interview. Found out a lot of things he left out.”

  She sat on the floor across from me. “Men and details,” she said. “Like men and condoms. They only use them if they have to.”

  Too distracted to smile, I only shook my head.

  “I’d have a real problem working for those guys,” she added.

  “I guess Mick Young will defend anyone. Still…”

  I pushed away the thought and raised the coffee to my lips, blowing on it and watching tiny ripples.

  Jeannie used her long fingernails on one hand to push back cuticles on the other. “Keep going.”

  “Hard to say. Something about her is definitely off but I think she might be innocent.”

  “Sweetie, you’re a wonderful friend and you’re freaky smart. But you’re also the most gullible person I’ve ever met.”

  I let my head fall back and watched dusty ceiling fan blades go around in slow motion. “Yep.”

  She stood and patted me on the head on her way out. “This is why you’re not having sex.”

  “Because I’m gullible?”

  She didn’t answer.

  I lumbered to my feet, bringing my coffee along, and found Jeannie in the living room, digging through her purse. She produced a lighter and a pack of Salem Lights and went outside. I followed, appalled that anyone would endure triple digit heat and 88% humidity for a smoke.

  When I closed the door behind me, it shut louder than I’d intended. “Tell me more, Dr. Ruth.”

  Jeannie settled into the wooden rocker my neighbor Florence kept on the landing between our two apartments. She took a long drag. When she exhaled, she twisted her lips so the smoke would go off to the side. “Does it bother you more that you’re working for the scum who defended that ring, or that you’re falling for a man who was embroiled in the whole mess?”

  “This has nothing to do with Vince.”

  “Of course it does. I’m not saying it’s the bulk of what’s bothering you. Just pointing out that your professional life and personal life are mixed now.”

  “I just told you that. Because this new case is Mick Young’s.”

  She examined the cigarette between her ivory fingers, then suddenly her g
aze jumped to me. “How long after you met Jack did you go to bed with him?”

  I looked at her, aghast. Vince and I had been on the cusp of something since March, and Jeannie was beside herself with worry because four months had passed and we hadn’t slept together. I didn’t see what it had to do with my late husband or how it related to Claire Gaston’s case. She mistakenly interpreted my silence as agreement.

  “You see my point then. If it weren’t for Vince’s family tree, you guys would be a done deal by now.”

  “That has nothing to do with work. And you oversimplify. I’m in a new city…I’ve made a career switch. There’s Annette now. Vince knows I’m working through a lot.”

  I left out the worst, that the fourth anniversary of Annette’s kidnapping and Jack’s murder had passed only days ago. This was the first year I hadn’t visited his grave, back home in Cleveland, on July seventh.

  “He respects your situation, yes. But trust me. Even a saint runs out of patience at some point. It’s time.”

  “Easy advice coming from a woman who’s slept with more men than I’ve ever talked to.”

  She leaned so far back in Florence’s rocker that its runners pointed up. A broad smile played over her shimmering lips and I wondered which of her past lovers she’d flashed back to. “That wasn’t meant as a compliment.”

  She ignored me. “Thinking about Mick Young has already ripped open the March wounds again, fresh and bloody. Poor Vince is going to pay for it. If you were too confused to sleep with him before, there’s no way he’s getting action now.”

  “He had nothing to do with all that. Those are two separate things.”

  “Says your rational mind. It’s your subconscious that worries me.”

  “You’re a fruitcake.” I opened the door to my apartment. Jeannie explaining psychology was like a child dabbling in taxes.

  Chapter Three

  That morning I spent an inordinate amount of time on our drive to Tone Zone mentally rehearsing what I’d say if Starr refused to let me in again. Thankfully, the desk attendant was a new girl who waved me in when Jeannie flashed her temporary membership pass and introduced me as a guest.

  I hastily filled out a name-address-phone number card and Jeannie tucked her fancy membership pass into her bag.

  “I don’t see why they make you bother with that card.” Jeannie crossed the lobby and headed for a wide corridor across the room. “It’s not like they want to recruit you.”

  Before I could answer, she stopped and looked around, confused. “I have no idea where anything is.”

  Tone Zone’s floor plan was sectioned into specialized fitness studios that opened off a series of serpentine halls. We found a sign directing us to Yoga and Pilates, Indoor Cycling, Cardio and Strength Training, Aerobics and Kickboxing, or Dance. Below it, a wall-mounted map showed our current location relative to larger facilities like racquetball courts and the indoor pool.

  Jeannie tapped a glittery, salmon-colored segment of the map, representing the spa. “I’m there.”

  I read the list of available services out loud. “Tanning, massage, waxing, facials, body treatments, manicures, pedicures, permanent make-up, lash extensions, and hair.” Underneath each item, more specific services were listed in smaller, curlicue letters.

  “This is wrong on so many levels,” I said. “The spa takes up more than half the square footage of the building.”

  “So?”

  “People need exercise, Jeannie. Not lash extensions.”

  “These people need lash extensions.”

  “I hate that glittery map and those stupid curly letters.”

  She grabbed my shoulders and spun me to the left. “Treadmills are that way. Go melt your inner grump. When my friend Emily comes back, tell her she can find me relaxing in the spa, admiring long lashes.”

  Wordlessly, I trudged down the hallway in the direction she’d indicated.

  Behind me, she said, “Remember to meet at the nail salon a little before one.”

  I checked my watch—11:45—and waved acknowledgement without looking back.

  The corridor I thought would lead to the Cardio and Strength Training Room dead-ended at a smoothie bar, where a woman waited for someone to blend her drink. A form-fitted singlet clung to her narrow waist; little shorts with stripes on the sides showed off her solid butt and thighs.

  “Excuse me…”

  She turned, dabbing a thick, white towel at her temples. Sweat had broken through her foundation make-up and the towel was spotted with little streaks of beige. One of her penciled-in eyebrows had wiped away. I tried not to stare but that was impossible.

  “Can you tell me where to find the cardio equipment?” It also bothered me that the tint on her face didn’t match the natural skin tone on her neck.

  Dark eyes, slightly pulled up in the corners, made a quick pass over my clothes and hesitated at my shoes, still caked with mud from my last run.

  Behind her, the blender stopped. She turned her attention to the girl behind the counter without answering me. Then, with no payment or “thank you,” she picked up her drink and stepped away. The club probably ran a tab for its members, I figured, but I couldn’t come up with an excuse for not saying thanks.

  She nodded toward the hallway behind me, as if offering to show me the way, and I followed, hoping I hadn’t misinterpreted.

  After what felt like minutes, but was probably ten seconds, I buckled under the oppressive silence. “This is my first visit.”

  She strode forward, about a step ahead of me, and carried her lime green smoothie without taking a sip. We came upon a set of double doors inset with glass, through which I was relieved to see treadmills and elliptical trainers lined up on one side, free weights and nautilus machines on the other. With her available hand, she opened the door.

  “We’re a first-rate club,” she said, as I passed into a room that smelled like hand sanitizer. “Please observe the other ladies’ attire and adjust your future clothing choices accordingly.”

  I could only nod, not having been reprimanded for dress code since grade school. I wanted to say, “Please observe the other ladies’ eyebrows and note that everyone has two,” but I refrained. Smoothie Nag retreated into the hall and I went toward the free weights because they were in the corner of the room furthest away from everyone. Dumbbells were arranged in racks along a mirrored wall. I used the mirror to survey the clientele behind me while I pretended to plan a workout. I didn’t care about being chewed out by a snob, but she’d made me curious.

  I counted four coordinated athletic sets, two tennis dresses, and a bicyclist’s jersey with black spandex shorts. The women around me commiserated about whatever rich people talk about. Jealous and snubbed, I dismissed them all as lightweights who only came to gossip, not sweat. In a moment of self-righteousness, I loaded up a bench press bar and got started in the squat rack using an inclined bench. The first set felt easy but the second took some work. I was digging deep, feeling hot, by the third.

  “Whoa there, Chief.” Jeannie stared down at me from what would have been a spotter’s position.

  I racked the bar, breathing hard. “Where’d you come from?”

  She moved around the rack so I could see her better. She bore the distrustful expression of a parent who has caught a child raising a crayon to the wall. “What’s going on?”

  “You interrupted my set. That’s what.”

  She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Parsley.”

  “What?”

  “When you’re having a meal and there’s a little sprig of parsley on your plate?” She gestured demurely as if presenting a dinner entrée. “Nobody really expects you to eat it. It’s a garnish.”

  I squinted at her.

  “Free weights are a garnish in a club like this.” Her voice was still low, conspiratorial. “You’re sticking out like a sore thumb.”

  I glanced around and two heads snapped to look away. When my gaze came back to Jeannie, she actually looked
sympathetic. “At least while you’re here…be a girl. Use the nautilus machines.”

  I came back to a seated position on the bench. “I don’t see why they would have—”

  She raised a hand and cut me off. “Be a girl.”

  “What’s the point of—” I scanned the women around me, not really caring if they noticed. “The only push ups around here are in their bras.”

  A nearby wall-mounted rack offered paper towels and disinfectant spray. I used them to wipe my bench while Jeannie checked herself in the mirror.

  “Anyway, you looked manly. I mean, besides the free weights. You had the red face and intense breathing thing going on. Do you always do that or were you channeling some kind of inner rage?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be trying on lip gloss or something?”

  “Here.” She held out a brochure. “You should decide what kind of manicure you want before you show up for the appointment.”

  I glanced at it. “French, paraffin, luxury, hot stone, spa…Like I care.”

  She regarded me a moment. “That was an inner rage I walked in on. What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Nothing you don’t already know. I was thinking about Mick Young, wondering if he’s a normal attorney or if he’s dirty like his old clients. Claire’s case might be my ticket to finding out.”

  “If there’s any chance he’s involved with those people, you should stay as far away from this case—and that gang of lowlifes—as you can. You know better.”

  “They stole my family.”

  I felt my heart rate jump. Jeannie pulled her eyes off mine and nodded to a passing gym patron. Remembering where we were, I did the same. I was already the unwelcome visitor with ghetto clothes and a manly workout. No sense adding “rude” to the list.

  “We’ll talk later,” I said. “I’m going to run.”

  She left as unobtrusively as she’d arrived. I found a treadmill and skipped the warm-up, opting to get straight to business. I locked in a brisk pace and added a slight uphill grade. When my breathing caught up, my mind wandered back to the issues that had brought me in the first place.

  Imaginary conversations with Richard played out in my head. In one, he accused me of being immature, so I quit my job a second time and went on to single-handedly prove Claire’s innocence or guilt. The guilty ending was especially satisfying because I got to lord over Richard that he should have known better than to work for Mick Young.