a long pause, he said reluctantly, “Yeah, okay. Get me an aisle seat, will you? I’ll just go upstairs, you know, pack a few things. Be back in a sec,” he called out as he headed for the stairs. He turned back. “And Jo—thanks.”
Going to San Francisco, Emily sang in her head, leaving out the part about wearing flowers in your hair. And Jozette was apparently paying his way, which implied some relationship between Mr. Cool and the hardbitten waitress. There was no way she would believe the two of them had, well, a thing. It was more as if he had done Jozette some major favor in the past—kind of like the Godfather or something.
Very curious. Biding her time until the tantalizing Tyler came waltzing back down those stairs, Emily decided that she could honestly say she’d never been confronted with anything remotely this intriguing in her entire life. Crimes, misdemeanors, mystery men, hidden loot, bank robberies, felons on the lam…
“You come to work late. You eat lunch at a new place. You break your cosmic routine. And all hell breaks loose,” she whispered.
Emily smiled. What fun!
Chapter 2
TYLER O’TOOLE TOSSED his toothbrush and a couple of extra T-shirts into a beat-up duffel bag.
“Damn it all to hell.” The last thing he wanted was to run to San Francisco to play baby-sitter for a loser like Joseph “Slab” Slabicki. But what else was he going to do? “Worst client I ever had,” he said darkly.
And he’d had some doozies in his short and unproductive legal career. So when he said Slab was the worst, that was going some. His clients were mostly lowlifes and petty thieves. Sure, they deserved a defense as much as anyone else. If only they paid better.
And if only their problems would quit sucking him into legal problems of his own. He’d already had the ethics committee of the bar association breathing down his neck—twice—over the way he’d handled a couple of cases for lesser lights in Fat Mike’s organization. Allegations of jury tampering and money laundering. Right. As if his clients had the cash to pay off jurors or launder money. That was way too liquid for his flea-bitten legal practice.
“Lie down with dogs, get fleas, and don’t even get a bone. Yeah, Ty, old boy. Real smart. You know, you might want to think about making some changes in this so-called life of yours.”
Excellent idea. As soon as this was over.
He threw a few more things into the bag and zipped it up, aware he had to get done and get out of there if he had any chance of pulling this off. Sure. All he had to do was follow Slab to San Francisco, find the mope before he did anything stupid, keep him from getting killed or arrested, and get them both back to Chicago in time for Slab’s preliminary hearing on Monday.
Because if he didn’t, Fat Mike would be out the dough he’d put up for Slab’s bail. And then there would be hell to pay.
Not to mention more scrutiny from the ethics committee over just how involved he was in Slab’s flight from the jurisdiction. Fugitive from justice. Aiding and abetting. Yeah, it sounded just great.
And then he was getting squeezed from the other side, too—the Feds investigating Fat Mike, who were none too subtle about pressuring potential witnesses into cooperation.
“This is a lose-lose situation,” Tyler muttered, making his way back down the stairs to the coffee shop. And a fool’s errand. But it was also his only shot at keeping the wolf—and Fat Mike—from his door.
“Hey, Jo,” he called as he hit the bottom step, “do you mind watching my place for a couple of days while I’m out of town? Only open it up for a search warrant, okay?”
“No prob, Tyler. I got you covered.” She glanced down at the counter where she’d scribbled some notes. “You’re leaving from O’Hare. I got you on a two-o’clock flight.”
“Terrific. Thanks again.” He paused. “I should be back by Monday. I’d better be back by Monday.”
And with that, he picked up his bag and headed to the street to look for a cab. He hoped he could cover the fare to the airport.
EMILY SAT THERE over the melting remains of her banana split, listening, thinking, planning.
“The only thing I can do is follow him,” she whispered, growing more sure with every word. “I’m a lawyer, aren’t I? And it sure sounds like he’s going to need one.”
After all, if Tyler was dangling from the precipice of legal troubles, maybe she could help him, keep his creepy friend from taking any old girlfriends apart with his bare hands, and get the adventure of a lifetime while she was at it.
It sounded a lot better than sitting in Chicago with Kip Enfield and the Bentley file.
Emily dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the table and grabbed her things. She still had time to catch him. And she’d always wanted to say, Follow that cab!
SHE SAW HIM JUMP OUT of a taxi and head into the terminal at O’Hare just as her own cab was pulling up behind it. On the trip to the airport from the city, she’d had plenty of time to rethink her impromptu plan, but she hadn’t. In fact, she was more set on it now than she’d ever been. It was only for the weekend, after all. He’d said very clearly he’d be back on Monday. And didn’t lots of people throw together last-minute weekend plans?
Besides, hadn’t she begged for something wild and new to happen? What more could you ask for?
“Sukie Sommersby would do it,” she repeated to herself as she followed him into the terminal. As he approached the ticket counter, Emily quickly ducked behind a large family and their immense pile of luggage, to stay out of Tyler’s sight line.
Pretending to be absorbed in a cartful of golf bags, she added, “Sukie would do it in a New York minute. Sukie would be waking up in Vegas with him tomorrow, no regrets. And then she’d be calling me to tell me all about it.”
“Who are you talking to?” demanded the father of the family she was using as cover. He strong-armed the cart she was hiding behind, sharply wheeling it away from her. “Are you touching my bags?”
“No, no. I wasn’t touching anything. I, uh, twisted my ankle and was just resting for a moment.” She gave him a weak smile, which didn’t seem to satisfy him.
She wanted to demand, Do I look like a terrorist? but she kept her mouth shut. Harrumph. She was wearing a beautifully cut navy-blue suit, a silk blouse and her grandmother’s pearls. Hardly the sort of person who planted bombs in other people’s golf bags.
Oh well. She pretended to limp as she darted behind a convenient pillar, just to allay Mr. Cranky’s fears. It provided a better angle to spy on Tyler, anyway. From that vantage point, she saw him take his ticket from the agent at the counter and disappear down Concourse C.
“For once in my life,” she said with determination, “I’m not going to be the one on the other end of the phone. I’m going to be the one in the middle of the adventure.”
Now all she had to do was buy a ticket on his flight to San Francisco—two o’clock, the waitress had said—and keep shadowing him wherever he went when he got there. She would scope out whatever it was he was involved with, and she would step in to save him when the proper time arose.
Good plan, she told herself. It was just the sort of thing Trick McCall would do. Sukie, on the other hand, would be seducing him off to Paris for croissants in bed. But Emily preferred to stick with Trick on this one.
So she hit an ATM for as much cash as she could carry, tried not to look like a drug dealer when she paid for her ticket in cash, and then made a beeline for the gate.
Tyler was already there, moodily staring into space, and he didn’t seem to notice as she skirted around behind him and buried her nose in her Trick McCall book. Either she was very good at this surveillance stuff, or he was very bad at picking up on it.