Killer Ambition - [50]

“I don’t think-”

“I’ll take care of it.” Even if I had to knock heads with Vanderhorn.

“I’ll give Furtoni the heads-up so he can figure out who he’s sending.”

While Bailey made the call, I pictured the iPad-its lovely touch screen.

“It’s probably a long shot since those kids stole the iPad and played around with it, but if we get lucky, we might be able to get prints off that iPad,” I said.

“Prints will be great if he’s in the system. Of course, if he’s not…”

We’d be screwed-for now. But if we got him, we’d be able to prove he had the iPad. Which would prove he was involved in the murders. It wasn’t a home run, but it was better than nothing. And a damn sight better than anything we’d had so far.

30

Bailey went home that night and I put myself to bed early. I’d already left a message for Eric saying I needed approval to pay for an NYPD officer to bring out the iPad. There was nothing more we could do at this point. Nothing but wait, anyway. Sunday I caught up on sleep, then I went to the office and attacked the mile-high stack of motions and messages that had piled up on my desk.

A step onto the balcony Monday morning told me it was going to be another scorcher of a day. I didn’t have any court appearances, so I could do casual. I opted for a light cotton shift and sandals, and when I stepped outside, I was plenty glad I did. In just two blocks, it felt as though the temperature had already climbed by at least ten degrees. Cup Man, the street resident who loudly proclaimed non sequiturs about world affairs on the corner of First and Main with a Styrofoam cup perched on his head, was shirtless today. Stray cats slept languorously in the shade and even the homeless-usually bundled up in everything they owned-were carrying their coats in shopping carts.

I hurried up Broadway, eager to get into the air-conditioned courthouse. The elevator did its usual swoop and bump as it bounced to a stop on almost every floor on the way up to my office on the eighteenth.

I wanted to talk to Eric, but first I’d have to get past his secretary, Melia Espinoza, aka Gossip Central. Legal secretaries are generally very well paid-at least in the private sector-because they know almost as much as, and often more than, the lawyers. But the DA’s office doesn’t pay anywhere near what the private sector does, so the really good ones never bother to apply. Thus, the gift of Melia. I deal with her by asking her to do as little as possible. This arrangement suits her just fine.

When I stopped in the doorway, she jerked her head up. Once again, I’d interrupted her reading a tabloid rag that lay open in her lap under the desk. Since no one ever mentioned it, and Eric had never busted her, Melia thought no one knew. Every prosecutor in the unit knew. And inconsiderate bunch that they were, they imposed on her tabloid time by expecting her to do secretarial things. Like find a file, or the boss.

“Oh, Rachel. Hi! How’re you doing?”

The effusive greeting left me momentarily speechless. She usually barely remembered my name, though we’d been working together for years.

“I’m fine. Is Eric around? I left him a message.”

“He’s in a meeting right now, but I’m sure he’ll take your call. Want me to get him?”

Interrupt him when Vanderhorn might be listening? Hell no. “No, thanks, it can wait.” But what was up with girlfriend? Cheery, helpful. Who was this pod person, and what had she done with Melia?

“Rachel, you know they’re saying a stalker killed Hayley Antonovich. Is it true?”

The light dawned. I had the big celebrity case. Thanks to me, Melia had the hottest seat in town-right in the middle of the investigation. This made me her favorite DDA. I knew I should find a way to capitalize on this. But I couldn’t think of anything I needed at the moment. I’d have to give it some thought very soon. Melia’s devotion wouldn’t last one second longer than the case did. “We really don’t know, Melia. Could you just tell Eric to call me on my cell?”

“I will. Good luck!”

Jeez. I’d have to take the long way around the hallways from now on to avoid my new best friend, Melia. This helpful, enthusiastic version was unsettling. I’d hoped to find Toni in her office when I got in, but her door was closed and she didn’t answer when I knocked. Having exhausted my opportunities for distraction, I retreated to my office and dug into the half of my desk I call an in-box.

By noon, I’d almost reached the bottom of the stack. Most of the motions didn’t require a written response; they were just CYA (cover your ass) motions the defense attorneys had to make so they wouldn’t be accused of rendering ineffective assistance when the case went up on appeal. I was reading through my second-to-last of these scintillating creations when my cell phone played “The Crystal Ship” by the Doors. The ringtone I’d assigned to Toni.

“Antoinette! Where the hell are you?”

“What do you mean, where am I? You’re the one that’s been out God knows where. So where the hell are you?”

“In my office, pushing the wheels of justice forward.”