Final Option by Gini Hartzmark Page B

I let myself, I would work myself into a frenzy of paranoia. My flesh crawled at the thought of Ruskowski scrutinizing my bank records. I knew he must also be interviewing my neighbors and showing my picture to cab drivers who worked the neighborhood around Lake View Towers. I thought of his trick with the nude photos, spreading them around my office. It had felt like a kind of assault.
    At one o’clock Cheryl buzzed to say that Elliott Abelman was in the office meeting with Daniel Blumenthal and wanted to know if it would be convenient for him to drop in for a minute. Grateful for the distraction, I told her I’d be glad to see him.
    Elliott Abelman defied casual categorization. The son of a homicide detective, he’d broken a three-generation family tradition of policework. Instead he’d gone to college, flown a helicopter in Vietnam, been decorated for bravery, and gone to law school. He’d worked for Elkin Caufield, the defense attorney, until the realization slowly dawned that he liked the objectivity of being an investigator more than the murkier rewards of advocacy. From Elkin he went on to work in the D.A.’s office as an investigator before striking out on his own as a P.I.
    Elliott is good-looking in a quiet way, with soft brown hair and eyes to match, not much different than a thousand other guys in Brooks Brothers suits. That is, unless you catch a glimpse of the Browning automatic in the shoulder holster under his jacket.
    He came into my office with a carafe of coffee in one hand and two empty mugs in the other.
    “I told Cheryl I’d do the honors,” he said, smiling. It was the best thing that had happened to me all day. When Elliott smiled you practically felt the sunshine on your skin.
    “So how’s business?” I asked.
    “Good,” he said with a mischievous grin. “There are too many bad guys and too few cops. It’s an equation that’s good for trade.”
    “I’ve recommended you to a couple of lawyers at Callahan Ross. I’m glad to hear you’re getting some work from us.”
    “Thanks. Looks like you’ve come up some in the world,” said Elliott with a look around my new office. “So how does it feel to be a partner?”
    “Like being the only girl at a frat party,” I replied with more candor than discretion. “The associates all hate me, and the partners don’t know what to do with me. I think the general consensus is that I made partner early because I’m a Millholland and having my name on the letterhead adds prestige to the firm.”
    “You busted your butt to make partner. Besides, I thought more and more women are getting partnership these days.”
    “In the legal profession in general I’m sure that’s true, but not at Callahan. There are only four of us. Margaret Schwager came in as a partner from Epps & Fenix in New York and brought her clients with her. She and I operate on different planes of existence. She passes down the hall and people practically genuflect. She is so tough and polished. When we’re in the same room I just feel myself shrivel up in comparison. It’s the same with Elizabeth Seidel. She was number two at the Justice Department during the Bush administration. I think she’s just here for a couple of years to build a bank roll until she’s called to the bench. Then there’s Claire Halpem. She’s wonderful, but she’s ten years older than me, and she has a family. After bambino number three she disappeared into her office never to be seen around the water cooler again. Don’t get me wrong—she works like a maniac when she’s in the office, but then she races home. You can hardly blame her, but it doesn’t leave much time for mentoring.“
    “Sounds pretty lonely,” commented Elliott.
    “It’s what I’ve always wanted,” I replied. “I don’t mean to whine about it. It’s just going to take a little while before everyone gets used to it. Until then, I try to avoid the back shelves of the library lest someone stab me in the