RoamWild by Valerie Herme´ Page B

was right. She wants Judge McGrath.

Chapter Three Bargains
    We stand on the sidewalk and let the rain dampen the hoods and shoulders of our raincoats. The washed air feels good on my face. I think of a favor I can do for Angie and the Judge.
    I ask, “Any plans for Saturday night?”
    “Not especially.” She tries to sound casual, but she’s wondering if I’m interested in her.
    I say, “I have a ticket to the children’s center benefit, and I can’t make it. If you’d be interested….” I take the ticket out of my briefcase and hand it to her.
    The benefit dinner is a big occasion for the legal community. Judge McGrath will be there.
    Angie says, “I’m not supposed to accept gratuities.”
    “One of the firm’s partners gave it to me. Anyway, it’s hardly enough to count.”
    She tries to look reluctant, but the envelope with the ticket is quickly in her pocket. She says, “It’s formal, isn’t it?”
    “Seattle formal. You can make do with funky.”
    “I don’t know.”
    She’s worried about looking right. An assistant district attorney doesn’t make much. I say, “I’m headed to à la Seattle. Want to check the sale racks?”
    She says, “I can’t afford to walk past that place.”
    “I know the owner.”
    She frowns. “I’m not supposed to accept special favors.”
    I say, “You won’t be.”
    A cab answers my summons. I climb in. Angie joins me. She doesn’t say anything. Either she’s decided a free ticket to a charity ball and some possible bargains off a boutique sale rack won’t stain her prosecutor’s code of ethics, or she’s interested enough in Judge McGrath to cut a few corners for the chance to meet up with the judge at a gala affair in a hot new outfit.
    The ride lasts a few blocks. In better weather I’d walk, but I need to keep my lawyer shoes out of the puddles.
    Angie leaves the cab and hesitates. I understand why she might find the storefront intimidating. The window display reeks of money. Any of the outfits in the window cost a couple months of her pay.
    The door opens. Out walks a young blonde woman in a perfectly fitted knee-length sleeveless dress. Her hair and face look expensively done and gorgeous. She reaches for me with her slender arms, smiles big, and says, “Hey, babe.”
    We hug. I say, “Denise, this is my colleague, Angie White. Angie, Denise Willkin, the owner of à la Seattle.”
    Denise offers a hand. Angie takes it quickly. We walk into the store. I say, “Angie came along to look at a few things.” I don’t need to say, I’ll cover most of the tab without telling her. Denise knows. When you’ve worked with a woman in a glass-walled whorehouse, you build a special understanding.
    Denise calls, “Jamie, Michelle.” Two young sales clerks hurry over. They lead Angie to a dress rack, chatting and flattering her.
    I ask Denise, “How’s it going?”
    She says, “Wonderful! I’ll brew you an espresso.” She leads me to her office. While we’ve talked, she hasn’t let go of my arm.
    I sit in one of her leather chairs. The frosted glass she chose for her walls makes a statement she and I understand. We’ve worked inside glass, surrounded by transparent rooms where men and women bare themselves and do everything.
    She keeps her back to me while she messes with the coffee machine. I ask, “Everything okay?”
    She says, “Running a business is harder than whoring. The bottom line’s great, but I have to stay on everything all the time.”
    Denise as Desiree, perched on the fender of the antique red convertible, her face painted in silvery blue diamonds, her perfect legs bared all the way, her body lighting fantasies in the eyes of the rich men crowding around her.
    I say, “Maybe you need some night work.”
    “Ha! No way.”
    “What if we bid ourselves as a twosome?”
    She shakes her head. “Walter made me swear to quit.” But she’s trying to hide a grin. I know she’s intrigued.
    I ask, “How’s Wally?”
    She says,