end, agreed.
Ordinarily it would have taken Sloane half the time to get through the file. Over the years he had forged the ability to block out everything that could distract from a task at hand. Work was his therapy—avoidance therapy, perhaps, but it had helped him to cope.
Not this time.
His mind kept wandering, slipping back to the break-in at his apartment, and Melda’s subsequent revelation of a telephone repairman at the building beforehand. His legal training mandated that he see them as related, if for no other reason than that neither could be logically explained and that Sloane’s apartment was the focus of both. He sat down at his desk and manipulated chopsticks to pick at the remnants of a carton of spicy beef that filled the room with the aroma of red peppers, green onions, and garlic, and washed down the final bite with a bottle of Tsingtao beer. He had no hard evidence that the two incidents were related; still, he had the persistent feeling he was missing something, some crucial fact that would put the two oddities together. It was the curse of being a lawyer: No two facts were unrelated; there was always a thread. There was always a conspiracy. No wonder lawyers were the most persecuted people he’d ever met—the persecution was of their own doing.
Do you have any enemies, Mr. Sloane?
In his mind’s eye, Sloane saw and heard the police officer who came to his apartment to investigate the burglary. He had asked Sloane that question as they surveyed the damage.
“It looks to me like you pissed someone off,” he’d said. “Do you have any enemies, Mr. Sloane?”
Sloane told him it could be any number of people, given his occupation. “Why do you ask?”
The officer led him to the front door of the apartment and pointed to the lock. “The lock was disengaged, not broken.”
“Is that significant?”
“It means there was no forced entry. Nobody broke the door down. They either had a key or picked the lock; someone who knew what he was doing. Any ideas?”
“None,” Sloane said to his empty office. He dropped the chopsticks into the empty carton and threw both in the garbage can by his desk, then pulled his mail from his briefcase, flipping through it until coming to the 9 ¥ 12 rust-colored envelope. His name and address were hand-printed on the front.
Tina knocked, opened his door, and walked in.
“You’re still here?” He put the envelope down as she handed him a draft of the settlement agreement he had dictated to put on the record Monday morning.
“In body only,” she said. “My mind departed at five.”
“I didn’t expect you to do this tonight.”
“Now you tell me.” She brushed an errant hair from her cheek and tugged at the sleeves of the Irish-knit cardigan draped over her shoulders. “What? Do I have something on my face?” She wiped the side of her mouth in the reflection in the window.
He had been staring at her. He had thought Tina attractive the moment she was introduced as his assistant, but had really noticed her when she walked unescorted into the firm’s twenty-five-year anniversary party wearing a black backless gown and a strand of pearls. They had sat together, each without spouse or date, and danced more than once. But then the clock struck midnight, and Tina left quickly. It was just as well. There could be nothing between them. She was his employee; a relationship would only lead to disaster, like all his relationships, a convoy of failures. But unlike those women, who were eager to be married, Tina gave no indication that that was something in her future. Sloane had come to respect her as intelligent and mature beyond her years, always putting the well-being of her son, Jake, first.
“I was just wondering who’s watching Jake.”
She turned from the window. “Would you believe his father? I called to see if hell had also frozen over.” She put up a hand. “My mother says I shouldn’t say those things, that I need to be more diplomatic.
Ordinarily it would have taken Sloane half the time to get through the file. Over the years he had forged the ability to block out everything that could distract from a task at hand. Work was his therapy—avoidance therapy, perhaps, but it had helped him to cope.
Not this time.
His mind kept wandering, slipping back to the break-in at his apartment, and Melda’s subsequent revelation of a telephone repairman at the building beforehand. His legal training mandated that he see them as related, if for no other reason than that neither could be logically explained and that Sloane’s apartment was the focus of both. He sat down at his desk and manipulated chopsticks to pick at the remnants of a carton of spicy beef that filled the room with the aroma of red peppers, green onions, and garlic, and washed down the final bite with a bottle of Tsingtao beer. He had no hard evidence that the two incidents were related; still, he had the persistent feeling he was missing something, some crucial fact that would put the two oddities together. It was the curse of being a lawyer: No two facts were unrelated; there was always a thread. There was always a conspiracy. No wonder lawyers were the most persecuted people he’d ever met—the persecution was of their own doing.
Do you have any enemies, Mr. Sloane?
In his mind’s eye, Sloane saw and heard the police officer who came to his apartment to investigate the burglary. He had asked Sloane that question as they surveyed the damage.
“It looks to me like you pissed someone off,” he’d said. “Do you have any enemies, Mr. Sloane?”
Sloane told him it could be any number of people, given his occupation. “Why do you ask?”
The officer led him to the front door of the apartment and pointed to the lock. “The lock was disengaged, not broken.”
“Is that significant?”
“It means there was no forced entry. Nobody broke the door down. They either had a key or picked the lock; someone who knew what he was doing. Any ideas?”
“None,” Sloane said to his empty office. He dropped the chopsticks into the empty carton and threw both in the garbage can by his desk, then pulled his mail from his briefcase, flipping through it until coming to the 9 ¥ 12 rust-colored envelope. His name and address were hand-printed on the front.
Tina knocked, opened his door, and walked in.
“You’re still here?” He put the envelope down as she handed him a draft of the settlement agreement he had dictated to put on the record Monday morning.
“In body only,” she said. “My mind departed at five.”
“I didn’t expect you to do this tonight.”
“Now you tell me.” She brushed an errant hair from her cheek and tugged at the sleeves of the Irish-knit cardigan draped over her shoulders. “What? Do I have something on my face?” She wiped the side of her mouth in the reflection in the window.
He had been staring at her. He had thought Tina attractive the moment she was introduced as his assistant, but had really noticed her when she walked unescorted into the firm’s twenty-five-year anniversary party wearing a black backless gown and a strand of pearls. They had sat together, each without spouse or date, and danced more than once. But then the clock struck midnight, and Tina left quickly. It was just as well. There could be nothing between them. She was his employee; a relationship would only lead to disaster, like all his relationships, a convoy of failures. But unlike those women, who were eager to be married, Tina gave no indication that that was something in her future. Sloane had come to respect her as intelligent and mature beyond her years, always putting the well-being of her son, Jake, first.
“I was just wondering who’s watching Jake.”
She turned from the window. “Would you believe his father? I called to see if hell had also frozen over.” She put up a hand. “My mother says I shouldn’t say those things, that I need to be more diplomatic.
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