Guilt By Degrees

13

Angel, the doorman, greeted us as he opened the heavy glass-and-iron door. “Evening, ladies.”

“Hey, Angel,” I replied. “Keeping warm?”

“Had to break out my thermals.”

Though L.A. never got the kind of cold you’d find in the Midwest or on the East Coast, it could definitely get nippy enough to seep into your bones after a while. And unlike back East or the Midwest, builders out here never took heating and insulation all that seriously. This meant that the great indoors provided no real relief.

“I could lend you my Spanx,” I replied. “That’ll heat you up.”

“Plus it’ll smooth you out,” Bailey observed.

Angel rolled his eyes and stepped back outside.

We made our way through the magnificently spacious lobby, our footsteps echoing on the henna-colored marble floors, then muted as we stepped onto the thick Oriental rugs. I reached the bar first and grasped the solid-brass handle to pull the door open. The electric fire in the brick hearth glowed warmly, casting an orange light on the forest-green-leather wingback chairs and mahogany tables. It was already fairly crowded with financial-district types and corporate lawyers-no cops or prosecutors, now or ever. Bailey and I took seats at the end of the bar. Drew looked, as always, like he’d stepped out of GQ, dressed in the usual white shirt and black vest that accentuated his broad shoulders and narrow waist, the diamond stud earring flashing brightly against his black skin. He poured from a silver martini shaker into four glasses on a tray, wiped his hands on the bar towel, and came down to greet us.

“The most beautiful women in the world have arrived,” he said, somehow making the statement feel entirely plausible.

“And how are we tonight?” he asked.

“Tired,” Bailey said.

They exchanged an obnoxiously sweet smile.

“And thirsty,” I said pointedly.

“Graden joining us?” he asked me, referring to Lieutenant Graden Hales.

The common wisdom among female deputy DAs is never fall for a cop. Sure, they can be smart, handsome, sexy as hell. But they’re almost guaranteed to be dogs who’ll cheat on you with your sister and then tell all their buddies at the station. Lieutenant Graden Hales, whom I’d met when he got assigned to investigate the murder of my dear friend and fellow Special Trials prosecutor Jake Pahlmeyer about a year ago, seemed to be the exception. His hazel eyes; sandy-brown hair; wide, strong cheekbones; and full lips more than delivered on the handsome-and-sexy quotient. But as far as I could tell, there was no dog in him. He seemed to be an honest-to-God decent guy who wanted a relationship with a real woman, not just some arm candy.

And unbelievably, to top it off, he was rich-filthy rich, to be exact. Though I didn’t know much about his early life, I did know his wasn’t family money. Before he figured out what he wanted to be when he grew up, Graden had worked a minimum-wage job for a construction company. As a hobby, just for the fun of it, he dreamed up video games. But once he got hired by the LAPD, he decided he didn’t have the time or the desire for games anymore. So just before he finished the police academy, he put together one last game: Code Three-police jargon for a sirens-on emergency. Had it been up to him, that game never would’ve seen the light of day. But fortunately for Graden, his younger brother, Devon, a computer whizbang, saw the potential in this last creation and decided to write up the software and see if anyone was interested. Five years later, Code Three hit the gaming world like a tsunami, setting Graden and Devon up for life.

Graden and I had been dating for months, but I wasn’t ready to pick out any china patterns. Toni likes to call me commitment challenged. I like to tell her that’s the pot calling the kettle African-American. Though she hides it well, I know she finds this hilarious every time I say it.

I answered Drew with a shake of my head. “Graden’s ‘bonding’ with his brother tonight.”

Drew nodded, then favored Bailey with a slow, sexy smile. “How was your day, baby?” That voice had surely undressed enough women to populate a small country.

“Okay,” she replied, her voice so silky, she practically purred. Hell, men at the end of the bar started loosening their ties. It was enough to turn your stomach. “And what about you? Did you talk to the bank today?”

Drew had been working on getting a small-business loan for his bar.

“I did,” Drew replied. “So far, so good.” He held up crossed fingers. “So, ladies, the usual?”

“Sure,” Bailey replied, managing to give the word two syllables.

They exchanged another sappy smile.

“No,” I replied. “I’ll have a shot of Pepto-Bismol.”

They both laughed.

“I wasn’t kidding,” I said.

They smiled, apparently unconcerned that their “sweet nothings” had caused a bilious “something” to rise in the back of my throat.

I fixed them with a steely glare. “I guess I’ll let you pay off your bet now after all.” I gave Bailey a smug look. “I’ll have a Russian Standard Platinum martini, straight up with a twist.” It was one of the most expensive vodkas in the house.

Bailey’s expression turned dour. I smiled back sweetly.

I take my revenge very dry and very cold.