Guilt By Degrees

35

As it turned out, no one was buying anyone lunch that day. By the time we got back to the courthouse, it was almost one thirty and there was not only a depressingly large stack of messages but also a full in-box that reminded me this wasn’t my only case. Ordinarily I might’ve taken lunch anyway and worked late, but I had to leave on time tonight. I had a date with Graden.

It’d been a busy and emotionally draining day, so I was more than ready for an escape. Graden had suggested we hit the Catalina Jazz Club. It’d moved several years ago from its old digs to a much bigger-and more comfortable-space on Sunset. All the bigs in the jazz world played there. I was up for something new, and listening to good jazz was one of the best antidotes I’d found for the sadness and misery that was an inevitable part of every case. By six o’clock, I’d whittled down enough of my stack to stave off panic and headed back to the Biltmore.

It wasn’t raining at the moment, but it was still cold, and there were clouds hanging around that might yet decide to douse us again, so I dressed warmly in black leggings, a long sweater, and black over-the-knee boots. And, just in case, I slung a raincoat over my shoulder, then headed downstairs.

As usual, Graden looked gorgeous. Tonight’s attire was a simple black crewneck sweater and jeans, but he made it look like an ad for GQ.

“Hey, Rache,” he said warmly as I walked through the door.

“Hi,” I said.

“Don’t you look fantastic,” he said with a smile, leaning in for a quick kiss and a hug, which gave me the chance to notice that he not only looked great but smelled great too.

“It’s so helpful that you work with men all day,” I replied.

On the way to the club, I gave him the rundown on the events of the past few days. I’d told him during a brief phone call that Bailey and I had wound up with the Bayer case but not what we’d learned since then.

“I have a vague memory of Zack’s murder,” he remarked. “From what you’ve said, it sounds like the evidence was good enough for a conviction. I guess the jury just didn’t want to believe a woman-”

“Especially one who looked like that-,” I interjected.

“-could do something that heinous,” he finished. “My theory about why women get a pass from juries is that men don’t like the idea that women can be that cold-blooded. Wrecks our little fantasy about female helplessness.”

“Hard to believe that fantasy survived Lorena Bobbitt,” I said.

“We’re a stubborn species,” Graden said as he pulled into the parking lot at the back of the club and found a spot right outside the door.

“Yet, surprisingly, you’re not extinct,” I observed. “But I’d guess you’re at least partially right. I think that’s why Lizzie Borden got acquitted.”

“She did?” he asked incredulously as he opened the door for me.

“She walked, and no one else was ever charged.”

Graden shook his head as he followed me into the bar. “Juries.”

“I’ll drink to that,” I said.

We ordered Ketel One martinis and a basket of fries. A great quartet that featured a smoking tenor sax had already started the first set. When our drinks came, we toasted to a great night, and I felt my engine slow as the vodka did its work. I leaned back to enjoy the music. The band swung into a slow, moody rendition of “One for My Baby.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Graden was looking at me. We exchanged a slow smile that made a warm glow start in my chest and spread out all over. Would tonight be the night we made love? I thought I might finally be ready to go there-that is, I thought with a rueful inward smile, if Graden was in the mood. It wasn’t something I felt comfortable taking for granted. I’d discovered during my relationship with Daniel that although teenage boys were ready even if they were in a coma, grown men occasionally had down days. Not often, but they did happen.

Then the band started to play “Jordu,” and I let all thoughts float away as I sank into the music. The evening passed, warm, relaxed, and intimate. But as Graden and I got into his car, he seemed a little distracted.

Our conversation was minimal, but he reached out to hold my hand on the console between us-an unfamiliar gesture. What was going on? I’d been seriously considering inviting him up to my room, but by the time he’d pulled off the freeway and headed down Temple Street, I wasn’t so sure.

“Rachel, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but I’d like to talk to you without a crowd around,” Graden said seriously. “Would it be okay if we talked in your room?”

I would’ve made a joke about it being an obvious line, but his tone told me he wasn’t in the mood. What the hell was going on? A breakup? Had there been a death in the family? Did he have a fatal illness? An evil twin? My mind filled with questions, none of them good.

“Sure,” I said. “Of course.”

Naturally, since I was dying to get this over with, the elevator took forever. When the doors opened, he put a gentle hand on the middle of my back to guide me inside, and when they closed, he left it there and looked down at me with soft eyes. I briefly returned his gaze, then looked away, more confused than ever.

We walked toward my room at the end of the corridor in silence. Barely conscious of my movements, I let us in, picked up the remote, and turned on the radio, which was permanently tuned to Real Jazz. The strains of Stanley Turrentine playing “Little Sheri,” one of my favorites, softened the brittle silence. I put my purse on the chair near the window and unbuttoned my coat as I walked to the couch. Graden took my coat and laid it down, then held my hand as we sat on the couch. When he finally spoke, they were the last words I expected-or wanted-to hear.

“Rachel, I want to talk to you about Romy.”