Raising The Stakes. Sandra Marton
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mistrust. “No,” he said, “I’m not. He worked for me.”
“And the both of you want to talk to my wife? Well, anything you got to say to her, you can say to me.”
“I’m afraid not,” Gray said politely. “This is a legal matter. I can only discuss it with her.”
“She don’t talk to nobody unless I say she… What kind of legal matter?”
Kitteridge’s tone had gone from hostile to sly. So far, so good. A horn tapped behind Gray. He glanced in the mirror, put the car in gear and pulled away from the pump.
“Well,” he said, as if saying more would violate his code of ethics, “I suppose I could explain it to you… But not over the phone.”
“You a cop? ‘Cause if the bitch got herself in trouble, I ain’t interested in hearin’ about it.”
“No trouble,” Gray said easily. “I’m not a cop, I’m a lawyer.”
“A lawyer? An’ you want to see Dawn?”
“Yes. I’m trying to find her for a client.”
“What in hell for?”
“I really can’t say too much, Mr. Kitteridge, but since you’re her husband, I suppose it’s all right to tell you that this involves settling the estate of your wife’s grandfather.”
“That’s nuts. Dawn ain’t got no…”
Kitteridge stopped in midsentence. Bingo, Gray thought, and waited.
“Are you sayin’ somebody left my wife money?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Kitteridge,” Gray said politely. “I have to meet with your wife.”
“Yeah. Okay. Uh, where are you? I mean, are you comin’ to town?”
“Actually I’m already here. I’m in a gas station on the corner of Main and Liberty.”
“Uh-huh. Ah, there’s a diner across the way. See it?”
Gray peered out the window. A red neon sign blinked the words Victory Diner through diagonal sheets of rain. “Yes, I see it.”
“Go on in, get us a booth. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Be sure your wife is with you,” Gray said, as if he had no idea Dawn Kitteridge had flown the coop.
Kitteridge hung up. Gray let out a breath, checked for nonexistent traffic and drove across the road to the diner.
Almost twenty minutes later, he was nursing a cup of inky black liquid the waitress had poured him when the door opened. A man stepped inside. He was maybe six-three with a rugged, work-hardened body and a face Gray figured men would call nasty and some women would call strong. The guy shook himself like a wet dog as the door swung shut, thumbed an oily-looking lock of black hair from his forehead and scanned the room even though Gray and the waitress were the only people in it.
“Coffee,” he barked in the general direction of the counter. He walked toward Gray with a loping swagger. “You Baron?”
Gray got to his feet. “Yes.” He forced himself to hold out his hand. He had the irrational feeling he’d want to wipe it off after Kitteridge shook it. “Harman Kitteridge?”
Kitteridge looked at Gray’s hand as if he’d never seen a lawyer’s hand without a subpoena in it before. Then he grasped it and fixed his eyes on Gray’s.
“That’s my name.”
He squeezed Gray’s hand hard. Harder, when Gray didn’t flinch. What Gray really wanted to do was laugh. Was he actually being invited to have a pissing contest in a run-down diner on Main Street, U.S.A.? He was going to have some interesting tales to tell when he got back to New York.
Kitteridge grunted. Gray wasn’t sure if it was a sign of dissatisfaction or pleasure. He let go of Gray’s hand, slid into the opposite banquette and sat back while the waitress served his coffee. He poured in cream, added half a dozen heaping teaspoons of sugar, stirred the coagulating mess and licked the spoon before dropping it on the table.
“What’s this all about, Baron?”
“It’s about your wife’s grandfather’s estate.”
“What about it?”
“Sorry. I can’t discuss it with anyone but her.” Gray looked past Kitteridge, as if he expected to see Dawn standing near the door. “Where is she? I told you to bring her with you.”
Minutes passed. Kitteridge’s stare was filled with venom. Finally he drank some coffee, then put down his cup.
“She ain’t here.”
“Where is she, then?”
“Listen, man, my wife is out of town. You want to waste this whole trip?” Kitteridge grinned, showing off sharp, yellowing teeth. “Or you want me to think you always hang around places like this diner and Queen City?”
Okay. Kitteridge wasn’t really stupid. Gray could only hope he was greedy, greedy enough to swallow the story he was about to tell him. It was one part truth, nine parts fantasy, and—he hoped—sufficient to get information without giving any.
“Well, I guess it won’t hurt if I fill you in on some of the details. This is about Ben Lincoln.”
“Who the hell is Ben Lincoln?”
Gray reminded himself that losing his temper and telling this asshole that he was an asshole would be counterproductive.
“Your wife’s grandfather,” he said calmly. “On her mother’s side.”
“What about her mother?” Kitteridge’s eyes narrowed. “Who you been talkin’ to?”
Definitely an asshole, but he needed him. Take it easy, Gray told himself, and just keep smiling.
“Nobody. I’m trying to give you some background, make sure you understand the importance of this conversation.”
“Yeah, yeah. I got that. Go on. What’s the deal?”
“Your wife’s grandfather left her something in his will.”
Gray could almost see the dollar signs light up in Kitteridge’s eyes. “Dawn’s got money comin’?”
“The inheritance isn’t much. Not by most standards. Look, I can’t actually discuss it with you, so if you’d just tell me where I can find your wife—”
Kitteridge shot out a hand and grabbed Gray by the front of his shirt. “Listen here, Mr. Lawyer, I’ve about had it with your games. How much is comin’ to her? I’m her husband. I got the right to know.”
Gray closed his hand around Harman’s wrist and pressed his thumb against a pulse point. He could see the shock in the other man’s face as he began exerting pressure. When he was a kid, he’d worked his father’s pathetic excuse of a ranch, branding cows, neutering bulls, breaking the few horses Jonas usually let Leighton buy for next to nothing each year. He’d played rugby at Princeton, soccer at Yale, and as soon as he found himself chafing at the sedentary boundaries imposed by his profession, he’d taken up handball, racquetball and Japanese aikido. His body was honed and hard, his grip strong and unyielding and he knew, with a little rush of satisfaction, that the prick seated across from him had not expected any of it.
“Let go of the shirt, Kitteridge,” he said softly. “Right now, or you won’t be able to use that hand for a month.”
Kitteridge stared at him through eyes flat with pain and rage. After a minute, he smiled. It made him look like a Halloween mask designed to scare the pants off kids who had seen one horror movie too many.
“Sure. No harm meant.”
Kitteridge dropped his hand to the table. Gray let