Chapter One
Chase
I had always heard that there are two certainties in life: Death and taxes. The originator of that little chestnut had clearly never been to Los Angeles. If they had, then there is little doubt that traffic jams would also be on the list.
What made L.A. traffic jams different than those in most of the rest of the country was that in addition to the boiling frustration and impotent honking, temperatures in the late afternoon inside the cars often got to a level that could cook a small dog.
Sweating it out in the right-hand driver's seat of my restored 1962 Jaguar, I wondered, not for the first time, what it was all for. Surly a cabin in the wilds of Alaska held many charms hitherto undiscovered by most of man. As suddenly as it started, it all ended, cars inching forward like a puppy on the shore, soon building up to a full gallop as though the last thirty minutes of stasis and potential heat stroke had all been a mass hallucination. I wasn't going to be late back to the office from court. I knew that was what most people told that themselves to give themselves just a slim glimmer of hope, futile as it may be. I had a firm enough grip on the reality of the situation to be well aware that I was already late and short of an intervention by the gods, there was nothing to be done about the situation.
Not that it really mattered. I worked at what could well be the most decent and humane law office outside the charity sector. The kind of place that gave extended parental leave when needed and kept an international human rights attorney on staff. I was more likely to be asked if I was feeling alright than the target of any disciplinary action.
Through magic or coincidence, I actually managed to find a spot in front of the red brick building. An occurrence rumored — among those not blessed with access to the limited area of the company's designated portion of the nearby parking garage — to happen about as often as rain in the desert.
Ignoring the scintillating smells of the on-site cafe I made for the stairs. My office was hot as expected, the warm brick making it feel similar to a kiln. Taking off my tie and jacket, I unbutton the first three buttons on my short-sleeved dress shirt on the way to the window, pulling it out on the way. The window latch was one of the old-time designs that required turning two levers, pulling up while the second one was disengaged. Even then, it was only the lower portion that actually pulled up.
The ancient wooden chair creaked as I sat down, basking in the newly circulating breeze. Getting my wits about me, I sat up, eliciting another creak and eased open the drawer, revealing the brand-new bottle of Glenfiddich 18. A little gift to myself for winning my most recent case. Sliding the large, dark bottle out of the box, I eased off the lid and retrieved the tumbler I kept in the same drawer for just such an occasion.
Just as I poured the caramel-colored liquid, the phone rang. “Hello?” I asked, picking up the desk phone, the tumbler still near my lips.
“Hey, big brother.” “What do you want, Whitney?” “What's to say I want anything?” Whitney, my little sister asked, feigning injury. “You only call me big brother when trying to hit my heartstrings. Forget it, maestro, I'm hip to your jive.” “Hip to my jive?” Whitney asked, her laughter barely constrained. “That came out wrong.” “I should think so, grandpa.” “Oh no, grandpa was much richer than I am,” I pointed out, feeling somewhat bad for referencing a man who had passed on a month before. However, Grandpa was an oddity who refused to visit my family towards the end of his life, making him almost a stranger to my snarky sister and me.
Whitney and I didn't really hate each other. A situation helped no end by the fact that I was almost seven before she was born, so she was never really anything more than my cute baby sister. Such banter was just a game we played. “Speaking of which—” “Riches or grandpa?” I asked. “Both really. Turns out, he left everything to us.” I froze, my hand shaking on the glass. “Everything as in—” “His estate. The whole she-bang. We both billionaires, Chase.” The glass of scotch slipped out of my hand, crashing to the floor in a spray of liquor and glass. “Damn! You don't say,” I breathed in a state of shock. Whitney laughed. “I just did! I'm coming in tomorrow so we can go over the details.” “Okay,” I said, still dumbfounded. It wasn't everyday one was just handed billions of dollars. I did okay at the law firm but nothing like that. “Oh, and guess who is coming with me.” “I can't even fathom,” I said, still reeling. “Etta!” I could have sworn that my heart actually stopped for a full second. When it started pumping again, the blood was full of new-found adrenaline, something close to the fight or flight instinct. “Why?” I asked, my head suddenly aching. My sister huffed in disappointment. “She thought it would be nice to see you again. It has been years after all.”
I held my tongue, not wanting to curse at my baby sister. It was unlikely she had anything to do with it. Etta, my ex and Whitney’s best friend, could be a cunning bitch, and it was more than likely that she convinced Whitney it would be a good idea for her to come. Whitney was far too trusting to realize that Etta was only interested in getting back with me because I was suddenly rich. The desire for a reunion had nothing to do with love — an emotion I wasn't even convinced Etta was capable of.
Taking a swig right from the bottle, I returned the Glenfiddich to the drawer, not wanting to actually be drunk on the job. I may have been an alcoholic, but I was a damn well functional alcoholic, making my appointment for an after-work drink with the company CEO and lead council all the more ironic. I had met Ann Howell in Afghanistan. We were in the same company, not long after Congress allowed women to enter combat roles. Something that couldn't have pleased Ann more basically being career military like she was. Which would explain why she was already a Sergeant when we met despite being five years younger than me. When I left the office to meet my boss in the parking lot, the night was moderately cooler, which came as a relief, but I still wasn't about to put my jacket back on. We took my car, Ann's safe enough in her executive spot in the legendary parking garage. How we were getting home was anyone's guess, but at least I knew I could leave my car at the bar with little hassle. They knew us there, the owner, who worked shifts when desperate, joking that I was helping put her kids through college.
“Why so glum, chum?” Ann asked as we took out usual spots at our usual table by the window.
“How did you know?” I asked. “You're even more miserable than usual,” she observed. “Fair enough.” She tucked some strands of her black hair behind her ear. “So, spill, who put the salsa in your shorts?”
“My grandpa,” I admitted. “Oh, what did he do?” she asked while sipping on her margarita. “He died.” “Selfish bastard,” Ann muttered, shaking her head in mock shame. “You haven't heard the worst part.” She blinked at me. “There’s a worse part?” “He left me his estate. Well, have of it. The other half goes to my sister, but still, I really didn't think he would do that. We hardly knew the man. Anyway, now my sister is coming in from San Diego, and my crazy ex has convinced my sister to let her tag along.”
“Gold digger is she? Your ex, I mean.” “Well established,” I confirmed. She nodded and hummed. “Likely wanting to reconcile for money, not love.” “My thinking exactly,” I confirmed. We sat in silence for a second, both sipping our drinks.