Please Don't Feed the Mayor Page 3

  “No.” He shook his head. “No, it’s fine. I’ll take it.”

  He took a deep breath and put it on speakerphone, hoping to get whatever had prompted this call over and done with quickly. It was like tearing off a bandage, he told himself. The faster you did it, the sooner the pain went away.

  “MacDonald here.”

  “Hey, it’s me. Been a long time, huh?”

  Hearing her voice again was like a physical blow. It had been a long time, he thought. A long time and no time at all. Bryce swallowed.

  “Hi, Mel. What’s up?”

  “I’ve got a legal problem I could really use your help with.”

  “What sort of legal problem?”

  She laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m not in jail or anything.”

  Bryce’s heart was pounding.

  “Go on.”

  “The thing is, I need to know how to hold an election—a legal one—in Oregon.”

  So, this wasn’t a personal call, he thought, just business. That was good. Bryce had spent years learning how to separate his emotions from the law. He started gathering up his notes for the debrief.

  “Election law isn’t my area of expertise, Mel, you know that.”

  “No, but you’re a lawyer. I figured you could at least point me in the right direction.”

  “Have you tried the Secretary of State’s office?”

  “I’m not sure they’d be able to help.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Give me the short version. I’ve got a meeting to get to.”

  There was a pause on the line.

  “I need to get Shep elected mayor.”

  “Shep your dog?”

  “Yeah.”

  Bryce rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. This was exactly the kind of harebrained thing that went on in a small town. Proof, if any were needed, that his decision not to relocate to Fossett had been the right one.

  “Why?”

  “Things have been tough around here since the lumber mill closed. I was thinking that having a dog for a mayor might give the place a boost.”

  And now you want my help. How ironic.

  Bryce heard a knock at the door; his team was waiting in the hallway.

  “Make him an honorary mayor; that way you won’t need an election.” He snapped his briefcase shut. “Problem solved.”

  “I can’t do that,” Melanie said.

  “Why not? As long as it’s generally agreeable.”

  “Yeah, well . . . What if it isn’t?”

  “Ah. Then I guess you do have a problem.”

  “So, can you help me?”

  Bryce took a deep breath. The truth was, he’d never gotten over his ex-wife and the temptation to say yes was powerful. The problem was that Melanie had a way of coming up with plans that sounded simple but invariably required more work than either she or anyone else had foreseen. It wasn’t that her ideas were bad, necessarily—as dopey as this one sounded, it might even have some merit—but he knew that whatever she asked him for now would grow into a commitment of time and energy that he felt ill prepared to deal with. Maybe if things were different—if he were different—he’d be able to keep his distance, but Bryce was still too much in love with her to risk it. He glanced toward the door. Asa was giving him the signal to hurry up.

  Oh, what the hell . . .

  “Let me check it out and get back to you.”

  “Great! Can you do it by tomorrow? I’m sorta pressed for time.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Pleeease. You know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

  Bryce shook his head, already kicking himself for not turning her down flat. He had clients to see and motions to file; he didn’t have time to deal with some cockamamie scheme.

  Then again, how long would it really take to find the information she needed? It wasn’t even as if he’d have to do the work himself; this could easily be handed off to one of the paras. The important thing was to get Melanie off the phone so he could get to the debrief.

  “Fine,” he said. “I’ll find out as much as I can, but no promises, understood?”

  “No promises. Got it. You’re an angel.”

  The four team members jostled one another like overgrown schoolboys as they headed for the conference room. Released from the grueling schedule that had ruled their waking hours for eight long months, they were flush with victory and impressed with their own success. Asa Conroy, whose encyclopedic knowledge of obscure legal precedents had won the day in court, punched Bryce in the arm.

  “This your first debrief, Mac?”

  Bryce elbowed him away, annoyed by the muscle cramp the guy’s jab had provoked.

  “I hear they used to hold these things at a strip club,” Asa said. “The team members got free lap dances. Now all you get is an attaboy and one of the old man’s cigars.”

  Bryce shook his head; Asa’s tasteless comments would not be missed. He felt a shove from behind.

  “Too bad he isn’t giving out new cars, right, MacDonald?”

  “Yeah,” Asa said. “You’re in the big leagues now; our clients want to know we’re worth what they’re paying us. Driving an old car like that makes you look like a loser.”

  “At least it’s paid for,” Bryce said, collecting high fives from the others.

  Asa’s face darkened.

  “Why don’t you go back to the DA’s office where you belong?”

  Bryce ignored the dig. Asa could talk all he wanted to about fitting in and looking the part of a high-priced attorney, but they both knew that the only things that counted around there were results. By that measure, Asa was on much shakier ground than he was.

  The conference room was down the hall on the left. As their team turned the corner, the four men slowed to a crawl.

  A woman was lounging in one of the visitors’ chairs outside Fred Norcross’s office. In a red silk suit, her long legs crossed under a too-short skirt and her dark hair spilling carelessly down her shoulders, Sofia Cardoza looked like a jungle cat on the prowl. She looked up and smiled.

  “Well, hello, Bryce,” she purred.

  Bryce felt his face flush. In the months after his divorce, he’d stupidly allowed himself to tumble into Sofia’s bed—a mistake he’d regretted ever since. Fortunately, it had happened just before she was chosen to serve out the remaining term of a state supreme court justice, giving him a convenient excuse to avoid any further entanglement. Since her term had expired, he’d been making a special effort to avoid her. The last thing he wanted was to start up where the two of them had left off.

  “Hello, Judge. How are you?”

  “Please,” she said. “It’s just ‘Sofia’ now.”

  She stood up, ignoring his outstretched hand, and gave him a more-than-friendly kiss.

  “Congratulations on your win,” she said, running a hand down his tie. “Very impressive.”

  As she drew back, Bryce caught the stunned expression on his team members’ faces. The encounter might have been awkward, but Sofia’s interest in him had apparently boosted his standing in their eyes.

  Norcross’s admin stepped into the hall.

  “Judge Cardoza? Mr. Norcross will see you now.”

  “Thank you,” Sofia said. “I’ll be right there.”

  She lowered her voice.

  “This shouldn’t take long. Why don’t you stick around? We could have a drink.”

  “I’d love to, but I’ve got this debrief,” he said, motioning toward the conference room. “Some other time, maybe?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  Sofia turned and headed into Norcross’s office, brushing past the others as she went. Bryce gave Asa a broad smile, relishing the look of naked envy on his face. No doubt, he thought, the guy would find some way to retaliate, but for the moment, it felt one hundred percent worth it.

  * * *

  The earthy aroma of Padróns still cl
ung to his clothing as Bryce walked out of the office that afternoon. The debrief had gone well, he thought, the sting from any critical comments having vanished in a pleasant haze of blue smoke. On the whole, he felt his prospects at Norcross Daniels had never been better.

  There was a Jaguar dealership around the corner; Bryce must have walked by it a hundred times without stopping. Living downtown, he seldom drove his car to work, and it was hard to justify paying that much for something he rarely used. Nevertheless, Asa’s comment had started him thinking. Might some clients judge his worth as a counselor by the amount of money he spent? He already knew there were some at Norcross Daniels who questioned his loyalties. What if Bryce’s thrifty ways were really evidence of his inability to embrace the switch from prosecuting on the public’s dime to defending on a blank check? As he approached the dealership, he decided to slow down and take a look.

  A solitary salesman was pacing the showroom expectantly. Bryce groaned. He didn’t want to be harangued by an eager beaver, especially when he wasn’t even sure he was in the market. If only there’d been another customer inside, he thought, he could walk in without feeling exposed.

  “Looking for some new wheels?”

  Bryce turned and saw Glen Wheatley approaching. Glen was his ex-boss—the most senior assistant district attorney in the local office and one of the hardest-working prosecutors in the state. Having Glen for a mentor had been the best part of his tenure at the DA’s office.

  “Not sure,” he said. “What do you think?”

  Wheatley glanced at the shiny red F-TYPE in the window.

  “It’s a good-looking car,” he said. “The dark side must be paying you well.”

  Bryce grinned.

  “It does have its compensations. What are you doing out in the fresh air? Somebody open the cage door?”

  “Actually, I was just heading over to your office. I’m glad I caught you.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Jesse Lee Colton escaped from prison last night.”

  Icy fingers clutched at Bryce’s heart. Two years ago, he’d prosecuted Colton for the torture and murder of three people whose only crime had been crossing the man’s path. The trial and conviction had been the high point of Bryce’s career with the DA, but its aftermath was unnerving. At sentencing, an enraged Colton had charged the judge’s bench, vowing to kill him and every member of the prosecution team once he regained his freedom. It wasn’t the first time Bryce had received a death threat, but the nature of the man’s crimes and the specificity with which he’d spelled out his intentions had been enough to give him nightmares. For almost a year, every creaking door, every unexpected footfall, every strange noise in the dark had sent his heart galloping. Only the assurance that Colton was in one of the most secure facilities in the nation had allowed Bryce to regain his equilibrium.

  And now the man had escaped.

  “Of course, he could be halfway to Mexico by now,” Wheatley said, “but Judge Trainor’s been given a twenty-four-hour guard and I’ve advised the other members of the prosecution team to lay low until we find him. I suggest you do the same.”

  Bryce licked his lips. Joking about the dark side was one thing, but there really were attorneys in town—some of them members of his own firm—who thought the guys on the opposing team were in service to the devil. He had no wish to remind them where he’d come from. And what about their clients? When people stepped into the lobby at Norcross Daniels, they believed their troubles were over; they didn’t want to hear about lowlifes like Jesse Lee Colton. If word got out that a convicted murderer was gunning for one of the firm’s attorneys, business as usual would grind to a halt, Bryce’s caseload would dry up, and any chance he might have had to move up the ranks would be gone.

  He rubbed a hand across his mouth.

  “I-I’m not sure I can.”

  “What?”

  “It’s hard to explain.”

  Wheatley gave him a hard look, then slowly shook his head.

  “Well, it’s up to you,” he said. “But if it was me, I’d get the hell out of Dodge.”

  Bryce walked away in an altered state of consciousness, hypervigilant to any sight or sound that was out of the ordinary. Every person he passed looked like an assassin; every corner he turned held an ambush ready to spring. As he waited for the walk signal at Sixth and Yamhill, he stopped and took a deep breath, trying to get a grip. If he hadn’t run into Glen Wheatley, he told himself, he’d never have known about Jesse Lee Colton. Chances were, the guy would be back behind bars within hours, if he wasn’t there already. Acting like a scared rabbit wouldn’t do anything but make him miserable.

  By the time he reached his building, Bryce’s panic had subsided. He checked his mailbox in the lobby and scooped up his newspaper, checking the front page as he waited for the elevator. Sure enough, Colton’s escape had made the front page. The door opened and Bryce stepped inside, tucking the paper under his arm. Reading the article would only make things worse and there was probably nothing in it that he didn’t already know. He heard footsteps coming closer and his next-door neighbor stepped inside.

  Curtis Young was a jock—not terribly bright, but affable and easygoing. As far as Bryce could tell, he spent most of his time at the gym. When the doors closed, the two of them traded sports news until they got to the fourth floor. Bryce stepped out first and started hunting for his key.

  “Oh, hey,” Curtis said as he passed him. “Did your brother ever get hold of you?”

  Bryce had three sisters—two older, one younger—but no brother of any age. His throat felt suddenly dry.

  “My brother?”

  “Yeah. He was up here looking for you this morning—someone must have buzzed him in. I told him you usually got home around six or seven. Hope that’s okay.”

  “Sure . . . fine,” Bryce said, struggling to control the tremor in his voice. “Thanks for letting me know.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Walt’s delivery box held pumpkin muffins and cranberry scones that morning. As Melanie set them in her display case, she could hear Shep off in the corner munching his own treat.

  “It’s pumpkin today,” Walt said, taking a seat. “Mae thought Shep would enjoy a taste of the season.”

  “Looks like it’s a hit.” She checked the smashed brownies sitting untouched in her display case. “Unlike the Beavertails.”

  “Yeah, it’s hard to eat something that looks like it came off a rodent’s heinie.” Walt took a sip of his coffee. “Have you heard anything from that lawyer friend of yours?”

  Melanie took out a towel and started wiping down the already clean counter.

  “Not yet.”

  She hoped Walt wouldn’t press her for details. The fact was, she’d only just called Bryce the day before. With time running out until Election Day, she knew it was important to get the information quickly, but she just hadn’t been able to make the call. Now she was worried that the whole thing had been a mistake. What if Bryce never called her back? Promising help and then not delivering it would be the perfect form of retaliation. After all, why should he save the town that had taken her away from him?

  She never should have made that offer. Why hadn’t she thought her plan through before calling the meeting? Even now, she couldn’t explain it. Melanie wasn’t even sure the town needed legal advice in order to hold an election. Had she just been looking for an excuse to contact her ex-husband? She wished he’d just hurry and call her back so she could stop thinking about him.

  Walt was studying her over his coffee.

  “So, how is Bryce?”

  She kept her head down, feeling her face color. Melanie hadn’t told anyone the name of their legal benefactor, and having Walt guess his identity was embarrassing.

  “I’m not sure,” she said, scrubbing the counter more vigorously. “We only talked for a minute.”

  “Long enough to get you riled up, though.”

  She shoved the towel back under the counter.

&
nbsp; “I’m not riled up.”

  “Oh.” He nodded. “Thanks for telling me.”

  Melanie sighed. Snapping at Walt wasn’t going to help anything; contacting Bryce had been her idea, not his. She just wished the call hadn’t unnerved her so much. When their divorce was final and everything had been settled, she’d told herself to put any lingering doubts aside; whether or not her choice to stay in Fossett had been the right one was irrelevant. The important thing was to move on, and the only way to do that was to sever any ties she had with her ex-husband. Better to have nothing more to do with him than to waste time second-guessing herself. And then, in one desperate moment, she’d undone all her good intentions.

  “Maybe I am upset,” she said. “I mean, I know he’s busy, but it can’t be that difficult to get the information I asked him for. He probably just passed it off to one of the paralegals and forgot about it.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear you’re not getting your hopes up. I like Bryce well enough, but I wouldn’t want to see you get hurt.”

  She shook her head.

  “Believe me, I’m not interested in getting back together with Bryce, and I’m sure he isn’t, either.”

  When Walt had gone, Melanie put his cup in the sink and went out to wipe down the table. In spite of what she’d said, she found the thought of Bryce fobbing her problem off on an assistant vaguely offensive. Surely, taking a few minutes to research a simple question wasn’t too much to ask from someone who’d once vowed to love and cherish her for a lifetime. But then, she thought, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d lied to her, would it?

  The morning crowd began to filter in, distracting her from her tetchy mood. As Melanie took orders and made drinks, she reminded herself that the important thing now was to get the answer she needed, not whether Bryce had actually done the work himself. In some ways, it might even be better if he’d had someone else do it for him. That way, she wouldn’t feel any extra obligation toward him. Walt wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to see her get hurt again.

  The last of the coffee drinkers had just taken a seat when the bell on Melanie’s front door jangled and Selma bustled in, bright-eyed and beaming.

  “It’s working!”