Blood of the Tribe Read online

  She sighed. Like it really mattered. What we she going to do, steal a husband away from one of her classmates? Reunions. A chance for those who had a life to gloat over those who didn’t.

  The law school reunion was being held on an oversized party boat, currently docked behind a hotel in one of those new brick buildings designed to look like an old one. She saw the beautiful, successful people walking up the gangplank, hand-in-hand, two-by-two, joyful in the knowledge that their genetic line would continue.

  Did she really want to do this? She pictured herself laughingly repeating to scores of ex-classmates feigning interest in her social life, “No, I guess I just haven’t found the right guy yet.” And even that wasn’t totally true—she had met him, she just hadn’t been able to keep him.

  Nor were any of them were going to be impressed that she had made partner in her law firm—they were all graduates of Harvard Law School, for Christ’s sake. They were supposed to make partner.

  She turned and hailed a taxi. Those few classmates whom she had wanted to stay friends with she had. As for the rest, well, bon voyage.

  * * *

  Pierre eased himself out of bed, fought the urge to nibble Carla’s bare shoulder, and padded his way down the hall to peek in at his sleeping daughters.

  One blond, one brunette, both carbon copies of Carla’s childhood pictures. He tiptoed in, skirting the dolls set up in a circle around tee-cups and saucers in the middle of the room. He pulled the blanket over Valerie’s exposed leg, kissed her gently on her warm cheek. Rachel stirred, dropped her stuffed bunny onto the carpeted floor. Pierre picked it up, tucked it gently under her arm, kissed her as she sighed and cuddled against her furry friend.

  Pierre tore himself away, peaked at the thermometer. Sixty-two degrees, and the dawn sky was clear. A hint of the summer to come. Should be perfect.

  He jumped into the shower, ran a bar of soap over his body. Not the rock he was as a high school hockey player, but not bad for 42, especially considering how often he had to eat on the road and how rarely he had the time to get in a good workout.

  Not to mention that spending the better part of his 35th year in jail was hardly the recipe for good health.

  He left the house at 7:30, but instead of heading to his office in downtown Baltimore he swung by to pick up some roses at an early-hours florist. He returned home just as Carla was returning from dropping the girls off at the bus stop.

  She eyed the flowers. “Hi there. Did you forget something?”

  “No, I’m here to pick up my date. I thought we should do something fun for our anniversary. But first, these are for you. Thank you for twelve wonderful years, every one of them as perfect as a rose.” It was an exaggeration. One of the years had been a thorn. A sharply barbed one.

  Carla grinned, the same sparkling smile that had captivated Pierre the first time he had seen it on a sidewalk in Boston. It was a smile that enveloped her whole face; her cheeks dimpled, her eyes danced, her nose crinkled, her eyebrows arched. Even at 37, her face held the youthful exuberance of a schoolgirl. She was the freckled girl next door who got older but never grew old.

  She kissed Pierre with her mouth slightly open, lingered for a second or two against his face. “So, you have a surprise planned for us. What is it?”

  “A secret. Grab some coffee and get in the car.”

  “Do I need my passport? Maybe an evening gown?”

  He smiled. “Just you.”

  She flashed a pouty smile. “Can I at least bring some opera glasses?”

  “We don’t own any opera glasses. Now get in.”

  “But where’s the limo…?”

  A couple of hours later they pulled into a small lakeside marina in rural West Virginia. He had rented a 19-foot day-sailer, the kind with a small cabin for a little privacy.

  He had proposed to her while sailing on an almost identical boat 13 years earlier.

  At midday Pierre lowered the sails and dropped the anchor. “Care for a swim?”

  They were in a small cove, alone on the lake with nothing but pine trees on the shoreline facing them. The wind was steady, but the sun was out and the temperature had climbed to the mid-70s. “Sure,” she responded with a smile. “With or without bathing suits?”

  Pierre shrugged and kicked off his suit; Carla did the same. She was in better shape than ever—her breasts firm, here waist trim, her legs lean and strong. She took his hand, and together they jumped into the cold May water. They frolicked for a few minutes, then came together silently. They swam closer to the boat and made love in the water, Pierre resting one foot on the lowest rung of the boat’s ladder for support. They moved slowly, in rhythm with the boat as it bobbed in the waves, then finally tightened their embrace and released themselves into each other.

  Carla drew slowly away from Pierre, smiled at him, and kissed him on the tip of his nose. “I would love to do that again, but as it is I think you’re going to have to get me out of here with an ice pick.”

  “Yeah, me too. All my extremities are numb. Except one.”

  Carla splashed water in his face, then shoved him off the ladder and scampered into the boat. They dried off, pulled on some sweatshirts. “I’ll be right back,” he said. “I have something for you.”

  “Hey, that’s not fair. I left your present at the house.”

  Pierre ducked into the boat’s small hold, returned with a business-sized envelope. “Happy anniversary, Carla. I love you very much.” He kissed her gently on the mouth.

  Carla looked up at him quizzically. “Hmm, a sealed envelope. Is twelve years the paper anniversary? I was hoping it was diamonds or emeralds or something.”

  He grinned. “Just open it.”

  Carla pulled out a single piece of paper and began reading aloud. It was a letter from Pierre addressed to the real estate brokerage firm where he worked. “Blah, blah, blah…. Please accept this letter as notice of my resignation, effective September 1.” She looked up. “I don’t get it. Are you switching firms or something?”

  Pierre took her hand. “No, nothing like that. I just decided I want to spend more time with you and the girls. Maybe I can do some coaching or teaching….”

  “Wow, Pierre. This is so out of the blue.”

  Moisture pooled in her eyes. “Not really. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. I don’t want to be one of those guys who goes to his kids’ graduation and wonders where the years went. I’ve done okay the past few years, but who says that I can’t just say, ‘Enough’?”

  Carla smiled, dabbed her eyes. “Not me, that’s for sure. I’d love it if you were around more.”

  He nodded. She had been more than understanding about his need to dive into his new career when they had moved to Baltimore. He’d been a beaten man when they’d fled Boston eight years ago—convicted felon, sucker, fool. Looking back, he understood that it wasn’t so much that they, as a family, needed the money from his new job. It was rather that he, as a husband and father, felt the need to be paid.

  But that was now ancient history. He had redeemed himself, succeeded in a new career, re-inflated his ego.

  “And one more thing. I sort of feel like we’ve been in exile down here. Maybe it’s time to go back home.” Pierre paused and smiled as Carla looked up at him expectantly. He could see the hope in her eyes—she had never wanted to leave Massachusetts to begin with. “Why don’t we move to Cape Cod? Maybe even get a place on the water.”

  Chapter 3

  [August]

  Pierre stared with disbelief into the eyes of his lawyer. The lawyer—a gray suit and red tie in some big firm that Pierre’s company used for corporate work—kept his eyes focused on the panoramic view of the Boston skyline visible through the conference room window. Pierre couldn’t remember if his name was Herman or Herbert. “What do you mean, there’s nothing we can do about it?”

  Herman or Herbert shifted around sideways in the plush leather chair and shrugged. Pierre was surprised the movement didn’t cause his paisley suspenders to slide down his drooping shoulders. The guy was too young—probably only 30 or so—to be wearing suspenders. And to have drooping shoulders. “The contract gives the builder an automatic extension to finish the house if he needs the time. So he wants to extend the closing until October 15.”

  “But our whole life is packed into a moving truck. What are we supposed to do for the next two months?”

  What kind of idiot lawyer would agree to such a contract? He was in a tough spot, and it wasn’t like he knew any lawyers in town he could turn to for help. Except Shelby, and she was on vacation.

  It was partially his own fault—he had bought a house from a builder who owned a gift shop of all things, then never bothered to fly up and check on the progress of the construction work. He had been seduced by the lakefront site, wowed by the glossy plans. And forced into making a rash decision by an overheated real estate market. He had already lost two other houses by not jumping quickly enough, so, not wanting to be burned a third time, he had quickly made the offer. Even before Carla had flown up to see the property.

  Pierre rubbed his face with his hands. “Here’s the deal. We can’t wait until October. The kids start school in September. Heck, we can’t even wait past tomorrow. I’ve got a week to get everything settled here, then I have to fly back to Baltimore to wind things up at work.”

  “Well, you can still close on the house tomorrow if you want. Then you could begin to get settled.” The attorney set down his pen, as if his suggestion was the final solution to Pierre’s predicament.

  Stupid advice. It was like a mechanic advising a customer not to drive so much. “But there’s, like, $50,000 worth of work still to be done on the house. There’s no flooring, no appliances, no light fixtures….”

 
“I understand that. But, legally, those are your only options—wait until October 15, or close tomorrow and have the work done after you move in.”

  Pierre stood up. “Wait, I see what’s going on. This guy Griffin called me last week, asking all sorts of questions. Had we sold our house in Baltimore? When were we planning on moving? So of course I told him all our plans. Meanwhile, he knew he wasn’t even close to finishing the house.” Pierre stopped, surprised to see that he had been pacing around the conference room. He leaned against the shiny mahogany table, anchored himself there. “He figured he’d wait until the last minute, then tell us to take it or leave it because he knew we had no choice.”

  Herman or Herbert was still sitting in the leather seat, motionless. “I made a couple of calls. Apparently this guy Rex Griffin has a sleazy reputation down on the Cape. He developed that whole subdivision, and almost every buyer had to sue him for one reason or another.”

  Pierre gripped the edge of the table. “Really? I called some of the neighbors for references, and nobody said anything.”

  The gray suit shrugged. “Probably didn’t want to get sued by him. Anyway, Griffin says he’d be happy to close tomorrow.”

  “Of course he would.” Pierre cursed himself. He should have found a lawyer from the Cape, someone who knew the local landscape. Or called Shelby to see if she knew a good real estate guy. He might have avoided this whole mess. “And it sounds like we don’t have much choice.”

  * * *

  Pierre and Herman or Herbert were back in the same conference room, sitting in the same leather chairs around the same polished oak table. They were waiting for Rex Griffin to show up. The lawyer—same gray suit, same suspenders, different red tie—was thumbing through a file, taking notes. Pierre was thumbing through the sports page. The Red Sox had blown a late-inning lead, their fourth loss in a row. At least in Baltimore you knew the Orioles didn’t have a chance. The Red Sox sucked you in, then broke your heart.

  He put down the newspaper. Griffin had cheap-shotted him, and Pierre wasn’t quite sure how to respond. He thought back to a high school hockey game. During the post-game handshake, an opposing player, embarrassed at having been crunched to the ice during the game by a clean check from the smaller Pierre, had sucker-punched him. Pierre had spit out some blood, dropped his stick and gloves, and charged at the hulking opponent with fists flying. It had been a perfectly appropriate response—in fact, really the only appropriate response—and none of the other players, on either team, had questioned it. Just as nobody had questioned Billy making road-kill out of his teammate. But things were so much more complicated in the real world. He couldn’t very well jump across the table and pummel Griffin.

  Actually, maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. The last time he had sat in a law office around a conference room table, eight years earlier, his lawyer had been in the process of framing Pierre for murder so he could steal Pierre’s can’t-miss real estate deal. Pierre had eventually escaped with only six months in jail, though the word “only” had a bitterly ironic ring to it in light of the fact that he was innocent of every crime except that of trusting his own lawyer. And Carla had eventually exposed the lawyer’s scam and saved the real estate. But Pierre’s reputation in the Boston real estate community had been destroyed by the taint of the murder accusation. And he still hadn’t had the chance to settle that score. Revenge may be a dish best served cold, but Pierre had no intention of waiting eight years to avenge any wrong Rex Griffin might do him.

  They waited in silence for a few minutes, then a young secretary with big hair stuck her head into the conference room. “Excuse me, but there’s an Attorney Shelby Baskin here to see Mr. Prefontaine.”

  Pierre stood up. “Really?”

  “Would you like me to bring her in?”

  “Actually, I’ll come with you and get her.”

  He followed the mane of hair out to the reception area. Shelby was leaning over by the window, peering out a telescope at the Boston skyline. Pierre tried to keep his eyes from drifting down to her legs, but they were tanned and shapely and the back of her skirt had pulled up as she leaned over the telescope…. And, well, he was just a guy. He quickly focused on her face as she turned.

  “Shelby, what are you doing here?”

  She strode toward him, offered him one of those kisses that got partly cheek and partly lips, then squeezed his shoulder. “Hey, old friend.” She pulled her face away, looked at him and smiled. “I got the message you had called a few times, so I called Carla. She told me what was up, so I thought I’d come over and see if I can help. My office is right next door….” She shrugged, raised an eyebrow, smiled again.

  She was as stunning as ever—blue-green eyes, smooth skin, understated features. Pierre always thought she looked like a young Jamie Lee Curtis. But her real charm was that she didn’t seem to know she was attractive. Or maybe she just didn’t think it mattered.

  She continued before he could say anything. “Plus, I have some stuff I picked up for the girls in London.” She handed him a pair of brightly wrapped, shoebox-sized packages. “They’re handmade dolls. I had one when I was a kid and loved it. Hope they do too.”

  “Thanks, Shelby. That’s really sweet. And thanks so much for coming over. I could use some help here.”

  They sat on a Chippendale sofa in the reception area as Pierre described the situation.

  She took down a few notes on a legal pad, glanced around to make sure nobody was listening. “Sounds like you got firmed. That’s what we call it when you’re a small client with a big firm and they don’t really care what happens to you.”

  “Well, they do a lot of work for my company, so they should care….”

  Shelby interrupted him with a hand on his knee. “But you’re quitting, right? So what are you going to do, get them fired on your way out the door?”

  Pierre nodded. “You’re right.”

  “Anyway, I don’t know much about real estate, as you know. But I’d be happy to sit in on the meeting if you want.”

  Pierre smiled. “Thanks. That would be great. He should be here in a few minutes, so let’s go down to the conference room.”

  Pierre introduced Shelby to the attorney, mumbling the first name to cover his confusion. The gray sat at the head of the conference room table; Pierre sat next to him with his back to the windows, and Shelby sat next to Pierre.

  At 10:00 exactly, as scheduled, Griffin knocked demurely on the open door and leaned his head in. “Oh, good, I found the right room. I hope I’m not late—there was a bit of traffic coming into the city this morning.” He nodded politely, bowing his head. He introduced himself to Herman or Herbert, then moved around the table to shake hands with Pierre and Shelby. Pierre briefly clasped Griffin’s hand, resisted the urge to wipe his palm on his pants. Something about shaking someone’s hand as they tried to screw you….

  Griffin sat down across from Pierre and unpacked his briefcase. He was a slight man of average height, about 50 years old. He was wearing basically the same outfit he had worn the previous times Pierre had met him—a white oxford dress shirt with a yellow bow tie—not a clip-on—and a pair of loose-fitting khakis. Not exactly what you’d expect from a homebuilder, but probably the perfect outfit for a huckster trying to look respectable.

  Pierre studied his face. Eyes set a bit close together, glasses a bit crooked, cheeks a bit round, teeth a bit small and discolored, chin a bit weak. But there really was nothing particularly remarkable to note. Carla, who drew caricature portraits as a hobby, would have been hard-pressed to choose any feature to exaggerate other than Griffin’s bow tie.

  Pierre’s attorney spoke. He had apparently decided it was time to show his client that he wasn’t totally incompetent. Or maybe he was trying to show off in front of Shelby. “Now, Mr. Griffin, as you know, my client has agreed, rather reluctantly I might add, to close today despite the fact the house is nowhere near completion.”

  Griffin bowed his head and addressed Pierre directly. “I’m truly sorry for that. I assure you that I had every intention of completing the house on time. But the subcontractors….” Griffin paused here and shrugged his shoulders, then bowed his head again, taking a moment to clean his round wire glasses. With his constant bowing of his head, and his bookish glasses and bow tie, and his polite manner, Griffin reminded Pierre of a simple country minister in an old Western movie. Calling on the old widow so he could steal her money.