Read Online RK02 - Guilt By Degrees by Marcia Clark - Free Book Online
Authors: Marcia Clark
Tags: Crime
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right.”
Fantastic. It was comforting to know that if I got nailed checking out a crime scene, no one would even know I’d left the office till some hiker found my body. There were wonderful secretaries in the DA’s office. I wondered for the millionth time why we couldn’t have gotten one of them.
13
Angel, the doorman, greeted us as he opened the heavy glass-and-iron door. “Evening, ladies.”
“Hey, Angel,” I replied. “Keeping warm?”
“Had to break out my thermals.”
Though L.A. never got the kind of cold you’d find in the Midwest or on the East Coast, it could definitely get nippy enough to seep into your bones after a while. And unlike back East or the Midwest, builders out here never took heating and insulation all that seriously. This meant that the great indoors provided no real relief.
“I could lend you my Spanx,” I replied. “That’ll heat you up.”
“Plus it’ll smooth you out,” Bailey observed.
Angel rolled his eyes and stepped back outside.
We made our way through the magnificently spacious lobby, our footsteps echoing on the henna-colored marble floors, then muted as we stepped onto the thick Oriental rugs. I reached the bar first and grasped the solid-brass handle to pull the door open. The electric fire in the brick hearth glowed warmly, casting an orange light on the forest-green-leather wingback chairs and mahogany tables . It was already fairly crowded with financial-district types and corporate lawyers—no cops or prosecutors, now or ever. Bailey and I took seats at the end of the bar. Drew looked, as always, like he’d stepped out of GQ, dressed in the usual white shirt and black vest that accentuated his broad shoulders and narrow waist, the diamond stud earring flashing brightly against his black skin. He poured from a silver martini shaker into four glasses on a tray, wiped his hands on the bar towel, and came down to greet us.
“The most beautiful women in the world have arrived,” he said, somehow making the statement feel entirely plausible.
“And how are we tonight?” he asked.
“Tired,” Bailey said.
They exchanged an obnoxiously sweet smile.
“And thirsty,” I said pointedly.
“Graden joining us?” he asked me, referring to Lieutenant Graden Hales.
The common wisdom among female deputy DAs is never fall for a cop. Sure, they can be smart, handsome, sexy as hell. But they’re almost guaranteed to be dogs who’ll cheat on you with your sister and then tell all their buddies at the station. Lieutenant Graden Hales, whom I’d met when he got assigned to investigate the murder of my dear friend and fellow Special Trials prosecutor Jake Pahlmeyer about a year ago, seemed to be the exception. His hazel eyes; sandy-brown hair; wide, strong cheekbones; and full lips more than delivered on the handsome-and-sexy quotient. But as far as I could tell, there was no dog in him. He seemed to be an honest-to-God decent guy who wanted a relationship with a real woman, not just some arm candy.
And unbelievably, to top it off, he was rich—filthy rich, to be exact. Though I didn’t know much about his early life, I did know his wasn’t family money. Before he figured out what he wanted to be when he grew up, Graden had worked a minimum-wage job for a construction company. As a hobby, just for the fun of it, he dreamed up video games. But once he got hired by the LAPD, he decided he didn’t have the time or the desire for games anymore. So just before he finished the police academy, he put together one last game: Code Three—police jargon for a sirens-on emergency. Had it been up to him, that game never would’ve seen the light of day. But fortunately for Graden, his younger brother, Devon, a computer whizbang, saw the potential in this last creation and decided to write up the software and see if anyone was interested. Five years later, Code Three hit the gaming world like a tsunami, setting Graden and Devon up for life.
Graden and I had been dating
Fantastic. It was comforting to know that if I got nailed checking out a crime scene, no one would even know I’d left the office till some hiker found my body. There were wonderful secretaries in the DA’s office. I wondered for the millionth time why we couldn’t have gotten one of them.
13
Angel, the doorman, greeted us as he opened the heavy glass-and-iron door. “Evening, ladies.”
“Hey, Angel,” I replied. “Keeping warm?”
“Had to break out my thermals.”
Though L.A. never got the kind of cold you’d find in the Midwest or on the East Coast, it could definitely get nippy enough to seep into your bones after a while. And unlike back East or the Midwest, builders out here never took heating and insulation all that seriously. This meant that the great indoors provided no real relief.
“I could lend you my Spanx,” I replied. “That’ll heat you up.”
“Plus it’ll smooth you out,” Bailey observed.
Angel rolled his eyes and stepped back outside.
We made our way through the magnificently spacious lobby, our footsteps echoing on the henna-colored marble floors, then muted as we stepped onto the thick Oriental rugs. I reached the bar first and grasped the solid-brass handle to pull the door open. The electric fire in the brick hearth glowed warmly, casting an orange light on the forest-green-leather wingback chairs and mahogany tables . It was already fairly crowded with financial-district types and corporate lawyers—no cops or prosecutors, now or ever. Bailey and I took seats at the end of the bar. Drew looked, as always, like he’d stepped out of GQ, dressed in the usual white shirt and black vest that accentuated his broad shoulders and narrow waist, the diamond stud earring flashing brightly against his black skin. He poured from a silver martini shaker into four glasses on a tray, wiped his hands on the bar towel, and came down to greet us.
“The most beautiful women in the world have arrived,” he said, somehow making the statement feel entirely plausible.
“And how are we tonight?” he asked.
“Tired,” Bailey said.
They exchanged an obnoxiously sweet smile.
“And thirsty,” I said pointedly.
“Graden joining us?” he asked me, referring to Lieutenant Graden Hales.
The common wisdom among female deputy DAs is never fall for a cop. Sure, they can be smart, handsome, sexy as hell. But they’re almost guaranteed to be dogs who’ll cheat on you with your sister and then tell all their buddies at the station. Lieutenant Graden Hales, whom I’d met when he got assigned to investigate the murder of my dear friend and fellow Special Trials prosecutor Jake Pahlmeyer about a year ago, seemed to be the exception. His hazel eyes; sandy-brown hair; wide, strong cheekbones; and full lips more than delivered on the handsome-and-sexy quotient. But as far as I could tell, there was no dog in him. He seemed to be an honest-to-God decent guy who wanted a relationship with a real woman, not just some arm candy.
And unbelievably, to top it off, he was rich—filthy rich, to be exact. Though I didn’t know much about his early life, I did know his wasn’t family money. Before he figured out what he wanted to be when he grew up, Graden had worked a minimum-wage job for a construction company. As a hobby, just for the fun of it, he dreamed up video games. But once he got hired by the LAPD, he decided he didn’t have the time or the desire for games anymore. So just before he finished the police academy, he put together one last game: Code Three—police jargon for a sirens-on emergency. Had it been up to him, that game never would’ve seen the light of day. But fortunately for Graden, his younger brother, Devon, a computer whizbang, saw the potential in this last creation and decided to write up the software and see if anyone was interested. Five years later, Code Three hit the gaming world like a tsunami, setting Graden and Devon up for life.
Graden and I had been dating
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