12

 

Julia Martinsen was a doctor of oncology, an honored humanitarian who’d spent years helping the poor in third-world countries gain access to health care. Three years ago she’d created the People’s Clinic in downtown Minneapolis, where low- or no-cost health care was administered to the poor of the Twin Cities, mainly by retired doctors donating their time.

Julia was a wealthy woman. She was also Jane’s ex, which gave Jane access to a darker side of the good doctor, a face Julia never willingly revealed to the world. For many years, Jane had worked to excise Julia from her life. She had no desire to invite her back in. And yet here she was, standing in the foyer of a low-rise condo on Lake Calhoun, using the in-house phone to call up to her loft.

Closing her eyes, Jane listened to the phone ring several times. It was possible she wasn’t home. Last Jane had heard, Julia was in Japan to offer whatever help she could to the earthquake and tsunami victims.

Five rings.

“Hello?” came a cultured female voice.

“Julia?”

“Yes?”

“It’s Jane. Jane Lawless.”

There was a pause, during which Jane castigated herself for slipping in her last name. Of course Julia had recognized her voice.

Then, teasingly, “Lawless? Can I take that at face value? Are you, indeed, lawless?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“About?”

“Can I come up?”

“Do you ever recall a time when I said no to you?”

The buzzer sounded and Jane was in. She took the elevator up to the fourth floor—the penthouse. Instead of opening her front door and making it easy, it appeared Julia was going to make her knock. Typical.

Jane knocked. Almost a minute went by before her ex appeared, dressed in a powder-blue silk bathrobe, her feet bare. She’d been fighting some sort of illness the last time Jane had seen her. By the healthy flush on her cheeks and the weight she’d put on, she was no longer the thin stick figure that had tugged so hard at Jane’s heart. Cordelia thought Jane was a sap for retaining any feelings at all for a woman who was an undisputed liar, who saw the world as a chessboard and herself as a grand master, and yet Jane found that most people, Cordelia included, were an irrational mixture of qualities. She might have no desire to ever be with Julia again, and yet she had to admit that she still cared—a little—about her.

“You must have an oil painting of yourself in your attic,” said Julia. “You don’t look an hour older than the day I first met you.”

Julia threw out compliments and praise as easily as a clown tossed candy to children at a parade. Everyone loved her for it and yet it was essentially empty. “Can I come in?”

“Of course,” she said, sweeping her arm. “Take off your coat. Take off your clothes.” She laughed at the joke that wasn’t a joke and backed up. “I’m kidding. Have you had breakfast?”

“I could use some coffee.”

“Lucky for you I was just about to make some.” She moved into the open kitchen and poured hot water from an electric kettle into a press pot. “If I didn’t know better, it almost seems like I was expecting you.”

The comment gave Jane a queasy feeling. It also made her realize how much she didn’t want to be here.

“Go sit down and I’ll bring this in.”

She’d only been in the loft once before, a summer night when Julia had offered to make her dinner. In a weak moment, Jane had accepted. The loft sat at the corner of Lake Street and East Lake Calhoun Parkway, with a wall of windows overlooking Lake Calhoun on one side, and downtown Minneapolis on the other. Julia had managed to sublet it and eventually buy it, one of the hottest properties in town.

“How’ve you been?” asked Jane, taking a seat on one of the buttery leather couches.

“If you really want to know, I’ve never been better. And you?” She came in with a tray of coffee and biscotti and set it down on the square glass and steel coffee table.

“Good.”

“I hear you’re selling the Xanadu Club.”

“You still follow what I do?”

She smiled as she poured them each a cup. “Not really. But I do read the local rags. Never thought you’d let it go.”

“Restaurants have life cycles. That one’s on its way out.”

“Really? I was there the other night and it was packed.”

Jane allowed the comment to pass.

“Since you asked,” she said with another sardonic smile, “I’m just back from Haiti. I’ve been doing some charity work down there.” She turned the cream pitcher around and picked it up. “You might as well cut to the chase and tell me why you’re here. You obviously didn’t stop by to catch up. And don’t give me that wounded look. If I can cease playing games, so can you.”

Jane appreciated the candor. “Two boys were abducted from their home a few nights ago. I’m working with the parents.”

“Still a wannabe PI?”

“I have my license now.”

She stopped stirring the cream in her cup. “You’re working with that friend of yours?”

Jane pulled a business card out of her billfold and pushed it across the coffee table.

“Impressive. Okay, so back to these boys. How old?”

“Twelve. The parents received a ransom note this morning.”

“How much?”

“One hundred thousand.”

Julia held the cup to her lips. “And you came to me because you know I have it.”

“Well, actually … yes.”

“Can you promise I’d get it back?”

“I wish I could, but no.”

“Then why should I?”

It was a cold comment and it threw Jane. “Because you can. Because the parents are desperate. Because it’s the right thing to do.”

“I don’t always do the right thing,” said Julia, setting the cup down. “You know that. You can hardly say I haven’t paid my dues to society. I’ve devoted my life—”

“You think that gives you a pass for all the other crap you pull?”

“Are we talking about the money now or us?”

Jane looked down, shifted in her seat. “The money.”

“If I give it to you, what’s in it for me?”

“What do you want?”

“I’d have to think about it.”

“Well, think fast: I need the cash before the banks close today.”

Tapping a finger against the side of her cheek, Julia leaned back against the couch and crossed her legs. “This is delicious. I have you at my mercy.”

“You’re not the only rich person I know.”

“A date.”

“Excuse me? You mean … the fruit?”

“Don’t be obtuse.”

“A date with me?”

“No, with Cordelia.” She gave a dramatic shiver.

“We were done with that a long time ago.”

“Were we?”

“What do you anticipate happening on this date?”

“Whatever I want. Remember, you came to me. Or do your tender scruples prevent you from bartering? The lives of two boys for, shall we say, a little human warmth?”

“Are you actually suggesting—”

“Would you expect anything less from me?”

“I’m with someone, Julia. It’s not negotiable.”

That stopped her. “I hadn’t heard. Who is she?”

“None of your business.”

“You two living together?”

“Not that it’s any concern of yours, but no. She has taken over one of my bedrooms to use as a study.”

“She’s an artist?”

“A writer.”

“Fascinating. What sort of writing?”

“She’s a novelist.”

“Published?”

“Not yet.”

“Is she beautiful, Jane? Is she better in bed than me? Don’t lie. We both know what we had together.”

“Okay,” said Jane, standing up. “It’s official now. This was a bad idea.” She started for the door.

“Let me give your question a tad more thought.”

“Don’t bother.” Julia wasn’t her only option.

“Don’t go away mad. You never know. I could change my mind.”

Jane slammed the door on her way out.