Anything You Can Do Page 4

  "Thanks. So are you," she replied. Her response wasn't very hearty either.

  "Don't feel bad because I was ahead of you. Men are inherently physically stronger than women." There! He'd managed to remind her of his victory by putting it on an impersonal basis. Just a simple statement of biological fact.

  "That's true," she agreed sweetly, green eyes dancing. "It's Mother Nature's vain attempt at compensation for shorting men in the brains department."

  CHAPTER 3

  Bailey opened her briefcase and laid a couple of file folders along with a yellow legal pad on the conference room table at Kearns, Worley's law offices.

  "Nothing for me," she told the secretary taking coffee orders. She didn't need any caffeine. She was wide awake.

  In fact, she was experiencing some distinctly odd sensations not usually associated with taking a deposition, including an impulse to bolt out of her chair and do some stretching exercises, take a few deep breaths, gear up for a race.

  Of course, this was business, not a race. She knew that.

  The door whispered open, the faint sound demanding Bailey's attention. Her heartbeat accelerated perceptibly as she looked up then returned to normal when the secretary came into the room bearing a tray of steaming cups.

  Sitting next to her, Margaret accepted coffee. "Thank you," she mumbled, then gave one final blot with a crumpled tissue to her pale, damp forehead.

  Not all the perspiration came from anxiety, Bailey reflected. Margaret and Candy Miller, the client, had puffed their way to the office building though it was only two blocks from their own. Bailey had to stop every few steps and wait for them to catch up.

  No wonder Candy's back hurt. Bailey watched the woman accept a cup of coffee with cream and sugar. She was in lousy physical condition. Cellulitic breasts protruding above the open buttons of her purple blouse bounced on her stomach. A good bra and a healthy diet would probably solve most of her back problems.

  She pulled her attention away from the woman, mentally rebuking herself for her unkind thoughts. Just because she herself was obsessed with physical fitness didn't mean everyone else should be.

  Thoughts of physical fitness returned her focus to Austin. The door opened again, but it was only the secretary leaving.

  Bailey drummed her fingers impatiently. The court reporter was there, Mark Powell was there, the insured, Alvin Wilson, was there, the men from the insurance company were there—but Austin Travers was noticeably absent.

  They began the deposition.

  The testimonies of Alvin Wilson and the insurance company representative were brief and unremarkable. Alvin had rear-ended Candy at a red light. Responsibility clearly lay with the defendant. The extent of Candy's injury was the sole issue in dispute. Able to contribute only a few pertinent questions, Bailey had begun to doubt the necessity of her presence when Mark excused himself and left the room. Bailey waited impatiently for his return, bored and anxious to get the proceeding over with.

  Then the door swung open and Austin Travers surged in, impressive in a gray pinstripe suit only a few shades darker than her own. As he entered, the air in the room seemed suddenly charged, alive.

  His electric blue gaze swept the room, zoomed in on Bailey. She'd heard of auras surrounding people but had never given the idea any credence. Nevertheless, she could have sworn an aura crackled around Austin's head. The hair on her arms stood up inside her white cotton blouse. She felt alive and vibrant, eager to get on with things, to engage in battle.

  Austin sensed a rush of unleashed energy as he stepped into the conference room where Bailey Russell waited, her svelte body hidden by a tailored gray suit. She looked up at him, her eyes wide pools of innocence, as though her mere presence wasn't an alert that something was going on. Deliberately he looked away from her, reached for the knob to close the door behind Mark, jumped as static electricity sparked to his hand. For a brief, illogical moment, he blamed—credited—Bailey.

  "How nice to see you, Mr. Travers." Her voice was deceptive, a soothing cello in the supercharged atmosphere.

  "Ms. Russell. I didn't expect to see you here." She smiled sweetly, savagely. What on earth was she up to? From what he had observed and Mark had told him, the case involved no special circumstances. Yet Bailey had brought it up when she'd met Gordon and him at Reilly's, had called it important, and now she'd come to the deposition and so intimidated Mark that he'd felt it necessary to seek Austin's advice.

  Austin took over. Mark had briefed him on the situation prior to Candy Miller's deposition, and he knew that the testimony of Harold Graham, the investigator, should put an end to her claims. He put the witness through his paces, established the fact that Graham had been observing her periodically for several weeks, cited inconsequential activities such as working in her yard or taking out the trash. Then he moved in for the kill. "You are aware that the plaintiff is claiming loss of income in her profession of cocktail waitress due to this injury."

  "Yes."

  "Please tell us what happened on the evening of June twelfth."

  "That'd be Friday week ago?"

  "Right."

  "Well, she gets all dolled up and goes down to this bar where she used to work. She's been there several times already, so I follow her, like I've done before. Friday nights are real crowded, and next thing I know, she's up hustling drinks."

  "You actually saw her serve drinks to customers?"

  "Hell, she served me."

  "What kind of shoes was she wearing?"

  "Red sandals with real high heels."

  "Did she exhibit any signs of difficulty in walking, such as limping, clutching her back, moving slowly?"

  "Nope. She was whipping around pretty good."

  "Did she grimace, groan, give any evidence of being in pain?"

  "Nope. In fact, she was laughing and having a big time."

  Austin stole a look in Bailey's direction and made a mental note never to play poker with her. She was observing dispassionately, not even bothering to take written notes.

  "May we have a couple of minutes to confer with our client before cross-examination?" she asked smoothly when Austin passed the witness.

  The three of them were out of the room less than five minutes during which time Candy, wearing thick glasses, stuck her head back in the door once, peered at Harold, then retreated. When they returned, Bailey, rather than Margaret, took charge, as he'd expected she would. Standing directly across the table from the witness, she began to question him in a quiet voice.

  "Did you actually see Candy Miller accept drinks from the bartender and serve them to customers?" she asked after a few preliminary innocuous questions.

  Austin watched Harold's complacent expression. The man was too macho to be frightened of a woman. Austin tried to catch his eye, to warn him to be on his guard, but Harold was smiling stupidly at Bailey.

  "She served me," he drawled.

  "What kind of a drink? Big? Little?" The volume and speed of her words increased, and she somehow gave the impression of becoming taller.

  "Seven and Seven. Big glass." He seemed hypnotized by her steady gaze, unable to look away from her.

  "How many other tables did she serve?"

  "A couple."

  "You saw no visible signs of any ill effects from this stint of working?" Her voice was rising and speeding up again.

  "Nope."

  "Not at any time during the evening?"

  "Nope."

  "How many times did you follow Candy to this club?"

  "A couple."

  "More than one."

  "Sure."

  "More than two."

  "Yeah, probably."

  "Three? Four?"

  "I guess."

  "How long did she usually stay?"

  "Until midnight, two o'clock."

  "And you only saw her wait tables the one time?"

  "Isn't that enough?"

  "Of course," Bailey agreed, her voice suddenly soothing again. Harold grinned proudly
. Austin groaned silently.

  The air in the room seemed so charged with trapped electricity, Austin half expected to see lightning flash over the table. Watch out, he wanted to warn Graham.

  "So you went to the same bar as the plaintiff on three or four occasions, stayed until she left, and watched her carefully the entire time." She looked down at the table, shuffled through some papers, released Harold from her gaze.

  "Sure did."

  Austin watched in fascination. She was moving in for the kill.

  She abandoned the papers and fixed her attention on Graham again. "What time did she arrive at the club on the night in question?"

  "Four minutes till nine."

  "You're a very precise man, Mr. Graham."

  Harold shrugged happily at the compliment. "Just part of the job."

  "And what time did the alleged incident occur?"

  "Around midnight."

  "Can you be more precise?"

  "Midnight, give or take a few minutes."

  "How many drinks did the plaintiff have before this time?"

  "Several."

  "More than a couple?"

  "Six, seven."

  "You've testified that she had no difficulty walking. Did she not show any signs of intoxication after all that alcohol?"

  "Well, she may have swayed a little, and she talked kinda slurred and laughed awful loud."

  "So when you testified before that she was whipping around pretty good, that wasn't completely accurate."

  "Well, you know, not limping or anything. Maybe swaying a little."

  "I see. What, exactly, did she say when she volunteered to help out at the bar?"

  "I didn't exactly hear her say anything. I just saw her go up to the bar, pick up a tray, and start serving. "

  "How many drinks were on her tray when she left the bar?"

  "I couldn't see for sure. The place was crowded. A lot, probably. She stopped at a couple of tables before she got to me.” Harold was starting to squirm.

  The air conditioning kicked on, and Austin jumped. The sound seemed as loud as thunder. He leaned back, hungry for the cool.

  “How many Seven and Sevens had you had by this time?”

  “A couple.”

  “Mr. Graham, could you be more precise in your definition of the phrase ‘a couple’? You seem to use this term rather vaguely.”

  “Two or three, maybe.”

  “Four or five?”

  “Maybe four. I couldn’t sit there all night and not order. They’d’ve run me out.”

  “I understand. But can we assume that between the dim light, the crowd and a couple of drinks, you have no idea how many drinks were on the plaintiff’s tray when she left the bar?”

  The man shifted uncomfortably in his chair and gave Austin a helpless look. Austin shrugged slightly. The guy was on his own. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Then you can only say for certain that she had one drink on her tray, namely your Seven and Seven?”

  The investigator was starting to sweat. “Why would she stop at those other tables if she wasn’t giving them drinks?”

  “Since you testified that she’s a regular, perhaps she was chatting with friends. Did she talk to the people at the tables?”

  Harold ducked his head and mumbled something.

  “I missed that, Mr. Graham.”

  “I dunno. Maybe.” He straightened. “But she musta been serving drinks too.”

  “How much did she charge you for your drink?”

  Harold mumbled again.

  “Please speak up, Mr. Graham. These proceedings are being recorded.”

  “I said, nothing.”

  “Nothing. Had you been receiving free drinks all evening?”

  “No.”

  “Yet the house bought that particular drink for you?”

  He shifted in his chair again. “No. Not the house. She did.”

  “Did she give you a reason for that unusual act?”

  Harold looked at the ceiling and sighed, an act of resignation.

  Austin could have sworn he saw tiny sparks jumping from Bailey’s fiery hair.

  “She said it was to cure my shyness, that she’d seen me watching her before and knew I wanted to meet her.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Graham. That’ll be all. I’m sure we can dispense with any further details.”

  “There aren’t any more details!”

  “Thank you. That’ll be all.”

  And that, Austin mused, was definitely all. So much for Harold Graham’s testimony. Austin was furious. He wanted to swear. Conversely, he had to duck his head to hide a smile. That was crazy. How could he smile when Bailey had just blown away their witness? Was it possible to admire someone’s expertise with a knife when your own throat was being slit?

  “What do we do now?” Mark asked him as everyone shoved back their chairs and prepared to depart.

  “We congratulate the opposition,” Austin replied and moved around to catch Bailey before she could get out the door.

  “Well done,” he murmured, extending his hand.

  She raised an eyebrow, shifted her briefcase and slid her long, slim fingers into his. Static electricity jumped between them, and they gasped simultaneously then laughed nervously. Austin shook her hand, surprised at the fragile feel of fingers that could probably crush an anvil.

  With a shock, he recognized a stirring in his groin that couldn’t possibly be happening under such circumstances.

  "Good job," he said, releasing her hand and backing away, stuffing his own hands in his pockets to obscure the evidence. "Good-bye," he said, and bolted from the room.

  "You were fantastic!" Margaret praised as they walked back to the office. "You made a fool out of that man."

  Bailey stepped off the curb and frowned into the sun. "He seemed a little upset, but I certainly wouldn't describe him as a fool."

  "No, Margaret's right, he looked really dumb," Candy contributed, puffing a little. "When you made him admit the only drink I carried was to him, his face got all red."

  "Oh. Yes, well, I guess that's true." Bailey had assumed they were talking about Austin. She had momentarily forgotten that anyone else had been there.

  "They'll be calling us before the day's over to offer a settlement," Margaret declared, almost bouncing down the sidewalk.

  "And this'll be all over?" Candy questioned.

  "No way," Bailey said, pushing through the revolving door into their office building.

  "Why?" Candy asked, following her.

  "The first offer is only an opening gambit. Don't worry. We'll go to court if they don't offer enough."

  "But what if they offer enough?" Candy tripped along on her stiletto heels, trying to keep up.

  "If they offer enough, we'll take it," Bailey reassured her. "But they won't."

  "Let's go to lunch and celebrate," Margaret proposed.

  "You two go ahead," Bailey declined. "I have plans."

  She watched the pair totter away then went upstairs to find Paula and see how she was surviving her first day.

  At the end of the office hallway, outside Stafford Morris' corner office, Bailey leaned over the side of the modular cubicle. Paula sat facing a computer screen, dictation earphones disappearing under her curls, fingers flying over the keyboard.

  "You're still here," Bailey said.

  Peeling off the phones, Paula turned to face her. "Back already? How'd the big deposition go? Was Austin impressive?"

  Impressive? Yes, she thought. Austin was, to say the least, impressive. "I won," she said, ignoring Paula's last question.

  Paula grinned. "You won? I didn't know this was a contest."

  "I didn't say it was a contest, but certainly there are winners and losers in every legal battle. And I won this round."

  "You mean your client won."

  Bailey straightened up and folded her arms. "I won for our client. Look, I came back here to ask you if you wanted to go to lunch, but I'm about to change my mind. I was even goi
ng to offer to pay and we could go somewhere with a menu on the table instead of the wall."

  Paula crinkled her nose. "Thanks, but Mr. Morris has some clients in his office, and he wants me to go get sandwiches for everybody then kind of hang around while I eat mine in case he needs me."

  "Good grief." Bailey cast a malevolent glance at Stafford Morris' closed door. I'd think the old goat would cut you a little slack on your first day."

  "Quite the opposite, actually. There's a backlog of things his temp didn't do that he wants me to catch up on."

  "Oh, well. I guess I'll just go downstairs and get ptomaine poisoning. How's it going otherwise? Has he blown cigar smoke in your face yet?"

  Paula laughed. "Once, but I blew it back at him."

  Bailey smiled. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

  Paula held her earphones out, ready to pop them into her ears. "Get out of here or I'll take your name off the list for the fiscal-year-end party next month."

  Bailey grimaced. "Oh, yes, you do have the honor of planning that mess, don't you?"

  "Mess? You're spoiled. A Las Vegas party on a riverboat cruising down the Missouri River sounds like a blast to me."

  Stafford Morris' door suddenly opened and the man charged out, cigar clenched in one side of his mouth. "Bailey," he muttered by way of greeting, then thrust a stack of typed pages covered with illegible pencil corrections in front of Paula. "Get off whatever you're doing and get started on these changes. We'll have more in a few minutes."

  Bailey watched the stocky man in shirt sleeves disappear into his office then shook her head. "How you can stand to work for that man is beyond me."

  Paula pushed several keys to save her document and call up another then shrugged. "It's the old system of barter. In exchange for allowing myself to be tortured eight hours a day I receive a paycheck that enables me to spend the other sixteen in a vain effort to recuperate. Now go away so I can concentrate on deciphering these hieroglyphics."

  "You have my sympathy," Bailey called, leaving to search for Gordon and see if he had eaten lunch yet.

  *~*~*

  Bailey was working on Larry Haynes' lease the next day when Margaret called, her voice high-pitched with excitement. "Mark Powell just called to offer a settlement in the Miller case!"

  "How much?"