Chapter Twenty-Four
Emily
The door to Gabriel’s office swings open suddenly, bouncing off my desk at the end of its travel. It’s not like we’re getting caught in a compromising position or anything—our desks are practically on opposite sides of the room—but who the hell just opened it without knocking first? Even Karin knows better than that.
“Knock, knock,” says a man I can’t see.
Better late than never, I suppose.
The voice is deep, smooth, slow, and just as full of southern charm as a magnolia bush in the middle of a debutante ball. I’ve heard that voice on television a thousand times.
Our unannounced visitor is John Whitehall.
I scoot my chair a little further away from the door and look over at… my boss? My boyfriend? Whatever he is, now.
“Hello, Gabriel,” the State Attorney says, entering the room and perching lightly on the corner of Gabriel’s desk. “We need to talk.”
That veneer of perfect southern gentleman is only a sugar coating. It might fool the voters, but this kind of petty power play is all too common from him.Look at me!it screams.I’m in charge, and screw all you little people.
Gabriel’s eyes crinkle in irritation for a barely perceptible instant at the blatant disrespect, but he quickly regains control, settling his face into a polite, vaguely inquisitive blandness.
“Good morning, sir,” he says. “What can I do for you?”
“Tell me,” the State Attorney says, “about this Wilson case that you’ve decided to handle.”
Gabriel glances over in my direction. I avoid the eye contact, looking down at my notepad, acting as if I hadn’t noticed his silent invitation to excuse myself.
“Emily,” he calls over to me. “Would you give us a moment, please?”
“Yes, sir,” I answer. “Of course.”
Purse in hand, I duck quickly out of the office. Karin’s computer is turned on, but she’s not at her desk. She must have gone to the ladies’ room or the break room. Lucky break for me: when the door closes, I stop it before it can quite click all the way shut.
“So-oo-oo-oh,” Whitehall begins, dragging the word out. God, he really doesn’t want Gabriel to miss out on the sarcasm, does he? “Narcotics Unit not keeping you busy enough?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Gabriel says, his voice tactfully mild. He’s not taking the bait. “Not exactly. No, I actually had a couple of reasons why I assigned that one to myself.”
A pause. An instant of silence. Gabriel isn’t going to volunteer those reasons. More power moves: the first one to speak, loses.
“I see,” Whitehall finally says, a testy edge to his voice recognizing the loss. “And those reasons were?”
“First off, have to set a good example, y’know? If I’m not carrying any of the case load, then people might start talking.” Gabriel’s voice changes to a sing-song not-quite-falsetto: “why isn’t he doing his part? Maybe he’s not good enough.”
“Hm.” Whitehall considers. “True enough, I suppose,” he says, grudgingly accepting Gabriel’s logic. “And the second reason?”
“Perishable skills,” Gabriel says, then makes a sound somewhere between a sigh, a snort, and a laugh. “If I don’t keep up with it, then eventually I reallywon’tbe good enough, and then the talk would actually be justified.”
Another silence, broken by a grunt from the State Attorney.
“And when they think you’re not good enough to do the job,” he says, quietly, “then they start talking. And once they start talking, they start thinking about challenging you. About pushing you out.” Whitehall sighs. “Touché.”
Oh,damn. I have to cover my mouth with a hand, stifling the laugh that’s threatening to break out of me. I can’t believe Gabriel actually went there. And Whitehall caughteverybit of it, too.
“Mister Whitehall. Sir. John,” Gabriel says, his tone gentle. “A man would have to be paranoid to believe every scrap of loose rumor and gossip that goes around about that sort of thing. But he’d have to be dumb to think that it doesn’t happen atall. I just want to make sure that I can keep doing the job, and handling a case every now and then? Keeps things fresh, keeps that kind of thing to a minimum.”
“Even so, Mister Cooper. Even so.”
Silence again for a bit. What’s going on in there? In my head I picture Whitehall’s face pensive and vulnerable, frowning down at his perfectly trimmed nails, reevaluating his life. I almost laugh again at the silliness of the idea: there’s no way that John Whitehall could ever be even that minimally human in a genuine way.
