Page 87 of The Suit

“Maybe. I need to check into a few things,” he replied cryptically, and his focus was already set on whatever it was he was checking, so I didn’t ask; my head was hurting enough as it was.

I glanced at the time. Even though I’d been late into the office, it was rare that the big guy still hadn’t arrived; any excuse to get out of his house.

“Where’s Diego?”

“He’s gone to see Maynard’s son. He texted him this morning and said he’d found an old file of his dad’s stuff, if we wanted to look through it.”

I perked up slightly, that was positive news… or had the potential to be positive.

“Okay, who knows about this?” I tipped my chin up to the screen.

“No one, just the three of us.”

“We need to flag to the court this has happened. They’ve put the restraining order on the accounts, but if they can’t find anything then it’ll get dismissed. How much of this can we give them?”

The problems with using research methods which bordered on the darker grey areas of illegal was that you also had to find creative ways of passing along the information, or nudge in the right direction.

It was a game of hot and cold hide-and-seek.

“They have financial experts looking for this stuff, right?”

I nodded.

“It’ll take them a while to find this, but I can check where they’re up to and tip them off.”

“Yeah, good. I’m not losing this case.”

And it no longer had anything to do with Beulah.

I could only begin to imagine the levels of corruption Feather Smythe Jones and Partners was involved in, even from its client roster it was openly admitting to, the fact that Johnson Maynard was one of them told me everything I needed to know. On principal, along with Maynard, FSJ needed taking down. It was already wildly known Maynard belonged in prison, but being a slippery fuck had meant he’d always got away with a slapped wrist and a fine, every single time. Eventually though, all the greed, fraud, and dishonestly would get you. As someone who could smugly claim to pay all the taxes I owed, whether I was happy about it or not, tax evasion really fucked me off. If I could do it, then so could everyone else. Not to mention, those cars belonged with someone who would love and appreciate them. Or Maynard’s family - who’d been through enough putting up with him – and deserved their dues, even if Mrs. Maynard was giving it all to charity.

No, I was definitely not losing this case.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone, rereading her text, and the almost undetectable niggling in my belly started up again. On impulse I hit the dial button, only to be greeted by her voicemail. I was tempted to dial her office, but after Friday, I didn’t want to cause any questions to be raised by her assistant, and I also didn’t want to get passed onto someone else.

Rafe:Talk sounds good. Then I’ll take you to dinner.

After the sixth time of rereading the text, I hit send. I wanted to see her, I wanted to talk. I still wasn’t certain how it would all be possible, but perhaps we could agree to an Ethical Wall between us until the case was over, because I knew that if anyone asked her, she would also say that she wasn’t losing the case. But there would only be one winner, and for me, this was becoming bigger than Johnson Maynard’s divorce.

A low beeping alerted Cody and me that there was a visitor on the way up, someone who had the code to the elevator. My elevator. Before the cameras came up on the screen, the doors opened and out walked Penn, looking what could only be described as thunderous. It had nothing to do with him being hungover either, because in an uncharacteristic move for him, last night he’d stopped drinking relatively early on. Anyone would assume it was because Jupiter had left early, but he’d been distracted since we’d arrived at Nobu and had barely looked up from his phone to say goodbye to him.

Whatever the reason, I had a feeling I was about to find out.

He placed a coffee down on my desk then sat in Diego’s seat, temporarily distracted by the size of the chair - wriggling around in the seat as he tried to get comfortable and put his feet on the desk. But as it was custom to Diego - who had a good hundred pounds and five inches in height on Penn – he was struggling.

“What’s wrong with this chair?” he grumbled, as he got up and heaved it closer to the desk, before he sat back down and was finally able to prop his feet up.

“It’s Diego’s.”

“That man is abnormally large.”

“He is,” I looked at Penn, who still hadn’t cracked a smile. “Are you okay?”

He sat forward, steepling his fingers on the desk. “No, I don’t think I am.”

Even though Penn had a tendency toward the dramatics, this wasn’t that, and all thoughts of corrupt banking practices were temporarily pushed to one side. “Talk to me, Pennington. Whose ass do I need to kick?”

His fists clenched. “My grandpa’s.”

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