Despite his intimidating appearance, Jake is the perfect gentleman. He has a dry sense of humor and he’s unwaveringly protective of those he counts as friends. I feel lucky to say I’m one of them. I’ve never seen him lose his temper or raise his voice, but I suspect his is the kind of anger that strikes with a lethal vengeance—without any warning at all.
Stanton puts his briefcase on his desk and sits down.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Brent warns him. “We’re not staying long. It’s Friday, and your victory gives us the perfect justification for cutting out early.”
I didn’t know Brent when he was young, but he has all the makings of an epic class clown . . . or a child in desperate need of Ritalin. Always upbeat, with a joke at the ready and an endless supply of energy. He rarely sits still; even if he’s reading, he’s on his feet pacing or balanced on the edge of his desk, a file in one hand and a grip strengthener in the other.
Oh, and he doesn’t even drink coffee. Some Monday mornings I want to strangle Brent.
“I have to finish the Rivello brief,” I explain, but his head shake cuts me off.
“You can finish it tomorrow, Miss Go-getter. You’re already Adams’s new pet—don’t need to show the rest of us up that much. Besides, we have cause for celebration, and I make it a rule never to pass those up. Time for happy hour.”
I look at my watch. “It’s three o’clock.”
“Which means it’s five o’clock somewhere.” He hooks his thumb toward the door. “Let’s go, kids—find your buddy. First round’s on Jake.”
Jake’s already standing, packing his briefcase with take-home work. He twirls his finger in the air and says flatly, “Sure. Water for everyone.”
With a chuckle, Stanton loops his arm over my shoulders. “Come on, Soph. There’s a Tequila Sunrise with your name on it. We’ve earned it.”
I have an enduring love/hate relationship with Tequila Sunrises—I love them at happy hour and hate them in the morning.
With a sigh, I give in. “Okay, what the hell.”
5
Stanton
By the time happy hour officially rolls around, Sofia and Brent are way past happy. Not Jake, though—Jake’s the original designated driver. He enjoys a single-malt scotch as much as the next guy, but I’ve never seen him drink to get drunk. Unlike everyone else around him at this moment. Six o’clock on a Friday night in Washington, DC, the streets are a ghost town—because anyone who’s still here is already inside the bars.
Politicians don’t actually live in the city. If Congress isn’t in session, they go back to their home districts. Those who are married with kids head back to the suburbs. That leaves the rest of us—hungry, hardworking, and horny. And there’s no better way to blow off a whole lot of steam from a long-ass week at the office than having a nice drink in a noisy tavern. Sofia calls it the “Grey’s Anatomy effect.”
“Air bubble in the IV,” Brent suggests in a diabolical voice, leaning his elbows on the wood table cluttered with empty glasses. “Hard to trace, impossible to prove beyond a reasonable doubt—unless there’s video cameras in the patient’s hospital room, quick, efficient . . .”
“And totally unreliable,” Sofia quips, tapping him on the nose. “The amount of air to cause an embolism varies, plus the victim would already have to be in the hospital. Then there’d be a record of visitors . . .”
The perfect murder. It’s an ongoing discussion. Knowing the ins and outs of the criminal justice system, I’m actually surprised more people in the legal field don’t commit major crimes.
Or, how’s this for a mind fuck—maybe they do? Cue the creepy music.
“I still say poison is the surest bet,” Jake offers from the head of the table. “Something like ricin or polonium.”
His suggestion is met with taunts and heckles.
“Amateur.”
“Postmortem forensics is too advanced,” Brent argues.
“And where the hell would you find polonium?” Sofia adds. “Know many Russian spies, do you?”
“Remind me never to take you on as a client,” I tell him, pointing with my bourbon. “You’d ruin my winning streak.”
The dance floor in the adjacent room is filled to capacity with bodies, pitifully short on rhythm. Not many things are as funny as watching people who can’t dance but think they can.
Elated arms rise as the song “Oh What a Night” pours from the speakers. Sofia stands excitedly. “That’s my cue. Come on, Brent, let’s go shake what your momma gave ya.”