Trouble in Paradise

“Counsel, you’d better listen up because I’m not going to repeat myself.” Judge Schoen’s trademark glare took in all of us as she waited for the hubbub to die down. Within seconds, the courtroom fell silent and the lawyers who’d been milling around the prosecution counsel table came to attention. “I’m taking a fifteen-minute recess, no more, no less. When I come back you’ll be ready with either trial dates or deals. Or else…” She banged her gavel and stomped off the bench. The low hum of activity immediately rose to a semi-roar. Chuck Overmeyer, a veteran public defender and one of my favorite worthy adversaries, gave me the well-practiced smile that had won more than its fair share of verdicts.

“Come on, Rachel. Let my guy plead to one count. You know you need him. He’s the perfect eyewitness—”

“With a rap sheet long enough to bury a mummy in,” I said.

“Hey, you know what they say: when you commit crimes in hell, you don’t get angels for witnesses.”

I rolled my eyes even though I’d used the bromide myself. All of us prosecutors had to fall back on it eventually. In the Los Angeles County District Attorney’s Office, it didn’t matter what area or unit you were assigned to; at some point you were going to wind up with a witness who’d garnered a passel of fleas by lying down with too many dogs.

But I had to smile. Chuck was a hell of a salesman. And it was true that his small-time crook of a client had the kind of self-deprecating charm juries love—not to mention a bird’s-eye view of the murder I had to prove. “Fine,” I said. “But if he backs up on me on the witness stand, gives me any grief whatsoever, I’m putting all four of his burglary counts back on the table.”

Chuck nodded eagerly. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Yes, you would.” We exchanged a smile. “Go get your guy ready. I’ll tell the clerk to call our case.”

Chuck thanked me, then headed for the lockup.

Thanks to the judges, who’d refused to let the lawyers push all their December cases into January, this was my only trial for the entire month. With Chuck’s case off the table, I had three gloriously open weeks just begging to be turned into a much-needed vacation. So I called Graden Hales, the lieutenant of LAPD’s elite Robbery-Homicide Division—and, more important, my boyfriend—to see if he could get away. He couldn’t, but he came up with a suggestion for me and my besties, fellow Special Trials prosecutor Toni LaCollier and Robbery-Homicide detective Bailey Keller, that sounded fabulous. At least, it did to me.

Graden was actually the intended recipient of the largesse. He’d garnered a fan club in Aruba after helping to catch a serial rapist who was targeting the guests at the Caribbean Queen, the island’s city-sized twelve-star resort. Other than Natalee Holloway’s disappearance, serious crime just didn’t happen in Aruba. Theft—mostly petty—drunk driving, and weed were about the extent of it. So the local police had been completely stymied until Graden stepped in to lend a hand. In gratitude, the owner of the resort had offered him its best suite anytime he liked for as long as he liked, free of charge. Graden, having created a megapopular video game, was a multimillionaire and didn’t need the freebie. But Toni, Bailey, and I, who lived on civil-service wages, could never have afforded the freight at that posh resort. Luckily for us, the manager had graciously declared that any friend of Graden’s was a friend of his. All we’d need to pay for was the flight.

In fairness, I didn’t initially reveal the freebie kicker when I presented the idea to Toni and Bailey over drinks at our “Cheers”—the bar in the Biltmore Hotel, where I was a permanent resident.

“Aruba?” Toni frowned. “Why does it have to be the Morbid Murder-Mystery Tour? What’s wrong with Tortola? Or St. Barts?”

“Or good old Maui?” Bailey added. “Land of Lava Flows and Pupu Platters?”

“Nothing,” I said. “That is, if you can afford to turn down a free three-bedroom suite in a twelve-star resort that’s right on the beach.”

“Damn.” Bailey drained the last of her martini. “How can we pass up a deal like that?”

Toni finished her drink as well. “We can’t.” She set down her glass and redid her lip gloss, though it didn’t need refreshing. Toni is one of those women who always look perfect. We love her anyway.

I signaled to Drew, the bartender, that we were ready for another round. Drew, one of the most smoothly gorgeous men I’ve ever seen, had become one of my best friends and—cliché though it is—my confidant after I’d moved into the Biltmore. The hotel is a five-star beauty in downtown Los Angeles, and living there is a little slice of heaven. No dishes, no laundry, no vacuuming, and I never have to worry about drinking and driving. Neither do Toni and Bailey, who routinely crash in my suite. Given the frequency of our visits to the bar, it wasn’t such a surprise that Drew and Bailey eventually hooked up. They’ve been dating for the past couple of years now, and they’re still going strong.