Beyond malice, p.1
Beyond Malice, page 1
BEYOND MALICE
REBECCA FORSTER
Copyright © by Rebecca Forster, 1994, 2014
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CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Dear Reader
Severed Relations
Free Gift
Also by Rebecca Forster
About the Author
ONE
In 1892, Walter Dimsdale and Franklin Morris meticulously drew up a partnership agreement establishing the law offices of Dimsdale & Morris. They hung their shingle, which Walter carved himself, on the third floor of a Market Street office building in San Francisco. Conscientiously, quietly, they sought out the most prestigious clients the city had to offer, promised only what they could deliver, and delivered what they promised. Within ten years, Dimsdale & Morris had established itself as one of San Francisco’s most respected law firms. Clients pointed to the firm’s traditional, low-risk approach to civil litigation as the predominant reason for D&M’s success. Walter and Franklin credited their ability to make money for themselves, and effectively defend against those who would take it away from their clients.
In 1906 the law offices of Dimsdale & Morris were leveled along with the rest of San Francisco by the great earthquake, so they moved the offices to a lazy desert town called Los Angeles. By the early twenties the movie industry was making and breaking contracts with satisfying regularity, and once again the firm flourished.
Sadly, neither man adapted well to the more casual attitude of their new home. They continued to wear starched collars, preferring to meet moguls in suits at the office rather than dressed informally to talk business around a swimming pool filled with half-naked, frolicking starlets. Luckily, Dimsdale bit the dust before he could become totally outraged by such freewheeling posturing. Morris, alone and rich, was now in need of help. Mott, their associate of some years, was immediately made full partner. Two young associates were brought on board to replace Dimsdale, and they all settled into a fine routine.
In the intervening years, Morris died, but Mott kept his hand on the tiller of the firm and it thrived. When Mott also met his end, a managing partner and three senior partners were assigned to guide the firm, but their names never graced the letterhead in a show of respect for the founders. The senior partners lived and died for the firm and its profits. Dimsdale, Morris, and Mott would have been proud.
By the year 2000, the firm was huge and discreetly represented clients of great wealth and notoriety. There were only two things in the contemporary firm that Dimsdale, Morris, and even Mott would not have condoned.
The first was the partners’ retreat: Each year the four current senior partners of DM&M hosted three glorious days of professional intimacy for partners and associates. A few secretaries and paralegals came along to take notes and run errands. Partners and their wives were treated to rooms in that year’s designated hotel. The wives shopped and played tennis, had their hair done, and attended tea with the associates’ better halves.
Associates were invited to the social festivities and tedious seminars with the partners, but had to return home each night since few could afford the cost of a room. The designated site this year was The Regency Hotel in Beverly Hills. Yet it was the second modification of the founders’ original charter that would have been considered beyond objectionable, if not downright sinful.
The firm of Dimsdale, Morris, & Mott now employed female attorneys. The only saving grace was that these women ascribed to certain decorum. They worked hard, wore sober suits, and spent less time on their makeup than they did brushing their teeth.
For the most part they were serious, intelligent young women. Only handpicked female associates would be able to negotiate the road to partnership with any degree of surety, with one exception—Nora Royce. She was being led down the partnership path by her mentor, Lucas Mallory, one of three senior partners. Nora’s status was no surprise. All her life she had been the exception rather than the rule.
If Nora Royce wore a gray flannel suit, she fashioned it into a skirt that rode her thighs and a jacket that fit snugly over what Dimsdale would have referred to as “fine bosoms.” She was tall. She was beautiful. She was outspoken in that slightly disdainful way of hers, and Nora Royce was smart.
She finished three in a class of five hundred at Stanford undergrad; two in a class of one hundred, and twelve at Harvard Law. Nora Royce clerked for the Chief Justice of the California Supreme Court. She was Law Review. Nora Royce was a sign of the times, an affirmative action dream, and most of the associates hated her guts. The partners, on the other hand, found her an asset to a firm that was incredibly dull, even in a colorless industry.
On the final night of the partners’ retreat, Nora outdid herself. She swept into the black-tie reception late, dressed in a royal blue strapless dress. She stood in the doorway, identified her quarry, and then headed straight for Lucas Mallory. She took a glass of champagne off a silver tray as she went, disrupting the balance of the server’s tray as she did so.
“At least she’s not wearing that stupid scarf.” One of the less-than-stunning female associates whispered this to her companion as Nora passed.
“Maybe if we wore the same thing day in and day out, Lucas Mallory might notice us, too,” her friend responded.
“I’d give my left tit if Lucas Mallory even remembered my name. On second thought, I’d kill just to have a partner say hello and mean it.”
They both laughed; unaware their voices had a hard, hungry edge. The two women tried to look away from the oh-so-civilized altercation between Lucas Mallory and Nora Royce, but their eyes kept moving toward the two, bickering people.
Lucas turned away first. Nora actually reached out and held him in place. He glared at that hand on his beautifully tailored tuxedo. He said something. Nora seemed to struggle with herself. She released him, and then walked out the side door of the reception room. The warm-up act was over. The real show was about to begin.
TWO
Oliver Hedding, managing partner of Dimsdale, Morris, & Mott, made his way through the crowd. In his wake was a silence born partially of respect and overwhelmingly of fear. He was a frosty man who had come from England to attend college and stayed in the US. to make his fortune. In another time, he would have made a fine pope; a man who prayed to God to save his spiritual life while brutally wielding corporal power to his earthly advantage.
Old, he never aged further. Intelligent, he never allowed his brightness to fully shine in public. Passionate, he kept his emotions in check. Only he, in his heart of hearts, knew whether he was satisfied with what he had wrought. He walked to the front of the room. His wife, Kitty Hedding, followed and took her place behind him.
In the fifties, when they married, Kitty would have been described as a cool drink of water, the cat’s meow, the deb of the year. She looked great in tulle, and her widow’s peak was a thing of envy. She was a girl who made a good match, and a woman who had learned to live with the consequences of it. Life wasn’t perfect and Kitty Hedding had the uncanny ability to turn a blind eye to the things that made it so, even though one of those things was Oliver. As he began to speak, she crossed her hands at her waist and turned her eyes on him. The associates closed ranks, creating a womb that nurtured the old man. Behind Oliver, the partners materialized out of nowhere to stand guard.
Don Forrester, amiable and open, his long face always just a bit pale, his perfectly ordinary brown eyes twinkling as though life was as delightful as a simply executed two-party contract, stood with his arm around his wife, Min.
Peter Sweeney, more suited to the work of a mercenary than a lawyer, stood alone, legs spread wide apart, hands at the ready as if he wanted a fight. His wife, Peg, stood near the window watching the traffic inch along Wilshire Boulevard as she drank from a tumbler of Scotch.
Lucas Mallory moved around the perimeter of the crowd. By far the most attractive of the senior partners, he put a hand out to shake that of the newest associate, lifted an ey
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Oliver began in that dry, close-to-a-whisper voice of his. “Kitty and I, Min and Don Forrester, Lucas and Ruth Mallory, Peg and Peter Sweeney are all delighted to see you tonight.
“We are well aware that some of you have been putting in a few extra hours at the office today. That is appreciated. It is also hoped, in your excitement about this evening’s gala event, that you managed to assign the correct billing codes. If not, you’ll be receiving an invoice from the partners for your share of this little get-together.”
Oliver cast his old black eyes about the room and drew his lips back in his interpretation of a smile. Dutifully, a titter ran through the room. He drew a deep breath, dry like that of a dying man, and continued.
“As is customary on this last evening of our retreat, I will report on the health of the firm. The senior partners and I are pleased to announce…”
Oliver paused; his attention caught by a movement at the edge of the crowd.
Because Oliver looked, everyone looked. They all saw Edward Ramsey walk through the back of the ballroom and slink through the door Nora Royce had so recently used to make her escape. Even the most ardent brown-noser couldn’t stomach Edward. He had made a career—no, a science—of fawning. He was no great loss to the party, but his defection in the middle of Oliver’s speech was a point of interest, as was the fact that he was without a tuxedo. Fashion plate that he was, this seemed a terrible breach.
On cue, their unified attention slid back to the managing partner. The old man’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightened, and his lips seemed to quiver for a split second. Then the moment was gone, and he made up for lost time.
“…happy to announce that our fourth quarter earnings for this year were solid. Expenses after the renovation of the communications system have been brought back under control. The firm enjoyed a passably secure end of year. Given certain current events, I can now assure you that Dimsdale, Morris, and Mott will continue to thrive for many years to come.”
Oliver took another deep breath, speaking a beat beyond his need for oxygen. It was an unnerving habit, one that made him seem in the constant throes of some terminal disease.
“Now I’d like to invite you all into the ballroom, where we will be dining. I order you to put any thought of work out of your minds.”
The gathered attorneys put their hands together and clapped, more in homage to Oliver Hedding than in reaction to anything he said. The applause subsided and they moved toward the ballroom in pecking order.
Oliver remained where he was. Kitty moved up a step or two. Lucas Mallory, Don Forrester, and Peter Sweeney were suddenly animated, gravitating toward Oliver. Their wives hung back. Associates stepped to the side. Just then, with the social migration in progress and the doors to the dining room were opening, Lucas Mallory’s wife blew the retreat’s choreography all to hell.
Ruth, the most admired of all the senior partners or their wives, was tall, dark-haired, and classy. Always perfectly coiffed, she was a lady, agelessly attractive in her linen suits and silk blouses. She opted for low-heeled spectators so that she wouldn’t tower over her husband. Her smile was gracious, her good words and wishes sincerely offered to any and all. That was why when the brass doors of the private elevator that served the concierge suites parted, more than one person grinned at the sight of her familiar figure. Yet it didn’t take long for them to realize that something wasn’t right. Ruth Mallory was riding the elevator backwards.
Laughter, mumbled exclamations, nervous titters ran through the crowd as they tried to figure out the joke. She stood ever so still in her black and gold gown, as though she were waiting for everyone’s attention. Those in attendance would later swear that it took more than a few minutes for Ruth to move; in reality no more than thirty-seconds passed before she painfully presented herself.
Later, when those in the room were questioned, they all commented on her face: alabaster skin, a mass of short black hair teased into a rich woman’s bouffant, arched brows, earlobes glittering with large but tasteful diamonds. Ruth’s eyes were more brilliant than usual. Her lips were rounded in an O of surprise, as though she was amazed to see such a crowd.
In the back of the room someone laughed with a sharp, nervous bark. Others drew in their breath with hard, quick gasps. Those who could tear their eyes away from Ruth, looked toward Lucas hoping he would clue them in, but Lucas Mallory was in shock and could only stare at his wife.
Don Forrester covered his face with his hands.
Oliver Hedding moved a step toward the elevator before Peter Sweeney restrained him.
In that instant, Ruth Mallory staggered through the gleaming elevator doors holding one hand to her throat. Through her splayed fingers a raw, crimson welt could be seen. Her other hand was held tight to her chest. Blood poured through the fingers of that hand, ran down the front of her gown, and spilled onto the hardwood floor in bright, red, nickel-size drops.
Ruth stumbled through the crowd, each step an excruciating effort. People moved aside, making way for her. Ruth raised one bloody hand as if to monitor the ebbing of her life. When it lay against her breast again, she raised her eyes, and let them light on Oliver Hedding. They rolled back before focusing again, this time on Peter Sweeney. Those fragile lids fluttered closed, and then opened and she looked at Don Forrester. It was then Ruth swayed, she swooned, and with a Sisyphean effort, she pulled herself upright and locked eyes with her husband. Lucas took a step toward her. Ruth matched it. She tried to speak, managing only a rattle deep in her chest. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth.
A too-long-delayed scream erupted from a woman in the crowd. Others turned away from the horror, but Ruth never stopped. Slowly, deliberately, she held out a hand to her husband. A small sound bubbled deep in her throat. It was this sorrowful, pitiful mewling that drove him to action. Lucas Mallory sprung toward his wife, howling the word ‘no’.
They never connected. Ruth collapsed, sprawling at her husband’s feet, her bloody hand still held out to him.
Ruth Mallory was dead.
THREE
“Hey! That hurts.” Amanda Cross pulled her hand away, but Consuelo yanked it back.
“Madre de Dios! You are loca. Now, stay still or I can’t get these things off. See! You lose the tips of your fingers if you’re not careful. Then how sexy will you be? A fingerless woman.”
Consuelo shook her head, sending her waist-length, blue-black hair bouncing. Her magenta-colored lips pursed as she concentrated on her chore. Amanda saw that Consuelo had managed two pairs of lashes that morning. Inky eyeliner cracked on top of the glue strips, and one edge was popping up.
“I wasn’t shooting for sexy,” Amanda said. “I just wanted to make a minor improvement in my general appearance.”
