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Vengeance in the Mist

By Robin Patchen

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Two breaking-and-entering cases, two assaults, one bribery and—Misty Lake flipped through the last few files—a couple of narcotics possession charges.
She’d returned from a bathroom break to find the fresh files on her desk. And here she thought she’d be leaving work at a decent hour today. It was already four forty-five, about the time normal people were finishing up on a Friday. A couple of summer interns wandered past her open door, laughing. One poked her head in. “Have a great weekend!”
Misty managed a smile. “You too.”
She heard the elevator ding down the hall and saw a couple of other assistant DAs hurrying to catch it. But she wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while. She pushed her hair back from her forehead. She’d left it down, going for a softer look, but who had time to worry about appearances? She snatched a hair band from her desk drawer and gathered the thin strands in a ponytail to get it out of her face.
How would she manage these new cases on top of the work that’d piled up? She’d already known she wouldn’t see a weekend off for the rest of the summer. Now it looked as if she’d have to forgo sleeping as well.
She was grateful for the reprieve when a knock sounded. Until she saw who it was.
And here she’d thought things couldn’t get worse.
Tate Steele stood in her open doorway, smiling in that irritating, charming way of his. The man was drop dead gorgeous—and knew it. His perfectly cut suit—probably some Italian designer—showed off his fit physique. Somehow, though all the attorneys at the DA’s office wore business attire, he managed to look overdressed. Tate was just a couple inches taller than her five-ten frame, but somehow he took up a lot of space. She blamed that on his oversize ego.
“The boss wants to see us.”
She groaned, glancing at the calendar always open on her monitor. “We don’t have a meeting on my schedule.”
“Just you and me.” Tate’s eyes sparkled, bringing out the specks of blue in the hazel.
No wonder he was smiling. Any opportunity to suck up.
She didn’t bother to ask what it was about. The district attorney didn’t need an excuse to summon his prosecutors.
“He told me to tell you to bring your new cases,” Tate said.
“Why?”
Tate, who was not, she couldn’t help but notice, burdened by mountains of files, just shrugged.
She gathered the paperwork and preceded him to the stairwell, their footsteps echoing on the wood planks. One story up, they made their way to the DA’s suite, which was a lot fancier than the windowless offices where she and Tate and all the other ADAs spent their days.
An administrative assistant directed them to a conference room, and Misty led the way through the open door. There were wood-paneled walls on three sides. The fourth had windows overlooking the neighboring buildings. Most of their meetings took place downstairs. She’d only been in this room once, back when she’d been hired two years before. She still sometimes missed the slower pace of the suburban district where she used to work. Back then, she’d longed for more exciting cases. Now, she had them in spades.
District Attorney Leland Humphrey waved them in, a cell phone pressed to his ear. He was in his early sixties, and despite the white hair, looked younger than his years with smooth, tanned skin. Seated at the far end of a long dark cherry table, he leaned back, nodding as if the person on the phone could see. “That’s great, Damien.” He indicated the space beside him, and Misty set the files down and rolled out the cushy chair.
She’d expected Tate to sit across from her, but instead he slid into the seat on her opposite side.
Leland smiled at them and shrugged, his version of an apology, she assumed, for making them wait. “Let Cecelia know if there’s anything we can…” A pause, then, “All right, sounds good.”
He ended the call and slid the phone into his pocket. “My brother. Always got something going on.” His jovial expression faded, and he gave Misty that intense look she remembered from their first meeting. “How are you?”
The question made her stomach swoop. She hated when people did that, emphasized the are with that annoyingly compassionate tone.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“After everything that happened,” he said, “you must be dealing with some residual—”
“I’m working through it.” The recent kidnapping was the last thing Misty wanted to talk about. She wasn’t about to tell her boss—or Tate—that she was seeing a counselor.
How many people got kidnapped twice in one lifetime? And by the same person, no less? But Vasco Ramón was dead, along with most of his men. Those who’d survived were in jail awaiting trial. She prayed daily that the prosecutors assigned to their cases would care more about justice than expediency.
In other words, that they’d be more like her and less like Tate Steele.
“It can’t be easy, but I’m sure you’re handing it well.” The expression on Leland’s face—a smile dimmed by worry—told Misty that he was not sure at all. “Unfortunately, you’re falling behind on your work.”
“I’ve got it under control. Some cases take longer—”
“Which is why,” Leland said, shutting her up, “I’ve asked Tate to join us.”
She glanced at her coworker and saw a hint of surprise on his face. So, he hadn’t known. This wasn’t Tate’s fault, but she glared at him anyway. The last thing she needed was Tate Steele’s help.
She forced a relaxed expression when she turned back to her boss. “I appreciate the offer, but I can handle the job.”
“Nobody would blame you if you couldn’t,” Leland said. “You’ve gone through a trauma. It’s no surprise it’s affecting your work.”
“It’s not affecting my work.” She tried very hard not to let her frustration show.
“Misty.” Leland reached out as if he might pat her hand. The last thing she needed was some pseudo-father-figure patronizing her. He pulled back at the last second, but she could feel his desire to comfort her as if she were a damaged child. “I’m worried you’re not getting enough rest. From what I hear, you’re the first through the doors every morning and the last to leave.”
He was calling her out for being a conscientious employee?
“I appreciate your dedication to the job,” Leland said, “but especially now, you need to take care of yourself.” The DA’s focus shifted to Tate. “Your workload is lighter right now.”
“I’ve had a couple of cases dropped, a number plea out quickly, so—”
“I admire your efficiency. I’m hoping some of that will rub off.”
Rub off? As if Misty should be more like Tate? Settling for plea deals, dropping cases he can’t win—that was admirable?
The man cared nothing about justice.
“As you know,” Leland said, “Misty’s suffered quite a trauma. I know you two are friends.”
Hardly.
“More than anyone else in the office, you’re aware of what she went through this summer.”
Somehow, Misty managed not to growl as her boss talked about her as if she weren’t in the room.
Tate said, “I’m sure it hasn’t been easy.”
“It’s been fine.” Misty didn’t bother to look away from her boss. “I don’t need help.”
“You’ve got some free time.” Leland kept his focus on Tate as if she hadn’t spoken. “Misty needs a hand.”
“Sir, I don’t need—”
“—I’m happy to do what I can.”
Of course he was. Brown nose.
Leland wore a pleased smile as if he were doing her a great favor.
In his defense, he was trying to help her. She should be thankful and gracious.
She felt anything but.
“This is not up for debate.” Leland’s fatherly expression only increased her frustration. He meant well, but she could do her job—and do it a lot better than Tate Steele.
“I’m worried about you,” Leland added.
“I appreciate that, sir, but honestly, I’m doing all right.”
“You’ll be even better if you let yourself rest every once in a while,” Leland said. “And learn to accept help.” He pulled the stack of cases Misty had brought closer and flipped through them. In the silence, Misty tried very hard to hide her anger. She wasn’t a suck-up like Tate, but she didn’t need to antagonize the boss.
Finally, he closed the last file. “These seem pretty straightforward. You shouldn’t have any trouble dispatching them quickly. The two of you work together on it.” He slid the pile back to Misty. “Tate’s great at coming up with plea deals that satisfy all parties. Take the opportunity to learn from him.” He pushed back in his chair and stood.
With no choice, she stood as well, plastering on a smile she was sure hid little of her seething frustration. “Thank you, sir.”
Tate led the way to the door and opened it, standing aside so she could go first. She usually didn’t mind gentlemanly behavior, but it was the last thing she wanted in that moment. She sent him a look she hoped would scald as she passed.
If he noticed it, he gave no indication.
She was halfway across the plush reception area when Leland’s administrative assistant spoke. “Misty, a call came in for you, and they forwarded it up here. Jeffrey Cofer?”
A defense attorney she’d gone up against more than once. “Which case?”
The woman held out a piece of paper. “Parks. Frederick Parks.”
Misty snatched it.
“What’s that?” Leland spoke over Misty’s shoulder. She hadn’t realized he’d followed them out. “You know the case?”
“It’s from when I worked in Middlesex County. I’m sure it’s nothing important.” She pocketed the message. “I’ll call him back.” Later. When she wasn’t seething with anger and burning with shame.
Because apparently, her boss didn’t think she could hack the job. And he’d assigned her least favorite person in the office to help.

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