“Oliver Paul will meet you at his office at four o’clock,” Kitty said. “For God’s sake, don’t talk to anyone about this between now and then. If the police show up at your house with a warrant, you call Ollie and wait for him to get there. Here’s his phone number and address.”
I scribbled the info on a scrap of paper. “Thank you. Who is Oliver Paul?”
“A genius. The sharpest criminal defense attorney in the Valley. He was my star student when I taught criminal motion practice at Loyola. Don’t let his attitude throw you. Trust me, you’ll love him.”
“I trust you.” I had to—I didn’t have time to be picky. “Will you do me a favor? Don’t say anything if you talk to my mom. I want to tell my parents in person tonight.”
“I won’t say a word. I do want you to keep me updated, though. And Liz? Good luck.”
I pulled up a Google map on the address she gave me. I had an hour to change clothes and drive to Oliver Paul’s office in Van Nuys. I ran upstairs and at the top of the landing I spotted Stan in the now empty spare bathroom, on his knees in the tub. He raised a drill toward the wall.
“Stan, don’t. I was going to—” Too late. Exposed pipes peeked through a gaping hole in the wall beneath the showerhead.
“Hey, Liz. Thanks for clearing out this bathroom. It’s easier for me to get a full view of the plumbing from both sides.”
I sagged against the doorjamb. “Maybe this will speed things up?”
“Yeah. It should.” Stan cleared his throat. “Listen, we have to run out to an emergency job tomorrow. We’ll be back on Monday.”
He decided to tear up my spare bathroom wall then leave me stranded for the weekend? I clenched my teeth, conscious of rule number one: don’t insult the plumber mid-job. Not if I liked running water. I decided on a new rule: don’t let the plumber off the hook.
“Monday? What about Saturday?”
“On the weekend?” His mouth dropped open. You’d think I asked him to work on Christmas.
I creased my forehead and blinked as if ready to cry. It was low but I was desperate. I sighed and said, “I smell. I haven’t showered at home or had a decent bubble bath in over a month. I feel like I’m living in a tent. I’m going back to work next week and I—” I covered my face and sniffed.
Stan waved his hands. “Don’t. Don’t do that. I’ll come Saturday morning and see how far I can get alone.”
“Would you?” I touched his arm, sincere as a con man.
“Sure.”
“Thank you, Stan. You’re amazing,” I said. “By the way, I have a last-minute meeting this afternoon. I need to lock up the house before I leave. I’m so sorry. We have to call it a day.”
Stan grunted agreement and carried his drill and equipment into the master bedroom. He and Angel began removing the tarps off the furniture and packing their tools. I took a black sundress and bronze sandals out of my closet and crossed the hall into the guest bedroom to make a quick change of clothes. They shouted their good-byes from downstairs while I dotted my lips with red lipstick in front of the dusty mirror over my vanity.
With nervous adrenaline pumping through me, I closed up the house and jumped into my car with thirty minutes to get to my new lawyer’s office. The air-conditioning kicked in high once I turned on Riverside Drive for a four-mile drive west. The right turn to Van Nuys Boulevard took me past the dealerships on “Auto Row” and the Van Nuys Government Center. After a quick left at a pawnshop onto Victory Boulevard, I passed a tattoo parlor and pulled into the parking lot adjacent to the address Kitty gave me, a five-story bank building. I got out and shielded my eyes from the sun while I surveyed my surroundings. A derelict curled under a blanket beside a Dumpster in the alley. Across the street, a Goodwill Donation Center and two bail bonds storefronts advertised in English and Spanish.
Granted, the bank building stood walking distance from the courthouse and jail complex, but Oliver Paul’s office location didn’t smack of elite, high-powered attorney. I entered the building, skeptical. Kitty had told me to trust her.
The directory in the glass-and-chrome lobby listed Oliver Paul, Esq., in Rm. 404. I got off the elevator on the fourth floor and wandered down the beige corridor bookended by green plastic trees until I located “404” posted on a small plate next to the third door on the left. No name on the door, no sounds coming from inside.
I knocked. No answer. I checked my watch. On time. I tried the doorknob. Unlocked. The door bumped a row of file cabinets lining the wall of an outer office barely large enough to house an old metal desk covered with a disaster of paper stacks, a dusty computer, and a telephone. The weathered chair behind the desk was empty.
“Hello?” I hovered inside the doorway.