Chapter Text
Veronica decided to try out an impression on Cliff - for fun, she told herself, but really to see if she was rusty yet. Six weeks out of the biz. She winked at Wallace then pursed her lips, pulled herself up to sit rigidly against the headboard as Cliff answered absently, “McCormack & McCormack, right here when you’ve been wronged.”
“Unlikely, Mr. McCormack," she barked in the hoarse, clipped tone of the Balboa County prosecutor. A crack, sounding gratifyingly like a chair coming down off two legs onto four, echoed through the phone. “Asleep at the bar again, I see,” she added, going for world-weary. Mac snorted, glancing up with a grin before returning to scroll through the membership list at the pool. Wallace tapped the screen to make her pause and scribbled something indecipherable on the pad. At least they’re not bored. She was still leery about dragging them into this, her – whatever- with Logan, but it had to be better than Ghostbusters again.
Focus. Cliff had cleared his throat and spoke rapidly, “I assure you, Ms. Delaney, I am entirely..." he trailed off, "Veronica?”
Definitely rusty. “What gave me away?”
Cliff sighed. “However persistently she haunts my nightmares, Virginia Delaney actually just went to hell –that is, retirement in Albany – last month. Took me a minute to remember. Aren’t you a little old for prank calls?”
“Bet you were actually sleeping, though.” She was rewarded by his chuckle. Catch off guard, then amuse: she was halfway to a favor already. “I have information that might interest one of your clients, and wondered if you could put me in touch.”
There was a long pause. “I would usually say, my clients are your clients, V. But I got the impression you didn’t have clients anymore, given the near-death experience.
“Isolated incident. And this isn’t a case, just a…wacky teen hijink. Can you have a single hijink?” An irritated hum came through the speaker. She hurried on,“anyway, the odds are good that Ms. Cancun won’t want to lock me in a freezer.” She heard Cliff suck in a breath just as Wallace gave her a ferocious scowl. “What? Joking is coping,” Veronica muttered. He just shook his head.
Cliff’s yelp drew her attention back to the phone – he must have processed the other part of that sentence. “You want to talk to Loretta?”
“On a first-name basis, huh?” she said. “Baseball bats can really bring people together.”
“Ms. Cancun and I are…”
“Spare me the details, Cliffy,” she said, grinning in triumph. He was in full scramble now. “I heard someone was planning a...prank, on one of her mom’s projects. I thought she might like to know, and also, possibly, help prevent that prank from happening. Discreetly.”
“Her mom – look, V, Loretta Cancun and ‘discreetly’ don’t belong in the same sentence. And if her mother’s involved, she’s likely to be indiscreet to somebody’s kneecaps. You sure we can’t do this the old-fashioned ‘do Lamb’s job and leave him with the paperwork’ way?”
“No cops, Cliff, please,” she bit out, her pleasure in the banter fleeing at the thought of Logan arrested again. She hated this protectiveness, the guilt, hated that she had to choose. That’s why you’re outsmarting him, she reminded herself, to make your own set of choices.
“Wacky teen hijinks, huh?” Cliff’s voice sounded sympathetic. “Look, I’ll invite Loretta to coffee, at the office. You bring a half-dozen of those Java éclairs, and you might be able to make your case before she just takes a hit out on your prankster. But I’m not making any promises. I’ll text you a time.”
“You’re the best, Cliffy, bye!” she sang out, punched the end button before he could ask any more uncomfortable questions.
Step one complete. Next steps, possible outcomes, contingencies were running on a loop in her brain. She was teetering between rage and worry for Logan; between guilt for not going to the cops and triumph at the thought of one-upping Lamb, again. She had a dozen other things to orchestrate before they had a shot of pulling this off, and she ran the risk of humiliating herself in front of friends and strangers if they failed.
It felt great.
Maybe she shouldn’t have blown off that therapist. She looked up, caught Wallace’s understanding gaze.
“Sounds like we’re back on Mars,” he said softly.
“A normal summer might have been ambitious,” she admitted.
He slung an arm around her shoulders. “I didn’t want to say anything, but personally? I thought you were aiming low.”
She leaned gratefully into him for a second, but when her phone beeped again she dove for it, glad to be distracted before things got too sappy. Meg had texted her back, finally, but not with an answer about helping. Can you call me?
She wiggled up from under her laptop and held it out to Wallace, who made a greedy gimme gesture. “Don’t get too deep in Tetris, Fennel, I’ll be right back after I talk to Meg.”
“Me? Pure research, Mars. Laserlike focus.”
Veronica wandered into the living room and hit redial, tamping down nerves. Meg was probably just tired of texting. Her ruthless grammatical accuracy on a T-9 keyboard would wear anybody out.
“Veronica?” Meg’s shaky tone over the receiver chased away the optimism. “I’m sorry to…do you think you could give me a ride?”
“Where are you?” The LeBaron was in the shop, again, its last major collision having rendered it even less reliable. But Mac would probably lend her the Beetle.
Meg pulled in an audible breath, then said more evenly, "Planned Parenthood, actually." Before Veronica was finished reminding herself not to jump to conclusions, she added, "Duncan drove me, but he - he had to leave."
Instant, protective outrage bubbled up in Veronica. "He left you there."
"Well." Was that amusement, somewhere deep under the distress in Meg's voice? "I'm locked in a bathroom behind the security barrier to protect me from half the deacons at First Protestant, so it's a little hard to tell. But," there was a crinkle of paper, then she really did laugh, if bitterly, and said, "I'm pretty sure he's been arrested for assaulting my father."
Jesus. Veronica closed her eyes, leaned back into the room to say, “Mac, can you run a check on the municipal water system, too?”
“For…?”
“Testosterone poisoning. Duncan attacked Stuart Manning.”
Mac and Wallace exchanged glances. “Don’t look at me,” Wallace said, holding up his Gatorade bottle. “Tap water is for chumps.”
His words pulled a reluctant grin out of her, but Veronica’s stomach was churning. She had worn bruises on her collarbone for a week after the last time –she hoped it had been the last time- Duncan had lost it. Had she really gotten that through to Meg, in her uneasy recounting of that day? Was he just white-knighting it, now, or were his episodes returning even after Lillie’s murder was resolved? Would his fucked up notions of protection only put Meg more at risk? Was he just telling himself that he was doing it for her, while indulging some need –okay, she wasn’t thinking about Duncan anymore.
It took true selfishness to be worrying over her own love life while her friend hid out in a paper gown. Veronica shook herself and spoke into the receiver. “Hold on, Meg. We’re coming.”