Killer Heels Read Free Page A

They don’t come up very often in my kind of law.” Cassady isn’t a criminal lawyer, though I’ve always thought she’d be great at it. Besides the fact that she looks awesome in those Ally McBeal suits. Instead, she’s counsel for the Coalition for Creative Expression and Enterprise, also known as C 2 E 2 . They’re this wonderful, funky public-interest group that’s into all sorts of issues where creative expression and business crash into each other—stuff like Internet privacy and intellectual copyrights. They try to get the two sides to work together to find mutually beneficial solutions, but sometimes Cassady has to take people to court to get their attention. “Why?” she asked suspiciously.
    “Because I would think you’d find it fascinating.”
    “I do.”
    “No, you’re bored.”
    “What makes you say that?”
    “Because you have one cop’s phone number in your pocket and you’re already salivating on another one.”
    “You’re projecting. You’re a little more emotionally involved here than I am, but that’s a function of circumstance and nothing I need to be punished for.” All of which I would have taken more to heart if she’d said any of it looking at me, instead of staring at Detective Edwards the whole time.
    But I had to admit—to myself, not to her—that I was having a harder time with this than she was. I realized that it was mainly because I knew Teddy and she didn’t, but there was a little professional angst going on, too. As wholly inappropriate as it might have been, part of my brain was whining because I was in the middle of what could have been a great story if I were working for the New York Times and not Zeitgeist . Not that I don’t love my job at the magazine, but it’s not exactly where I intended to wind up.
    See, I’m a news junkie. Blame my parents. My father couldn’t eat dinner without Walter Cronkite intoning in the background because it was every American’s responsibility to stay informed. My mother put my playpen in front of the Watergate hearings because she thought it would be stimulating for me. I guess it was, but I also get this really weird, tingly feeling whenever I see a man with big, bushy eyebrows. I haven’t brought that up in therapy. Yet.
    Anyway, you can see why I thought the whole news gig would be pretty cool. But I realized it wasn’t all style, it was substance, too. So I did the well-rounded liberal arts deal, then marched out into the world of journalism to seek my slot. I was going to offer insightful commentary on the events that shape our world, enlighten the populace, and make the world a better place. And I sort of do. But not as much as I’d like to.
    “You’re the advice columnist?” The detectives had returned from their inspection of Teddy and were questioning Cassady and me. Detective Lipscomb said it in a completely non-judgmental way, but it still stung a little. Especially since I was sitting next to my drop-dead gorgeous public-interest lawyer best friend. Put me in bunny slippers and a quilted bathrobe: I’m the advice columnist. It’s not a field that the Pulitzer Committee is paying a whole lot of attention to. This year. But I don’t plan to be doing this until I drop in my tracks, God bless the dear departed Ann Landers. I’m barely over thirty (no need for specific numbers) and I’m always looking for the opportunity that’s going to take me closer to real news.
    And this is actually a sweet setup: I do a lot of my work at home, so I get paid to sit in my pajamas and tell people how they’re screwing up their lives and what I would do were I in their situation, which I am so eternally glad I am not. I enjoy it most of the time, though some of the letters make me fear for the future of the human race. I mean, my God. Write to me about delicate shadings of ethics and etiquette, but think for yourself occasionally! How can you focus long enough to type Dear Molly, I’ve been sleeping with my