“To what do I owe this pleasure, Thomas?”
“Can we suspend the sarcasm for now?” said Merchant. “I called Pamela Martinelli the attorney, not my bitchy sister-in-law.”
Pamela’s verbal claws did not retract one bit. “Both Pamelas are bitchy. What’s going on?”
“A detective came to see me yesterday.”
“What detective?”
Merchant reached for the card on his desk. “Codella. Claire Codella, NYPD. Have you heard of her?”
“I only deal with the feds.”
“Well, she camped out in my office and refused to leave until I spoke to her.”
“About what?”
“Lucy’s death. She seems to think it wasn’t natural. She wouldn’t tell me why, but I know this is Julia’s handiwork, goddamn her.”
“What did this detective want from you?”
“She wanted me to request an autopsy.”
“And what did you do?”
“I signed her form and made a call. What the hell else could I do? I’d look guilty if I didn’t. I’ve got enough public relations problems right now. Jesus!”
“Well, if I were your lawyer—which I’m not, and I don’t intend to be ever again—I would advise you not to speak to anyone else or sign any more papers without legal representation.”
“No shit! But I don’t want to use a BNA lawyer for this, and I don’t want anyone else involved in my personal affairs. I want you.”
Merchant heard the smirk in Pamela’s voice as she said, “You want me to provide cover for you, is that it? Lucy Merchant’s sister gets behind her beleaguered brother-in-law, the grieving widower who makes four hundred times more than his janitor?”
“Don’t worry. I’m not expecting you to do it pro bono.”
“I don’t handle murder cases, Thomas,” she told him in a snotty tone that betrayed her enjoyment of his predicament. “I limit my work to unethical financial thieves. Who knew you were both.”
“I’ll take that to mean you’re officially my counsel should I need it?”
“I’ll think about it,” she said. “In the meantime, don’t say another word to anyone. Don’t even utter a syllable in front of the police.”