TWO

The law offices of Fraser Alston Rutledge III and his partner, Eli Radcliffe, sat a few doors down from East Bay on Broad Street. The building dated back to 1856—a two-story, rusty-pink stucco affair with large palladium windows. A carved globe, scroll, and book in the parapet testified to its original purpose—a bookstore. I could smell history as we walked through the door.

Mercedes Westbrook, Fraser’s assistant, greeted us. Cool, thin, and elegant, Mercedes could’ve done well for herself as a runway model. She escorted us to Fraser’s cypress-paneled office on the second floor. He and Eli stood as we walked in. Fraser wore a pale blue seersucker suit with a navy bow tie. Cut short on the sides, his brown hair stood straight up on end across the top of his head. It wasn’t unattractive—it just wasn’t a style commonly worn by the gentlemen who ran in his social circle. In a tailored, charcoal grey suit, pale grey shirt, and slate grey tie, Eli Radcliffe might have stepped off the cover of GQ. He was tall and solid, with skin the color of milk chocolate truffles. Both men’s families had been in Charleston since long before the building we occupied.

“Miz Talbot. Mr. Andrews.” Fraser extended a hand. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. You remember my partner, Eli Radcliffe.”

We all said hello, shook hands, and settled into the same chairs we’d occupied back in May, the first time we’d done investigative work for the firm. Colleen perched in the same spot on the corner of Fraser’s desk. She’d changed into a pink flowered sundress for the occasion. Mischief danced in her eyes.

“What can we help you with?” asked Nate.

“I assume you all have heard the news of Phillip Drayton’s untimely death,” said Fraser.

I cut my eyes at Colleen. This could not be a coincidence. “Yes,” I said.

“No.” Nate spoke at the same time, glanced my way.

Colleen smirked. I purely hated it when she smirked.

“Hit and run,” said Fraser. “Happened late Thursday night, right at the end of his driveway over on Lenwood.”

“Charleston PD is still investigating, I believe,” I said.

“That is what I am told, Miz Talbot.” Fraser savored every honeyed word that passed his lips so much that he rarely used a contraction. The cadence of his voice brought to mind a tent revival preacher.

We waited for him to continue.

Eli said, “We have a client who would like to offer the authorities assistance by way of additional manpower. This client has authorized us to hire an independent investigative team.”

“Naturally, we immediately thought of the two of you.” Fraser looked at Nate as he spoke. Then his gold, brown-flecked eyes settled on me.

“We appreciate your confidence,” said Nate. “But what makes your client think the police need assistance with this case?”

“I am afraid that information is confidential,” said Eli.

Fraser cast Eli a quelling glance. “Why, our law enforcement officers are perennially understaffed and stretched thin, are they not? This is merely a precaution.”

“Is there a reason your client didn’t come to us himself—or herself?” I asked. “I understand asking for a recommendation, but why not hire us directly?”

“Because this client wishes to remain anonymous,” said Eli.

I shook my head.

“I’m sorry,” Nate said. “We can’t help you.”

“What you mean,” said Fraser, “is that you do not want to help us.”

Nate spread his arms, palms up. “I mean that’s not the way we do business.”

“We don’t work for anonymous clients,” I said.

“Oh, no, no,” said Fraser. “I am afraid you misapprehend the situation. Eli and I would be your clients. Just like on the Gerhardt case.”

“Any party who has an interest in this case very likely has information regarding this case,” I said. “The first thing we do is talk with everyone involved. Not knowing who wants Phillip Drayton’s death investigated—or why—would tie our hands.”

“Now, Miz Talbot, I assure you that is not the case,” said Fraser. “Our client merely has a soft spot for a young woman who has become entangled in the police department’s investigation. A young woman who our client is convinced is innocent of any involvement in Phillip Drayton’s death.”

“Poppy Oliver. Of course.” I raised an eyebrow at Colleen, which naturally, Fraser completely misinterpreted.

“Told you so.” Colleen’s voice had a sing-song quality.

Nate and Fraser both stared at me, Nate with confusion, Fraser suspicion.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” said Eli. “Our client insists that Miss Oliver was merely the unlucky soul who happened upon the scene of a hit and run moments after it happened, in the midst of torrential rain.”

“And she tried to help him,” said Colleen. “No good deed goes unpunished in this world, that’s for sure.”

“How could your client know that unless he or she witnessed the incident?” I asked.

“Because our client has known Miss Oliver for a number of years, and can vouch for her moral rectitude,” said Fraser.

“Sadly, good character doesn’t come with a forcefield against accidents,” I said.

“That’s true,” said Eli, “but honorable people tell the truth about what happened. Our client is certain Miss Oliver is telling the truth.”

Nate said, “Just so I understand the facts, Miss Oliver was on the scene when the police arrived? But claims she didn’t hit Phillip Drayton?”

“Correct,” said Fraser.

“Was her car damaged?” I asked. Sonny had said that he hadn’t tied her car to the accident yet.

Eli said, “Miss Oliver drives an older car, which does have a dent on the front end, but that dent has been there since she purchased the car. As I understand it, the unusual amount of rain in combination with a King Tide, which led to street flooding, has complicated the forensic investigation. Miss Oliver maintains that she happened upon Mr. Drayton lying in the street.”

“The detective assigned to the case seems disinclined to believe her,” said Fraser.

“It’s Sonny’s case,” I said to Nate.

Nate lifted his chin, nodded slightly. “Sonny Ravenel is a solid detective, and a friend. That’s one more reason this is a bad idea.”

Colleen went to glowing. “Even the best detectives get it wrong sometimes. Poppy needs our help. Sonny too.”

Nate closed his eyes, muttered under his breath.

Fraser looked at Nate. “If that is how you feel about it, I suppose I will have to call someone else.” He stood.

“That won’t be necessary.” I kept my voice neutral. “Nate…”

“Fine.” Nate shook his head. “Fine.”

“We’ll look into it,” I said.

Fraser looked from me to Nate, then back, unexpressed commentary in his eyes. “Very well then.” He raised his voice. “Mercedes.”

Mercedes opened the door and glided into the room. She placed some documents in front of Fraser.

“Thank you, darlin’.” He nodded, smiled up at her.

Mercedes turned and glided towards the door.

Fraser’s smile widened, eyes all aglow. He watched her until the door closed behind her, shaking his head slowly. “Umm, umm, umm. I am telling you.”

I heaved a sigh and glanced at the ceiling.

“Not a thing wrong with appreciating the Good Lord’s fine craftsmanship, Miz Talbot,” said Fraser. “Even my wife tolerates me looking, just as long as I don’t touch.”

As he flipped through the papers, initialing and signing, he said, “This is a contract for your services, at your standard rate plus twenty percent, plus any expenses. It is an open-ended agreement—not for this case alone.”

“Hold on now,” said Nate.

“We’ve already discussed this,” I said. “Nate and I—”

“Do not wish to join our staff as in-house investigators. You have made that abundantly clear,” said Fraser. “This is not an employment contract. It merely stipulates terms for occasional freelance work, not limited to this case. It allows us to work together on another matter next month, or the month after, without having to execute yet another contract. All of the terms of our initial agreement—terms you set—are incorporated. I trust that is acceptable? There are two originals here.” He handed Nate the documents.

Nate passed one copy to me. We both read every word before signing. Nate gave one copy back to Fraser.

“Miss Oliver lives over on Wentworth,” said Fraser, “in a studio apartment above Mrs. Aida Butler’s garage. Here is the address and Miss Oliver’s cell phone number.” He handed me an index card. “We do have one further piece of information regarding this case, which you are likely not aware of.”

Nate, Colleen, and I all stared at him expectantly.

“Eli?” said Fraser.

Eli said, “There were two calls to 911 regarding the accident resulting in Phillip Drayton’s death. One from the victim’s phone and one from a burner phone.”

I felt my face squinch.

“A burner phone?” said Nate.

Generally speaking, folks who used disposable cell phones had a greater need of privacy than the average citizen. Typically, they were involved in something they needed to hide, sometimes from their spouses, sometimes from law enforcement.

“Poppy Oliver called from the victim’s phone?” I asked.

“I am afraid you’ll have to ask her that question,” said Eli.

“Wait just a minute,” I said. “There are only three ways your client could know that two calls were made to 911—about the burner phone. Either your client was a witness to the incident, an accessory after the fact, or he or she is a member of local law enforcement. And I don’t think the latter is likely. Gentlemen, if your client is a witness or an accessory, they need to talk to the police. We can’t cover up the fact that there is a witness.”

“Now, Miz Talbot, pray do not distress yourself. Eli never said that our client gave us that particular piece of information. Naturally, Eli and I have connections within the Charleston Police Department. We have made preliminary inquiries.”

I glanced at Eli, recalled how he and Sonny were good friends. Maybe that’s how it happened.

“What are we supposed to tell Poppy Oliver?” asked Nate. “Is she to know why we’re investigating this case?”

“She is not,” said Fraser. “You are not to tell her that you were hired on her behalf, nor anything about our agreement, nor even that our firm is involved at all. You should tell her only that you have a client who has retained you to look into the matter and, as is your custom, that client is confidential.”

“We tell Sonny the whole truth,” I said. This was not negotiable.

“I’ve already told him,” said Eli. “We spoke on the phone about an hour ago. I can’t say he’s enthusiastic about having help on the case. He became less forthcoming after I shared that information. However, he does understand that you don’t know who our client is and that we are, obviously, bound by privilege. I don’t think he’ll expect you to divulge our client’s identity.”

That would be helpful. Otherwise, it would be like Sonny to clam up until we told him the client’s name. He would have the same reaction I’d had—the client knows something. Eli had done us a favor.

“Well, let’s get to it then.” Colleen disappeared in a multi-colored spray of sparks.