James Mattly’s law office was in a seedy part of town on the second floor of a rundown-looking two-story wooden building. The parking spaces were right off the two-lane street, facing the curb. All of them were empty except one, which Trent guessed belonged to Mattly. The car was a Mercedes, but the name was the only thing prestigious about it. It had to be at least fifteen years old. The silver paint was flaking off. And the rear bumper had dents all over it, likely from cars driving down the narrow street and clipping it.
Trent debated the wisdom of parking his SUV there, but he didn’t have a choice unless he wanted to walk several blocks. That would be too far to give Skylar and him a quick escape if things went bad. Her heels would slow her down and put her at risk for a fall if she had to run that far.
He chose the spot on the far side of the beat-up Mercedes, hoping it would shield his vehicle from any bumper mishaps.
Beside him, Skylar opened the glove box and pulled out her pistol.
Trent swore and grabbed it. “What are you doing with that? How did you even sneak it in here without me noticing?”
She rolled her eyes. “It wasn’t that difficult. And I’m checking the magazine to make sure you didn’t switch it out again. I don’t want to get in a gunfight with no ammunition.”
He leaned past her and shoved her pistol in the glove box, then locked it. “I have no intention of getting into a gunfight.”
“That’s the thing about gunfights. They’re never planned. Do you have your gun?”
“Of course. I told you. I’m always carrying.”
“Then why can’t I have mine? I can probably shoot better than you.”
“Without a doubt. I’ve seen you shoot. But you don’t have a concealed carry permit. If, God forbid, things go crooked, I don’t want the police locking you up for having a gun illegally.”
“You don’t have a permit either, not under your alias, Mr. Adams.”
“I do, actually. That’s one of the things Brice created for me, along with my ID.”
“That’s not fair. He should have given me one.”
“Next time people are trying to kill you and we need fake IDs, I’ll be sure to get you a gun permit.”
“Now you’re making fun of me.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” he teased. “As for me being Mr. Adams, not for this meeting. Our names are Mr. and Mrs. Palmer. Don’t volunteer anything about yourself. If he asks you a question, I’ll answer.”
“Why aren’t we using the aliases that Brice made for us?”
“Because if Mattly’s one of the bad guys, I don’t want him figuring out there’s a rental on the outskirts of town under the names of Mr. and Mrs. Adams.”
“How would he figure that out?”
“The same way the bad guy kept figuring out where you were. He’d use his contacts to look for an electronic trail. In this case, we have the lease, including a deposit made via the Adams alias. Using an alias for the rental kept our real names secret. Having the ID and paperwork to match is just in case questions come up about the rental and whether we’re the legitimate renters. At the hospice center, we needed ID to sign in. No getting around it, so we used the Adams alias there too. But the security company we hired vetted the staff, confirming no one worked there who had when it was under different management five years ago.”
“Got it. In this case, with the lawyer, we don’t know enough about him to feel safe risking a connection to our electronic trail under Adams. Thus, we’re now the Palmers. Makes sense.” She held out her hand. “May I see your concealed carry permit under the Palmer alias?”
He gave her an aggravated look. “This is fun for you, isn’t it?”
She grinned. “It kind of is, actually.”
“You do realize this is deadly serious, right? If Mattly is the one who killed Capone, he could be in cahoots with whoever’s mixed up in all of this.”
“Cahoots? Do people actually use that word in this century?”
He clenched his jaw. It was either that or start yelling. Or kiss her. And where had that thought come from? Of all the times for him to need to stay focused, this was it. After a few deep breaths, he popped the door open and got out.
An only slightly apologetic-looking Skylar accompanied him inside the building. On the second floor landing, he paused outside the door to Mattly Law Offices and looked back at her.
“We’re Mr. and Mrs. Palmer,” he reminded her, keeping his voice low. “Stay close to me and don’t get near him. I mean it, Skylar. I don’t want something bad to happen to you. I already regret letting you talk me into this.”
She nodded gravely. “Thank you for caring about me. I’ll be good. Scout’s honor.”
“You were a Girl Scout?”
“Heck no.”
He laughed. He couldn’t help it.
She put her hand on his to stop him from opening the door. “I am taking this seriously in spite of how it might seem. I’m just not ‘doom and gloom’ right now, which is nice for a change. It feels as if a weight’s been lifted off my shoulders because I feel somewhat in control of my own destiny again. I deeply appreciate you giving me a chance to fight for myself instead of making me hide at the house.”
He sighed and nodded. “I understand.”
Then, as if he hadn’t just given himself a silent lecture about being focused, he kissed her. It was a quick kiss, barely even qualified as one. And he regretted it as soon as he did it. All it had done was make him long to kiss her again, really kiss her, and run his hands across her—He cleared his throat, straightening while mentally berating himself for being so weak. Then he noticed how rattled she looked and couldn’t help grinning. Maybe he should kiss her more often, if only to distract her. The problem was that it distracted him too.
Focus, Trent. Be professional.
Gently pushing her behind him, he opened the door and led the way inside.
A grizzled-looking older man in a rumpled gray suit looked up from his desk. It was piled so high with stacks of folders and papers that he had to look around one to see them. More stacks were in two-foot-high rows along every wall. A couple of scarred wooden chairs sat in front of the desk facing a tattered love seat.
He smiled in greeting. “Mr. and Mrs. Palmer?”
Trent nodded and strode forward, holding out his hand. “Mr. Mattly, thanks for seeing us on short notice.”
They shook hands and Mattly waved them toward the love seat. “Sorry about all the paperwork lying around.” He sat across from them on one of the wooden chairs. “I’d say it’s filing day as an excuse for the mess, but I’d be lying. I ran out of storage space years ago.” He shrugged. “You make do with what you have. Now, how can I help? You said on the phone it was urgent.” He smiled and nodded at Skylar.
Trent leaned forward, purposely drawing the lawyer’s attention away from her. “I’ll get right to the point. An acquaintance of ours was a friend of Martha Lancaster’s. As I’m sure you know, Martha passed away several years ago. She was a client of your partner’s, Albert Capone. There have been some complications for our friend since Martha’s death that we believe may be linked to whatever Mr. Capone was doing on Martha’s behalf.”
Mattly held up his hand to stop him. “Mr. Palmer, Mrs. Palmer, you have my sympathies about whatever these complications may be. But I’m confused as to why you’re telling me this.”
“Since Martha was your firm’s client, I wanted to ask you some questions about the work done for her. It might help me figure out why someone is harassing our friend.”
“I’m truly sorry that someone is bothering her. But the police are the proper authorities to speak to about that, not me. I’m not sure who led you to believe that I could offer any information about Mrs. Lancaster. But I assure you, there is absolutely no connection between her and this firm. She has never been a client of mine, not that I would share information if she were. It would be unethical. I truly can’t help you.”
Trent studied Mattly’s expression, his mannerisms. For the most part, he didn’t seem to be paying much attention to Skylar. And he didn’t seem to have recognized her, which was encouraging. The vibe he was putting out was that of an honest, struggling lawyer, not a criminal mastermind or a hitman.
“Mr. Mattly, that’s semantics. Saying Martha was never your client isn’t the same as saying she wasn’t a client of the firm, courtesy of your partner. We already know she was Mr. Capone’s client. And since your partner passed away, you should now have possession of his files. That’s why we came to you.”
Mattly crossed his arms.
Trent tried again. “He drew up her will. You have to be aware of that, at least.”
Mattly continued to give him the silent treatment.
“I just want to know whether he did anything else on her behalf that could help explain why someone is bothering our friend. It all began shortly after Mrs. Lancaster’s death, close to the time that Mr. Capone was killed. It’s in both of our interests to look into your file on Mrs. Lancaster. It could hold clues about our friend and who killed your partner.”
His face turned a mottled red. “This is all highly inappropriate. Unless you’re a police officer, with a warrant, I’m certainly not showing you anything.”
“I’m interpreting that as meaning you do have the file I’m interested in. You’re just not inclined to let me look at it, in spite of what I just said. Why not? It won’t hurt anyone and it has the potential to help a great deal, including perhaps solving your partner’s murder.”
“You need to leave, Mr. Palmer.” Mattly headed back to his desk. “If my partner worked with Mrs. Lancaster, and I’m not saying he did, attorney-client privilege prevents me from disclosing that.”
Trent stood to see him over the stacks of folders and papers. “Both the client and her attorney have passed away. Attorney-client privilege no longer applies.”
“So you’re a lawyer now, in addition to being a, what, private investigator? Please don’t lie and say you’re not. It’s rather obvious.” He motioned toward the door. “Again, I’d appreciate it if you would get out of my office.”
“You’re right.” Skylar stood and approached the desk.
Trent grabbed her arm and anchored her to his side. “Honey, what are you doing?”
She ignored him and kept her gaze locked on the lawyer. “My husband is an investigator, that’s true. But his goal is to save my life, not this nonexistent friend he referred to. We’re here because Martha was a dear friend of mine and we know that she wouldn’t have wanted any harm to come to me because of her bequeathing me some money. And I know that Mr. Capone drew up her will because I met with him. He came to the hospice center to speak to both Martha and me.”
Trent swore. “We’re leaving.” He tugged her toward the door in spite of her trying to pull her arm free.
“Wait,” Mattly called out. “Please.”
As they approached the door, Trent looked back to see Mattly hurrying toward them. Trent turned to face him as he pushed Skylar behind him, then flipped back his suit jacket, revealing his holster.
“Don’t come any closer, Mr. Mattly.”
Mattly stopped and held his hands up, his eyes widening. “Good grief. You really are concerned about your wife’s safety, aren’t you?”
“We didn’t come here for fun, that’s for sure.”
Mattly let out a shaky breath and slowly lowered his hands. “Okay, okay. Yes, it’s true that Albert drew up a will for Mrs. Lancaster. I don’t know the details. I didn’t assist him with it and had no reason to read it. Any files he had on her I immediately destroyed after his death.”
“You expect me to believe that?” Trent motioned toward the stacks of paperwork all over the office. “You probably still have the files from your very first client in here.”
Mattly grimaced. “You wouldn’t be wrong. My wife won’t even come here because the mess drives her to distraction. But in this case, I swear I didn’t hold on to the file. I destroyed it, just like I told you. I wanted nothing to do with it.”
“Did you go through the files from his other clients to see if what he was working on for them could have led to his murder?”
“Of course I did.”
“But not the Lancaster file.”
“No. Absolutely not.” He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I honestly, swear to God, do not know what was in it. I didn’t want to know, even if it would have solved Albert’s murder. Some things are better left alone. I’m not talking out of school to say what everyone who’s ever met Martha’s sons knows. They aren’t the kind of men you want to cross. I warned Albert not to take Martha on as a client. But he didn’t listen.”
“You believe that one or both of her sons killed your partner.”
He glanced toward the windows as if fearful that someone outside could hear him in his second-floor office. “I didn’t say that.”
Obviously, Mattly was too intimidated by the Lancasters to talk. There wasn’t any point in pushing him anymore.
“I guess we’re at an impasse. We’ll go. Thank you for your time.”
“Mr. Palmer?”
Trent arched a brow in question.
“Whatever you’re really after, I beg you to remember that my partner got on the wrong side of the Lancaster brothers. Now he’s dead. Be careful. Be very, very careful.” He started to close the door, but Trent pushed his hand against it, stopping him.
“What exactly did your partner do to get on their wrong side?”
“I would think that’s obvious. They didn’t want him to file the will.” His eyes took on a faraway look. “Albert was a good man. Ethical. Stubborn. He didn’t take kindly to threats. And he felt strongly that Mrs. Lancaster should get to determine how the courts divided up her estate regardless of her son’s wishes. He ignored their warnings and filed the will. A few hours later, he was dead.”