The only vacancy in the Lee Law Firm’s parking lot was a low spot in the back corner swamped by a pool of rain. Frankie parked and grabbed her satchel, opened her car door, and looked down at green and brown walnuts bobbing in the standing water. Good thing she bought shoes off the half-price rack at discount stores. The department’s clothing allowance covered only a third of what she ruined while on the job.
She’d noticed the black wreath hanging on the firm’s front door, the reason every parking space in both lots had been taken—people stopping in to offer their condolences. She was certain the Lees would have a register at the front door for visitors to sign and a silver tray for those who wished to drop off calling cards.
Across the parking lot, she saw the office’s back entrance door that opened into a glassed-in sun porch, an obvious addition to the original house. A slender young woman, Highsmith’s assistant, stood as Frankie walked in. Her desk sat next to a doorway that opened into the main building. Piled at the far end of the porch were boxes, a sofa wrapped in protective plastic, and file cabinets.
“I’m Rachel Noel. You must be Detective Malone.” She was dressed professionally, in a navy sheath dress and a cashmere cardigan with her strawberry blond hair swept up in a French twist.
The young woman waved a dismissive hand at the makeshift office. “We’re camped here while the offices for Mr. Highsmith’s new litigation department are being remodeled.”
Frankie set down her satchel, feeling awkward dressed in soggy shoes and a polyester blend jacket. “I see. The firm is broadening their services.”
Rachel smoothed her hair. “Our clients call the Lees when their kids get in a scrape with the law or they’re being sued. You know, criminal matters. Mr. Highsmith has joined us to take care of those problems.” Her hand moved down to her cheek. “But you’re here about Caroline. How may I help you?”
“By having Mr. Highsmith call us right away. He can reach us at any of these numbers.” She handed over a card. The assistant’s lips compressed.
“Is there a problem?” Frankie asked.
“I’ve been trying to reach Mr. Highsmith. This was a scheduled leave, so it’s not a surprise he’s out of touch, just bad timing.”
“When was his last contact?”
“Monday evening. He left some instructions on voicemail.”
“Do you know where he’s gone?”
“Not really. He’s taken personal time. I’m sure he has loose ends to tie up from his move from Chicago.”
“Or he’s someplace with poor cell service,” Frankie said. Or . . . now there’s a twist. Sharma would detest the person who’d encouraged Caroline to file a protective order. What if the doctor had killed both Caroline and Highsmith?
“Have you called his home?” she asked.
Rachel looked affronted. “Of course. I reached the dog sitter. She said everything’s fine.” She pasted on a professional smile. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Mr. Highsmith mentioned recently that he was having problems with his mobile.” She moved behind her desk. “I’ll send the text with your request right away.”
Frankie wasn’t ready to let it go at that. “Did Mr. Highsmith ever speak with or meet Dr. Sharma?”
“Not that I know of.”
She thought a moment. Sharma had broken into Caroline’s house searching for a rival. It wouldn’t surprise her to learn that Sharma had been following Caroline. “Did Caroline and your boss ever go out, like for drinks or dinner?”
“I don’t believe so. They met several times to discuss Dr. Sharma’s harassment. After one meeting, Robert—I mean Mr. Highsmith—told me she was under a lot of pressure. He was doing everything he could to calm her down.”
“If you don’t reach him today, please let me know. Is the information complete in the file you sent over?”
“That’s everything.” She frowned. “You don’t think something’s happened to Mr. Highsmith, do you?”
“No. I’m sure your boss is just taking a much needed break.”
Voices of visitors in the main reception area carried down the hall. Frankie could see Rosalyn at the front door speaking with a woman using a walker.
“That’s quite a crowd,” she said.
“The Lees know everyone in town. Caroline was a favorite.”
The woman with the walker patted Rosalyn’s hand. “I don’t need to speak with Mrs. Lee, but you should let her know I’m here.”
To avoid drawing attention, Frankie took the back stairs to Caroline’s office. She didn’t want to add to the staff’s tension. There was enough emotional turmoil in the building.
She stopped at the assistant’s desk outside of Caroline’s office and identified herself. They spoke for a while, the woman answering several questions. She let Frankie into the office, a sunny space with modern furnishings and a wall of windows looking out on a garden. A bright abstract in mixed media and signed by Caroline hung over the credenza. On a table beside the sofa stood a framed photo of Caroline in cap and gown, her father beside her smiling. They had posed in front of a stone archway Frankie recognized as the entrance to the chapel at Rhodes College. Her desktop was completely clear except for a stack of hardcover titles on politics and the Supreme Court. The tidy desktop was no surprise considering the compulsive neatness Caroline had exhibited at home.
Frankie laid out her Nikon and evidence bags, snapped on gloves, and began examining the contents of the credenza and desk drawers. Nothing of interest there except a stack of thick stock envelopes addressed to clients. The assistant had mentioned Caroline’s preference for the personal touch of handwritten notes. Frankie opened them all and found nothing of interest.
Next she dug through the wastebasket and discovered an interoffice memo scrunched into a ball so tight it took effort to smooth it out.
From: R. Lee
To: C. Lee
Subject: Yancy III probate
Chester Yancy III has called to my attention your mishandling of the probate of his father’s will: late filing of a motion, unprepared for a hearing, having to request another continuance. In thirty-five years, the Yancy family has never questioned our advice or our fees. Now we’re at risk of being sued or reported to the Bar. Get your head in the game, little girl, or there will be consequences.
Harsh words from mother to daughter. Rosalyn was tough. Frankie photographed the note and bagged it, probably not something that would figure into the investigation, but Billy should see it.
She made her way around the perimeter of the room inspecting books and poking under cushions on the sofa and chairs. Her experience in Key West had taught her that important clues could hide in the strangest places.
Finally, she went to the built-in filing cabinets with six horizontal drawers and pulled on the top one, expecting to feel the weight of files as it glided forward. Instead the drawer rattled open. All the drawers were empty. She knew about Billy’s showdown with Rosalyn over the client files. Obviously, Rosalyn had removed them. They could get a warrant if the investigation went in that direction, but they would never know what else she had removed or destroyed.
She took a seat at the desk and pulled the stack of books toward her. The top three had sticky notes with Caroline’s comments scattered throughout. In the fourth book, Bob Woodward’s The Brethren: Inside the Supreme Court, she found a folded page torn from a legal pad with notes in Caroline’s handwriting. What appeared to be a draft of a letter began:
Dearest Raj,
I wish to extend a heartfelt apology for my role in our breakup. We’ve both made mistakes. I remember the days when love and admiration were the gifts we offered each other. Where do we go from here?
The next three paragraphs had corrections and entire passages marked out with notes made in the margins. Frankie photographed the page and stepped out to ask the assistant if Caroline had mailed a letter to Dr. Sharma recently. The assistant said nothing had gone out since the breakup, but that Caroline sometimes dropped personal mail by the post office for the five o’clock pickup.
Frankie went back to sit at the desk and think. Caroline had been struggling for the right words. Was this a draft for an apology letter or a confession of some kind? Most important, had she written the letter and mailed it to Sharma?
Frankie was considering the ramifications when Martin walked in the office, his slim cut Italian suit and gray silk tie an appropriate choice for the wake downstairs. He took the chair by the window and crossed one leg over the other, his hand resting on his knee. She noticed his fingers were curling into the fabric of his slacks and releasing like cat claws.
“Detective Malone, unless you have a warrant you shouldn’t be here,” he said.
His dark eyes and the way he’d combed his hair back from his sleek brow reminded her of an otter, but there was nothing playful about this man.
“You’re the one who shouldn’t be here. I’m conducting a murder investigation,” she said.
He ignored that. “You’re sitting in my sister’s chair. It’s disrespectful.”
He was taunting her.
“I’m busy, Mr. Lee. Time for you to go.”
“But I have a question first.”
“Keep it short.”
He dropped his leg and leaned forward. “Have you ever shot anyone? I mean killed them.”
Now he was trying to provoke her. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m curious. What’s it like?”
Bringing up the subject while his sister lay in the morgue meant he believed his alibi was beyond question. Or he was nuts. Or a sociopath.
Four percent of the population functions without a conscience. Some are money managers, surgeons, soldiers, and preachers. They could be your kid’s kindergarten teacher, your attorney, or the assistant manager at the AutoZone store. The smart ones will use you up, ruin your career, blow up your marriage, and steal your money. Then there’re the underachievers who have no power or money, but they enjoy generally screwing with you.
She was looking at some version of that now, sitting across the room.
Elbows on the desk, she inclined toward him. “Shooting someone. It’s like this. You draw your weapon same as you’ve done a hundred times on the range only this time it’s not a target. Your finger wraps around the trigger. You take a breath and hold it, sight your shot. Boom.”
He wet his lips. “Fascinating.”
The eagerness she saw behind his eyes forced her out of the chair. She moved in on him quickly. He rose to his feet, his hand brushing the length of his tie. She was in his face in seconds, aware of his lack of eyelashes behind those glasses.
“I’m not here to amuse you, Mr. Lee. I want to find who did this terrible thing to your sister. Someone has removed files from this office. Tampered with evidence. We’re talking jail time.”
He altered his expression, adjusted. “I see. Well, I’m sure the files have been distributed to other attorneys.” He moved to pick up a photo of Caroline from the credenza and turned it for Frankie to see. “You may have misunderstood my question. I take this investigation very seriously. My sister was everything to me.” He set the frame on the credenza. It fell facedown. He didn’t bother to stand it up.
Liar, liar pants on fire.
“I must leave you now,” he said. “We have guests.”
He glided out the door. Caroline’s assistant came in, a tissue wadded up in her palm. “Are you all right?” the woman asked.
She appeared to be unstrung. Martin would have that effect on normal people.
“I’m fine,” Frankie said. “I have a question. Who has a key to this office?”
“I do. And Mrs. Lee, of course.”