Fifty-One

“It’s a fee until it’s paid. Then it’s our money in the bank,” Marcy Thornton said. “The estate could try to get it back to cover debts. Since I’m Cody’s executor, that’s not going to happen.” She winked and pushed an envelope across her desk to Lily Montclaire. “A hazard bonus, the balance of the expense retainer. For having to stay at that scary ranch all by your lonesome. Cody would have approved, but I don’t care if he wouldn’t.”

Montclaire opened the flap on a wad of hundred dollar bills.

“I think I’ll go to Paris. Can I have a week?” She riffed the bills, remembering posing at the tip of the island that held Notre Dame, modeling black-on-black suits coming into fashion then. Before color was rediscovered. Before lines at the corners of her eyes ended her career.

“Take two. Take three. No need to build up Walter as a decoy anymore. The feds won’t worry about him if I don’t make them. And since my client has no further need of my services … ” Thornton winked again. Montclaire hoped that wasn’t becoming a habit. “I’ll take some time myself.”

“What about Fager’s state charges?”

“The stalking charge died with Cody. I could insist Walt be prosecuted for assaulting me. But, no. You don’t get paid for time spent playing the victim, wasting hours waiting to testify. I’ll settle for getting him disbarred. He is competition, after all.”

“So Fager’s running for no reason?”

“Is he running? Maybe he’s just gone. Like when he disappeared after the Army.”

Thornton leaned back in her big chair. She kicked off her shoes and rested her feet on her desk.

“We should celebrate.”

“Celebrate Cody’s murder?”

“Celebrate that I still haven’t lost a case at trial.”

“Maybe I’ll go to Helsinki. Great party scene. What else can you do but get drunk and screw when it’s always dark?”

“I’d go to a warm, sunny beach.”

“Too much sand. You get to hate sand doing three-day shoots on the beach, getting rubbed down with oil then rolling around so it sticks on your skin, or leaning back on your elbows, legs open out to sea, waves washing sand up every crack. A week later you’re still finding it.”

“Something just occurred to me.” Thornton sat up straight, energized. “Would you hold off on your vacation? I think I see how Geronimo’s estate can sue. Goff’s got no money, just a lousy cop pension. But I have the feeling he was working behind the scenes with Aragon. You run that down. We allege he was acting as an agent of the Santa Fe PD and reach those deep pockets. She was negligent. She knew his history as a rogue cop.”

“He used Fager’s gun.”

“We sue him, too. And Bronkowski, acting as his employee, respondeat superior, trying to dispose of the gun that killed Cody. Bronk crashed before he could finish the job. He won’t be available to testify otherwise. Goff will take the Fifth. We draw every inference we want from his silence. This is a civil suit, no prohibition against adverse comment on a defendant’s refusal to testify. And who’s going to believe Walter didn’t want Geronimo dead? He stays gone, he defaults and we execute on his property. You could have his office. We’ll hire assistants to handle the drudge work, the subpoenas, research. You concentrate on what turns cases around. You’re becoming very good at getting rid of big problems.”

Thornton’s mind was turning fast. Montclaire saw the excitement in her tight little body. “As executor of Cody’s estate, fifty percent plus costs sounds fair for this hardworking, brilliant lawyer. After the litigation, the estate will be paying me to manage settlement funds. The gift named Cody Geronimo lives on.”

Montclaire sighed. “Before we got distracted by Cody’s drama, we were having a bitching time with a cute boy with a sunburst tattoo around his sexy outie.”

“It was an innie.”

“You can’t bite an innie.”

“Anthony.”

“It was Andrew. My compensation for hanging around is we pick up where we left off. No interruptions. We party like we’re twenty and perfect again.”

“This is the party.” Thornton threw open her arms. “Aren’t we having fun?”