It was 12:30 p.m. by the time the courtroom cleared, and Holt handed Judge Lomax an order revoking bond for a defendant who hadn’t appeared in court.
“I’m sorry we cut into your lunchtime,” Holt said as the judge returned the signed order to him. “I know this is your day for the Coosawattee Club.”
“As long as I’m counted present I won’t get into trouble,” the judge replied, standing up and stretching. “It’s not your fault that the wheels of justice were gritty this morning. You did a good job keeping things on track.”
“Thank you.”
“You should think about joining Coosawattee,” the judge continued. “I’d be glad to sponsor you.”
Holt hesitated. Since coming to town he’d kept a low profile. Ralph Granger was a member of the Citizens Club and had been trying to get Holt to join for over a year. The local bar association was split equally between the two groups.
“I appreciate the invitation,” Holt answered slowly.
“That’s an offer, not an order,” the judge said with a smile. “I know Ralph has been hitting you up for Citizens. Both organizations are about service and networking.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I won’t bring it up again, but let me know if you’re interested.”
The judge left the courtroom. Holt turned off his laptop and returned the now-jumbled files to the two catalog cases.
Commitment to groups hadn’t been a high priority for Holt since high school. He attended rush week in college but turned down pledge offers from three fraternities. He’d lost his taste for hard partying and limited himself to an occasional beer or glass of wine. When he did drink, he never drove. And he always buckled his seat belt.
Returning to the office, Holt saw the Meredith file on his credenza and read it again. The death of such a prominent citizen hadn’t generated much paperwork. The absence of information, particularly interviews with family members or business associates, made no sense. Holt jotted down on a legal pad some of the steps that should have been taken. It didn’t take long to list almost twenty. Then he read the list, tore out the sheet of paper, wadded it up, and threw it in the trash can. Ralph Granger wouldn’t allow him to waste his time on a theoretical case. Holt stepped down the hallway to Ralph’s office to return the file, but the DA’s door was shut. Since office protocol forbade knocking except in an extreme emergency, Holt returned the file to his desk before leaving for lunch.
Stopping by a local restaurant with a great salad bar, Holt fixed one for himself and another to take to Angelina. He added smoked turkey for protein.
“Hey, Holton,” Brittany said when he came through the door. “What’s for lunch? Angelina is starving and in the mood for sushi.”
“She’s always in the mood for sushi. However, I believe the discovery of fire to cook meat was one of mankind’s most important advances. Why go back to eating raw fish?”
“Who said it was a man who discovered fire? Maybe it was a woman sitting in a cave waiting for her husband to return from hunting a mastodon.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it. Mastodon sushi sounds gross.”
Brittany laughed. “I’ll let Angelina know you’re here. She’s finishing up a color and should be free in a few minutes. Go on back to the kitchen.”
Holt moved past Brittany.
“And lock the door this time,” she called after him. “I had nightmares after seeing you two kissing. Isn’t there a law against forcing me to witness workplace displays of affection?”
Holt didn’t answer but smiled for the first time that day. The calendar call had been devoid of humor.
He didn’t wait for Angelina. Her appointment with the client could stretch out longer than anticipated, and she wouldn’t mind if he went ahead. Sometimes he ate at the salon even when Angelina wasn’t available. The quiet kitchen gave him a midday respite from the pressure and constant interruptions of work. The district attorney’s office was like a fire department in that the tyranny of the urgent often trumped the important. Holt had a big bite of food in his mouth when Angelina came through the door and kissed him on a bulging cheek.
“Thanks,” she said.
“You’re welcome,” he managed with his mouth slightly open.
Angelina set a bottle of water on the table beside her plate. “No onions?” she asked.
“Right,” Holt said as he swallowed the bite. “Do you think a stout whiff of onion on my breath might convince a guilty man to confess?”
Angelina smiled. “You’re persuasive with or without onions. But we can’t talk about that right now. I need to get some fuel in my tank if I’m going to make it through the afternoon.”
During the next few minutes, there was more eating than talking. Angelina wasn’t afraid of silence. She’d told him that other men found her willingness to be quiet intimidating. Holt found it refreshing.
“Can we get together for dinner tonight?” Holt asked. “I bet you’d like something raw and Japanese.”
“Sorry, I can’t,” Angelina said and shook her head. “I’m volunteering at the nursing home on Cambridge Avenue. One of the other stylists and I are giving free cuts and perms to some of the residents.”
“Wow,” Holt replied.
“Don’t be impressed with me. It was Jessica’s idea. Her grandmother lives there. It will be good PR. A reporter from the newspaper is going to be there.”
Angelina chugged the rest of her water and gave Holt a quick kiss before heading out of the kitchen.
“Having lunch with you here in the kitchen makes me feel like we’re an old married couple,” she said with a smile.
Holt, who was chewing a last bite, raised his eyebrows.
“Not that I’m hinting,” she quickly added. “And you don’t know if I’d say yes.”
As he drove back to the office, Holt thought about his mother’s not-so-subtle hints that he propose to Angelina before she got tired of waiting on him to act and moved on to someone else. He’d pointed out that Angelina wasn’t an unfulfilled woman spending ninety-five percent of her time thinking about marriage. She was a successful businesswoman who’d carved out a nice niche in life. Her decision to let Holt enter her world was made from a position of strength, not need. At least that’s what he’d argued before her comment in the salon kitchen.
Holt parked next to an unmarked government car. Inside, Trish Carmichael was talking to Belinda. The deputy sheriff stood when he entered.
“Could I talk to you for a minute?” she asked him.
“Is it about your high school classmate who treated Highway 127 like his personal drag strip?” Holt replied.
“Yes.” Trish hung her head.
They went into Holt’s office, and Trish sat down. Holt left the door open.
“I’m so sorry and wanted to tell you in person. He tricked me into helping him.” Trish paused. “No, I agreed to do it without thinking things through, and then he was totally out of line in the way he presented the situation to you. I didn’t promise him anything, only that I’d see if you would talk to him before—”
“Relax,” Holt said, holding up his hand to stop the flow of words. “That wasn’t the first time someone has tried to manipulate me and used a law enforcement connection to do it. I knew the guy wasn’t telling you the truth. He doesn’t know it because he was too cheap to hire a lawyer, but with his prior record, cutting the ticket down to fifteen miles over the speed limit will still trigger a huge insurance premium increase. My hope is that this will convince him to slow down. If it doesn’t, sooner or later he’s going to get jacked up by a judge either here or in Tennessee.”
“You’re not mad at me?”
“No. I moved on with the calendar and didn’t give it a second thought. Judge Lomax had more important matters to consider.”
“Thanks,” Trish said with obvious relief. “I’ve been worrying about it ever since I left the courthouse. I called Belinda, and she suggested I apologize to you in person.”
“Your unnecessary apology is accepted.”
Trish managed a smile. Holt glanced down at his credenza and saw the folder about Rexford Meredith’s death. Wanting to help the female deputy move on to another subject, he asked her a question.
“Do you remember when Rex Meredith died?”
“Of course. For weeks it was all anyone talked about.”
“What kind of talk?”
“Oh, everything from how much he was worth to who was going to get it. One of his ex-wives tried to swoop in, but she lost in court pretty quickly to Mr. and Mrs. Stevens.”
Holt held up the skinny folder. “What about the cause of death? Our file isn’t much more than a two-page report from the investigating detectives concluding Meredith died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the chest. Do you think there was anything else going on?”
Trish hesitated. “Well, there were rumors about a cover-up of some sort to keep the family from being embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe by the suicide or what they found inside the house. A lot of people have secrets. I was in a criminal justice class at the community college, and my professor criticized the way it was handled. I can’t remember the details, but he thought it wasn’t very professional.”
“What was the professor’s name?”
“Simpson, but he had a heart attack a couple of years ago and died.”
“Then he wouldn’t make it on the list,” Holt muttered.
“You’re reopening the investigation into Mr. Meredith’s death?” Trish’s eyes opened wider.
“No, no,” Holt corrected himself. “Just curious. I believe the owner of my house bought it from Rex Meredith.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. Mr. Meredith owned a bunch of rental houses in your neighborhood.”
“You know where I live?”
“Yeah. Over on Montgomery Street. Brick ranch-style house with a fenced-in backyard.”
“Have you been stalking me?” Holt asked.
Holt watched Trish’s face turn red and immediately regretted his words. “I was joking,” he added quickly.
“I knew that,” Trish replied unconvincingly. “I worked on a case last year involving a man who lived a few doors down from your house. The deputy who went with me to make the arrest showed me where you live.”
“That makes sense.”
“We never found the defendant. I think someone tipped him off and he left town. He’s still on the run.”
“Let me know if he surfaces. I want to keep the neighborhood safe.”
Trish stood up. Holt’s embarrassment about his awkward stalking comment increased, not diminished. He racked his brain for a different topic to end their conversation as he escorted Trish to the front door.
“I appreciate all your help in court,” he said. “You have great administrative skills.”
“Thanks, that’s what every woman loves to hear.”
Holt watched Trish walk toward an unmarked police car. She moved with an easy grace. He could definitely imagine her playing basketball.
He spent the next few hours organizing his courtroom notes for Kathy Arnold, the secretary he shared with Jim, then deposited the files on the corner of the secretary’s desk. The dark-haired clerical worker was a harried single mom in her late thirties.
“Any fires in there?” she asked when she saw the files. “Don’t forget I have to leave thirty minutes early today to take my daughter to the orthodontist.”
“No, it’s routine. Most of it can wait until tomorrow.”
Holt glanced over his shoulder at the door to Ralph Granger’s office. It was still shut. “What’s Ralph up to?” he asked.
“Meeting with the finance committee for his election campaign.”
“That’s not until next year.”
“I heard him talking to Belinda earlier. He wants to raise a lot of money now and hopes it will discourage anyone else from running against him.”
Holt nodded. It wasn’t a bad strategy. “Who’s on the committee?”
Kathy rattled off the names of four men, including the owner of the town’s largest automobile dealership.
“Of course, Greg Stevens is the key,” she concluded, lowering her voice. “His wife inherited all the Meredith money from her stepfather. Stevens can stroke a check that would scare off anyone.”
“I met him last year at the United Way fund-raiser. I wonder—” Holt started, then stopped.
“What?” Kathy asked.
“Nothing,” Holt replied. “Will you let me know when Ralph finishes?”
“Sure.”
Back in his office, Holt held the Meredith folder in his hand. He couldn’t get over the look in Ralph’s eyes when he’d ordered Holt to return the file. To deviate from the DA’s specific instructions would be clearly insubordinate. Holt hesitated. Ralph Granger was undeniably paranoid, but sometimes paranoia had a basis in fact. What was Ralph afraid of? And why did he have the Meredith file in the first place?
Rich people did commit suicide, but the skimpy information in Holt’s hand spoke of a cover-up, not justice. Holt’s job, his duty as a district attorney, and, more importantly, the promise he’d made to Calico’s memory, was to do the right thing, no matter what. He removed the sheets from the file and took them to the copier. Kathy was feeding a stack of documents into the machine.
“I’ll be here for a few minutes,” she said when she saw him. “I can make your copies and bring them to you.”
“No, I’ll come back later.”
Holt waited until Kathy passed by the door of his office on her way back to her desk, then returned to the copy machine. Glancing over his shoulder, he entered the file number for the Meredith investigation into the meter that recorded all copies. He paused with his finger over the Print button, but instead of pushing Print, he canceled the Meredith file number and entered the general number used for miscellaneous copies. There could be no record of his defiance.
He watched as the sheets of paper spit out the other side of the machine.