33

Nikki hadn’t been at the courthouse for more than fifteen minutes when the phone call came.

“Nikki Moreno, please.”

“This is she.”

The female voice on the other end was all business. “Are you the law clerk for Judge Oliver Finney?”

“Yes.”

“Please hold for Mr. Randolph.”

Who?

“Nikki Moreno?” This time it was a silky-smooth man’s voice.

“I think we’ve established that,” Nikki said.

“Good. I’m Preston Randolph, attorney for Victoria Kline. Did you watch the show last night?”

That was the part of the night that Nikki remembered. “Sure. Good stuff.”

“You must not have watched the same show I did. Can you hang on a second?”

Preston didn’t wait for an answer before he started talking to someone in the background. Preston Randolph? Where had she heard that name before?

“I’m back. Thanks. I normally do toxic tort class-action cases,” Randolph said. “But Dr. Kline has served a few times as an expert witness for me, so I agreed to act as her agent in matters related to this show. I forget—did you say you watched it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what they did last night was shameful. My client and Finney go sailing together, and the show’s producers make all these insinuations. Nothing against your judge, but I know Victoria well enough to know there’s nothing more to it than sailing.”

“Of course not,” Nikki said.

Randolph next asked about the judge’s family and how to reach them. Nikki explained that Finney was a widower who had lost his only child in a motorcycle accident. “I’m probably the closest thing to family he’s got,” Nikki said. She had always taken pride in that relationship, but hearing herself say it out loud made her strangely melancholy.

“Well, then, I’m glad I’m talking to you,” Randolph said. For the next several minutes, he talked about his plans to call the network and read them the riot act. He would file suit if they didn’t stop casting false aspersions about Kline. He’d be happy to represent Finney, too, and make sure the reality show producers would start playing fair with the judge, if Randolph only had some way to get in touch with him.

While Nikki was thinking about how she might get that done through the cipher system they had established, Randolph had his own idea. “Finney didn’t happen to leave you with a power of attorney, did he? I’m sure he’d want someone looking after his affairs if anything critical came up.”

Nikki was starting to like this guy—he knew how to spell things out. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure he did. You need a copy of that?” She had signed the judge’s name to a few orders in the past. Her Oliver Finney signature wasn’t perfect, but it would do.

“Eventually,” Randolph said. “But for this initial phone call with the producers, I’ll just take your word for it.”

“Great.”

Randolph lowered his voice, and Nikki pressed the phone tighter to her ear. “These reality show people are warped, Nikki. I just want them to know that they’d better think twice before they try to embarrass or defame any of my clients.”

Suddenly Randolph had her undivided attention. She had just pulled up a picture of the man from his firm’s website. Classic good looks: a square face, curly jet-black hair, a blinding white smile. He looked to be about thirty-five or forty—a few years older than Nikki, but then again, she was pretty mature for her age.

Besides, she just happened to be on the prowl again today. Byron had been pitiful at dancing and even worse at casual conversation. When he leaned in to kiss her at the end of the night, the onions arrived a few seconds before his lips.

“Maybe we should meet in person,” Nikki suggested.

“Sure,” Preston said. “But let me see what I can do through a couple of phone calls first. I’ve already talked to the show’s director, who seems to be a reasonable guy. Now I’ll put some heat on the network execs in New York. I think as long as they know I’m watching them, they’ll quit jerking us around.”

Us? That didn’t take long. “Right,” Nikki said. She had googled Preston and discovered that the man was closing in on the billionaire club. A quick skim revealed no mention of a wife.

“I may be in DC in the next few days,” Nikki claimed. “Maybe I could stop by for a few minutes to compare notes.” If she could only get a foot in the door, a job offer—and maybe more—would soon follow.

“That’d be great,” Preston said. “Just make sure you give me a call first. I’m not in the office much—between trials and traveling and golf. In the meantime, if you hear anything about the island that worries you, give me a call.”

She promised she would, and Preston Randolph moved on to the next pressing phone call. Nikki loved Virginia Beach, but she could see herself living in DC for the right kind of money.

Before logging off, she decided to check Westlaw and see if Finney had left any new breadcrumbs. “Yes!” she whispered when she saw the new searches. Time for some more spy games.

She called Wellington and told him to meet her at noon. The usual place, Nikki said, like a real gumshoe.

“Okay,” Wellington said. “Hang on for a second while I ask my mom if I can borrow the minivan.”