3

On the way home, I called Regina. “He didn’t even put up a fight,” I said excitedly. “He said I could ride second chair as long as he controlled the strategy.”

There was silence on the other end as Regina processed the information. “I was afraid of that,” she eventually said.

“Huh?”

“The boss could be planning on either not charging Tate or negotiating a quick plea. He knows that if he has you involved, the press will have a harder time attacking him for being soft because they know how much you hate Tate. You’re his buffer, Jamie. Blunt any criticism in the midst of an election campaign.”

I hadn’t even thought of that. And for a moment I wondered if I would ever be half the lawyer my mentor was. Or Masterson either, for that matter.

“But the autopsy’s not even done yet.”

“When’s the last time the boss reacted instead of being proactive?”

Regina had a point.

“So you’re saying I shouldn’t take it?”

“No; he wants you involved,” Regina said. “And you know Bill. If he believes Tate poisoned his wife, he’ll charge hell with a water pistol to convict him. He’s just making sure he’s covered if he decides to pull the plug.”

“Nice to know I’m valued,” I said.

My spirits lifted when I walked in the front door of my house and was greeted like a rock star by my black Lab. We wrestled for a while on the floor and played tug-of-war with some well-worn interconnected rubber rings. He growled like a he-man and jerked his strong neck muscles back and forth to pull the toy out of my hands. I growled back and then loved on him and fixed him dinner. He’d been cooped up in the house for more than twelve hours and was starved for attention.

“It was a good day for the good guys,” I said to Justice. He looked up at me with those adoring brown puppy-dog eyes and tilted his head to the side.

“We’re going to get this guy,” I promised him.