by Mary Stone
“Oh. Of course. He’s a very good man. Very shrewd. He’s been my attorney for many years,” she said. “Would you like me to call him and tell him to expect you?”
“Oh. No,” Kylie said, standing. She preferred the element of surprise. “It’s better if I stop by unannounced but thank you.”
She gave Emma another hug, got into her car, and drove up to the Coulter and Associates’s imposing brick building. Parking in the lot with all the luxury cars, Kylie felt woefully inadequate. She wondered if they’d tow her hunk of junk for making their sparkling estate look bad. She looked down at herself. Her outfit was a pencil skirt and sweater, but that probably wasn’t up to the Coulter and Associates’s dress code. She probably needed a suit. As if she’d ever be caught dead in one of those.
Kylie walked inside and to a giant oak reception desk, so massive it came up to her nose. A woman in a severe bun under a pinched face leaned over and peered down at her, making her feel about three inches tall. “You have an appointment?”
“Actually, no. I’m here to see Jonathan Coulter.”
The woman laughed, the sound clearly saying, silly little girl. “You surely realize that Jonathan Coulter is the senior partner here? His clients must book appointments with him months in advance. He doesn’t simply take anyone off the street.”
Well, wasn’t she all high and mighty? Maybe Kylie should have taken Emma up on the offer to call ahead and announce she was coming.
“Well, I’m working on a case for his client, Emma Jennings, and I was hoping I could have a few moments of his time.”
The receptionist eyed Kylie with annoyance but lifted a phone to her ear. Her voice transformed into pleasantness personified as she spoke into the mouthpiece. “Hello, Dustin. How are you? I have a young woman out here who wishes to speak to Mr. Coulter regarding Emma Jennings.” She paused, listening, a smirk appearing on her face. “Yes, that’s what I told her, extremely busy.” Another pause. “Your name?”
Kylie realized she was now addressing her. “Kylie. Kylie Hatfield.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Kylie? Now, why does that name sound familiar?” Everything she said sounded like an accusation.
Kylie only smiled, letting the woman attempt to figure it out. Since she doubted Jonathan Coulter spent his time around the water cooler, telling his colleagues about what a massive doofus his youngest son’s girlfriend was, the secretary could only know her from the press time she received after taking down the Spotlight Killer
The receptionist put her mouth to the mouthpiece. “Kylie Hatfield…I’m not sure…yes. Emma Jennings.”
There was a little mint dispenser on the oaken fortress. Kylie tried to press the button to get one out, but it got stuck, and tiny square white candies plinked all over the shiny floor before she figured out how to close it. She popped the one she managed to catch into her mouth.
“Sorry,” Kylie said and knelt to scoop them up, hoping she wasn’t flashing anyone in her skirt.
When Kylie straightened, looking around for a trash can, the woman was standing, eyeing her with ill-concealed contempt.
“Are you quite finished?”
Kylie tossed the mints into a shiny trash can she spotted. Focusing on conjuring a bright smile, she nodded and said, “Quite,” in the poshest voice she could manage.
“Fantastic,” the woman returned. “Follow me, and please don’t tarry.”
Kylie barely refrained from rolling her eyes and rubbed her fingers on her skirt. “No tarrying here.”
She was being a smartass, which wasn’t the best way to make friends, but the woman was as annoying as the day was long. She even had an annoying walk, with her high heels clattering down the marble hallway.
After an eternity of clack-clack-clack, the secretary stopped at a small conference room with dark oak paneling and an imposing oak conference table. “Dustin Weiss will be with you shortly. He’s Mr. Coulter’s assistant’s assistant.”
“Oh? Mr. Coulter isn’t available?”
She sighed heavily. “Sorry, you tarried.”
The door clicked between them before Kylie could open her mouth to tell the woman to kiss her tarrying ass.
Nice.
“Shortly” must’ve had a different meaning in the legal world, because there was nothing short about the amount of time Kylie waited. She spent about two minutes of it sitting in that high-backed executive chair. She pulled out her phone, then remembered it was dead, and spent the next minute berating herself for not putting her charger back in her car after riding in Linc’s truck.
Bored and restless, she walked around the massive table, checking out the artwork. Nothing of the style of Arnold Jennings so she quickly lost interest in that. She went to the window and looked out onto an unappetizing stone courtyard. When she turned around, she spotted Jonathan Coulter’s diploma from Duke University School of Law.
The man was intimidating enough as it was. Did Kylie really need to know he was Ivy League?
Probably not. She usually didn’t let people spook her, but since that dinner, she’d elevated Jonathan Coulter in her head to the stuff of horror movie legend. Which was ridiculous. Linc didn’t talk about him much, except to imply that he wasn’t his favorite person, but Jonathan Coulter was still human. Kylie was sure Linc had plenty of heartwarming stories of playing ball with his dad, or his father watching him play his first game in high school, or Christmases as a family…something. She was sure of it.
Still, even if he might not have all the details she needed, she was damn glad she was meeting with his assistant. Even if he was keeping her waiting, it was better than having to sit across a table from a guy she’d called a bloodsucker and tell him she also suspected he might be a thief.
After about twenty minutes, the door opened, and a man wearing a mop of dark curly hair and thick black hipster glasses came in. He was so thin she imagined a stiff wind would knock him over. But huzzah! He wasn’t wearing a three-piece suit. Just a spiffy tie and argyle vest. Kylie imagined that without it, he’d probably look about thirteen, although he pegged him as closer to thirty.
“Kylie Hatfield?” he said as she shook his hand. “I’m Dustin Weiss. I’m Mr. Coulter’s assistant. I hear you have some questions about Emma Jennings’s estate?”
She wanted to correct him since she’d already learned he was the assistant’s assistant, but since Kylie had just been through her own assistant to the PI hell, she left it alone.
Kylie figured she couldn’t keep the PI thing under wraps since Jonathan Coulter knew what she did for a living, so she said, “Yes. I’m a private investigator handling a case for her. She seems to think that some money and artwork has gone missing from her estate, and I’d like to get to the bottom of it.”
“Missing?” He sat back, looking stunned. “Well, I can assure you that we keep a close eye on her estate, along with her financial advisor. We haven’t seen anything untoward. What makes her think that’s happening?”
“She’s lost a number of paintings from her own gallery, and some of the charitable organizations she always supported have not been receiving their funds. She said she spoke to Jonathan Coulter and he advised her just what you’re saying to me now. But if that’s the case, why is the money not showing up where it belongs?”
“Ah. I see.” He lifted a manila file. “Let me call Mrs. Jennings to make sure she allows it, and then I’ll be happy to make copies of our records of charitable donations for you. We keep very good records here.”
“I’m sure you do. Thank you. I appreciate it.”
He left, closing the door behind him, and it was about twenty minutes of Kylie twiddling her thumbs until he returned. “Sorry for the delay,” he said, not looking sorry in the least. “I was able to get in touch with Mrs. Jennings and she authorized the copies. But there are quite a lot, dating back nearly twenty years. Here’s the first batch.”
He dropped a massive, crippling stack of legal-sized paper in front of her. “Oh. Wow.”
>
He laughed. “Yeah. Tell me about it. Generous folk, those Jennings people. The other half is on the way.”
“Great. This is amazing. Thank you,” she said, lifting the first page and squinting at the tiny writing. These contributions were from the late nineties. “I guess I’m going to be busy tonight.”
“Yeah. Can I get you anything while you wait? Coffee? Tea?”
She shook her head. “I’m good. Thanks.”
Kylie decided to concentrate on the more recent things, but even so, it took her a while to understand what each entry was. Yes, there were a lot of contributions to art guilds, museums, and societies around the town, but they were all abbreviated, so she had to make sense of the shorthand. About fifteen minutes later, Dustin returned with a second half that was even bigger than the first. “Lots of fun reading material,” he quipped.
She started to pack the papers up. “Tell me about it. I really appreciate your help.” She paused a moment, meeting his eye. “How do you like working for Mr. Coulter?”
“Mr. Coulter is hard, but he’s fair. He’s straight as an arrow.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “You know, I was very surprised that there’s a problem. If the books aren’t matching up, it’s not because of any criminal negligence. It’s just got to be a mistake.”
A mistake. Right. Tell that to Nate Jennings, Kylie thought.
She stood up and shook his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Weiss.”
He didn’t drop her hand right away. Instead he looked at her more closely, a smile appearing on his face. “Wait a minute. You’re that girl. The one who brought down the Spotlight Killer, aren’t you?”
She nodded. “Yep. That’s me. I mean, I didn’t do it all by—”
“Holy shit!” he shouted. Kylie thought he’d forgotten that he was in the Coulter and Associates building because she doubted anyone here cursed or shouted in glee, ever. He beamed at her. “I’m in awe. Seriously. Wow. Kylie Hatfield. You’re like a legend. This is better than meeting Thor. The Spotlight Killer’s downfall, right here, shaking my hand.”
Yes, he was still shaking her hand, and about to dislocate her shoulder.
Kylie carefully pried herself away, though she was kind of amused by his excitement, her head swelling with pride. He thought she was better than Thor? That was a mighty nice compliment. She controlled herself before she offered to show him her gunshot wound by putting her finger to her lips. “I get the feeling you’re probably not supposed to shout around here,” she whispered.
He nodded. “Yeah. You’re right. But it was an honor to meet you.”
“The honor’s all mine,” Kylie said, smiling at him. He was kind of cute, in a geeky way. She lifted the pile of papers. “And my thanks is all yours. Really. This is fantastic.”
“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” he said, leading her through the doors, into the lobby, where the Bitch On High sat, staring down at them from her throne.
“Were you shouting?” the receptionist said, her voice grating.
He nodded and hooked a thumb at Kylie. “This woman brought down the Spotlight Killer.”
The woman looked confused. “The who?”
“The Spotlight Killer,” Dustin Weiss said again.
“For the last time, Mr. Weiss. I don’t play video games,” she said, shaking her head at them both. Kylie could almost hear her thinking, Damn millennials!
He opened his mouth to explain but quickly closed it. “Forget it.” He shook Kylie’s hand again. “Very nice to meet you, Kylie.”
She said goodbye and headed for the door. “Miss Hatfield! Miss!”
Kylie turned around, and a professionally dressed older woman came huffing and puffing up to her. “Dustin forgot to give you these.”
Kylie almost groaned as the woman laid another couple inches worth of paperwork on top of what she was already carrying. “Thank you very much.”
The woman nodded and turned on her heel, hurrying back the way she had come. Kylie rearranged the surprisingly heavy stack of evidence she would soon have the joy of leafing through.
As she walked outside, Kylie found herself smiling. Who knew? She’d never imagined that place would get a smile out of her.
It was probably because she didn’t have to come face-to-face with Jonathan Coulter, but so what? She—
“Oh…I’m so sorry.”
Kylie looked down in dismay as all the papers she’d been holding fanned out over the floor, then up to the dark-haired woman who’d just run into her, nearly knocking her down. The woman gave her a sorry smile from her too red lips, then waved her fingers and hurried away. She wore a dress way to tight for the workplace and heels so high they gave Kylie a nosebleed.
Bitch, Kylie thought as she bent to gather the scattered papers. Don’t even worry about helping.
Still muttering to herself as she walked to her car in the lot, she groaned when she saw it.
Seriously?
A small sliver of paper was tucked under her windshield wiper.
Kylie picked up the pace and rushed to it. A ticket, really? She was parked in a legal space, or so she thought. Did they give out tickets in this lot if you didn’t have a BMW or similar luxury car? Maybe she’d needed to have a special sticker to park there. Muttering a curse under her breath, she lifted it up and turned it over. And realized it wasn’t a ticket at all.
It was something much worse.
A single message was scrawled on the paper in black Sharpie: Stop Meddling or You’re Next.
30
Linc turned off the radio as he drove downtown. The news was all about the miraculous rescue of a pair of sisters who’d been involved in the collapse of the parking lot. As happy as he was that they’d been found, it should’ve been him and Storm who found them. That brought the total number of people rescued up to twelve. He hadn’t been involved in a single one of them.
But he had something else to worry about now.
It was now nearly dinnertime, but if he knew Kylie, she was still at the office, nose-to-the-grindstone. When he drove past the little storefront, sure enough, the lights were on, clearly illuminating her in the window. She was hunched over a large pile of papers and appeared to be going through them one by one.
The first thing Linc felt wasn’t anger. It was pride.
But the anger was a close second.
He forced himself to keep that emotion at the forefront as he pulled into a space a few doors down.
Linc went inside, and she looked up. “Hi!” she said, obviously genuinely happy to see him. Vader jumped up from his place at the window and ran to greet him too. With a word, Linc easily calmed him down.
Funny, just months ago, the big dog had been a crazy, disobedient mess, and Linc’d taught him a thing or two. But his owner? She never learned.
He’d planned to unleash on her the second he stepped inside, but then he saw that she had company. Her boss, Greg, was at the sink in the kitchenette in the back, cleaning the coffee maker.
“Hey, Linc,” he said, turning off the faucet and shaking Linc’s hand with his wet one. “You come to relieve me of this troublemaker?”
That’s exactly what she was. They all knew it. Why had he expected different?
She batted her eyelashes at them innocently. “What? Me? Trouble?”
Greg laughed. Linc didn’t. His voice was stiff. “Actually, I just came to have a word with Kylie. I can’t stay.”
Kylie lifted up the stack of papers. “Good. I can’t go anywhere anyway. I’m going to be chained to the office for the foreseeable future, until I figure this out.”
“Is that your embezzlement case?” Linc asked with a hint of sarcasm. Embezzlement, which had just become murder.
She nodded, giving him a curious look.
“To hell with that,” Greg said, grabbing his keys. “It’ll still be here tomorrow.” He had to be the easiest guy to work for because he clearly didn’t give a shit.
Kylie shook her head. “But I—”
> “Take that pile of papers and work on it at home if you have to. The lights in here are going out.”
She sighed. “Fine. Give me five.” She stood up and started to pack up her things. “You can go, Greg. I’ll close up.”
“All right,” he said, zipping his jacket up over his beer belly and heading out. “See you all.”
Linc watched him leave, the top of his balding head shining in the streetlights as he hurried to his car, this beat-up old boat that he’d left right outside the place. He got in and pulled out, and when he left, Linc turned to see Kylie watching him.
“You’re clearly upset at me for something.” She pushed some stray hairs back from her face. “What did I do now?”
“It’s more like, what didn’t you do.” He crossed his arms. “I had a talk with Jacob, so can you now imagine why I’m here?”
Her eyes widened a little, but then her expression turned mulish.
He didn’t let the silence last. “Were you even going to tell me about your little adventure at the coffee shop?”
The glower collapsed, and she covered her face with her hands. He watched her take a deep breath, exhale it, and drop her hands back to her sides, her expression carefully neutral.
“Yes, I was going to tell you when the timing was better.” She paused, letting the meaning of that sink in.
“I’m not an invalid,” Linc snapped.
She softened a little. “You’re the strongest man I know, but you’re going through something very difficult right now. What was I supposed to do, Linc? You have PTSD, and while you’re still clearly recovering from a violent episode of it, I’m supposed to give you the play-by-play of how the man I was supposed to meet was offed in his shiny red Porsche?”
He wasn’t quite sure what to say to that, so of course something stupid slipped from his mouth. “I don’t have PTSD.”
She rolled her eyes, but it was a gesture loaded with sadness. “Yes, Linc. You do. And I feel strongly that I’ve contributed to the recent intensity of it. It makes me want to protect you…” She seemed to realize she’d said the absolute wrong thing. “Not protect. I just want you to be better. Be happy.”