A Prosecutor for the Defense (David Brunelle Legal Thriller Series Book 4)

by Stephen Penner

  Chapter 12

  The office of Overstreet and Stephenson, Cosmetic Surgeons, was tucked between the picturesque Pacific Heights neighborhood and downtown San Francisco. And of course, it wasn’t called Overstreet and Stephenson, or even Stephenson and Overstreet. It was ‘Adonis Image Studios.’

  Brunelle stepped off the elevator onto the seventh floor of the modern office building and had no trouble spying the enormous sign for Adonis Image Studios that practically mugged anyone daring to get off the elevator on that floor. There was also a small sign suggesting an orthodontist at the other end of the hallway, but clearly Adonis took up most of the floor. It looked like they were doing well. But then, as any cosmetic surgeon knew, looks can be deceiving.

  Brunelle opened the office door and stepped into a palatial waiting room, complete with a black marble floors, recessed mood lighting, and a half dozen aquariums filled with tropical salt-water fish. There were three men seated together near the receptionist. They looked up as Brunelle’s heels clicked against the floor on his way to the absolutely stunning receptionist. Blond hair, blue eyes, pouty lips, large chest. She was like a billboard for the business. Or a sample catalog.

  “Hello,” she greeted him. Her teeth were bright white and perfectly straight. Brunelle wondered whether Adonis had a kick-back arrangement with the orthodontist down the hall. “How can I help you today, sir?”

  Brunelle liked that question. Very effusive. It matched her appearance. He wondered if she didn’t perhaps absolutely despise her job. That would be ironic. “Hi. I was wondering if Dr. Overstreet might be available?”

  The smile didn’t budge. “Do you have an appointment?”

  Brunelle smiled too. He enjoyed a battle. Even when he knew he was going to lose. “No, but I think he’ll want to talk to me.”

  She blinked once, her smile unwavering. “Is this for a consultation?”

  Brunelle was a bit taken aback. He didn’t need any work done. He didn’t think he did anyway. “No, no. I represent his partner, Jeremy Stephenson. I need to talk to him about some of the business aspects of their practice.”

  That did it. The smile shattered and her pretty blue eyes darted to the men sitting within earshot. “Uh, Dr. Overstreet isn’t in right now.” She glanced over at her computer monitor and made a few clicks. “Can you come back at five?” she asked in a lowered voice. “His last appointment is at four forty-five.”

  Brunelle’s smile returned. He thought he might just have won the battle. “Absolutely. Thank you. I’ll see you at five.”

  He turned to leave, a bounce in his step from his apparent victory, and nodded to the stocky men in dark suits whose upturned and unpleasant faces obviously would benefit from the services provided by Dr. Overstreet.

  *

  The rest of Brunelle’s day was less successful than even that small victory.

  He went next to the medical examiner’s office. It was in the Hall of Justice, just like the police department, but it was closer to the door. And he was really missing Kat after staring at a Barbie doll receptionist. Somehow, he thought the sight of dissected cadavers might ease his ache.

  It didn’t.

  Actually, he didn’t get to find out. He never made it out of the lobby. Brunelle asked the receptionist to speak with the doctor who’d conducted the Vanessa Stephenson autopsy. He didn’t really expect it to work, so he wasn’t surprised when, really, it didn’t.

  “Mr. Brunelle,” came the icy greeting of the assistant medical examiner who emerged to greet him. She was short, wiry, and plain, with a sharp nose and beady eyes. Brunelle immediately didn’t like her. The feeling was obviously mutual. “I’m Dr. Sylvia Tuttle. What do you want?”

  “Nice to meet you,” Brunelle lied. “I was wondering if you had time to discuss the Vanessa Stephenson autopsy.”

  Dr. Tuttle shook her head sharply, sending her straight brown hair swinging. “I don’t talk to defense attorneys. You have my autopsy report. If you need anything more, contact the prosecutor’s office.”

  “I’m not going to try to trick you or anything,” Brunelle insisted. “I just had a few questions to make sure I understood your findings properly.”

  “I’m sure you understood them,” Dr. Tuttle replied. “Or maybe you didn’t. I don’t know. That’s your problem. But I don’t need to speak with you and I’m not going to. I only came out to tell you that personally so you would believe it and not badger my receptionist.”

  “I wouldn’t badger her,” Brunelle defended. “I’m actually a prosecutor—“

  “I know,” the medical examiner interrupted. “Jim called me. But you’re not a prosecutor on this case. You’re the defense attorney and I don’t talk to defense attorneys.”

  Brunelle stood mute for a moment, unsure what to say. It didn’t matter; Dr. Tuttle was done. “Goodbye, Mr. Brunelle,” she announced and then turned on her heel and disappeared back into the bowels of the medical examiner’s office.

  Brunelle looked at the receptionist he never would have badgered. She just smiled and shrugged. Brunelle smiled back and shrugged himself.

  Maybe the detective would be more helpful.

  *

  Or maybe not.

  Detective Frank Ayala was the lead detective on the Stephenson case. He was tall and barrel-chested, with tanned skin, a full black moustache, and a clean-shaven head. He seemed like a nice enough guy, and Brunelle could easily imagine working with him on a case. But not this case. Westerly had called him too.

  “I’m sorry. Mr. Brunelle. If you want to interview me, you’ll have to arrange it through the prosecutor.”

  “I don’t want to interview you,” Brunelle said as amicably as he could. “I just want to talk to you. I have a couple questions about the investigation.”

  “Sorry, sir,” Ayala said, and he did seem sorry. “If you want to talk with me, I want the prosecutor present. You’ll need to work through him.”

  Brunelle ran a hand over his gray-flecked head. “Really, it’s just a couple friendly questions. I’m not trying to trick you. I’m not going to criticize your investigation. I just need to get a couple things clear in my head.”

  Ayala crossed his thick arms. Obviously, there was a limit to his patience. “I said I can’t talk to you, Mr. Brunelle. Contact the prosecutor. Schedule something. Get me at a conference table with the prosecutor sitting there, and I’ll answer any question you ask. But not here and not now.”

  Brunelle considered arguing some more, but realized it would be both unproductive and unprofessional. And just kind of jerky. “Okay,” he capitulated. “Thanks, detective. I appreciate your time.”

  Ayala nodded. “Good luck, Mr. Brunelle.” Then he grinned. “But not too much. I still want you to lose.”

  Brunelle grinned back. “Well, maybe you won’t after we finally talk.”

  *

  Brunelle decided to make his next effort more comfortable, at least for him. And more opaque. Westerly had warned the M.E. and the detective. Brunelle hoped he hadn’t thought to call the insurance agent.

  So he indulged in a tall mocha and a table at the back, then took out his phone and dialed National Fidelity Insurance and Casualty of St. Louis, Missouri.

  It took a few transfers and vague assertions about being the lawyer ‘assigned’ to the arson claim, but eventually Brunelle found himself talking to Mike Wolfram, Senior Claims Adjuster.

  “Okay, okay, okay,” Wolfram said, apparently looking through an actual paper file. “Let me see, let me see. Okay, yes. I have it here. Right in front of me. Yes. Yes, we paid that claim, but only in part. The other part is still pending.”

  That was interesting. “Of course,” Brunelle replied vaguely. “I was wondering if you could tell me why.”

  Brunelle could hear pages being turned.

  “Let’s see, let’s see, let’s see. Okay, yes, here we go. We pended it because of intervening criminal action.”

  “Intervening criminal action?”

  “C
orrect,” Wolfram said. “That means somebody committed a crime so we don’t have to pay. Or least we might not have to, depending on the outcome of the case.”

  “Ah, okay,” Brunelle said. “That makes sense. And what crime exactly?”

  Brunelle knew of course, but his goal was to see what info the insurance company had. He’d learned along the way that sometimes people said things to the insurance company to get their money that they declined to tell law enforcement. Money talks. And it makes people talk too.

  “Um, um, um,” Wolfram muttered. More pages turning. “Looks like arson. We see that a lot.” Then he kept reading. “Oh! Oh, and murder. Oh my, murder. Yes, we definitely decline claims when there’s been a murder. We don’t insure against murder. No one insures against murder.”

  “Of course not,” Brunelle replied. Seemed like a sound business policy. “So you’ve placed part of the claim on hold. Could you tell me who the beneficiaries were?”

  Even if he couldn’t get all the details, just the identity of the beneficiaries could be helpful. And if it wasn’t, well, then, he could do what defense attorneys always did with unhelpful information. Bury it.

  “Excuse me?” Wolfram said. “What did you just ask?”

  Brunelle sipped from his mocha. “I asked if you could tell me who made the claim.”

  “I, I thought that’s who you represented,” Wolfram said. “I thought you were the lawyer for the beneficiary whose claim we pended.”

  Brunelle set his drink down. He knew the call was about to end. “Uh, no,” he admitted. It was one thing to be vague. But he wasn’t going to lie. Not only was it unethical, it was unprofessional. The Bar looked down on lawyers committing fraud. Again, Jeremy Stephenson wasn’t worth his bar card. “I represent Jeremy Stephenson, the man accused of murdering his wife and burning down the building.” Then to make sure it was perfectly clear. “I’m his criminal defense attorney.”

  “Oh! Oh! No, I’m sorry. I didn’t understand.” The papers were loudly being stuffed back into whatever files Wolfram had pulled them from. “I can’t talk to you. I shouldn’t be talking to you. I shouldn’t have said anything at all. I didn’t understand.”

  Brunelle actually felt bad for his deception. “Don’t worry, Mr. Wolfram. You didn’t tell me anything I couldn’t already have guessed. But can I ask one more question?”

  Wolfram hesitated. “Well, I don’t know. I mean, no, I don’t think so, but maybe. It depends on the question.”

  Brunelle nodded. That made sense. He didn’t really need the answer, but he was curious. “Would you talk to me if I were the prosecutor?”

  Wolfram paused again. “Well, um, no, actually. We’ll talk to the lawyer for the insured. But no, we wouldn’t talk to you and we wouldn’t talk to the prosecutor either.”

  Well, that was something. “Thank you, Mr. Wolfram. Have a nice day.”

  “Um, oh, uh, well, you too, I guess.”

  ‘I guess.’ Brunelle had to chuckle. Then he took a long drink of his coffee and realized he was pretty well fucked.

  *

  But it was about to go from unsatisfying to worse.

  Brunelle had to admit he didn’t know how to investigate as a defense attorney. He was willing to do it himself—he had enough time with only one case and a girlfriend a thousand miles away—but clearly he didn’t know what he was doing. Still, he knew enough to know that when he didn’t know something he should ask someone who did. And he thought he probably had time to visit his expert on being a defense attorney before getting back to Adonis & Overstreet, Inc., by five.

  Dombrowski’s office was in Haight-Ashbury. Trendy and eclectic, but safe, mostly. But getting there took Brunelle through some less savory neighborhoods, which at first made him think the thugs who stopped him in the street a few blocks from Dombrowski’s office were just run-of-the-mill muggers. Until he recognized them from the Adonis waiting room.

  Once he was sufficiently surrounded and had stopped walking, one of the men stepped forward. “You represent Jeremy Stephenson, yes?”

  He had an accent. Russian, maybe? Brunelle wasn’t sure. Something Eastern European, he thought.

  “Uh, yes.” Brunelle didn’t see any point in lying. He didn’t understand what was going on, so he couldn’t guess what answers were best to give. He might as well go with the truth.

  The man—an especially ugly man, with a pug nose, pock-marked cheeks, and a gold tooth—stepped forward and punched Brunelle right in the gut.

  Brunelle wasn’t ready for it. He probably should have been, but he wasn’t. He dropped to his knees and grabbed his stomach. The man followed up with a blow to his face. It actually hurt less than the gut punch, the fist glancing off his left cheek bone,

  “Remind Mr. Stephenson he still owes his debt,” the man warned Brunelle. “And he is no safer inside than you are out on the street.”

  Brunelle raised a hand to his swelling cheek and looked up at the ugly man and his two burly back-ups. “Don’t worry. I’ll definitely tell him.”

  Chapter 13

  Kylie pressed a cold washcloth against the bruise swelling on Brunelle’s cheek. There was a small cut too, so it stung. He clenched his jaw against the pain. He wasn’t going to let Kylie see him wince.

  “You seem okay,” she said. “You into this stuff or something?”

  Brunelle cocked looked askance at her. “Into getting hit?”

  “Mm-hmm,” she confirmed with a slight nod and an inviting eyebrow.

  Before he thought, he said, “No.” Her disappointed expression made him regret his quick response. She took his hand and raised it to the washcloth so he could hold it there himself. She stood up and returned to her work station.

  Dombrowski stepped over to distract Brunelle from his unexpected and confused disappointment. “What happened?”

  Dombrowski’s question succeeded in drawing his attention away from Kylie. “Uh, I’m not sure. I guess I need to ask my client a few more questions.”

  “You know he’s going to lie to you, right?”

  Brunelle nodded. “Yeah, I’ve got that part down. Thanks. I’m hoping visible injuries will help motivate some honesty.”

  Dombrowski frowned. “I wouldn’t expect it. So what the hell were you doing today?”

  Brunelle shrugged. “Investigation. I started at my guy’s office, then tried the M.E. and the detective, but that didn’t go very well. I was walking here to ask your advice when these guys just showed up out of nowhere.”

  Dombrowski stared at him for several moments. “You really have no idea what you’re doing, do you?”

  Brunelle felt an urge to argue the point. But it passed. “No. I have no fucking idea what I’m doing.”

  Kylie laughed. He looked at her and the disappointment he’d seen earlier had been replaced with some admiration for his honesty. Brunelle looked back up to Dombrowski. He stepped over to his desk and returned with a business card. “You need an investigator to do this for you. Sophia is the best.”

  Brunelle took the card. Sophia Farinelli, Private Investigator.

  “The best, huh?” he questioned.

  Dombrowski shrugged. “Well, better than you anyway.”

  Kylie laughed again. Brunelle did too.

  *

  Brunelle didn’t know if Sophia Farinelli was the best private investigator in San Francisco, but she had to be the hottest. Her office was just a few blocks from Dombrowski’s. She’d taken Dombrowski’s call—because he sent her a lot of business—and had agreed to meet with Brunelle that afternoon. So an hour later, his cheek only a little bit numb, he walked into Sophia’s office and tried to remember why he’d come over in the first place.

  It wasn’t her long brown hair. It wasn’t her tight, curvy body. It wasn’t the expensive, edgy clothing she wore, or the scent of her perfume—at once fresh and dangerous. It was her face. She had an absolutely perfect face. She could have been a model. Hell, she probably had been. It was like looking at an artist’s rendit
ion of perfection in the female face.

  He was mesmerized. She was amused.

  “Andy says you’re really a prosecutor,” she started after the introductions. Her office was decorated in a way that somehow not only matched but accentuated her vaguely exotic beauty.

  “Uh-huh,” he replied, trying—but failing—not to stare at her face, tracing every contour with his eyes.

  “What brings you here to play defense attorney?”

  “Hm? Oh, um. I’m defending someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Jeremy Stephenson,” he answered, totally without really answering. Her cheeks looked like they’d been carved from the finest marble.

  “And who is he to you?”

  That succeeded in breaking the trance. “Oh. Right. Um, he’s the ex-husband of,” he hesitated—his natural tendency in the presence of an attractive woman, but one he actually managed to overcome, “my girlfriend. He’s my girlfriend’s ex-husband.”

  Brunelle realized there was no way in hell Dombrowski hadn’t told her that.

  “She’s a very lucky woman,” Sophia said, a smile showing she’d seen the trance break. She was likely used to men losing their faculties around her. She’d quickly managed to bring him back to reality. Maybe she really was the best.

  “So what are we doing first?” she asked.

  And Brunelle, to his credit, didn’t even think of an inappropriately sexual response. “Gary Overstreet,” he answered. “My client’s business partner.”

  Then he rose a delicate finger to his cheek. “But first, I need to talk to my client.”

  Chapter 14

  Brunelle sat in the cramped jail meeting room, staring at the empty glass in front of him, barely able to see his reflection, and hoping the bruise on his cheek was more visible than it seemed in the glass. He wanted Jeremy to feel bad, and for more than one reason.

  The jailer opened the door at the other end of the room and in walked Jeremy Stephenson. He looked a bit confused and sat down opposite Brunelle uneasily. “Hey, Dave,” he started. “This is a nice surprise. Did we have a meeting scheduled? I think I might be starting to lose track of things.”