by Mary Burton
Eva cleared her throat. “I don’t know her.”
“You sure about that? You been staring at her a good while.”
“I guess it’s just a shock to look at death.” She handed the picture back to him, trying to keep her hands steady. “How did she die?”
“Can’t really say right now.” He studied her a long moment. “If something comes to mind, you’ll tell me?”
“Sure.”
She moved toward her truck, praying her legs did not collapse. How had her life turned upside down so fast?
Angie nursed a cold can of ginger ale and a packet of crackers as she unlocked the front door of the law offices of Wellington and James. The firm was housed in a brick townhouse built in the 1890s. A black lacquer front door sported a large door knocker fashioned of brass. Flanking the entrance were twin sets of hand-blown windows underscored with iron window boxes filled with topiaries. The building was located on a tree-lined section of Cameron Street near the banks of the Potomac.
Charlotte Wellington had promised a partnership to Angie if she could bring in the business. So far she’d delivered. For the last year, her days had been spent finding clients or racking up seventy-plus billable hours a week. They were scheduled to have a partnership discussion next week when Charlotte returned from her vacation.
Angie dropped her keys in her purse and with her foot nudged the self-locking front door closed. Oriental carpets, landscapes and subtle grass wallpaper gave the reception area a traditional feel that suggested old Virginia and money.
Charlotte always said lawyers needed to convey a certain level of class to get the right client. The one contradiction to the antique furnishings was the state-of-the-art security system Charlotte had installed just weeks before Angie had joined the firm. In the top corner of the room red lights blinked from three motion sensors. Charlotte insisted that everyone keep the front door locked. If a visitor arrived, they were buzzed inside. Charlotte Wellington developed an obsession with security after an armed man had forced his way into the firm a year ago and shot Charlotte. She’d barely escaped with her life.
Angie moved down the carpeted hallway to her office and set her large black purse on her desk. Three rows of neatly stacked folders rested in the center of her desk. She prioritized the next day’s work before she left in the evening.
On the credenza behind her desk were only two pictures: one of her mother taken thirty years ago, and the other of two young girls dressed in matching blue dresses. It had been snapped fifteen years ago by their mom. Angie had been sixteen, and her sister was twelve. Angie had been living with her dad by then and visited her mother and sister only occasionally. They’d had a rare special day with their mom who treated them to the movies and lunch with dessert. Three years later their mom had died of cancer. Angie’s father had refused to take the child his ex-wife had conceived during an affair. He’d also threatened to cut Angie off if she left school to care for Eva. So Angie’s sister had been sent to foster care. To this day, Angie regretted that she’d not stood up for Eva.
Angie shrugged off her coat and hung it on the hanger dangling from the hook on her office door. She shoved her purse into the bottom desk drawer and sat down. The day promised to be jam-packed. Briefings to write. Motions to file. She thought about Charlotte, now on a long overdue vacation in the Florida Keys. Toes in the sand. Hot sun.
Sighing, she sipped her ginger ale and nibbled on crackers as she reviewed the wording on a brief that needed to be filed by tomorrow. It promised to be a long day.
A knock on her door had her looking up at Iris who stood in the doorway. In her late fifties, Iris kept her silver hair pulled in a French twist and she dress ed in immaculate Chanel suits. She’d joined the firm a year ago after she’d discovered her late husband had lost all their money in the stock market. The double loss of a fortune and husband could embitter most women but not Iris. She’d been born poor, she’d explained, and she knew how to work. She now ran Wellington and James with brutal efficiency. “You look like death.”
“Thanks. I feel it.” Too much wine and too little food last night, but she’d never admit it.
Iris eyed her carefully. “Flu’s going around.”
“So I’ve discovered.”
Iris held a pink message slip between her manicured fingers. “Mr. Lenny Danvers is still very anxious to talk to you. ”
Angie closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Did he say what he wanted?”
“And I quote, ‘Mrs. Carlson will be pissed if she doesn’t hear what I have to say to her.'”
Angie drummed her fingers on the polished desktop. “That’s it? I’d be pissed.”
“That’s what he said.”
“So I’m supposed to drop my morning routine and work him into my schedule?” Irritation, spurred by the nausea, crept into her voice.
Iris flicked the pink slip with a manicured finger. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”
“Sorry. Can you get specifics? I’m not jumping to Mr. Danvers’s request just because he needs some hand-holding.”
“Let me see what I can do.”
Her stomach tumbled. “Bless you.”
“Want me to bring you a coffee?”
“God, no. But thanks.”
Iris hesitated in the doorway, studying Angie like a mother. “Wow, you must be sick.”
Angie smiled, determined to keep up appearances. “I’ll live.”
“I’m not so sure.” Iris’s gray eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Just got a bit of a bug. The flu is going around. I’ll be fine.”
“Right. The flu. I’ll report back.”
Alone, Angie cradled her head in her hands and tried to concentrate on the documents in front of her. But as much as she wanted to read, her wobbly stomach wouldn’t allow it.
When Iris reappeared, she felt almost relieved. “Yes.”
“Danvers on line three.”
“Okay.” Angie sucked in a breath and picked up the receiver. “Mr. Danvers.”
“About time I got you. Christ, you’re my attorney.”
“I represented you once, Mr. Danvers. And as I remember, you made me look like a fool when you faked a heart attack. And you still have invoices outstanding.” “ Yeah, well, I’m not crying wolf this time. And I’ll get you the money.”
“What do you want?”
He dropped his voice a notch. “I got information on a murder.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. I can help the police.”
She’d give him points for the sincerity in his voice. “Tell me.”
“Not over the phone.”
“Why not? ”
“Look, someone just posted bail for me.”
“And why were you in jail?”
“The usual. Breaking and entering.”
“This is at least your third strike. How did you get out? Bail would have been high.”
“Exactly, but someone posted it.”
“You have a girlfriend, from what I remember. ”
“It wasn’t her. She don’t love anybody that much.”
“You’ve a guardian angel?” Angie rubbed her temples with her fingertips.
“Or the killer wants me back on the streets.”
“Don’t you think you’re being a bit paranoid?”
“No. Look, if you want information on this murder, meet me at the Fort Ward Park in one hour.” Fort Ward was a park that commemorated the Union camp that defended Washington, D.C., from the Confederates. It could be reached easily and provided open spaces as well as wooded areas.
She glanced at the stack of briefs on her desk and then at the digital clock on her desk. “You’re kidding.”
“I ain’t kidding. Ms. Carlson, this killer is a nut and I can tell the cops who it is.”
“What do you want?”
“Immunity. Lots of it.”
She picked up her pencil and doodled boxes on a legal pad. “Lenny, that
is not enough. I’ve got to give the cops more.”
“Tell them the killer burned his victim.”
Her stomach turned. Years ago, her sister had been burned by her attacker. “What do you mean ‘burned'?”
“I’m not sure. But I could smell it. I could hear her scream.”
The urgency in his voice cut through her malaise. “Where did this happen?”
“That I ain’t saying until I have a deal with the cops.”
“Which jurisdiction should I call?” The Northern Virginia area was comprised of two cities and several counties.
He paused, then said, “Alexandria.”
That meant Garrison. Shit. “I swear I will bury you if you are lying. ”
“I ain’t lying. Get the cops there and I’ll supply an address.”
“Who knows if they will deal?”
“They’ll deal with you. You’re kinda like Wonder Woman.”
“Wonder Woman.” Bitterness dripped from the words. Once upon a time she’d been a wet-behind-the-ears, fresh-faced lawyer, who was full of fire and determination to protect the innocent. Then she’d realized most of the people in the system weren’t so innocent or were working an angle. She didn’t feel like Wonder Woman anymore.
His voice raised a notch. “So you’ll deal for me?”
“You haven’t offered me much.”
“I will.”
For the first time in a long time, Angie considered the victim before her client. “I’ll make some calls.”
“Make it quick. Fort Ward. One hour.” He hung up.
Angie tossed her pen on her desk. “Damn it.”
“What did he want now?” Iris said.
“A meeting at Fort Ward. With the cops.”
“Tell me you are not going to bite. The guy is a con artist. He’s just jerking your chain.”
“I’m not so sure this time.”
“Look, anyone who can read knows you’re a sucker for a defendant. All that work you did on Project Innocence and those boys you got out of jail. He’s playing you.”
“He won’t be the first.” She glanced again at the paperwork. If she went to the park she’d lose at least two hours. She’d be here until midnight. But better to work here than drink alone at home.
Iris’s voice sliced through the silence. “Which cops are you calling?”
“Garrison.”
“Oh, he’ll be so thrilled to talk to you again.” Sarcasm dripped from the words. “Few have seen that man mad but you managed to accomplish that feat when you got his suspect acquitted.”
Iris referred to the Dixon case. After the verdict, Garrison had been angry, but his partner, Kier, had been the one that had cornered her later on the courthouse steps and called her scum. She’d shrugged it off for Kier’s benefit but the detective’s words had left a bitter taste in her mouth.
“We’re all big boys and girls, Iris. I’m just offering them information. ”
She retrieved Garrison’s number from her cell and hit Send. He picked up on the second ring.
“Detective Garrison.”
“Detective. Angie Carlson with Wellington and James.”
“Yes, Ms. Carlson.”
Ice crackled through the phone. Clearly, deep emotions simmered in the detective. “What can I do for you?”
She brushed a strand of hair from her face. “One of my clients has information that might be of use to you.”
“Really? I can’t wait to hear this one.” Normally, he didn’t let his frustration or anger show.
“I wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t credible.”
“Shoot.”
“One of my clients appears to have stumbled upon a murder in progress, or at least that’s what the guy said. Anyway, he believes the killer burned his victim.”
“Say that again,” Garrison said.
“He says your victim might have been burned.”
A heavy silence hung in the air for a moment. “Did he say anything else?”
“Nope. The rest he’ll tell you in person.” She expected him to laugh it off.
“I’ll meet with him.”
Angie buried her shock. “He said Fort Ward in one hour.”
“I’ll meet you at the entrance in one hour.”
“Great.”
“Carlson, don’t speak to the media about any of this. If it leaks, your client doesn’t get a deal.”
The menace in his voice had her hackles rising a little. “You’ve got my silence until the meeting.”
Chapter 7
Tuesday, April 4, 8:47 A.M.
The image of the pale woman with full slack-jawed lips and high cheekbones niggled Eva’s mind. Who was she? Why did she seem so familiar? It bothered her that she shared a sense of connection with this woman—this murdered woman. Her only alibi was Bruce Radford and he’d never help her. If the cops really dug into her past they’d learn about her record.
Damn.
She had nothing to be ashamed of or anything to feel guilty about. The law should be on her side in this matter. But too many years in prison had taught hard lessons. Right did not always win.
Her hands trembling, she jerked open the back door to the kitchen and found that King had peeled most of the potatoes and had set them in a pot on the stove to boil. Whistling the theme to Gilligan’s Island, he appeared happy as he always did. She never could figure out how the guy remained so positive.
She was surprised to see Bobby sitting on a stool at the end of the butcher-block countertop. He ate a bagel with cream cheese and had a half-full glass of milk in front of him. “Bobby, I figured you’d be at school now.”
“I’m sick. King said I could stay home with him and Merlin.”
“Merlin?”
“The cat,” King said. “Bobby and I went out and got cat supplies.”
“You’ve caught it? ”
“Not yet,” King said.
“But we will.” Excitement sparked in Bobby’s eyes.
When she’d been a kid, she’d never missed school. Her mother had seen skipping as akin to waste. And one of her mother’s old admonishments rose in her before she caught herself. Let the kid have a day with the kitten.
Bobby glanced up from his bagel. In the morning light she could see a sprinkle of freckles on the bridge of his nose. “King says Merlin eats like a horse.”
King glanced toward Eva as she shrugged off her jacket. “Merlin eats more than you do.”
Eva smiled. “That’s saying a lot.”
“Remember when you first tripped through my front door?” King spoke easily, as if they’d broken bread a thousand times before. “You ate all the leftover meat loaf I had.” He looked at Bobby, his lips twisted into awry smile. “Drank five glasses of milk—nearly a half gallon.”
When she’d showed up at King’s she’d not eaten much for a couple of days. The bus ride from Richmond had stretched from the expected two hours to four thanks to traffic snarls. The thick air on the bus coupled with constant stopping and fears of returning home had twisted her stomach into knots. But when she’d arrived at King’s and smelled his meat loaf her stomach had growled with hunger.
Eva sat on the stool next to Bobby and spread cream cheese on her bagel. “These are great, King. I love fresh bagels.”
“I never met anyone that didn’t like bagels. Glad I got extra.” King kept his tone even and light as he continued to chop. Both pretended this was just another day and this kid who had just dropped out of nowhere belonged at the edge of the table eating a bagel.
“Good call.” She took a couple more bites. “So what’s on the menu for tonight?”
King laughed. “Potatoes. Wings and the usual burgers and chili dogs. Good bar fare.” The pub had a limited selection but “the eats were good and cheap,” as King enjoyed saying.
“Let me know what you need done today. I don’t have any subpoena deliveries.”
“That reminds me, that Luke fellow called. He wanted to know how the delivery went. He also sa
id the cops called asking if you had a job last night.”
Garrison had wasted no time. “I’ll give him a call back.”
King tossed her an annoyed glance over the top of his half glasses. “I don’t like that fellow.”
Refusing to engage in an old argument, she popped some bagel in her mouth. “He’s okay.”
“He puts you at risk. Tosses you the worst jobs he has on his books. Almost as if he wants you to find trouble.”
“They are the best-paying jobs.”
“Because nobody wants them, Eva. And,” he said, lowering his voice, “he’s a little too well acquainted with you. ”
“What’s that mean?” Bobby asked.
“He wants to date Eva,” King said.
“He won’t,” Eva said. Life was complicated enough right now without a man mucking it up.
Aware that Bobby was studying their volley of conversation as if it were a tennis match, she shrugged and tossed the kid a smile. “I’ll buzz him this morning.”
King swallowed his retort when he caught Bobby’s gaze. He grunted and lapsed into silence for several minutes before saying, “So how did your errands go this morning?” He didn’t mention the fire, mindful of Bobby.
“Fine,” she said, glancing to the boy who still stared at them both, trying to figure them out. “Didn’t pick up anything new. ”
“Really?”
She inclined her head toward the kid. “I might try back later. ”
King grunted, clearly not happy. “Maybe tomorrow. ”
Eva tore another piece of bagel but didn’t eat it. “I can go today. ”
He shrugged his big shoulders. “No rush. That reminds me,” King said. “You got a letter. Came in the mail yesterday. Just got it from the P.O. box this morning.”
He dug under his big white apron into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a rumpled brown letter. He handed it to her.
A frown creased her brow as she glanced at the simple bold handwriting. Her name, King’s post office box and no return address. Who would ever know she lived at King’s?
Refusing to borrow trouble she tore open the back flap with her thumbnail and pulled out the neatly creased newspaper article. The paper was brittle and yellowed on the edges.