they’re following up.”
“How is that important?”
“I don’t know that it is, but the Sheriff’s Office missed it in their initial investigation. It could turn out to be an important clue or something your brother’s lawyer uses to raise reasonable doubt. Listen, I’m going to see your brother this afternoon. I wondered if I could come by and see you first. I want to get some background information on him and his wife.”
“I’m in town. Why don’t we meet someplace and talk over lunch?” she asked.
That was fine with me. Time spent with a beautiful woman is time well spent.
“There’s a nice tapas place on International Drive. It’s called Tapas Fantastico. Shall we meet there?” she asked.
I’m more a meat and potatoes sort of guy. The froufrou stuff doesn’t interest me much, but I agreed anyway. “I’ll meet you there at 11:30, if that’s OK. I have one more thing to do,” I suggested.
“That’ll be fine. I’ll get us a table. See you then,” she said and was gone. I looked at the phone for a moment and realized I needed to be careful. I liked Ashton. I liked her a lot and I was forgetting she was a client.
My last call was to the Orange County Corrections Department. I found out Cary Hunt was at the main facility. I had to tell a white lie or two about who I was and why I needed to see him, but was able to make an appointment to see Cary at two forty-five.
My appointment arranged, I coaxed the Honda into gear and headed south. The white Explorer wasn’t far behind.
Ward Barber’s office wasn’t hard to find. It was in a seven story high rise on North Orange near Garland with Ward’s name in thirty-foot high letters on the side of the building. You could see it from I-4. As I pulled up to the valet parking at the Barber Building an eager surfer dude with spiky blond hair jogged toward me. He opened my door and as he handed me a ticket I said, “Can you leave it right there, son? I’m only picking up some papers upstairs.”
Spiky’s face went cold, but he managed to mumble, “Sure buddy, but don’t be long.”
A quick elevator ride to the top floor brought me to an expansive, richly furnished reception lobby where classical piano music filled the air. A shapely blond twenty something with a face full of smile said, “Good morning, sir, how may we help you?” Her greeting dripped southern charm. It must have taken her two months to learn to say that line.
“I’m Mac Everett. Mr. Barber was going to leave some reports for me. On Cary Hunt…”
“Yes, sir. Please have a seat.” I recognize the honey drawl from my call earlier. “Alan will be with you in a moment.” The window dressing could say two prerecorded lines or maybe she wasn’t as dumb as she looked. Naw, it had to be good coaching. I tried to imagine her with a personality. It wasn’t working.
I had thumbed through two copies of SI and Yachting Magazine and was about to leave when Alan appeared.
“Sorry to keep you waiting Mr. Everett,” he said as he crept across the carpeted waiting area.
Alan looked like an effeminate dickhead. His oval face had a slightly pointed chin and a jaw line that seemed unnaturally soft. His dark eyes were small, close together and sat below thin eyebrows that merged above his rounded nose. His mouth was a thin, straight line and seemed to say he was anything but sorry. He combed light brown hair forward until he looked like a sheep dog. The pewter buttons on his navy jacket were polished; his khaki slacks had a razor sharp crease. He was perfectly dressed and wore some fruity aftershave that would gag a maggot. I didn’t trust him. He walked straight, his head held forward. He extended his hand and I accepted his clammy, limp handshake. This man was dangerous. I’d have to be careful.
“I’m Alan, Mr. Barber’s assistant. We spoke on the telephone.” The voice was as cold as the individual behind it was. Mr. Barber regrets he could not be here to meet you. Would
“How is that important?”
“I don’t know that it is, but the Sheriff’s Office missed it in their initial investigation. It could turn out to be an important clue or something your brother’s lawyer uses to raise reasonable doubt. Listen, I’m going to see your brother this afternoon. I wondered if I could come by and see you first. I want to get some background information on him and his wife.”
“I’m in town. Why don’t we meet someplace and talk over lunch?” she asked.
That was fine with me. Time spent with a beautiful woman is time well spent.
“There’s a nice tapas place on International Drive. It’s called Tapas Fantastico. Shall we meet there?” she asked.
I’m more a meat and potatoes sort of guy. The froufrou stuff doesn’t interest me much, but I agreed anyway. “I’ll meet you there at 11:30, if that’s OK. I have one more thing to do,” I suggested.
“That’ll be fine. I’ll get us a table. See you then,” she said and was gone. I looked at the phone for a moment and realized I needed to be careful. I liked Ashton. I liked her a lot and I was forgetting she was a client.
My last call was to the Orange County Corrections Department. I found out Cary Hunt was at the main facility. I had to tell a white lie or two about who I was and why I needed to see him, but was able to make an appointment to see Cary at two forty-five.
My appointment arranged, I coaxed the Honda into gear and headed south. The white Explorer wasn’t far behind.
Ward Barber’s office wasn’t hard to find. It was in a seven story high rise on North Orange near Garland with Ward’s name in thirty-foot high letters on the side of the building. You could see it from I-4. As I pulled up to the valet parking at the Barber Building an eager surfer dude with spiky blond hair jogged toward me. He opened my door and as he handed me a ticket I said, “Can you leave it right there, son? I’m only picking up some papers upstairs.”
Spiky’s face went cold, but he managed to mumble, “Sure buddy, but don’t be long.”
A quick elevator ride to the top floor brought me to an expansive, richly furnished reception lobby where classical piano music filled the air. A shapely blond twenty something with a face full of smile said, “Good morning, sir, how may we help you?” Her greeting dripped southern charm. It must have taken her two months to learn to say that line.
“I’m Mac Everett. Mr. Barber was going to leave some reports for me. On Cary Hunt…”
“Yes, sir. Please have a seat.” I recognize the honey drawl from my call earlier. “Alan will be with you in a moment.” The window dressing could say two prerecorded lines or maybe she wasn’t as dumb as she looked. Naw, it had to be good coaching. I tried to imagine her with a personality. It wasn’t working.
I had thumbed through two copies of SI and Yachting Magazine and was about to leave when Alan appeared.
“Sorry to keep you waiting Mr. Everett,” he said as he crept across the carpeted waiting area.
Alan looked like an effeminate dickhead. His oval face had a slightly pointed chin and a jaw line that seemed unnaturally soft. His dark eyes were small, close together and sat below thin eyebrows that merged above his rounded nose. His mouth was a thin, straight line and seemed to say he was anything but sorry. He combed light brown hair forward until he looked like a sheep dog. The pewter buttons on his navy jacket were polished; his khaki slacks had a razor sharp crease. He was perfectly dressed and wore some fruity aftershave that would gag a maggot. I didn’t trust him. He walked straight, his head held forward. He extended his hand and I accepted his clammy, limp handshake. This man was dangerous. I’d have to be careful.
“I’m Alan, Mr. Barber’s assistant. We spoke on the telephone.” The voice was as cold as the individual behind it was. Mr. Barber regrets he could not be here to meet you. Would
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