Irreparable Harm by Melissa F. Miller Page B

his speech, let alone wrecked his car. He used to brag about threading the needle.”
    “What’s that?”
    “When he lived in the South Hills, he had to drive through the Fort Pitt tunnel every night. You know it?”
    The tunnel was the handiwork of a city planner who’d been born to design carnival rides. Southbound, it was a bi-level bridge, with two lanes of traffic shooting into the two levels, while ramps from major highways fed into it from east and west. It was nerve wracking to navigate while sober, let alone after having had a few.
    “Sure.”
    “Peterson could speed through that approach and the tunnel after shutting down a bar. No problem.”
    Connelly seemed to accept this navigational feat as evidence of the dead lawyer’s drink driving prowess.
    “You think Irwin had your alcoholic boss killed?”
    “I don’t know. The timing’s pretty convenient.”
    “Did he know you talked to Warner?”
    “Not sure. Like I told you, I was supposed to go see Mrs. Calvaruso. It felt too, I don’t know, sleazy to pump a widow for information the same day she learns her husband’s died. So, I left Noah a message saying I was going to call Patriotech instead. I don’t know whether he got it.”
    “Let’s assume he was murdered. It’s hard to believe Irwin would have the reach to find him and have him killed from D.C. So, odds are he has a local partner. Any candidates spring to mind?”
    Connelly sounded uninterested, almost bored, like he knew the answer would be no, but he was asking anyway because that’s what a good investigator did.
    “Mickey Collins.” The name clicked into place like the last tumbler of a combination lock. “It’s gotta be.”
    “The plaintiff’s attorney?”
    “Right,” she said, shot through with excitement now. She wasn’t sure which was racing faster—her heart or her mind. “It explains everything. Why he didn’t name Calvaruso as his class rep, why he flipped out when his associate mentioned Irwin’s name. He’s in on it.”
    “In on what exactly?”
    In on the RAGS link application. But, she couldn’t tell Connelly about that. Sasha caught herself before she pounded her fist on the steering wheel.
    “It’s a long story.”
    The Starbucks mermaid flashed by on a sign advertising their approach to Breezewood, the self-proclaimed “Town of Motels.” It was an ugly, neon commercial stretch of fast food joints, gas stations, and, as promised, ample cheap hotels offering free cable and clean rooms on their magnetic-lettered signs.
    The stretch was an anomaly that resulted when I-70 was built in the 1960s. Apparently, the then-prevailing rules made it prohibitively expensive to connect I-70 directly to I-76, the Pennsylvania Turnpike. So, the little strip, less than a mile long, served to feed traffic from one interstate to the other.
    As Sasha had learned at a mind-numbing transportation law continuing legal education seminar, the rules had long since been loosened. But the commercial enterprises that relied on the travelers forced to drive through the junction had lobbied hard and successfully to prevent re-routing. That left Breezewood as one of only two numbered interstate roads in the United States to have a traffic light. She forgot where the other one was located.
    Sasha wondered if she should share the town’s tale with the American history major in the backseat. If she did, it would be the first time she had put her transportation law knowledge to use. For some reason, her continuing education requirement snuck up on her every year and she ended up at seminars like transportation law or elder rights—things that had no relevance to her practice.
    She opted to skip the history of Breezewood and said, “I need a coffee.”
    She didn’t give him a chance to respond. Just jerked the car into the left lane and sped toward the green and white coffee shack. She could buy some time. And caffeine.
    He waited in the car while she used the restroom and bought a Venti