Reilly 13 - Dreams of the Dead by Perri O'Shaughnessy Page A

staggering back. He seemed to fill the small office. Well over six feet tall, he had broad shoulders and brought a scent of leather and the outdoors. She reacted to that, partially. She registered a few details; Prada sunglasses, rugged cheeks, creases in his cheeks even though he must be in his midthirties. The smile—whoa! Shiny, happy, expensive dentistry. Harley jacket and jeans, right for the weather. He looked like an advertisement for an outdoorsman. A slender outdoorsman. An elegant man dressed as an outdoorsman?
    “Hello, Mr. Brinkman.”
    He took off the sunglasses and parked them negligently on his head. “Eric, please.” His eyes were blue, the eyebrows darker than his hair, which was cropped short. He gave her a polite smile.
    Sandy, at her computer, watched sidelong while her fingers moved at a hundred words per minute, no doubt on her novel, since Nina hadn’t given her any work this afternoon and the files were in excellent condition.
    Nina held out her hand, also smiling, in her usual greeting to professional strangers. Brinkman looked at her hand, took it, turned it over, and bowed and touched his lips to the palm. He had long, white fingers and a thick gold ring with an onyx stone on the index finger.
    Resisting the urge to pull back her hand, she wished that she had applied some wonderful-smelling hand lotion.
    He returned her hand. “Thanks for seeing me. Phil Strong suggested I stop in.”
    “R-right. Sure. Come in.”
    He followed her into her office.
    “A colleague of mine might join us.” She watched him take in the sliver of lake view, the decor, such as it was, and the banged-up desk.
    “Fine.” He sat down and crossed an ankle over his knee. “My card.” He handed it across the desk to her. The embossed card said only BRINKMAN INVESTIGATIONS with an e-mail address and website. “I’ve seen you in court. You have a way with a cross-exam.”
    Rubbing the card between her fingers, she said, “I’m glad you came. Where’s your office, Mr. Brinkman?”
    “Eric, please. I mostly work the Nevada side. Like to play golf, so I set myself down close to Edgewood Tahoe. I share an office with someone you might know, Ed Quinn?”
    She had heard of Quinn, a security specialist. She nodded. Brinkman went on, “Actually I work mostly out of my home office, or on my boat.”
    “You’re a sailor?”
    “I am. Do you like to sail, Nina? May I—”
    “Sure, Nina’s fine. I don’t get to sail that often. The demands of my practice, you know. Have you been working at Tahoe long?”
    “Just a couple of years. I’m originally from Germany. I was working out of Vancouver before I came here.”
    He continued smiling. His confidence was overwhelming as he looked around her office, studying her certificate from the Monterey College of Law, her admissions to various California state and appellate courts, and the Washoe prints Sandy had hung around the office, but he seemed relaxed and reasonable. Nina wrote him up in her mind as a European with a supplemental income who had visited and fallen in love with Tahoe. There were plenty around, especially among the skiers.
    She had barely sat down when he started talking again. “How is this going to work, Nina? I’ve been working with Lynda Eckhardt, and before her involvement, you know already, I was looking for Jim Strong in connection with an embezzlement. The hearing on the Paradise sale is tomorrow. You’re stepping in very, very late. Will that be a problem for you?”
    “I’ve been in close touch with Lynda. I’m up to speed.”
    “You know that Philip needs me to get to Brazil and get some information? It seems we may be out of time.”
    “No. We’ll get the time for you to go. I’ll get you the time.”
    “Great! Great! I’m glad you’re with us.”
    “Between you and me, Eric, I think you need to assume this is a fraudulent scheme and bring us the details.”
    “Really? You think there’s no way Strong is alive?”
    “I don’t