Least Wanted (Sam McRae Mystery 2)

“You do child support cases?” she asked, taking the seat she’d vacated an hour before.

“Yes.”

“I need a lawyer,” she said. “My girl’s father owe me child support. I wanna do sumpin’ ’bout it.”

“I’d be happy to help you,” I said, doubting my own words. There was no conflict of interest that I could see. And I could always use the work. “I would have to charge my regular fee, though.”

I thought that might end the discussion. “I can work that out,” she said. “My brother’ll lend me the money.”

“Okay,” I said. I wondered if she’d discussed it with her brother and why she hadn’t asked him for help when she failed to qualify for public defender services. I decided to get some case particulars, since I always give an initial free consult.

According to Shanae, Rodney Fisher had acknowledged paternity of Tina a few years after she was born, though he and Shanae had never married. He’d paid child support, not always regularly, since then. Shanae said he was making more money now and she wanted to sue for past-due support and seek an increase in his monthly obligation.

“Rodney making way more money than he say he does.” A worldly-wise smirk creased her face. “Under-the-table money, you see what I’m sayin’?”

“I get your drift. How do you know this? Off-the-books earnings can be difficult, if not impossible, to prove.”

“I got a friend been looking into this. He can tell you. See, Rodney own a pawn shop. I think a lot of money coming in that ain’t making it onto the books. Unnerstan?”

“I’d like to talk to your friend,” I said. “And see any documentation you have on his income, along with a copy of the child support order.”

“Oh, I can get that for you. Make me sick. I had to take another job, since Giant cut back my hours. Sons of bitches. And that worthless niggah think he can screw me outta my child support. Well, we’ll just see ’bout that.”

“As we discussed, it’ll be three hundred dollars to handle your daughter’s case. For your case, I’ll have to ask for a two thousand dollar retainer up front,” I said. “If the retainer’s used up, I’ll bill you monthly. I need payment by cashier’s check or money order.”

Without batting an eye, she said, “Okay.” I gritted my teeth thinking about this woman’s temerity to go poor-mouthing for a referral from the public defender’s office. Should have asked for four grand on the child support case.

I pulled up the retainer agreement for Tina’s case and a release form to get access to her school information. I also opened a standard form for Shanae’s case, and typed in the retainer amount before printing the papers.

I told her to read them over and invited her to ask questions. She read and signed them without comment. Just to be sure, I reviewed the main terms with her. Shanae handed me a $300 money order for Tina’s case. Seeing that she had come with payment in hand made me feel better.

“I’ll start work on your child support case after I get the two thousand dollars,” I reminded Shanae. I made copies of the retainer agreement for her and her brother and handed her another business card.

“All right. Thank you, Ms. McRae.”

Her sudden politeness was a welcome change. “Call me Sam,” I said. “See you later.”

Shanae strode out. It was the last time I saw her alive.

CHAPTER TWO

Assistant State’s Attorney Ellen Martinez was nothing, if not completely organized. When I stopped by her office to talk about Tina Jackson, she retrieved the girl’s file in an instant—a quick walk to a file cabinet and a glance in one drawer. She wore a white suit. I searched for a spot or stray hair and came up empty. People that neat and organized should be shot.

“Tina Jackson. Let’s see.” Martinez rocked in her high-backed chair, flipping through the file. She stopped, her eyebrow arched. “First offense. They might have let her slide at intake, if she hadn’t broken that poor woman’s arm.”

“That was an accident,” I said. “She never meant to hurt her.”

“Little Tina has a mouth on her, too, says here.”

“I think her talk is bigger than her walk.”

Martinez fixed me with a knowing look. “Really? Well, she’s no stranger to the system.”

“I thought you said this was her first offense.”

“It is. I’m talking about social services.” She flipped to another page, placed the file on the desk and tapped a pale pink fingernail on a copy of a court order. “Tina’s mother, Shanae Jackson, was ordered into rehab five years ago. She was a crack addict, selling for extra money. None of this might have come out if it hadn’t been for the abuse.”

“Abuse?”