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.”