Private #1 Suspect (Private 2)

I nodded, thought about my blood-soaked bed. My house forever colored by that blood.

There was a newspaper on the seat beside me. A big photo on page one. It took me a second to realize that the shackled man standing in line for the TTCF bus was me.

The headline read “Morgan Freed on Bail.” The subhead was “Accused Killer Walks on Twenty Million Bail.”

The lede paragraph was about Colleen’s murder, then a few lines about Phil Spector, Robert Blake, O. J. Simpson. Other LA killers.

“When’s the trial?” I asked Caine.

“We don’t have a date. Not yet,” Caine said. “And we don’t want one too soon.”

I knew what he meant. All we had in our favor was me telling the cops I didn’t do it. Another way of saying we had jack shit.

The car waited for me outside the Beverly Hills Sun. I went up to my opulent, gilded room. I stripped down, stood under the six shower heads in the travertine marble stall. Those streams of clean hot water almost resurrected me.

Thirty minutes later, about noon, I walked through the doors of Private and loped up the stairs.

Cody’s workstation was vacant, but there was a client pacing the open space outside my office. It was Dewey Arnold, lead attorney for Hamilton-Price, the biggest sports agency in the world.

“Dewey, come in. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I don’t need to come in, Jack.”

“No?”

I had been headed toward my office, but I stopped, turned around, and looked into Dewey Arnold’s craggy face.

I had known Dewey since I was a teenager. His firm had represented me during my one-season shot at professional football. Hamilton-Price had been my father’s client. Hamilton was still friends with my uncle Fred, who co-owned the Oakland Raiders.

Hamilton-Price had been with Private for the past five years.

“Let me just say it, Jack. You’re fired. We don’t want to work with you anymore.”

“Dewey. Come in. Let’s talk about this. I’m not guilty of anything. It’s a—”

“I’ve heard. It’s a frame,” he said. “We don’t care. We don’t like the stink. I settled up with accounting and I’m putting out a press release this afternoon. We’re moving our business to Private Security.”

“You’re going to my brother?”

“Out of loyalty to your family. Hamilton said to tell you good luck.”

If you say the word luck and put a lot of power behind that ck sound, spit comes out of your mouth. I wiped my cheek as Dewey Arnold stalked toward the elevator.

CHAPTER 63

I TURNED AWAY from Dewey Arnold and saw a large black woman coming out of my office. She was pretty, late twenties, a good 225 pounds, five foot eleven in flats. She wore a white blouse with some lace in the V neck, kelly-green pants. There was a scared look on her face—but, then, the shower hadn’t washed away the past few days. I still looked scary.

More to the point, I didn’t know her.

So what was she doing in my office?

“I’m Valerie Kenney,” she said. “Val. I’m Cody’s replacement.”

She stuck out her hand and I shook it, but I didn’t get it. Cody had said he’d stay for another week. He’d told me that I would interview his top three candidates.

“Cody wanted to break me in. Give me some training while he’s still here,” Valerie said. “He’s setting up some meetings for me right now.”

“Please come into my office,” I said.