“Tricks and fly balls,” I say. “Be aware: that’s his MO.”
“I will,” she says, slipping on her raincoat. “Nice touch with the picture. I noticed the way Whittamore kept glancing at it.”
“I’m Dwayde’s voice, but I wanted him to have a face.”
“Glad you caught this one, Dee. I always enjoy working with you.”
“Same here,” I say, hitching the leather strap of my tote bag over my shoulder. We’ve worked together a few times now, and I respect her honest, straightforward approach.
“The Torreses filled me in on the visit from Dwayde’s perspective. Too bad we can’t use any of it. Especially that he ran.”
“I’m not sure Whittamore would have been swayed by that absent any evidence against the Franklins.”
She types something into her phone. “Just making a couple of notes from the meeting to follow up on. Isabelle mentioned that you think Dwayde remembers things about Kentucky that he’s not saying. What’s that about?” she asks, looking up.
“Intuition. And the fact that there’s no curiosity or interest on Dwayde’s part, just flat out resistance. It’s not consistent with them being total strangers. I think he remembers them or else Joyce Franklin filled his head with enough to make him hate them. Either way, I want to know what it is. In the meantime, we’re working to get Dwayde to open up, and I’ve got my assistant researching the Franklins and Joyce to see what I might find out. So far, the Franklins look squeaky clean.”
“That’s what I’ve found too. Makes you wonder,” Calista says as we head down the corridor to the front doors of the family courthouse, our heels clicking against the polished mahogany hardwood. “We should meet up in the next couple of weeks to compare notes and go over our witness lists since we’ll be calling on some of the same people.”
“Sounds good.”
“Can’t say I’ll mind interviewing Micah Peters.”
That nearly trips me up, but I recover my composure and keep one foot steadily moving in front of the other.
“I met him once.” Her voice rises with excitement. “It was during a conference with Victor and Isabelle. He inquired about hiring a lawyer for Dwayde. I recommended you, of course. Though I’m surprised I could remember my own name, let alone yours. I found it hard not to be starstruck in his presence. But he was actually quite down to earth and charming. I suppose his friendship with the Torreses keeps him grounded. But even so, he’s way out of my league. Men who look like Micah Peters don’t date ordinary women. They date models and actresses. And usually more than one at a time.”
I swallow hard while Calista continues, oblivious to my inner commotion. “Interviewing him will be fun, though. Fodder for my fantasies. A girl can dream, right?” She waggles her eyebrows.
We push through the heavy double doors, and a gust of wind hits us. The temperature has dipped significantly in the past hour. At the bottom of the stairs, Calista puts her thumb near her ear and her pinkie near her mouth. “Gotta run, but I’ll call you,” she says before hurrying off to her train. Within seconds, she’s swallowed up in the crowd of rush hour pedestrians spilling out of the surrounding buildings.
My office is several blocks away. With public parking a rare and expensive commodity in downtown Chicago, I left my car behind and took a cab. Unfortunately, my office isn’t located on the subway loop. The rent on those properties was too high when I started out. And now that I can afford more, I love my loft too much to leave. Even so, I don’t relish competing for a taxi. But a six-block walk in three-inch heels is a daunting prospect.
Shivering, I look up at the dark, fluttering sky and wish I’d had the foresight to wear a trench coat. With luck, the anticipated storm will hold off as promised until later tonight. When I reach the edge of the sidewalk, I step out between two parked cars. The door to a sleek graphite steel Porsche opens. Curious, I glance over at the emerging driver.
MICK STANDS FOUR FEET AWAY. Neither of us moves. The damp air grows thicker while a tempest riots inside me.
“What are you doing here, Mick?”
Before he can answer, there’s a shout. “Micah Peters!” A man comes barreling straight toward us. It happens in a split second. Mick yanks me behind him, slamming me against his back. My tote bag falls to the pavement, and my hands go to his waist to steady myself. I can feel the tension pumping off him, feel him poised for battle.
But it seems the man has friendly intentions. “Micah Peters! I’m a big fan,” he declares. “Followed you since college, man. Steve Butler.”
“Appreciate it,” Mick says pleasantly, but I hear the tightness in his voice.
“Sorry if I scared your lady friend. But you’re Micah Peters.”
My pulse is still clicking a million beats. I’m not the damsel-in-distress type. But Mick’s command of the situation and his willingness to sacrifice himself for me? I’m melting.
Steve whips out his phone. “Could I get a picture with you?”
Mick hesitates: “Would you mind making it quick? I’d rather not draw any more attention.”
“Yeah. No problem.” Steve, who’s as wide as a receiver but several inches shorter than Mick, comes to stand beside him. Steve’s face is red with excitement. He tilts his phone upward and snaps a few selfies. “Thanks, man!” he says, vigorously shaking Mick’s hand. “I can’t believe it. Micah Peters,” he repeats as if the moment were surreal. “My poker buddies will get a kick out of these. We went into mourning when you retired, man. You were a class act.” He leaves, all smiles.
“You okay?” Mick asks.
I regulate my voice. “I’m fine now. Does that happen often?”
