That was only two years ago. I took a different path out of law school by accepting an offer to join the DA’s office. The first couple of years after school, Ben and I faced off in the courtroom: me prosecuting, him defending. We were evenly matched, both of us stacking up an equal number of wins and losses.
Ben pulled me aside after a particularly grueling trial where he managed to come out with the win and offered me a job. He knew I was getting burned out. The DA’s office is full of lawyers trying to make names for themselves and move up the ranks. We were overworked, underpaid, and generally treated like shit. Ben’s offer was good. Great even. Not only was the money a game changer but the idea of being my own boss was something I couldn’t pass up.
It was strange the first time I sat on the other side of the room, defending a guy who had been arrested for grand theft auto. He said he didn’t do it and I decided I would believe him. The not-guilty verdict feltunsettling. I was so used to dreading that outcome that it took some time before I was relieved to hear it.
Being on both sides has come in handy, though. I know how the prosecution works. How they think. The strategies they use.
And that’s why I know Sullivan will be calling soon to request that Camille sit down for a formal interview. I need to clear my calendar and get everything in order so I’m next to her when she’s questioned.
I push my empty glass away. “What the hell, Ben.”
I’m not an overly emotional guy, but I feel like I’ve got at least a dozen different feelings rolling around inside of me—grief the strongest one.
Regardless of all the things Ben and I disagreed on or thought differently about, it’s a punch to the gut he’s gone. Not just gone…murdered. I can’t wrap my head around it. Can’t stop thinking about who would have done that to him and why. What’s the motive? It’s got my mind creating lists. A list of possible suspects. Was it a client Ben represented who was found guilty? Was it a client Ben repped who was found innocent and a family member or friend of the victim got their own form of revenge? Was it someone outside of our practice he had business with that ended poorly?
Was it Camille?
I’m surprised when that last question finds its way into my stream of consciousness. As much as I don’t want to think about that possibility, I’d be a fool if I didn’t at least consider it.
I force myself to focus on the work even though it is overwhelming to think about. More lists start to form. A list of his cases and whether it’s best to absorb them into my already full workload or pass them off to another firm. A list of business ventures and assets Ben has and what needsto be done with them if I find I’m still listed in his will as the executor of his estate.
I move my mouse around to wake up my computer. First thing I do is pull up the folder we created in case of an emergency, opening the scanned document of the latest version of Ben’s will, where I’m a little surprised to still be listed as the executor.
Once I’ve familiarized myself with his last wishes, I close out the document. I stare at the file folder that’s sitting at the corner of my desk and decide one more drink won’t kill me. With a fresh bourbon in hand, I pull that folder closer. I toy with the edge, trying to decide if I really want to look at it again while I’m in this headspace. Before I can think any more about it, I flip it open.
It’s not any easier seeing it now than it was when Ben first gave it to me last week.
It’s a single sheet of his letterhead that states he’s officially starting the process of dissolving our partnership, confirming how screwed I am since he was the founding member. I would be forced out and not able to take any clients with me.
Or I guess how screwed I was.
Because he died before the dissolution went any further than this notice, it’s like it never happened. And the firm is mine based on the agreement we made when we created the partnership.
And there’s the other emotion that’s been simmering underneath all that grief.
Relief.
Chapter 9
Aubrey
The Alibi
Saturday, October 10
Camille drives off in the old Honda just as I get the Range Rover cranked. I’ve never owned a car, and today will be the first time I’ve been in, much less driven, one as fancy as this. I can’t believe she’s trusting me with it.
But trust is a funny thing. She didn’t hesitate giving me her car or her platinum card, but her phone was a different story. I have to carry it around with me all day but it will remain locked. The trust doesn’t extend to me reading her messages.
I get it, though. I wouldn’t let her read mine either.
Before I back out of the parking spot, I remind myself of the schedule we mapped out last week at Doug’s just before closing one night. First up, there’s a festival being held in the park near the St. Francisville Inn, the hotel where she’s staying. From noon to two p.m., I’m supposed to wanderthat area and buy things from three different vendors using her credit card.
I pull out of the gas station onto the main highway that runs through town, tugging on the wig when I see it’s a bit askew in the rearview mirror.
But instead of turning right to head to the park, I turn left.
Camille doesn’t know it yet but I’m going off script. She’s got her iPad to answer her texts, so there’s a good chance she can see the location of her phone too, and I’m sure she’ll ask me about this later. And later is when I’ll worry about that.
