With luck, she would not be a Nazi, although that was never guaranteed. Welcome to modern America, where Nazis now roamed free.
Sam was clearly thinking along the same lines as Jules pulled into the parking garage beneath the lawyer’s building. “If she sucks,” he said, “we could just find some random Emily Johnson—give the money to her.”
Jules glanced at Sam before he backed into one of the narrow parking spots marked GUESTS. “I’m pretty sure our job—and our professional reputation—requires us tonotdo that.”
“Did Dead Milt ever work with Robin?”
“No, he’d already been retired for years.” Jules turned off the car.
Sam reached into the backseat for his jacket. “How about Milt Junior? Is he in the business, too?”
“In Hollywood?” Jules confirmed what Sam meant as they headed for the stairs to the building above them. “I honestly don’t know, but Robin says he’s never methimeither. I mean, that he remembers.” He didn’t have to explain—Sam knew quite well that Robin’s career as a movie star was clearly divided between pre- and post-sobriety. “I haven’t had a chance to check with Jane. This all happened way too fast.” Robin’s sister was a film producer in her own right. She knew everyone and could be a good source of information.
The stairwell they were in led to a door to the outside. They had to walk around to the front of the building and go through a revolving door into an upscale lobby—modern and clean. It screamed of high-rents—and high-rent clients.
As they headed toward a bank of elevators, Jules saw a small, tasteful sign quietly announcing that there was an empty office for lease on the fourteenth floor. Sam pointed to it as they passed, murmuring, “Over my dead body.”
Jules laughed as he pushed the button for the elevator. God, this was weird. He was going to go upstairs—and not be an FBI agent for the very first time.
“What I don’t get is how someone could make a will and not provide specifics, like the woman’s address or social security number,” Sam said. “A brief description. The tiniest clue.To Emily Johnson, my favorite stripper at the Alley Cat Bar and Grill. I mean, sure, my will lists Alyssa, and then Haley and Ash, but it’s clear who they are. But if, say, I had something—a car or a motorcycle that I wanted to give to, I don’t know, Mark Jenkins? I’d be damn specific about which Mark Jenkins I meant.”
“Are you trying to drown out the noise in my head?” Jules asked.
“Little bit. Is it working?”
“Eh,” Jules said. “Not really.”
The elevator door opened with a ding, and Jules followed Sam inside.
“If it’s any help, I hate this shit, too,” Sam confessed.
“So...” Jules said, “Let’s do it together, for a living...?”
“No, no, I meantthisshit,” Sam clarified, making a motion to the space around them. “Client interface.” He shook his head. “It’s outside my comfort zone. I mean, I can do it. Of course I can. I can live through anything. Firefight, dentist appointment... Walk in, get it over with, walk back out, still alive but with a headache.”
Jules had to smile at the idea that, for Sam, a firefight—a literal gun battle—was in the same subset as a cavity filling.
Or a client meeting.
“And while we’re kinda on the subject,” Sam continued. “I call not it.”
Ding!
The elevator opened onto the elegantly hushed floor for Ernest B. Harper, Esquire and Associates.
Jules held the door-open button as he turned to look questioningly at his tall friend.
“Team leader,” Sam explained, then repeated as he pointed to himself, “Not it.” He pointed at Jules. “It.”
“Is this... really how we’re doing this?” Jules asked.
“Shit, yeah,” Sam said. “It’s a long-standing Troubleshooters tradition.”
“You are such a liar.”
“Ask Alyssa,” Sam said.
“Oh, I will.” Jules said. “But... I thought we were partners on this case.”
