“Coffee, sweet Jesus, yes, we need more coffee,” Sam told Jules as he looked in the side mirror and waited for the traffic to roar past their rental car. “Text me if you think of anything else.”
Jules answered his cell phone, “Cassidy,” watching Sam open his door and swiftly get out of the car, jogging around the back and onto the sidewalk.
“Oh, good, I was afraid we were going to play telephone tag.” It was Ernest Harper himself, clearly calling from his car. And Jules had been so sure Greg-the-receptionist’sMr. Harper’s left the officehad been a flat-out lie. “Have you found our Emily?”
“Not yet,” Jules said. “We werehoping we could swing by for another quick meeting. Maybe first thing tomorrow morning?”
“I’m afraid I’ll be in court all morning tomorrow, and then I’m out of town for the weekend. I don’t expect to be back until, well, next Wednesday at the earliest. Can it wait until then?”
“Hmm,” Jules said. It was more than a little strange, coming from the man who’d been pushing hard for this to be handled ASAP. “I’d rather not wait. Do you have a few minutes to talk right now? A few questions have come up that we’re hoping you can clarify.”
He’d really wanted to do this face to face, with Sam’s eyes on the lawyer, too, with the former SEAL’s highly tuned bullshit meter operating at full strength. He leaned in his seat to look out the windshield toward the grocery store, but Sam had double-timed it down to the corner to catch the walk signal and was nowhere in sight. He was probably already inside of the Ralph’s, embracing his inner eleven-year-old and loading seventeen large boxes of Cocoa Puffs into his shopping cart, go figure.
“I’ve got about five minutes,” Harper said. “Maybe more if the traffic gets worse. What am I saying? This time of day, the traffic always gets worse.” He chuckled and sounded almost human for a change.
So Jules took a chance. “That’s great, and... I’m sorry but I’m in the car, too. My note-taking options are limited and my partner’s off on an errand. I’m going to record our conversation, so we don’t have to bother you again.” Don’t ask, just do. He hit record on his phone.
There was, however, silence. From the lawyer. Because yeah.
Jules cheerfully plunged ahead. “First things first. I’m still waiting for a contact number for Clayton Spencer.”
“Mmm, yes, sorry, I’m afraid that file is back in the office.”
“If you could just pass that info along to Greg—I won’t have to bother you.”
“Of course,” Harper said. “I’ll do that.”
Like hell he would, but okay.
“So we just spoke to the housekeeper, Rene,” Jules said, “who mentioned that Mr. Devonshire had some issues with his son after Milt’s release from prison—that would be eleven years ago, right around the time Milt got kicked out of the house. I’m assuming that’s what happened, rather than Milt choosing to leave as he told us on Wednesday—please do correct me if I’m wrong.”
As he’d hoped, Harper couldn’t resist shit-talking Wig-Milt, even on tape, but he tsked and sighed a bit before he said, “I think that’s safe to assume. I never got the complete story from Mr. Devonshire, but, yes, it’s highly likely that he...invitedhis son to leave.”
“Was there bad blood between them?” Jules asked. Outside the rental car, the traffic was getting heavy, a red light at the intersection backing things up all the way to where he was parked. In the car next to him—a bright yellow Volkswagen—an older woman was loudly arguing with what looked to be her daughter, their voices carrying in through the window that Sam had left open. He’d taken the key, so Jules couldn’t put the window up. Instead he cupped his hand around his phone to keep their angry words out. “I mean, aside from the no-doubt very strong feelings Mr. Devonshire surely had when his only child admitted that he was guilty of manslaughter. To be frank, I’d like to know more about the alleged death threats from Milt Junior that precipitated the need for the heightened security at the estate.”
More silence from Harper before he oh-so-carefully said, “And this pertains to the case how exactly...?”
“Being thorough in our investigation,” Jules told the lawyer as the light turned green and angry mommy and her offspring pulled away, “increases our odds of finding Emily as quickly as possible. We’re looking at Mr. Devonshire’s entire life in great detail—and his relationship with his son, particularly in his final years, has created quite a few questions. Was Emily someone he turned to for help of some kind, due to thenew experienceof having his son threaten his life? Or was thenew experiencerelated to having a son in prison—that must’ve been quite a shock for someone of Mr. Devonshire’s standing. Or?—”
“Understood,” Harper said. “Again, Mr. Devonshire kept the details private, but hewasconcerned for his safety. Despite reaching some kind of questionable financial settlement with Milt Junior.”
“Questionablefinancial settlement,” Jules repeated.
“Mr. Devonshire insisted that the money was a gift to his son, but... circumstances imply otherwise.” Sniff. “If you look back at the financial records from that time, I’m sure you’ll see it,” Harper continued. “A five million dollar payment—I believe it was in two separate checks—to Milt Junior on Mr. Devonshire’s tax documents from that year.”
Fivemillion.
Holy shitballs. Jules managed to not say that aloud. He also didn’t shout about the fact that Harper was surely only telling him this because Wig-Milt had given them full access to those financial documents. The lawyer no doubt figured he’d drop this news now rather than leaving them to wonder if he was somehow involved in whatever illegality this was covering up.
A gift.
Of five million dollars.
Okay.
“That’s quite the large sum,” Jules said instead. “To just hand over to—” he said a silent apology to Milt “—you know, a twenty-one-year-old screw-up.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Harper said primly as out on the street the traffic again slowed to a stop.
