She hesitated a moment as she thought about it. "It was great. I like my job. He was kind, never raised his voice, and he never once harassed me. Though I'm not sure I would have minded if he did," she said with a slightly sassy eyebrow.
"Did he have any enemies? Disgruntled clients?”
"He handled a lot of divorce cases. What do you think? Let's just say you don't make a lot of friends on the opposing team.”
"Can you think of anyone in particular who may have wanted to harm Mr. Keating?”
"There was a guy in here a few months ago who threatened Mr. Keating," Leanne said. "Trent was handling the woman's divorce. She took that man to the cleaners. He came in here and made his displeasure known. I thought they were going to come to blows." Then she muttered aside. "Truth be told, I think Trent may have crossed some ethical boundaries with that one," she said with a raised eyebrow.
“He was sleeping with his client?”
She shrugged, but she knew. “Who can say for sure?”
"You remember the guy’s name?”
Leanne’s mouth tightened and her brow knitted as she thought. "Harrison. I think his name was Ben. I can look it up in the files.”
"I’d appreciate that," I said.
"Is it okay if I get on my computer now?" she asked, motioning to her desk. "I don't want to interfere with the investigation."
"Why don’t you hold off until forensics finishes up?”
She nodded.
It finally clicked where I’d seen the name before. I asked Leanne, "Did Mr. Keating represent Tiffany Madison?”
"I can't discuss clients, you understand."
"So she was a client?”
Leanne nodded.
I shared a look with JD.
We excused ourselves and stepped back into Trent's office. I moved around the desk to the body and searched his pockets. I pulled out his phone, then held the screen in front of his face. The trick worked about half the time.
The security screen unlocked.
With access to the phone, I sifted through the recent calls and texts. I took screenshots of the list, then sent it to my phone, then from my phone to Isabella. There were a number of calls to the same phone over the last several weeks.
I had a theory brewing in my mind.
Brenda and her crew bagged the body and transferred the remains to a gurney. The news crews got their money shot as Brenda wheeled the body outside.
A forensic investigator found a strand of dark hair not far from the desk. I was cautiously optimistic. But in a high-traffic office like this, it could have belonged to anyone.
We wrapped up at the scene, and Paris confronted us again as we stepped outside.
I still didn't have much to say.
I talked to Erickson on the sidewalk, away from the cameras.
“I’ve spoken to all the neighbors,” he said. “No doorbell footage. The neighbor across the street thinks she saw someone at the house around the time of the murder, but she couldn’t give me a description. She didn’t have her glasses. Her name is Joyce Miller, if you want to talk to her.”
We walked across the street to talk to Joyce. She was 77 years old with stark white hair, fair skin, and thick black-framed glasses. She had a pear-shaped figure and wore a royal blue shirt.
I flashed my badge and made introductions as she stood on the sidewalk by the mailbox, watching the chaos.
