“Hi, Anna, it’s Clarice.” Even through the phone, the head paralegal’s voice was dignified. “I can’t find any other records of the Devlin case in Scot’s office, which is now Nick’s office, by the way.” She sniffed.
I winced. How long had Clarice and Scot worked together? “Thanks for trying.”
Her voice lowered to a whisper, and it sounded like she cupped a hand around the receiver. “I heard that Scot was released on bond about an hour ago. Maybe you should go talk to him?”
He was out on bond? How had that happened? “Good idea. Would you give me his address?”
“Sure.” She read off his address. “He lives around Lilac Lake toward Boomerang Bay.”
“Thanks. I’ll check in with you later.” I clicked off. Making a mental decision with no debate whatsoever, I turned and walked around the corner, away from the park, and toward the parking lot on the other side of the building. Rose bushes lined the building, just starting to bud. Somebody had placed hay around them for winter survival, which was lazily blowing across the lot now that the snow had dried from it.
I should probably check in with Nick about this, but I really needed to talk to Scot alone. Just once. So I jumped into my Fiat and fought with the ancient seatbelt before giving up and driving onto Justice Road toward Main Street. Even though it was still June, the summer crowd had arrived in town, and I dealt with minor traffic until reaching Lilac Lake Road. Lilac Lake was much larger than my quiet Tamarack Lake, and I wound around it, hoping Scot was home.
The clouds darkened the sky, deepening the color of the lake, which threw up a series of whitecaps. The top was still down on my car, and I ducked lower in the seat to stay warm with the heat blasting.
The homes along the lake were a blend of hand-built cabins that had been in families for decades and mansions of the newly arrived millionaires from other states, mostly California, standing side by side. Scot lived in one of the new gated communities cut into the hillside. Impressive houses stood past the gate, placed on half-acres leading down to the lake. My engine protested a little loudly as I idled near the keypad keeping the gate shut.
Now what? Biting my lip, I pressed the directory, checked out the numbers, and started pushing all of them. It worked on television, so why not?
Nothing happened.
I found Scot’s name and pressed his button.
“What?” he snapped.
“Hey, boss,” I said, my breath coming faster. “It’s Anna. Can I come in? Really need to talk to you.”
“Damn it. Fine.” The speaker crackled, and the gate slowly swung open.
I drove through before he could change his mind. The homes were dark stone, wood doors, and shingled roofed with perfect green landscaping and sprouting purple flowers. I read the uniform numbers on each front post until reaching Scot’s house. The log home was two stories and close to the lake with what had to be a spectacular view. Sucking in fresh spring air for courage, I parked and made my way past cheerful tulips to his heavy wood door.
He opened it before I could knock.
I stepped back. Scot was usually a little grizzly, but the arrest had obviously been tough on him. His normally cleanly shaven face showed white stubble that contrasted eerily with his blood-red eyes. Dark circles stamped hard beneath them. Instead of his usual suit with stained tie, he wore wrinkled jeans and a threadbare T-shirt with a drunk mouse on it. “What could you possibly want, Albertini?”
“Explanations.” I pushed past him, my mind spinning too much for caution. Then I stopped cold in his entry way at the expansive view of the lake outside. This place had to have cost a fortune. Slowly, I turned.
He shut the door. It was then that I noticed the glass in his hand. Auburn liquid in fancy crystal. “Already drinking, huh?” I asked.
“Sit.” He gestured toward a brown leather sofa facing a tall stone fireplace that was currently dark and silent.
I swallowed and moved around the sofa table to sit, my heels echoing on the wide wooden slats of the floor that somehow looked exotic. Original oil paintings of stunning sunsets as well as winter scenes adorned the walls.
He followed and dropped his bulk into a matching chair. “I can’t talk to you without my attorney present.”
Then asking him if he was guilty was probably a mistake, and no doubt he was much too smart to say anything that would incriminate himself. “The DEA took the files on Aiden Devlin’s case. Tell me you have a copy here,” I said.
He blanched. “Stay out of Devlin’s case. You’re way out of your league.” The words were curt, but the tone weary. Exhausted.
“I know,” I whispered. “There doesn’t seem to be much of a choice. Nick Basanelli just made me second chair, and I’m worried he’s more concerned about adding a notch to his trial record than finding out the truth. Than seeking justice.”
A hint of a smile crossed Scot’s face, lifting the thick wrinkles for a moment. “Second chair. Big promotion.”
Didn’t feel that way. “All the other attorneys have worked with you for some time, and considering that…”
Scot’s chin lifted, and regret filled his eyes. “Right. I guess they’ll all be investigated pretty thoroughly.”
“Have you been selling drugs?” I blurted out, unable to stop myself. It just didn’t track. Scot was a prosecutor who had spent twenty years putting bad guys away. He’d hired me and had given me my first chance to pursue justice. To do what I needed to do. “Tell me you haven’t been breaking the law.”
