The man sighed heavily. It looked like he had the weight of the world on his slumped shoulders.
“I don’t think I’m being difficult so much as I’m being professional,” he said huffily. “And considering what I have to deal with, I think I do a pretty good job.”
“What do you have to deal with?” Jessie wanted to know.
“Do you know how exhausting it is trying to help these people work the system to get access to all of the benefits of our country? It’s a slog for which I never truly get the appreciation I deserve.”
Jessie’s back stiffened at that answer and she was about to pursue it further when Sam beat her to the punch about something else.
“Don’t they pay you handsomely?” Sam pressed. “That seems like all the appreciation you should need.”
“I don’t get paid as much as you might think,” he countered. “Yes, many of my clients are wealthy, but this isn’t criminal or corporate law. There’s a ceiling on what I can earn, even with a complicated case.”
Sam’s interruption made Jessie reconsider her question. She decided that for now, she’d hold back. Instead, she tried one more time on the application process issue.
“I just want to be clear with you, Mr. Paulson,” she said very deliberately. “It’s 5:09 on the evening of Sunday, September 24th. At this time, you’re refusing to give us any leads about people who may have made processing these women’s applications more challenging and whether they might hold a grudge. Now, if we learn tomorrow or at any point in the future that the killer is one of those people and you kept quiet when you could have helped us, it will reflect very poorly onyou. I’d imagine it could impact—hell, potentially destroy—your practice. I know that I wouldn’t want you as my immigration lawyer if you put cozy relationships with prejudiced bureaucrats above my interests. And when I’m done, that’s how this situation will be perceived by the public, and more importantly, potential future clients.”
She stood and nodded to Sam that she was ready to go. He seemed surprised, but followed suit. She started for the door, hoping playing hardball might make Paulson reconsider. He called out from behind her.
“I’ll see if I can refresh my recollection,” he said with a hint of petulance. “If I think of anyone whose actions seemed borne out of animus rather than simple laziness, I’ll let you know.”
“You do that,” Jessie said without turning around. “We’ll see ourselves out.”
By the time Sam caught up to her, she was already out of the apartment and walking back down the hall to the elevator.
“Why the sudden departure?” he asked. “It felt like, with a few more minutes of pushing, he might have caved.”
“Because something he said made me less interested in bureaucratic challenges to his clients’ applications than his own attitude.”
“What do you mean?” Sam asked.
“Remember him saying how tiring it was to help his clients ‘work the system’ to get the “benefits of our country’? Those sounded less like the words of an advocate and more like those of a member of Thomas Bradford’s Traditional Citizenry group.”
“I guess that slipped by me,” Sam conceded as they stepped into the elevator.
Jessie turned to him and waited for the doors to close before responding.
“I think there’s more to this guy than we thought and I intend to find out what.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Anastasia Williamson stepped back to admire her handiwork.
The flowers she had picked up from the farmers' market this afternoon looked lovely, especially in the Murano glass vase that Marcus had gotten her for their anniversary this year. She adjusted them slightly so that they were better centered on the dining room table.
She glanced at the time. It was 5:41. She briefly debated whether she had time to make dinner before Marcus got home. He’d had a nurse at the hospital text her that he anticipated the surgery he was doing would be complete by 5:45 and that he’d be home by 6:15.
She knew she could probably whip something up in that time, but she wasn't sure it would meet her expectations. Marcus had been in surgery almost non-stop since 7 A.M. this morning and he deserved better than to come home to breaded chicken thighs and mashed potatoes, which would be testing the boundaries of her culinary talents anyway. Admittedly, he hadn't married her because of her cooking skills. But she liked to make an effort. She decided to go into the kitchen to peruse the pantry and see if inspiration might strike.
As she started in that direction, she got a buzz on her phone. It was another text from her mother, back in Ukraine. That wasn’t unusual but the timing was. Right now it was 3:41 A.M. in Lviv. Ana was starting to regret having told her about the killings at all. Of course, it was her own fault.
She talked to her mother every day and she should have known that if she told her that two women had been killed and their green cards were found on plates in their dining rooms, it would lead to paranoia. To be honest, Ana was a little paranoidtoo, considering that she matched the profiles of these women. Like them, she was married to a wealthy American man several years her senior.
The thought filled her with a new rush of anxiety and for the third time since she had arrived home, she decided to check the doors again. She started with the sliding one leading to the backyard. Locked. She checked the side one leading from the kitchen to the garage. Locked. She checked the front door.
It was unlocked.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
