Page 80 of Burning Justice

“Exactly.” Pilcher nodded in agreement.

Also, as preplanned, Gemma held up one of the deeds Pilcher had notarized. “This is a deed you notarized for a house in Colorado Springs on Torrance Lane. The house was purchased by Hawkin Construction. Do you remember notarizing this document?”

Pilcher shook his head. “Not specifically. But that is my signature and my stamp.”

“Do you know anyone at Hawkin Construction? Michael or David Hawkin?”

“I can’t say.” He glanced at the document. “According to this deed, they were, indirectly, clients of mine, and as an attorney, I can’t confirm or deny any knowledge of them.”

Nice try, buddy. “You weren’t representing them as an attorney for this transaction. You were only acting as a notary.”

“True.” He nodded. “But I’m still an attorney. It would be unethical for me to discuss this matter with any specifics.”

In the long run, Brett didn’t think that would pass legal scrutiny, but it was clear the man wasn’t about to divulge anything and would keep falling back on attorney-client privilege. “Then let’s talk generalities. You notarized Michael Hawkin’s signature on that deed. Didn’t he have to show ID, then sign the deed in your presence?”

“That is a requirement for notary services, so I’m sure he did.”

Again, Brett scrutinized Pilcher’s body language, but nothing the man had said so far pinged his bullshit meter.

“Something I’m curious about.” Brett leaned back and crossed his arms. “This deed was filed in Colorado, but the title search was done by a company in Alaska. Kobuk Titling Agency. What’s your connection to that company?”

Pilcher shrugged. “None really. I’m not even sure how they found me. I think they just wanted a local notary for transactions here in Colorado. I do quick turnarounds for lots of realtors, and they know they can rely on me.”

“Have you ever actually met anyone from Kobuk Titling?” Gemma asked.

“No. Our initial conversations were by phone, but that was years ago. Now, all our transactions are by email. That’s the way of the world these days, right?”

“I’d like to see one of these emails,” Brett said, knowing he was pushing the boundaries of attorney-client privilege and wondering where the extent of Pilcher’s cooperation would end.

Pilcher steepled his hands beneath his chin, looking thoughtful for a moment. “As much as I’d like to cooperate fully, unfortunately, I’m unable to comply with your request. All the documents emailed to me by Kobuk Titling are for legal transactions, and I have a duty as an attorney to protect the attorney-client privilege. You understand.”

Actually, Brett did. There were ways around that, but any investigative proceedings involving an attorney would take him down a slippery slope and would take time. He’d need a grand jury subpoena for Pilcher’s records and a long list of ATF and DOJ approvals to obtain one.

“Can you at least provide a name, email address, and a contact number for someone at Kobuk?”

Pilcher made a hmphing sound. “I’m not certain what this is all about, and you obviously don’t want to provide me with much information. While I do understand the federal government’s need for discretion, under these circumstances, I’d be more comfortable if you reached out to Kobuk directly on your own. Since I do work for Kobuk, I think that would be best.”

Brett gave an answering hmph, intentionally mimicking Pilcher’s tone. The man had deftly avoided stepping into that patch of quicksand. He and Gemma already had the listed address and phone number for Kobuk Titling. Names and email addresses could be verified later. As for the email, another subpoena might nail down the account holder and an IP address.

“How do you get paid for your services?” Brett asked. Another avenue to unmasking whoever was behind Kobuk Titling was to follow the money trail.

“PayPal.”

“Who do the payments come from?”

“A Kobuk account.”

Brett went with a Hail Mary. He already knew what the response to his next question would be, but he had to ask. “Would you mind sharing one of those PayPal invoices or receipts?”

Pilcher’s hands once again steepled beneath his chin, and his eyes narrowed. “Unfortunately, I can’t provide that information, either. That document contains private account information that I’m not at liberty to divulge.”

It had been worth a shot. Federal grand jury subpoena it was, then. “Gemma, anything else?”

She shook her head and began tucking the documents back into her portfolio.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Pilcher.” Brett stood, extending his hand across the desk.

“It’s always a pleasure to help law enforcement.” Pilcher took Brett’s hand, shaking it enthusiastically. Above the man’s head, Brett eyed the diploma on the wall. Prescott College—the same college Michael Hawkin had attended.