Page 81 of Burning Justice

Sonofabitch.

“Thank you,” Gemma said.

As they left Pilcher’s office, steam built steadily between Brett’s ears. “I know I’ve seen that guy somewhere before.”

“You sure?” Gemma asked.

“Yeah.” Brett nodded. “I just can’t remember where.” Not yet. The answer hovered somewhere in his head, just out of reach. And he couldn’t be certain the graduation years were the same, but what were the chances that Michael Hawkin and Charles Pilcher had both graduated from the same college?

Slim to fucking none.

The man was lying. And he was a damned good actor.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Well, what did you think?” Gemma asked.

During the walk back to the Expedition, Brett hadn’t said a word. The only indication that he’d heard her question at all was the ticking of a muscle in his cheek. Even Blaze, who strolled between them, kept looking up at Brett, as if he, too, were inquiring about what was going on inside Brett’s head.

They continued into Commons Park so Blaze could stretch his legs and do his stuff. The air was hot but dry, and a light breeze moderated the impact of the sun’s rays. The park was busy, with people sitting on benches in the shade while they ate lunch, others running, biking, or strolling along the concrete trails bordering the South Platte River.

Brett stared across the grass field, deep in thought. This was turning into a repeat of their not-conversation in the SUV earlier. She knew he was driven by some inner demon to catch the arsonist, and she understood it. He wanted to nail whoever had torched the Torrance Lane house and killed those kids. But this silent treatment was getting to her. “Brett, I thought we were a team. This isn’t what I signed up for, so don’t shut me out.”

“He’s lying.”

Blaze sat between them, his golden eyes riveted on Brett.

“Who’s lying? Pilcher?” She hadn’t detected so much as a whisper of untruth from the man’s responses.

“Did you see the diploma on the wall?” Finally, Brett turned to face her. “It’s from Prescott College. He and Hawkin went to the same college.”

“I didn’t notice.” She gave herself a mental slap. Brett’s trained investigator’s eye had picked up on that, but she hadn’t and felt stupid for the oversight. “But Arizona’s a border state with Colorado. That still could be nothing more than a coincidence.” The moment she’d said the word—coincidence—she realized how silly that sounded. Before interviewing Pilcher, there’d already been more than enough coincidences on this case to fill a roll-off dumpster, and now this. “I see what you mean. But where do we go from here? If we approach Pilcher again, he’ll only keep playing the attorney-client privilege card.”

“I agree. What we need is a subpoena for his records for something that will tie all this together.” Relief shot through her at Brett’s use of the word we again. “If I’m right, Charles Pilcher is doing more than just notarizing deeds. As an attorney, he can provide legal coverage and keep spewing attorney-client privilege to protect not only himself but the Hawkin brothers.”

Gemma thought back to all the evidence they had and all they didn’t have. If she inserted Pilcher and the Hawkin brothers into all the blanks in her charts and spider diagram, all their theories about Hawkin began taking better shape.

“What I’d like to get,” Brett continued, “is a search warrant for his office and his computer, but that won’t happen based on coincidence. We need probable cause, and we still don’t have it. Getting a subpoena for an attorney is going to be a bitch.”

He led them into the shade where Blaze plopped down on the grass, then rolled onto his back, kicking his legs in the air. Brett pulled out his cell phone. When his boss answered, he lowered the volume. “Lori, I’m here with Gemma Scott. We just interviewed an attorney we think is up to his eyeballs in all of this. As an attorney, he’s in a position to provide legal coverage for the entire fraudulent scheme of buying houses, burning them down, then collecting on the insurance.”

After Brett had provided a rundown on the details, including the subpoenas he wanted for Pilcher’s records and both Pilcher’s and Kobuk Titling’s PayPal accounts, Lori said, “You know that going after an attorney requires HQ and DOJ approval. Write it up. Fill out the forms, cite all your evidence, cross every t, and dot every i.”

“Will do,” Brett said, nodding.

“This will take a while,” Lori added. “If we’re lucky, we can have those subpoenas in a couple of weeks.”

Brett frowned. “A couple of weeks?”

Gemma understood his frustration. Every day that passed was more time for critical evidence to take a walk.

A sigh came through the phone. “I hear where you’re coming from, but we need to do this the right way. Don’t go near this attorney again until you have that subpoena in your back pocket.”

Brett shoved a hand through his hair. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And by the way,” Lori said. “DNA from that cigarette stub you collected at the warehouse came back with a match. It belongs to John Nash. Do you have enough to arrest him for that fire?”

“Not sure. He has a history of arson, but no convictions. His DNA puts him at the scene. It should be enough, but the U.S. Attorney’s Office always wants more. For all we know, he could be just a witness. I need to talk to Nash first.”