THE REMORA SHADOW
A Bryce Seagraves Legal Thriller
Drew Stone
For Tracey
This book is a work of fiction.
Any similarities to actual persons, places, or events are unintended and coincidental.
© Copyright 2020 Andrew C. Stone
All Rights Reserved
Table of Contents
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Acknowledgements
About the Author
1
On the phone yesterday, my new client sounded desperate, like a man clamped in a vise of his own design. When Richard Kostas described the complaint filed against him, I understood his reasons. A corporate espionage case ignited my interest, but it terrified the defendant on the line.
I wanted to get him in the law office as soon as possible to start preparing his defense, but my trial schedule gave me no latitude.
With disappointment in his voice, Kostas agreed to an initial consultation the following afternoon. Before hanging up, Kostas said he would put the Writ of Summons and Complaint in my drop-box, so I could read them before our meeting. He also asked me to let him know if I could fit him in sooner. I agreed to do so, although it was unlikely. I jotted down his contact information for all the good that did.
A crimson October sun dropped to the horizon of the Chesapeake Bay, and Richard Kostas did not show up for his appointment. His phone went straight to voicemail. He did not reply to texts or emails. The man who had urgently wanted to hire me seemed to have vanished.
There was no point burning up too much mental energy on a missed consultation. Kostas might have retained another lawyer, but my gut did not think so. Not many attorneys in the small town of Bridgeford would litigate a case against Benton Dynamics, the huge defense contractor with its headquarters here in Chester County. I could defend him, because I lacked any connection to that secretive corporation.
Besides, Kostas had delivered the original Writ of Summons and Complaint to my law office, not photocopies. He was probably not shopping around for other representation. In the court papers, Benton Dynamics accused Kostas of stealing confidential files. If the local rumors were accurate, Benton supplied weapon systems for nuclear submarines. I waited in my office after normal hours for his return call. As the afternoon slipped into the evening, my hopes waned.
Without a new client and a hefty retainer, I would descend deeper into financial quicksand, dragged down by a massive pile of bills on the corner of my desk. While waiting for Kostas to call me back, I grabbed my phone and stepped outside for a short walk in town.
A dense, churning fog drifted across the Chesapeake Bay and curled through the marsh grass along the coast of the Maryland Eastern Shore. No one was the same when these fogs reached land. They might not have noticed, but everyone acted differently when the fog obscured the moonlight, crept inland, and wrapped around oak trees and brick colonial houses like cloudy tentacles.
Crabbers tied their boats to the piers tighter than usual. The residents of Bridgeford headed home early, abandoning the narrow streets and locking front doors they would typically leave open. Anyone with half a reason contemplated, even if only for a moment, how to leave this town and disappear into the mist forever.
Not me, though. I was not going anywhere. I liked the fog, especially the way it made me feel lost in a thick gray nothingness. On autumn evenings like this, I wandered the concrete sidewalks for a break from the law office I run out of the first floor of my Victorian house. I might have spent the evening on the back porch overlooking Pevensey Cove before trudging upstairs to my bedroom, but I would not miss walking through a fog like this for anything. Out here, it was like nothing existed but me and my thoughts.
So I planned on staying here in Bridgeford, at least until my mortgage company developed a contrary opinion and forced my hand. Just one good case would get me current with the bank. Too bad I did not have one right now.
Yellow streetlights glowed along Montrose Avenue. Across from the docks, the bug-eyed mutt that usually barked along his fence retreated into his doghouse. That alone was cause for celebration. I stopped for a cold one at Gertrude’s Crab House and hoped that Kostas would reply to my voicemail. Maybe he had decided to vanish into the swirling mist. A desperate client was liable to do just about anything.
The smell of spicy, broiling seafood greeted me as I opened the heavy door. On my way across the restaurant, I passed a gray-haired couple by the windows overlooking the waterfront. Sailboat masts near the windows swayed back and forth, but the rolling fog concealed the boats at the far end of the piers. Middle-aged locals in flannel shirts and blue jeans sat motionless at the bar, gripping their beer mugs like handrails at the edge of a sea cliff. No one even looked up as I grabbed a stool away from the glare of the neon signs.
Tyrell, the friendly bartender who appeared young enough to be in the Scouts, placed a cardboard coaster in front of me. “Evening, Mr. Seagraves.”
“Are we still stuck on that?” I asked.
“No,” he replied sheepishly. “I guess not … Bryce.”
“That’s better.”
Tyrell beamed a smile as if I had just pinned the bartending merit badge on his chest. While I studied the list of craft brews, he asked, “So, any interesting new cases?”
“Well, yeah, maybe. I thought a good one was coming in this afternoon, but so far the guy’s a no-show.”
“Didn’t call or
