She said, “I know a speed camera when I see one, Bryce. How much did you pay for that app anyway?”
“Too much, apparently. If you get a citation in the mail, let me see it, okay?”
Hailey nodded. The light from the chandelier reflected in her jet black hair.
I asked, “Any calls while I was out?”
“Only one. Sheriff Tompkins called and wanted to know if I had copied that civil complaint for the Kostas case. It’s still on your desk. You should’ve told me.”
I was taken aback, but did my best to conceal it. “When’d she call?”
“First thing. I’d have had the papers ready, if you’d left a note.”
“Sorry about that. When’s she coming by?”
“She’s not. Going to call you later.”
Hailey lifted a white mug off a coaster and took a sip of coffee.
I asked her, “What else did she say? As close as you can remember.”
“She said you spoke with her and that you’d make a copy of the Kostas complaint. She would’ve called me yesterday, but heard I was off.”
“And?”
“I told her I usually don’t work Wednesdays, but we got voicemail.”
I said, “She’s good. This Sheriff Tompkins is good.”
Hailey looked puzzled, and I waved my hand like I was shooing a mosquito. She furrowed her brow in mild annoyance at me.
“Anything else?” I asked.
“Well, she asked about Mr. Kostas. Had I met him? Was he a regular client of the firm? Kind of nosey, actually.”
I raised both of my eyebrows and lowered my chin to urge her along.
Hailey continued, “I said she’d have to speak with you. Then she said she’d call you later. That’s about it. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, just peachy,” I replied and instantly regretted sounding sarcastic.
“Did I do all right?”
“Yeah, no problem. You didn’t talk about a client, or potential client, or whatever he was. We need client consent first, even to speak with the police. You did fine.”
Hailey clicked through the calendar on her desktop computer and asked, “How did the initial consult with Mr. Kostas go?”
“It didn’t. There’s something I …”
“Oh, I can reschedule him.”
“No, look, I got to fill you in. That guy on the news, the dead guy in the bay … it was Richard Kostas.”
Hailey’s eyes widened and her mouth opened, but no words came out.
I said, “Not sure of all the details yet, but he’s dead. Probably suicide. Possibly murder.”
Hailey looked stunned, like a part of her wanted to bolt out of the room, but she was frozen in place. “And when were you going to tell me all this?”
“Now, I guess. After I knew what the sheriff had asked you. I’m not sure what’s going on. The police are investigating. All we can do is wait to find out what happened, but the whole thing’s got me weirded out.”
Hailey nodded slowly. “Yeah, me too. I just spoke to him two days ago.” She started to organize the pens, memo pad, and manila files on her desk, even though it wasn’t necessary. Having a paralegal with a touch of obsessive-compulsive disorder came in handy, especially for proofreading and research projects, but for the most part I ignored her nervous quirks.
She said, “I’ll put the sheriff right through if she calls.”
“Thanks. I’m going to check emails.”
I walked to my office along the hallway lined with framed diplomas for my undergraduate and law degrees, as well as my admission certificates for the Maryland State Bar Association and the District of Columbia Bar. At the end of the hall, my most prized certificate hung in a modest but elegant gold frame, my commission to the Navy Judge Advocate General. I practiced law as a JAG for six years after law school with posts in Norfolk, San Diego, and Bahrain. My academic and professional career seemed to end at my office door, but the diplomas along my hallway didn’t tell the whole story. For five years after the Navy, I served as a lawyer for the United States government, although the work I did remained classified to this day. Five long years and not even a lousy slip of paper to show for it, but secrecy had always been part of that deal.
My office was dark, the shades drawn. So this was rock bottom. With all my bridges burned, I had started over in this small town on the Maryland Eastern Shore. Putting the entire Chesapeake Bay between me and the deceptive, back-stabbing world of Washington, D.C. seemed like a good idea at the time. Now I was ducking bill collectors, including those cheerful guys at my mortgage company.
To turn this around, I would have to shovel my way through divorces and criminal cases. Criminal defense was not too bad. The money was quick. The clients usually knew they were guilty and did not expect to win. But I never thought I would have to stoop to doing domestic law. The endless allegations of physical abuse, mental cruelty, and child endangerment were draining. Sifting through truths and lies in divorce court was the bottom of the barrel. I chucked the stack of overdue bills into my inbox. My phone was silent. At least the sheriff was not on the line yet.
Overwhelmed and exhausted, I did not even turn on my office lights. I walked past my antique globe, rounded my desk, and plopped down in my chair. Stretching my legs outward and drooping my hands over the armrests, I just hung in my chair like a forgotten gray suit in the back of a dark closet.
The hinges of the front door to the law firm creaked. Hailey spoke with someone, but the long corridor prevented me from hearing them clearly. I sat up, opened my email program, and clicked through the messages. My salvation was at hand. An official from the United Nations had access to a forgotten construction fund in Nigeria worth $35 million. All he needed to split the money with me was information about my identity and bank accounts. A quick delete.
The
