Max hastened to reassure her. “Certainly not. But sometimes civil lawsuits cause hard feelings.”
She shook her head decisively. “As I told the police, Mr. Jamison was always a gentleman. Even opposing counsel admired him.” In a more everyday voice, she added, “Actually, he hadn’t been very busy for the last few months. He’d done several wills and trusts and some bankruptcies, but nothing that had caused any controversy.”
Max looked at her soberly. “I suppose the atmosphere was strained between him and Kirk Brewster.” Would it have been kinder to have forced Kirk to clear out his desk and leave when the decision to drop him had been made? Max thought it must have been stomach-lurching ugly for the lawyer to return each day, informing clients, tidying up his cases and his desk, sending out resumes, knowing he soon had to leave the island and his chronically ill sister.
Edna stared down at her desktop. “Mr. Brewster kept out of Mr. Jamison’s way. He will be leaving soon.”
Max nodded. “Were you aware of some of the tensions between Mr. Jamison and members of his family?”
Edna’s eyes shifted away from Max, but not before he saw a flash of something, possibly uneasiness, possibly uncertainty. “The police officer asked if Mr. Jamison had quarreled with anyone. I didn’t know if it would be called a quarrel. Last week Mr. Jamison’s cousin came here to see him. He left the door ajar when he went into the office and I couldn’t help overhearing. Mr. Jamison told his cousin that he was sorry but he wasn’t in a financial position to help him. They talked for a while. It all sounded pleasant enough, but when his cousin came out, his face wasn’t . . . nice.” She added quickly, “Maybe he didn’t feel good. Everything sounded very pleasant.”
Max’s smile was reassuring. “That’s probably exactly the case.”
She looked sad. “I can’t believe Mr. Jamison won’t be coming into the office in a little while.” Tears welled in her eyes. She reached for a Kleenex. “I’m sorry.” She wiped her eyes. “You are very kind to try and help Miss Jamison.”
Max rose. “All of us need to help the police if we can.”
As he left, she turned to her computer, but she sat motionless, head lowered.
Max left the door ajar as he had found it. He glanced up and down the hallway. He turned to his left. Next to an open door was a wooden plaque with Kirk Brewster’s name, gilt letters against redwood. The door was wide open.
Max lifted his hand to knock, then paused. He had an odd sense of deja vu. Tuesday morning in the living room of the Jamison house he’d watched as Tommy Jamison swung toward the hallway and blundered away. Now he looked into Kirk Brewster’s office and gazed at a young man staring out the office window. There was the same suggestion of youth and strength, the same bush of curly blond hair, the same muscular shoulders, the same powerful legs. Tommy had worn a too-tight polo and khaki shorts. The man at the window wore a close-fitting mesh polo and cutoff jeans.
Abruptly, the stocky figure turned. A man in his late twenties stared at Max with an unsmiling, guarded face. “Who are you?”
“Max Darling.” Max took a step inside the office. “Kirk Brewster?”
The young lawyer’s eyes were light blue. His hair was sandy like Tommy Jamison’s, but his face was older, the features stronger, a beaked nose and thin lips. No one would mistake him for Tommy Jamison from a front view. “You got a warrant?” His light eyes were defiant, but there was an air of desperation about him as he rocked back on his heels.
“I’m not a policeman.” Max saw a flicker of relief.
Kirk shoved a hand through the thick tangle of blond hair. “You don’t have an appointment. I’m not seeing people anyway. I’m not lawyering now. I’m packing up my stuff.” He gestured at the cardboard boxes lined up in the center of the office. Framed prints and plaques leaned against a wall. “Whoever you are, whatever you want, I’m not interested.” He turned away, walked back to the window.
Max again recalled Tommy Jamison as he strode out of the living room Tuesday morning. The casual clothing and stocky build accounted for the similarities even though the teenager and the man seen face-to-face could never be confused in person. Tommy Jamison had been upset, frightened, grieving. Kirk Brewster was upset, frightened, and a very worried man, of that Max felt certain. “Even though you had good reason to be unhappy with Glen Jamison, I’m sure you want his murderer found.”
Kirk jerked around. “I don’t know anything about his murder.”
“How angry were you when he fired you?”
Kirk’s face twisted in a scowl. “You ever been told to take your stuff and hit the road? Yeah. When I got fired, I got mad. Why shouldn’t I?” He was defiant. “Glen was a patsy for that overbearing bitch he married. I hated her more than him. But I never thought about shooting him. Or anybody else. Not even her.”
“Were you here Tuesday morning between a quarter to nine and ten-fifteen?”
“Talk about hitting the road, it’s your turn. You aren’t a cop. Get out.” He turned and moved back to the window. His rigid stance shouted anxiety.
Max left him standing at the window in the office with its bare walls and half-filled boxes. He walked down the hallway. What was Kirk looking for or waiting for? Whatever the lawyer imagined or feared, he was waiting for something to happen.
Max opened the outside door. The pretty young receptionist’s cheerful admonition to have a good day added a surreal element. She was untroubled, in sharp contrast to Edna Graham’s mournful face and Kirk Brewster’s apprehension.
Max was halfway down the front steps when a police cruiser pulled to the curb.
Max reached the sidewalk and waited.
Billy Cameron and Officer Benson moved swiftly. Billy looked big, capable, and serious. Coley Benson’s eyes gleamed with excitement, but he was clearly making an effort to appear matter-of-fact.
Billy stopped at the foot of the steps, his big, square face grim. He jerked a thumb toward the front door of the well-kept brick building. “Did Annie sic you on Kirk Brewster?”
