custody. I push the Lexus’s gas supply to its limits by going another ten miles down the road before I exit. Once I have the tank filled and my bladder emptied, I get back on the road and start filling my own tank with my just purchased items: a package of shortbread cookies and a cup of coffee that tastes like it’s been on the burner for a month, making me wonder if the person who made it got the coffee mixed up with the cleaning products.
I turn on the radio and scan the frequencies for local stations, hoping to hear some news about Hurley’s arrest. After suffering through half an hour of a country station and being forced to listen to twangy male singers whine about the women that done them wrong, my head feels like it’s going to explode.
I consider altering my plans and heading back home to Sorenson, but quickly discard the idea. I have a feeling it will be difficult to explain away my recent car theft, not to mention my aiding and abetting of a suspected murderer. Feeling trapped and frustrated, I eventually decide to stick to the original plan and continue on toward Smith’s office, hoping it will lead to something.
It’s nearing seven o’clock at night when I finally arrive in Chicago. I find the nearest parking garage I can to Smith’s office, but it’s still nearly seven blocks away. After a moment of debate, I leave the gun stashed under the seat before taking to the streets on foot. I’m not a fan of the early darkness that comes with Wisconsin winters— after a few weeks of it I start to feel like I’m living in a postapocalyptic world—but I’m grateful for it now for two reasons. One, it makes me feel less conspicuous as I skulk along the sidewalks. And two, it makes the people inside lighted buildings very easy to see.
Smith’s building is a four-story office complex, and since his address includes a suite number of 101, I assume his office is on the first floor. This is confirmed when I see Smith—recognizable from the picture I printed—through one of the first-floor windows. He and a heavyset black woman are seated in an office facing one another, Smith talking, the woman writing on a legal pad. I head inside and discover that Smith’s firm—which consists of three other lawyers—shares the floor with a dental office, which looks dark and deserted.
The outer door to Smith’s office is closed and locked but it and the surrounding walls are made of glass and I can see that several lights are on. There is a receptionist’s desk near the entrance but it’s empty. Behind the desk are a half-dozen doors, most of which are closed. But two of them—an empty office straight ahead and the one I saw from outside—are open with the lights on.
I knock as loud as I can, first on the door, then on the window. After several attempts, the woman I saw from outside finally comes out and stares at me through the glass.
“I need to speak to Connor Smith,” I yell through the glass when it becomes obvious she isn’t going to just open the door. “It’s urgent.”
The woman turns around and heads back to the office. Thinking she is ignoring me, I pound on the glass again and she reappears a second later with Smith on her heels. This time he approaches and when he sees me, I get the distinct impression based on his expression that he is both wary and surprised by my appearance, though I can’t be sure why. Then I realize that a strange woman pounding on your locked office door late on Thanksgiving Eve is reason enough, especially when you’re in the business of defending criminals.
Smith, who I note disappointedly is nearly as tall as I am, making him as unlikely a suspect as Hurley, stares at me for a few seconds and then unlocks the door.
“Can I help you?” he asks with a slick, practiced smile that reminds me of Lucien.
“I need to speak with you about a very important matter,” I say vaguely.
“I’m sorry, but the office is closed for the holiday,” he says. “If you like, my assistant, Trina, can schedule an appointment for you.”
“I don’t need an appointment,” I tell him. “I need to speak with you.”
He gives me a quizzical look and then says, “May I ask what this is in reference to?”
“Quinton Dilles.”
If I’m hoping for some kind of reaction from Smith, I’m disappointed. Trina, however, shoots Smith a nervous look and starts chewing on the side of her thumb.
Smith issues forth an irritated sigh and says, “Very well, I’ll give you five minutes but that’s all I have time for. I’m prepping for a big case I’m working on.”
Score one for Smith for communicating his importance to me and letting me know he considers me a peon barely worthy of his time and trouble.
He directs me into the reception area and points toward his office. “Go in and have a seat. I’ll be right there.” Then he turns to Trina and says, “Pull up the case law I’ve given you so far and leave it on your desk. You can go home once you’re done.”
Trina nods and goes into the other lit office, where she settles in behind a desk and starts working on a computer.
I make my way into Smith’s office, which is as pretentious as his behavior and utterly lacking in any personal items. I’m surprised there aren’t any family pictures—Smith is a reasonably attractive man with golden blond hair, a tall but otherwise average build, and handsome, well-proportioned features. I can’t help but wonder if the lack of pictures is simply his way of distancing his business life from his personal one—a logical thing to do given his clientele—or if he’s just a perpetual bachelor and player.
I settle into a leather chair—the same one Trina was in—while Smith closes his office door and settles into his desk chair.
“If you’ll excuse me one minute,” he says, “I need to send a quick text message.”
He picks up the cell phone on his desk and starts tapping in his note. When he’s done, he sets the phone down and says, “There we go.” He steeples his fingers and taps them against his lips, eying me closely. “So what is it you want to talk about?” he asks.
“I’m a deputy coroner in Wisconsin and I’m investigating a series of murders there that I think your client, Dilles, may be involved with.”
Smith laughs dismissively. “I’m afraid you haven’t done your homework, Ms. . . .” He trails off, leaving me to fill in the blanks.
“It’s Winston. Mattie Winston.”
Smith picks up a pen—with his right hand I note—and scribbles my name on a notepad on his desk. “Well, Ms. Winston,” he says as he writes, “Quinton Dilles is behind bars, so I’m pretty sure he had nothing to do with your murders.”
“Does the name Leon Lindquist mean anything to you?”
“No,” he says with a shrug after a moment’s thought. “I’m afraid not. Why do you ask?”
I study Smith closely as he answers, hoping to get a sense for the truth of his response. If he’s lying, he hides it well. The only nervous tic I notice is the way he’s waggling the pen in his hand. “What about the name Steve Hurley?” I ask, ignoring his question.
His eyebrows arch and he shifts in his seat. “That name I do know,” he admits, setting down the pen. “If I remember correctly, he’s the detective who initially worked on Dilles’s case. Is that relevant somehow?”
“At the moment he’s being framed for these murders I’m investigating and Dilles seems like a likely culprit.”
He gives me another of his tolerant but dismissive laughs, as if he’s dealing with an ignorant child. “That seems a rather ambitious goal for a man who currently resides in a maximum security prison,” he says.
“Dilles is rich and that kind of money makes anything possible.”
My statement hovers between us for a moment while we stare one another down. Then Smith says, “Well, perhaps, but I’m not sure what you expect to get from me. Yes, Dilles was, and still is my client since we’re waging an appeal of his conviction. And because of that, I’m not really at liberty to discuss him with you or anyone else.”
Sensing that he’s about to dismiss me, I decide to toss out one last taunt. “That’s a nice cop-out.”
Smith refuses to take the bait. “Call it what you want, Ms. Winston. I think we’re done here. I wish you the best of luck on figuring out your murders but I’m afraid I can’t help you.” He gets up and walks over to the door, opening it and standing there in a clear invitation for me to leave.
Frustrated but realizing I’ve got no options left, I get up. Smith manages to patronize me one last time by placing his hand on my shoulder and steering me out of his office toward the main door. As we walk, I see Trina inside the other office. She has donned her coat and appears to be shutting down the computer, though her eyes keep darting nervously in our direction. As Smith opens the door to the hallway and gestures for me to exit, I hesitate. I want one last stab at him, if for no other reason than because his smug attitude has irritated me.
