Sheriff Tompkins leaned back and offered a slightly crooked smile, apparently satisfied with the results of our conversation. “Let me be clear, Mr. Seagraves. Just like they say in commercials, this is a limited time offer. It’s only good until I figure out the case on my own.”
“I get it, Sheriff.” For the first time since entering the interrogation room, I felt confident that I would walk out of here a free man.
She picked up the manila envelope that held the pocket calendar and the photograph of Richard Kostas. She started to fasten the clasp, but then paused and looked inside, as if there was something else she had considering showing me. The sheriff turned her eyes back toward me. Then seeming to change her mind, she affixed the tiny metal clasp to seal the flap. I did not buy into her theatrics, despite her attempt to win this year’s nomination for Best Actress. Deciding not to take her bait and ask what else was in the envelope, I figured there probably was nothing else. She had already gotten everything she wanted from this interview — a chance to drive a wedge between me and my new client, as well as the possibility that I would convince Marisa to turn herself in.
Her metal chair made a sharp scraping noise along the concrete floor as she stood up. “You know, Mr. Seagraves, you probably should approach this with a certain degree of subtlety. If Marisa Dupree doesn’t have those stolen files, she might want them bad. I came up with the theory that Richard Kostas could have given them to you. Ms. Dupree might think the same. Other people, too. I don’t know what’s going on right now, but it’s a dangerous world out there.”
The earnest look on the sheriff’s face led me to believe she was not playing her cop games with me any longer. She meant it.
Sheriff Tompkins handed me her business card. “If you find yourself needing my help, call me. If your client was involved in the theft of classified files and the murder of Richard Kostas, then be cautious. You might not be as safe as you think.”
7
During the walk from the Sheriff’s Department back to my law office, I listened to voicemails. There was only one message.
“Hey, Bryce. It’s Glenn Bernthal. You got my cell. Call me back as soon as you can. It’s important.”
The recording ended with a dull bleep. I called Glenn’s number, not expecting to get through to him. Glenn would be working at NSA today and had to follow protocols regarding the use of cellphones on site. His phone was probably turned off. I would just leave a message and catch up with him after his shift. Speaking with him tonight would be safer than discussing the Benton Dynamics case while he was at NSA anyway.
I was surprised when Glenn picked up after the third ring. He said he had to leave the annex before he could talk. He needed about fifteen minutes, but he’d call me right back.
He did not.
By the time I was back in the law office, he still had not returned my call.
My paralegal, Hailey, handed me my messages, none of which seemed urgent. I used my desk phone to return calls from a few clients and an insurance adjuster on a personal injury case. The emails in my inbox were a quick read. My cellphone sat on the corner of my desk. Still no return call from Glenn.
Hailey had me sign a few letters and then proofread the discovery requests we would serve on Benton Dynamics. Opposing counsel would freak out when he received my demand for information about the files Marisa Dupree had allegedly taken. After Hailey typed my revisions, I signed the Request for Production of Documents and a Notice of Discovery Materials. When Hailey filed my Entry of Appearance electronically with the Circuit Court, I would officially be in the case.
By the end of the day, I had done my best to put the Chester County Sheriff’s interrogation out of my mind. Marisa Dupree would not receive the sheriff’s proposal well. There was no easy way to approach a client with the sheriff’s suggestion that she confess and turn over stolen files which she had denied taking — or possibly face felony charges. Even if the sheriff promised to go easy on her, I did not know if I could trust the prosecutors to honor that deal. Discussing all this with Marisa would tip her off that I had been summoned into the Sheriff’s Department about her case and the death of Richard Kostas. I needed more time to consider my options.
I checked for recent incoming calls on my cellphone, but there were none. Calling Glenn’s number again resulted in an immediate voicemail recording. Trying to reach him later was all I could do.
The pocket calendar in Richard Kostas’s car crept back into my thoughts. The only entries in that calendar were for sporting clays and his initial consultation with me. Sporting clay courses were rare. Not every gun range had enough acreage for a dozen shooting stations. I searched online for sporting clays on the Delmarva Peninsula. Only one establishment operated in Chester County. Others were farther down the Maryland Eastern Shore, and there were two across the state line in Delaware. Those courses were at least a forty-five minute drive from Bridgeford, if not over an hour. If Richard Kostas had been firing a shotgun first thing in the morning before work, then he would have likely visited Turner Creek Sporting Clays. Everywhere else was too far away for him to make it to his job on time. I decided to pay a visit there Saturday morning. Even if I did not learn anything more about the final day of Richard Kostas’s life, getting outdoors and blasting clay pigeons into oblivion would
