Illuminati.
About the
e-Book
TITLE: Free Fall
AUTHOR: Crais, Robert
ABEB Version: 2.5
Hog Edition
For my father,
Robert Emmett Crais,
called away before the show.
A seat remains empty.
FREE FALL
Jennifer Sheridan stood in the door to my office as if she were Fay Wray and I was King Kong and a bunch of black guys in sagebrush tutus were going to tie her down so that I could have my way. If s a look I've seen before, on men as well as women. 'I'm a detective, Ms. Sheridan. I'm not going to hurt you. You may even find that you like me.' I gave her my best Dudley Do-Right smile. The one with the twinkle.
Jennifer Sheridan said, 'Is what we say privileged, Mr. Cole?'
'As in attorney-client?' I was holding the door, but Jennifer Sheridan couldn't seem to make up her mind whether to come in or leave.
'Yes.'
I shook my head. 'No. My records and my testimony can be subpoenaed, and under California law, I must provide them.'
'Oh.' She didn't like that.
'But there is latitude. I sometimes forget things.'
'Oh.' She liked that better, but she still wasn't convinced. I guess there's only so much you can do with the Dudley.
Jennifer Sheridan said, 'This isn't easy for me, Mr. Cole. I'm not sure I should be here and I don't have much time. I'm on my lunch hour.'
'We could talk over sandwiches, downstairs.' There was a turkey and Swiss on a French baguette waiting for me in the deli on the ground floor. I had been thinking about it for most of the morning.
'Thank you, no. I'm engaged.'
'That wasn't a sexual proposition, Ms. Sheridan. It was a simple offer to share lunch and perhaps more efficiently use both our times.'
'Oh.' Jennifer Sheridan turned as red as a beating heart.
'Also, Ms. Sheridan, I'm getting tired of holding the door.'
Jennifer Sheridan made up her mind and stepped past me into the office. She walked quickly and went to one of the two director's chairs across from my desk. There's a couch, but she didn't even consider it.
Jennifer Sheridan had sounded young on the phone, but in person she looked younger, with a fresh-scrubbed face and clear healthy skin and dark auburn hair. Pretty. The kind of happy, innocent pretty that starts deep inside, and doesn't stop on the way out. That kind of pretty. She was wearing a light blue cotton skirt with a white blouse and a matching light blue bolero jacket and low-heeled navy pumps. The clothes were neat and fit well, and the cuts were stylish but not expensive. She would have to shop and she would have to look for bargains, but she had found them. I liked that. She carried a black imitation leather purse the size of a Buick, and when she sat, she sat with her knees and her feet together, and her hands clutching the purse on her lap. Proper. I liked that, too. I made her for twenty-three but she looked eighteen and she'd still be carded in bars when she was thirty. I wondered if I looked old to her. Nah. Thirty-nine isn't old.
I closed the door, went to my desk, sat, and smiled at her. 'What do you do, Ms. Sheridan?'
'I'm a secretary for the law firm of Watkins, Okum, & Beale. We're in Beverly Hills.'
'Is that how you found me?' I work for Marty Beale, time to time. A little skip-tracing, a little missing persons. That kind of thing.
