“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.
“If you have anything to do with this, Mr. Smith, I will find out.”
He smiles to let me know my threat doesn’t faze him in the least. “You have yourself a nice holiday, Ms. Winston,” he says. “Good evening.”
I leave, mumbling curses at Smith, and head back out to the street, wondering what to do next. A couple of blocks into my walk, I become aware of hurried footsteps following close behind me. Resisting the urge to turn around and look, I speed up my pace a bit. The footsteps do the same. The streets, though fairly well lit, are relatively empty, most likely because of the holiday. Still, I feel reasonably safe until I get close to the garage. Realizing how dark and isolated it is, I make the decision to turn and confront my follower. But before I can, a hand clamps down on my shoulder, making me yell out with fright.
Chapter 41
My follower yelps as well, a distinctly feminine sound. When I whirl around I find myself face-to-face with Smith’s assistant.
“Trina,” I say, stating the obvious and breathing a small sigh of relief. Then I put my guard back up, wondering if she could be involved somehow.
She claps a hand to her chest. “Lord, you scared the crap out of me,” she says, rolling her eyes.
“Likewise. Were you following me?”
She nods. “I’m sorry,” she says, glancing nervously over her shoulder. “But I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with Connor and I wanted to talk to you.”
That she couldn’t help overhearing us seems a bit of a stretch, given that the door to Smith’s office was closed, but I let that slide.
“What about?” I ask her.
She reaches into a shoulder satchel she’s carrying and for a second I’m certain she’s going to pull out a knife or a gun. I flinch and prepare to run but all she pulls out is a sheaf of papers. “Here,” she says, thrusting them at me. “I’ve been planning on leaving Connor’s firm for some time now but it took me a while to find another job and I’m a single mom with two boys to support. I just got an offer from Stern and Hageman and I haven’t told Connor yet that I’m leaving. Your arrival tonight made me realize I can’t ignore what’s going on any longer.”
“What do you mean? And what are these papers?” I ask her, struggling to read them in the dim light of the streetlamps.
“They’re copies of e-mails between Connor and a private investigator he has used, and between Connor and a man named Mike Ackerman, who works—”