Charlotte passed through the gate and parked her unmarked unit between a pair of black Range Rovers with tinted windows, probably belonging to Quinn’s security crew. Beside the Range Rovers was a silver Escalade. Was this more security, or did the doctor have a visitor?
A black fence with horizontal slats faced the driveway. The gate stood ajar, and Charlotte walked into a stony courtyard with a modern sculpture that looked like a rusted Easter egg. She approached a pair of tall black doors and was searching for the bell when one of the doors swung open.
“Well, hello.” She fixed a smile on her face. “Nice to see you again, counselor.”
“Likewise.”
Brock ushered her into the house. The foyer was dim and empty. It looked out on yet another courtyard with another rusty egg in the center.
She turned to face the lawyer. Unlike Charlotte, he’d had a chance to change since the funeral. He now wore jeans and a tailored shirt that fit nicely over his muscular shoulders, and he looked so athletic she almost didn’t notice his black sling.
“How’s the arm?” she asked for lack of something better to say.
“Fine.” He smirked. “I take it you’re surprised to see me here?”
“Not really.”
He walked down a hallway, and she followed him. She’d guessed Brock would be Gavin Quinn’s first call as soon as he hung up the phone with her.
The house was dim throughout, the only light coming from narrow niches where spotlights shone down on more arty sculptures on pedestals. All the surfaces in the house were stone, glass, and metal, and the rugs and fabrics covered a range of gray. The look was sophisticated yet muted, and she figured either Quinn had hired an expensive decorator or his late wife had a flair for design.
Brock led her down a glass corridor past a wall of trees. Charlotte halted.
“Wow.” She looked out at the view. An evening shower had soaked everything, and a vibrant green lawn covered a sloping hill. “Is this all his?”
Brock nodded. “He’s got two acres. It’s a pie-shaped lot. Doesn’t look like much from the street.”
Quinn’s flat-roofed home was like a tree house, she saw now, with expansive views overlooking the bayou.
“Nice, isn’t it?”
She sniffed. “Beats the hell out of the Harris County Jail.”
Charlotte didn’t bother to hide her annoyance with the way the system worked for people like Quinn. The judge had ordered Quinn to surrender his passport and granted a one-million-dollar bail. Most accused murderers couldn’t afford anything close to that amount and ended up awaiting their trials as guests of the county, three hots and a cot, and your chance of an assault-free stay was low if you had the wrong tattoos or none at all. Meanwhile, rich guys like Quinn got to await trial at home.
Brock led her through yet another glass corridor, nodding at an armed security guard as he stepped into a living room. The guard was bald and bulky, with hands like baseball mitts. Charlotte couldn’t imagine him handling the Glock on his hip.
She looked at Brock. “Is he with your outfit? Wolfe Security?”
“No, Gavin’s got his own guys. He’s had them for months. Been getting death threats since the arraignment.”
This was news to Charlotte, but she didn’t react.
“Wait here,” Brock told her, then disappeared down another hallway, leaving her alone with the guard.
Charlotte stepped closer to the window and tried to admire the view. But she couldn’t. You could not give her two acres backing up to Buffalo Bayou. What looked like a harmless creek had become a surging torrent when Hurricane Harvey stalled over the city and dumped trillions of gallons of rain. Charlotte had joined the cadre of emergency workers who’d boated and waded through chest-deep water to pull stranded residents from houses. She remembered the slime. The stench. The fear in people’s eyes as they abandoned their homes, clutching their kids and their pets, leaving all their earthly possessions behind. Charlotte had gone home each night filthy, exhausted, and deeply grateful for her no-frills second-floor apartment in the Heights.
“Detective Spears.”
She turned around.
Gavin Quinn entered the room, followed by his attorney, and Charlotte was struck by the sight of them together. Brock Logan was tall and strong and virile. Even with the sling, he was a picture of health.
Gavin Quinn was . . . not. The doctor had pasty skin, slumped shoulders, and a listless look on his face. His gray eyes were bloodshot and watery, and the bluish circles under them made Charlotte think of a NyQuil commercial. The man’s rust-red hair had gray streaks, and he’d grown a beard since that press conference he’d given in front of the police station. The detectives had nicknamed him “the Leprechaun” when they were working his case, and she could see where they’d gotten that. But he didn’t look very sprightly now, much less lucky.
“Have a seat.” Quinn gestured at the general area of a seating arrangement and sank into a chair. He wore loafers without socks, and his ankle bracelet was clunky and black against his pale skin.
Charlotte perched on the end of the L-shaped sectional. Brock sat in an armchair across from her and reached up to switch on a standing lamp.
Quinn winced at the light. “What can I do for you, Detective?” The man sounded tired. The kind of tired that wouldn’t be cured with sleep.
“Thanks for making time to meet with me.” She darted a look at Brock and took out the file she’d tucked into her purse.
“Well, not like I’ve got much else to do. What’s this about, anyway?”
Charlotte pulled out a copy of the suspect sketch. Brock raised an eyebrow when he saw it.
She passed Quinn the picture. “I wanted to see if this man looks familiar to you.”
The doctor fished a pair of reading glasses from his pocket and nestled them on his face. Now he looked even older than his forty-three years and more doctorly.
“No.” He looked at her over the tops of the lenses. “Why? Who is this? This is a police sketch, so this person obviously committed a crime.”
“This is a suspect seen around your lawyer’s house the night he and his investigator were shot,” she said.
Quinn turned to Brock. “This man killed Oliver Kovak?”
He nodded.
“Is this sketch from you?”
“No,” Brock said. “I never saw his face, remember? He was wearing a ski mask.”
“You’re sure he’s not familiar to you?” Charlotte asked, pulling Quinn’s attention back to the sketch. “Really look.”
Quinn looked. He stroked his beard, and she noticed his fingernails were bitten to the quick.
He took off the glasses. “I don’t know him.” He handed her the picture and leaned back in the chair.
She tucked the folder back into her purse. “Dr. Quinn, did your wife owe anyone money that you’re aware of?”
“No.”
“What about you?”
“No.” A heavy sigh. “We went through all this back when it happened. We owe money on the house and the cars. That’s it. I paid off my med-school loans five years ago.”
“What about anyone who owed her money? Or you?”
“No, okay? We didn’t loan money to people. Even people who hit us up all the time, like her deadbeat brother. We had a thing about it, especially family. ‘Just say no’ was our motto.”
“Why’d you have a thing about it?” Charlotte swept her gaze over the room. “Seems like you and your wife had money to spare.”
“Yeah, well, you’d be surprised. I had the med-school loans. And then all the insurance I’m required to carry. Was required to. Before my practice went to shit.” He shot a look at Brock. “And now there’s my security, my legal fees. This thing’s eating me alive.” He rubbed his hand over his face.