by D. L. Wood
“I know. I never get used to it. I used to drive by here all the time headed into Green Hills—it’s the shopping area just north of here. Our house was on this side of Franklin, so this is the way I’d usually go.”
As he said it, she realized how little she knew about him, aside from the fact that he worked for Reese. “Okay, let’s hear it. Tell me your story.”
“Not much to tell,” he shrugged. “High school dropout makes good. That’s it really.”
“You were a high school dropout?”
He groaned. “You really want to hear this?”
She nodded.
“We lived in a nice house in Cottonwood—a little subdivision on this side of Franklin. My dad was a banker in Brentwood. My mom was a housewife. Pretty cut and dry, actually. But I got bored. You know, I was one of those annoyingly privileged kids who isn’t interested in anything resembling work. I skipped, shoplifted—the whole shebang. I actually had to repeat my senior year. That’s when I quit school. Moved in with a buddy that was a couple years ahead of me. Figured I could make it on my own.”
“And did you?”
He cut his eyes at her sardonically. “‘Course not. It was awful. I was a cook at this little grease pit grill on West End in Nashville, living on a ratty couch in some dude’s apartment. I was twenty years old, broke and pretty convinced I had screwed up my life when this guy walks into the grill one day. He’s just got this look about him and so I ask him, ‘What do you do?’ And he says, ‘I’m a private detective.’ So I ask him about it and he tells me all the crazy stuff he does and how much he gets paid. At the time, it sounded like a million dollars. Long story short, he needed help at his office and agreed to teach me the tricks of the trade while I worked for him.”
“At twenty?”
“I might have been a dropout, but I was smart. I guess he saw that. I got my GED and entered community college. Took classes while I worked for him. I got accepted into Lipscomb University for the last two years and ended up with a business degree.”
“When did you meet Reese?”
“He was a regular client—divorce work and such—and said he saw a spark in me. He convinced me to go to law school. Said I was wasted as a P.I. It didn’t hurt that I had seen the kind of money a lot of the attorneys we worked for were making. The cars they drove. The clothes they wore. I was tired of struggling. I wanted what they had. So I entered the Nashville School of Law. Worked by day, studied at night. Got through in four years.”
“And he hired you when you got out?”
“I had clerked for him and a couple of other attorneys during the summers, but your dad needed the help the most. He had more work than he could handle. This was right after Emma and Tyler’s mom left, and he was pretty stretched learning how to play single dad. As soon I started my final year he offered to make me his junior partner. He needed help and I needed a job. The rest is history.”
“Your parents must be proud.”
“Relieved would be more accurate. At least I’m not the disappointment of the family anymore. But it’s a lot more intense work than I thought it would be. And definitely not a get-rich-quick scheme.”
“Really? You look like you’re doing okay?” she said, tilting her head towards his watch.
“What? This thing?” he asked, lifting his hand off the wheel and shaking it. “No. It’s nice and all, but I got it secondhand at this store in Alabama that sells stuff found in lost luggage. I mean,” he hedged, shrugging, “I do have a weakness for nice clothes—”
“And shoes.”
“And shoes,” he admitted, “but everybody’s got something they splurge on, right? I’m doing fine. It’s just that criminal defense attorneys in practice for themselves in small towns don’t generally top the list of high earners in the legal field.”
“Did you ever think about working for a larger firm?”
“Thought about it. But those guys always seem even more tired, more strung out. I like setting my own rules. Life’s too short as it is.”
“Yeah,” Chloe agreed without any hesitation. “It sure is.”
* * * * *
4912 Thorne Road was squirreled away in one of West Nashville’s older, more secluded areas. The towering Mediterranean-style home sat squarely in the center of a huge property and looked like it belonged in Madrid, not in a southern American town known for banjos, biscuits, and barbecue. Holt turned into the long, aggregate drive that steadily climbed up the grassy hill leading to the front door. At the summit, he pulled into one of several parking spots against a stone retaining wall.
“Wow,” Chloe remarked as they exited the car and walked up the front steps.
“Yeah,” Holt agreed, then turned to her, a playful look on his face. “Okay. What’s your guess?” he asked, deep chimes sounding as he rang the doorbell situated to the right of a double set of mahogany doors with textured glass and scrolled iron insets.
“What?”
“You think he’ll answer himself or have a full-time housekeeper? My money’s on the housekeeper.”
Before Chloe could answer, an indistinct shadow moved towards them from the other side of the doors. She straightened up as a lock clicked and the right door swung inward with a creak, revealing a man in his early fifties with thinning brown hair and horn-rimmed glasses. He was dressed in a starched white shirt and charcoal gabardine pants, with a stiff attitude to match.
“Yes?” It was more an accusation than a question, emphasized by the annoyance reflected in his eyes.
“Guess I lose,” Holt muttered to Chloe.
“What?” questioned the man.
“Mr. Drake? Of Vettner-Drake, Incorporated?” As Holt asked the question, Chloe sensed something immediately altered in him. Chloe’s gaze flicked to him, noting that the tenor of his voice seemed sharper, more direct. Cutting. Even his stance was steely. Someone had flipped a switch and now Holt was all business.
The man at the door stalled a good three seconds before answering. “Yes. Who’s asking?”
“I’m Holt Adams. I’m an attorney in Franklin. I apologize for the unannounced visit but we weren’t able to locate any phone numbers associated with you or Vettner-Drake. We’re here because we found Vettner-Drake listed on some documentation produced by Donner Properties and we hoped to ask you about the connection. I represent Kurt Sims—he’s been charged with the murder of Phillip Donner, someone I think you may be familiar with. If we could just ask a few—”
“I’m not talking to you,” Drake declared, his eyes narrowed in suspicion as he moved to slam the door.
Holt shoved his foot between the door and the frame. “You don’t want to do that. Mr. Drake, we just want to ask you a few questions. If you’ve got any insight into Mr. Donner’s dealings, it could really help us prepare a defense for Mr. Sims.”
“Why would I care about that?”
“You wouldn’t want an innocent man going to prison for a crime he didn’t commit, would you?”
“Who says he’s innocent?” said Drake.
“He does. Look, you can shut the door, but if we can’t get answers from you then we’ll just have to start digging on our own to find them. There could be subpoenas…press conferences…”
Drake huffed begrudgingly. “Fine,” he grunted, opening the door a few more inches, but keeping it as a barrier between them. “How did you get my name?”
“As I said, Vettner-Drake was listed on some documentation provided by Donner Properties as discovery in a civil suit Mr. Sims filed against it. We weren’t familiar with the name and wanted to check it out before crossing it off our list.”
“Well, you can just cross it off already. We had nothing to do with Phillip’s project. Yes, he was an acquaintance. We were friends socially. But, no, we weren’t involved in the project.”
“So Vettner-Drake wasn’t an investor in Mr. Donner’s Main Street project?”
“Like I said, no. Not an investor.” As if anticipating Holt’s next question, he continued,
“Vettner-Drake is a real estate investment and management company. Privately held. I’m its sole employee. Phillip asked me to invest in the project. I said no. But he kept including me on those invitations and updates anyway. I presume he was hoping I’d change my mind about investing.” He looked at Chloe, sizing her up, then back at Holt. “Do you work with that woman that represents Sims in his civil suit?”
“No, we’re a different firm. We just have the criminal case.”
“Look,” Drake replied dryly, “I may not have invested in Phillip’s project, but I’ve got no interest in undermining it by helping the man suing him.”
“We just want to know if you have any idea who might have wanted to undermine it.”
“You mean someone other than your client?” Drake sniped, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Holt exhaled loudly. “We aren’t trying to cause you any problems, Mr. Drake. We’re just talking to people who had a connection to Donner or his company to gather as much information as we can.”
“Well, I don’t think I can help you.”
Their eyes locked for several tense moments. “You know what?” Holt finally surrendered, touching Chloe’s arm to signal a retreat as he took a step back. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. I’m sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Drake. We’ll have to go about this another way.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you should call your lawyer,” Holt said over his shoulder as he turned towards his car. “We’ll be sending some documents your way shortly.”
Chloe had just turned her back when the front door swung all the way open.
“Stop,” Drake said. They turned back to him in unison. “I don’t want to get pulled into this. I have interests in the area and it wouldn’t do for me to be seen as aiding your client. Especially given that, from all reports, your client happens to be a nutcase. But that aside, I also don’t want to get dragged into a paper war.”
“Okay,” Holt said, folding his arms. “Great. So what can you tell me?”
Drake sniffed and looked away, apparently weighing his words. Finally his determined gaze returned to Holt. “You need to talk to that other attorney.”
Holt squinted, perplexed. “What other attorney?”
“The one handling Sims’s lawsuit.” A significant silence followed Drake’s clarification.
“Cecilia Tucker?”
“Exactly. And that,” Drake said, taking a definitive step backwards into the house and reaching to push the door shut, “is all I’m going to say.”
* * * * *
“I don’t understand,” Chloe opined as the Audi purred, racing along at sixty miles per hour, headed back to the office. “What’s that supposed to mean? ‘Talk to the other attorney.’ It sounds cryptic.”
“Yeah, I don’t know. It was weird. I don’t know why he thinks Cecilia can tell us anything—that she hasn’t already, I mean.”
“What has she told you?”
Holt twisted the wheel to the left, whipping around a slow moving car and gliding back into the right lane. “Generalities about the lawsuit, and we filled her in on Sims’s arrest. We talked about discovery in the civil suit, obviously.”
“Well, maybe he just meant that talking with her could be beneficial. Maybe he was just giving you a helpful push in the right direction.”
“I’m pretty sure he wanted to push me, but not in a helpful sort of way,” Holt said sardonically. “That exchange did not feel very ‘helpful’ to me. Did it feel helpful to you?”
“Not really.”
“If Cecilia knew anything about another potential suspect in the murder case, she would have said something when we talked this morning. She knows I’m looking for another way to spin this.”
“Why did you press him?”
“What?”
“I mean, you were different with him than with Charles Scott. Why? Maybe he just doesn’t like people showing up without calling first.”
“Gut feeling, I guess. Did you notice how unhappy he was when he realized who we were?”
“I’d guess ‘unhappy’ is a pretty standard reaction to a lawyer showing up at your house without warning, asking questions.”
“Maybe. Initially. But Charles Scott was fine with it once we explained why we were there. There was no reason for Drake to be so cantankerous.”
“So what now?”
“We go talk to Cecilia, get that weird question answered ASAP.” He glanced at the clock. “It’ll be time for lunch soon and we’ve got to eat, right? I’ll call her, see if she can grab lunch.”
Chloe’s phone buzzed and she checked the number. She didn’t recognize it.
“Hello?” she answered, listening quietly for about half a minute before speaking. “Can you hold on for a second?” She pulled the phone down and turned to Holt, relief and concern washing over her face in equal measure.
“It’s the hospital,” she said. “Reese is awake.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Reese’s blanket rose and fell rhythmically with his breathing as Chloe watched from a chair pulled to his bedside. Though he had been awake earlier, after briefly communicating with a nurse he had passed out again. His skin held more color than it had a day before, a good sign. Emma perched beside him on the bed, one leg tucked under her, the other hanging off the side. Chloe had found her there, holding Reese’s hand, when she and Holt had arrived a quarter of an hour ago. She had beaten them there, leaving school as soon as Chloe had called with the news of Reese regaining consciousness. Dogged concern creased her features, something Chloe would not have expected. It seemed that the news of her father’s awakening, quickly followed by a descent back into unconsciousness, had unlocked something inside the teenager.
“Dad,” Emma whispered, squeezing his fingers tight, “come on. We’re right here.”
Several minutes of tense waiting passed. “Maybe it’s best if we let him rest,” Holt suggested. “Sometimes these things take a while. We could come back later when—”
Something like choking issued from Reese. He shook and Emma, startled, jumped off the bed. “Dad? Dad?” she gasped, moving back as if frightened of him.
“It’s okay, Emma,” Chloe assured her. “Reese. Can you hear us? We’re all here.”
Reese’s eyes flickered. “Emma?” His voice was gravelly, dry from days of non-use.
“Yes, Emma’s here. And Holt. And me, Chloe.”
Reese exhaled, his breath hissing as if let from a tire. “Tyler?”
“He’s at school,” Chloe said. “It’s Tuesday, around noon. You’ve been out for a while.”
“Tuesday,” Reese grumbled, groggily.
“Reese,” Holt started, “do you remember what happened? Do you know who did this to you?”
“Ski mask,” Reese groaned. “Dressed…in black.” He was struggling to speak. “Water,” he grunted, his eyelids half-shut.
“Emma, why don’t you go to the nurses’ desk? Tell them he’s awake again and asking for water.”
“Um, okay,” Emma said timidly, sliding to the door, then slipping out.
“Emma…here?” Reese asked, a hint of surprise in the question. “Wouldn’t have…expected…” His words trailed off as he exhaled heavily.
“She’s more attached to you than she’d like to admit,” Holt noted sagely.
Something like a smile tugged at the corner of Reese’s chapped lips. “Good…to know.”
“Can you tell us what happened?” Holt pressed.
Reese struggled to turn his head to the side. It looked like he was trying to shake it. “Not…much. Came home before…meeting Kurt. Heard something upstairs. Surprised him,” Reese paused, coughing and licking his lips. “Fought…Fell down stairs.”
“He left a message, Reese,” Holt said. “On the wall. Said to back off or the kids would be next.”
The little color in Reese's face paled at this and he worked to open his eyes more fully. “The kids? He…threatened…kids?”
Holt nodded. “And right now it looks like it's the same person that left the box on your doorstep.”
Reese grimaced as he shifted. “Leg…killing me.”
“Don't," Chloe told him, placing a firm hand on his torso to keep him from squirming. “You broke it in two places in the fall. And you took a hit on the head. You had swelling on your brain, but it’s better now. They had to do surgery, though.”
“Brain…surgery,” Reese echoed slowly, taking that in for a few moments. “Who are…kids staying with?”
Chloe bit her lip. “Me. Well, I’ve been staying with them.”
Even in his drugged state, a noticeable wave of surprise rolled over Reese’s face. “You would do…did…that?”
Chloe nodded. “I hope it’s okay.”
Reese exhaled. “You stayed.”
Chloe nodded again. “Yeah. I stayed.”
“Reese,” Holt started, “about Kurt Sims—”
“Holt,” Chloe said, shaking her head, “maybe now isn’t the best time.”
“It’s important, Chloe. We need to know—”
“What about Sims?” Reese interrupted groggily.
“We need to know if you can think of anyone who wouldn’t want you helping him. Anyone other than Donner, obviously,” Holt pushed, as Chloe frowned.
“You sure…this…is about Donner?”
“Well, it could be about something else, but right now the connection to Sims is the best lead we’ve got.”
Reese exhaled and seemed to sink further into the bed. The short conversation was visibly draining him. “Maybe,” he started as a red-headed nurse in pink scrubs arrived with Emma on her heels, “you could…try—”
“Mr. McConnaughey?” the nurse interrupted, inserting herself into the mix and pulling Reese’s tray over his midline. She set a large plastic cup with an accordion straw on the tray. “I’m Carol, your nurse. Your daughter tells me you’re thirsty? Why don’t you try some water?”
She put the straw to his lips and he seemed to take in just a bit of the liquid before pulling back from the straw. “So tired,” he uttered, closing his eyes completely.
“Understandable,” Carol agreed, raising her gaze to meet Chloe’s. “It might be time for some rest. Maybe continue the conversation later?”
