Amelia’s eyes misted over with tears. “I don’t want my baby going back to prison.”
Kate felt for her. The anguish she saw in Amelia’s face matched her own. It also told Kate that the woman was beginning to believe her about Becky. Mothers always defended their children and fought for their innocence. To discover evidence of the contrary was on par with death, and Kate couldn’t feel worse that Amelia was now being faced with the ugly truth.
“That’s not why Scott is staying at Over the Moon, is it?” she asked with sudden concern. “Is he there to spy on me? I have nothing to do with Becky’s decisions.”
“No,” said Kate. “That’s not why he’s there.” She didn’t elaborate. Instead, she got to her feet and thanked Amelia for her time. “How’s Lance doing?”
“Oh, he’s bouncing back. He’s been working, though only from the home office here. Physically, he’s okay, but emotionally...”
She didn’t have to finish the thought. Kate could read her mind. Again, she thanked Amelia and left her.
As she approached the foyer, the maid scurried up behind her and then opened the door for Kate.
Compared to the crisp air conditioning in the Langleys’ house, outside felt hot and muggy. As she made her way to her truck, she pulled up a web browser in her cell phone and punched in Bart Vaughn’s name, along with Rock Ridge. A list of articles came up, but after scrolling down, she found his Web site, which included the address.
She checked the clock on the dashboard as soon as she started her truck. Her lunch break was nearly half over and she hadn’t even eaten. What else was new?
Still, she wouldn’t be able to concentrate on tiling the apartment floor if she was fretting over Jason, so she hit the gas and drove as fast as she could through Rock Ridge, cutting north after she passed through the center of town.
Bart Vaughn’s office was located in a brick, corporate building that looked more small-town than she had expected. Wedged between a dentist’s office and a day-care center, the attorney’s door was open and Kate entered the anteroom where a serious-looking receptionist flitted about behind her desk, organizing files and answering the telephone.
Kate waited patiently at the counter until the woman returned the phone to its cradle.
“Hi, I’m hoping to see Bart Vaughn. I didn’t have the chance to make an appointment.”
“Ah,” said the woman like a deer in headlights. Clearly Mr. Vaughn didn’t take walk-ins. “What’s your name?”
Kate leaned in and spoke quietly, since she noticed a few people were seated in the waiting area. “Kate Flaherty.”
The receptionist’s eyes widened and then a huge smile spread across her face. “As in, Jason Flaherty’s mother?”
Kate confirmed as much with a slight nod, realizing that a client like Jason meant massive publicity for a private-practice lawyer like Bart. Maybe she could use that fact to finagle a discount, she told herself, as the receptionist jumped on the phone.
“He’ll be right out,” she said excitedly, hanging up the phone.
“Should I have a seat?” Kate didn’t even get so far as to turn towards the chairs when a dapper, well-dressed man burst into the anteroom from the office that read Bart Vaughn across the door.
Bart thrust out his hand for her to shake, but Kate was momentarily thrown by his appearance. His hair was dark, nearly black and slicked back so tightly she could see the comb’s teeth marks through the strands. Contrastingly, his teeth were large and so white that they seemed almost cartoonish. Veneers? She tried not to stare and finally shook his hand.
“Bart Vaughn,” he stated, vigorously shaking her hand even though she had loosened her grip to end the custom. “Very pleased to meet you, Ms. Flaherty. I’ve been watching the case closely.”
“Please,” she said, retracting her hand. “Call me Kate.”
“Right this way.” He guided her into his office where he shut the door and quickly rounded to the business side of his desk. “Have a seat.”
For an attorney who required a ten-thousand-dollar retainer, his office didn’t look it. And as she glanced around, lowering into the chair across from him, she spied at least two items in need of fixing—a broken bookshelf and water damage in one corner of the ceiling.
“As I’m sure you’ve guessed,” she began, “my son Jason needs a good lawyer—”
“I would love to take his case,” he said eagerly.
Kate began to explain, “It’s very important that whoever represents him—”
“Me,” he interjected. “I’ll represent him.”
“Right. Well, it’s crucial that you believe he’s innocent. I won’t engage anyone who wants to cut a deal for Jason. Jason is not going to admit wrongdoing, because Jason didn’t do anything wrong.”
Bart’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head, as he leaned over his desk. “Fascinating.”
“Isn’t the truth always?”
“I defend criminals,” he said easily, leaning back in his chair. “I rarely deal with the truth. What makes you think you know the truth when it comes to Jason’s involvement?”
Kate cocked her head, asking, “How much time have you got?”
Two hours later, she had thoroughly explained to Bart every last detail she could think of regarding Becky Langley’s disappearance, the drug ring, Colombia & Partners International, those incriminating wire transfers, Ashley’s bizarre accusation that Jason had been behind it all, and the damning evidence that had been planted to frame her son. But the issue of Bart’s retainer had never come up, and she knew her stomach would stay in knots if she didn’t bring it up before leaving.
“We should probably discuss your fee,” she said after following Bart’s lead, rising to her feet. “As you might have guessed,” she went on, demonstratively glancing down at her overalls, “I’m just a fix-it woman. I don’t exactly have the kind of money the Langleys do....”
Bart waved him hand as if dismissing the topic. “Not to worry. High-profile cases like this bring in a ton of additional income for the firm. So I can wave the retainer and charge a discounted hourly rate on one condition.”
“Anything,” she said eagerly, and she meant it, too…until she heard what he had in mind.
“We need a strong presence in the media. I’m talking as many on-camera interviews as my office can book. I want your face on every network, every news hour, on a national scale. We are going to plaster the nation with Jason’s story—a man wrongly accused, a mother fighting for her son’s innocence, an attorney stopping at nothing to clear Jason’s name.”
“Ah...”
“Kate, this is very important. It’s not just about influencing the nation. It’s much more strategic than that. We need to taint the jury pool. By the time the court is picking those twelve people, everyone in town needs to be deeply invested in Jason’s story and already believe he’s innocent.”
“So you think this will go to trial?”
“It damn well better,” he said in a booming voice. “We need to milk the spotlight.”
She sighed. This was literally a nightmare within a nightmare. “What about Jason, in the meantime?” she asked, trying to stay focused on her son’s wellbeing. “Can you get him out on bail?”
“I’ll see what I can do. I’ll head over this afternoon. But given the charges and the magnitude of this case, even if they do grant him bail, you can expect it could be quite steep. I’m talking upwards of a million dollars.”
Heart sinking, Kate wanted to cry, but then she remembered her house. “Can I put my house up as collateral? I’m not exactly sure of it’s worth, but it’s up there. It has a state-of-the-art security system.”
“See about getting an appraisal and e-mail me the figure, paperwork, all that,” he offered, handing her his business card.
She tucked it in her pocket. Justina came to mind. Kate might be able to swing a trade with Justina to get a fast and free appraisal.
Bart walked her out through the anteroom, shook her
hand again at the front desk, and thanked her twice as many times as she thanked him.
“I’ll have my assistant call the networks, set up some interviews, so keep that schedule of yours open.” He flashed her a big, toothy grin that nearly blinded her when the overheads bounced off his porcelain caps, and then rushed back into his office.
Kate gave the receptionist all of her information and then leaned over the counter. “So what will Bart’s hourly rate be with the discount?”
“Let’s see,” she said, typing quickly on her computer. “One twenty-five an hour.”
It didn’t sound bad, but who knew how many hours Bart would rack up by the time this thing was over. “Billed monthly?” she asked.
“Unless you prefer weekly—”
“No, monthly is fine,” she said quickly.
The receptionist offered her a sympathetic smile. “Bart really is the best,” she said. “Plus, as soon as the story starts catching on, all these networks and stations are going to pay you an appearance fee. Bart can negotiate it for you. This story is hot. You could easily take in a grand or two per interview.”
“Really?”
The woman nodded. “What we can do is collect your appearance fee then detract Bart’s fee from it on a monthly basis. Or you can get those checks cut directly to you. Either way.”
Kate told her she would think about it. She was hoping to avoid the interviews, get conveniently sick or something, but if they really did pay that well, she wouldn’t avoid them.
As she made her way out to her truck, she realized that not only had she blown her entire lunch break three times over, but she also had a bunch of missed calls from Justina. Grumbling, she listened to the voice messages, as she hopped in behind the steering wheel and started the truck.
Justina needed some repairs done at Carnegie Real Estate, according to her first voice message, which she ended by mentioning she was on her way to the high-rise.
The next message reflected one very worried Justina as she rushed through the apartment building in search of Kate.
The last message was Justina saying she had just called the police, and that if Kate was fine she had to call her immediately.
She sighed, leaning her head on the headrest. Of course Justina was worried sick. Everyone was worried sick for her now that she had been shot at, but really, enough was enough.
She dialed Justina, who answered on the first ring.
“My God! Where are you?”
“I had to meet with Jason’s new attorney. You called the police?”
“How could I not?”
“Look, I have one more errand, but I’ll come to the apartment directly after and I can work into the night to catch up,” she explained.
“Someone tried to kill you the other night, and you think you’re going to work in a dark, busted-out apartment building where ex-cons have been coming and going freely? Are you insane?”
Kate wondered...
“I’m glad you’re okay. I’ll let the police know. Why don’t you do what you need to for the rest of the day and get home early, before dark, and stay safe?”
“Thanks,” she said, getting off the phone. It had crossed her mind to ask Justina about an appraisal on her house, but the timing wasn’t right. She would ask tomorrow or maybe leave her a message later tonight.
In the meantime, she had to plan carefully for the so-called secret meeting Becky Langley planned to hold at Drake’s Firing Line tonight at nine.
Grant Conover’s name had come up a number of times, and considering that the prison warden had maintained a relationship with Becky Langley after her release many years ago, Kate felt in her gut that swinging by the prison would be a worthwhile place to start.
She had no delusions of grandeur that the warden would admit anything outright, least of all if he was harboring Becky at his home, but Kate had an excellent eye for knowing when she was being lied to. With that in mind, she drove off, heading south towards the prison.
Twenty minutes later, Kate slowed her truck and rolled towards the fenced perimeter. Coiled barbed wire laced the top of the fence, and she noticed there were watchtowers at the two corners within view. The building was a gray, industrial-looking slab with barred windows and a security checkpoint yards from the entrance.
She drove up to the checkpoint, rolled her window down, and came to a stop at the guard’s booth.
“Name,” he barked without looking up from his clipboard that presumably had a list of visitors’ names. He was also holding his hand out, so she placed her driver’s license in it.
“Kate Flaherty,” she said, speaking up over the guard’s radio that was blaring some kind of sports game. “You won’t find me on the list. I need to speak with the warden.”
That got his attention, but not in a good way. He stared at her for a beat then burst out laughing. She scowled, repeating that she would like to talk to Grant Conover.
“I doubt you’ll catch him,” he said sardonically, while handing her a visitor's pass. “Drive on up to the blue parking spaces and let the front desk know why you’re here.”
“Thank you,” she grumbled, taking her ID before driving off.
After parking as close to the entrance as she could manage, she stuck the visitor’s pass onto her overalls and walked into the prison where the front desk was located at the back of a cavernous lobby. The sound of her footfall echoed as she crossed through. She handed her ID to the guard standing behind the desk and stated her name and reason for the visit.
“You can’t show up unannounced,” he told her.
“Well I can, evidently,” she pointed out.
“I mean you’re not going to catch him—”
“I’ll wait,” she insisted, which got the guard quirking his brow. Undeterred, she held her head high. “If Conover has time for the mayor, then he has time for the police chief’s wife,” she declared.
“You certainly are sure of yourself. I’ll give you that.” He handed her driver’s license back. “Follow the corridor, check in with the guard. He’ll send you up to the third floor where the warden’s office is, but lady, the warden could be making rounds, he could be in a meeting, there’s no telling how long you’ll be waiting.”
Without responding, she walked briskly down the corridor, nearing a guard who was standing by a set of double doors and listening to the walkie-talkie clipped to his shoulder.
“I’m—”
He opened the door and she passed through into the stairwell, relieved she didn’t have to go through the same rigmarole twice.
She was out of breath by the time she spilled out onto the third floor. She took a moment to compose herself then ventured down the corridor, which looked exactly like the one on the first floor, except that the warden’s office door was straight ahead and clearly marked with his name and title.
She knocked and the door pushed open into a shallow anteroom where an angry-looking guard in her mid-fifties was searching around the receptionist’s desk for something. Kate wondered if the guard was the receptionist, or simply annoyed at having to do the receptionist’s job.
Clearing her throat, she offered her ID. “I’m Kate Flaherty for Grant Conover.”
“The warden is indisposed,” stated the woman.
“What does that mean?”
Glaring up at Kate, the guard barked, “It means whatever he’s working on in his office has him indisposed. He hasn’t come out all morning or afternoon. He’s busy.”
Kate glanced over at a door to the left of the receptionist’s desk, which had to be where the warden was working. She had come all this way and had no intention of driving off with her tail between her legs. Then again, the guard was armed and Kate had already been shot at within the last twenty-four hours—an experience she did not wish to duplicate.
“Why don’t you give him a call?” she suggested.
The guard didn’t like that, but Kate wouldn’t give up.
“Or knock on his door?”
“Why don’t you return to wherever it is you came from?” The guard looked Kate up and down, grimacing. “A farm?”
It would take a hell of a lot more than that to insult Kate Flaherty. She planted her fists on her hips, but felt slightly queasy about what she was planning to do.
“Fine,” she said, turning for the door.
As soon as she sensed that the guard had lowered her eyes, Kate sprinted towards the warden’s office and burst through the door.
“Hey!” yelled the guard, bolting out of her chair.
But Kate wasn’t paying attention.
Her eyes were locked on the dead man stretched out on the floor.
Chapter Four
As Kate sat in the warden’s anteroom, listening to police officers rush around Grant Conover’s body as they collected evidence while directing medics, she watched the open doorway. Scott was stalking in and out of view and she imagined he was thinking the same thing she was—one more person from the Colombia & Partners International bank statement had turned up dead. And, no less, after Jason had been arrested.
Not that every individual associated with the drug ring had been killed directly because of it. But it meant there were less and less people for Scott to question. In fact, the only two people left were Drake Kramer and Becky Langley, besides Harold Simpson who might or might not have been helpful. Scott hadn’t exactly spoken to Kate about it.
Kate contemplated her hunch. What if Grant Conover had been harboring Becky? What if they hadn’t been seeing eye to eye? Perhaps Grant had gotten word that Becky was planning on overthrowing the cartel. Maybe Becky was worried Grant would make the first move to take her out so she wouldn’t be able to follow through on her plan, and so she killed him.
But Grant had been murdered in his office, inside a prison, a virtual fortress lined with security cameras.
Kate had gotten a good look at the body. Grant had been lying on his back, on the floor. He had been shot square between the eyes. The way he had landed dead on the floor—his feet pointing to the door—indicated that whoever had shot him had been standing in the doorway. Maybe Grant turned, hearing a noise, and was killed even before he could make sense of the interruption.
Mrs. Fix It Mysteries: The Complete 15-Books Cozy Mystery Series Page 88
