by Maggie Wells
“Your Honor, they don’t have a shred of evidence connecting my client directly to the disappearance of this young woman—”
“She’s not a woman. She’s sixteen,” Lori interjected.
“Deputy, please,” Judge Nichols admonished mildly. “You’re only here as a courtesy. Don’t make me ask you to leave.”
Simon picked up where he’d been cut off. “While I understand time is of the essence, and admittedly there may be some connection between my client and the young man Jasmine Jones was allegedly seeing socially, there’s no just cause for my client’s premises to be searched.”
“Your Honor, the courts generally grant the authorities some leeway when the safety of a minor is involved,” Hayes argued.
“We have no evidence anyone was abducted, and absolutely nothing connecting her disappearance directly to my client.” Simon chanced a glance at Ben, not daring to look directly at Lori. “There are no legal grounds to search Mr. Coulter’s property.”
“Your Honor, last week we had another young woman claim—” Lori began.
Judge Nichols held up his hand to stop her. “While I appreciate your dedication, Deputy, Mr. Coulter was not charged in that instance, so I cannot allow it to have any bearing here,” he reminded her.
Simon homed in on Lori, imploring her to see reason. “A search warrant grants you too much opportunity to infringe on my client’s right to privacy on his own property.” He raised both hands to indicate his own frustration, then tried to reframe the sheriff’s department’s request into something more reasonable. “Can you set up surveillance? You can watch for them from the highway. I don’t believe Mr. Coulter’s employees live on-site. You might catch Rick Dale coming or going.”
“I don’t have unlimited resources, Simon,” Ben Kinsella said dryly. “We’re not exactly staffed for stakeouts.”
“Listen, I want Jasmine safe with her family too, but I feel compelled to state for the record even seeking a search warrant for my client’s property could be seen as a gross overreach. My client is already feeling put on the spot. I’d hate for him to feel he needs to go on the offensive.”
He locked eyes with Hayes. “Which is why I appreciate you calling me in here for this—” he shifted his gaze to the judge “—informal discussion about a missing girl’s possible whereabouts.”
Heaving a heavy sigh, Judge Nichols ran a gnarled hand over his face, pulling at his jowls. When he opened his eyes, he looked directly at Simon. “November can’t come soon enough for me,” he said flatly. “Whoever wins the seat is more than welcome to it.”
Simon inclined his head. “I understand, Your Honor.”
The judge shook his head. “No, I don’t think you do understand. This kind of stuff might be commonplace up in the city, but these past few years here—” He broke off, shaking his head in disbelief. “I can’t for the life of me imagine why your grandfather wants this job.”
“Your Honor...” Lori began again.
The judge only shook his head. “Unfortunately, Deputy Cabrera, Mr. Wingate is correct. I need evidence Mr. Coulter had something to do with this young lady’s disappearance.” Sliding his gaze to Hayes, he added, “Bring me one shred of evidence connecting him to her, and we’ll continue this ‘informal conversation’ about search warrants.”
When they shuffled from the judge’s chambers, the sheriff was careful to place himself between Simon and Lori, but there was no hiding the deputy’s chagrin.
“Well, that went about as expected,” Hayes said when they entered the larger office space that housed the district attorney’s offices.
“I can’t believe you took such weak evidence to him,” Simon said, shaking his head.
Hayes shrugged. “I came up against an immovable object.”
Steps ahead of them, Lori led the charge. She didn’t look back. She didn’t speak to anyone. She just made a beeline for the door leading to the municipal building’s atrium, no doubt anxious to get back on her own turf.
“Lori, wait,” he called after her.
She didn’t break stride. Instead, she raised one hand in a rude gesture and kept walking forward, her other palm extended to push open the door.
“Give her some time,” Ben advised. “This is hitting close to home for her.”
“I understand,” Simon snapped. “I’m not the enemy here.”
Both the sheriff and the district attorney looked at him, their expressions curious. “No,” Ben began slowly. “She only sees you defending her enemy, which puts you squarely on the wrong team.”
“Ben, I’m not—”
“I know,” Ben said succinctly. “It’s not an easy pill to swallow. Not for any of us.”
Simon stood rooted to the spot as Ben disappeared into the offices across the hall. Through the glass walls, he saw him stop and speak to Lori, who was clearly agitated. He wanted to go over there and try to reason with her, but there wasn’t any point. He might have the law on his side, but working within the law didn’t necessarily mean he was right.
“She’ll cool off.” Hayes spoke quietly.
When Simon glanced over his shoulder, he saw the district attorney staring across the fishbowl atrium into the law’s side of the Masters County law and justice center.
“I hope so,” Simon murmured. Facing the other man, he asked, “Why’d you even take it in there? There was no way Nichols was going to approve a warrant.”
Hayes nodded. “She came storming in here while Judge Nichols was hitting the coffeepot.” He shrugged. “He heard her and the judge thought he might save a lot of running around if we got everyone in the room and hashed it out.”
Simon nodded, and his gaze strayed back to the woman across the hall. Even through multiple panes of glass, he could see the anger shimmering off her like heat rising from a sunbaked road. “I should never have mentioned a stakeout. She’ll park her car right outside those gates every day and every night,” he grumbled.
“Yes, she probably will.” Hayes peered at him. “You have three options.”
Simon jerked, startled by the man’s blunt assessment. He tore his attention from Lori. “Oh, yeah? What are those?”
“One, you walk away knowing you did everything legally necessary to save your client a hassle, to heck with a sixteen-year-old girl—”
“I’m not a monster, Harry,” he growled.
“Okay, so option two would be to maybe put the bug in your client’s ear about how this girl’s disappearance is, uh, reflecting on him, and see if he is willing to voluntarily allow the sheriff’s department to ease their minds about her being at his place.”
“Yeah, I don’t think he’s feeling overly friendly to the people on our side of the building these days.”
“With good reason.” Hayes nodded to the sheriff’s offices. “One of Ben’s friends from the DEA came to call yesterday.”
“Are you insinuating they might be coming here to investigate my client for some reason?”
“I’m saying it seems your client has a reputation.”
Simon’s gaze narrowed. “I’m representing him, not dating him.”
“No, your tastes run more to curvy brunettes,” Hayes answered, darting a meaningful glance at the windows.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You do, but for the life of me, I can’t see how you’ll ever get over the Coulter-shaped hurdle.”
Tiring of Hayes’s lecturing, he spun to face the other man head-on. “You said three things.”
“Help her,” Hayes answered with a shrug.
“Help her how? I have an obligation to my client.”
“Help her by helping your client avoid another entanglement with the law,” the other man said patiently. “She’s not worried the girl has taken off with Coulter. She’s worried she’s with one of the guys who works for him. Coult
er’s employees are not your clients. I’d lay odds if your client gets wind the sheriff suspects there’s another underage girl hiding out in his refuge, he’ll turn the place upside down to get her out of there.” He paused, and they both glanced to where Lori sat hunched over her desk, her phone pressed to her ear. “Try helping her in other ways.”
Simon let his head fall forward and rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay,” he said quietly, his mind racing through all the ways he could broach the topic with Coulter. “Okay. I’ll see what I can find out about this Rick guy.” He gave his head a shake, his expression grim. “I’m pretty sure I saw him at the Daisy the other day.”
“Oh?” Hayes look intrigued.
“I can’t say for sure. Mostly I remember the car.” He grimaced. “You know how kids take a perfectly good subcompact and trick it out with the popping exhaust and the big wings on the back? It was one of those.”
The other man fixed him with a pointed look. The kind that said Simon was missing something by a mile. “Maybe you should share your information with Deputy Cabrera.”
Simon rolled his eyes at the man’s deliberate enunciation. “Maybe, but I’m not sure she wants to hear anything I have to say.”
“The only thing we’re certain of right now is a sixteen-year-old girl has not been seen by her parents since Sunday morning.” He paused to let the assertion sink in. “We’ve lost almost forty-eight hours and the clock is ticking.”
Swallowing the hard lump of truth, Simon headed for the door himself. “Right.” When he was halfway out into the atrium, he remembered his manners. “Thanks, Harry. I’ll talk to you later.”
Simon didn’t look back to see if Hayes was watching when he crossed the lobby; he didn’t need to. He could feel the man’s gaze trained on the back of his head. Hayes was right. Rick Dale was not his client. Coulter was. Simon was free to share what little information he had on the guy without violating his client’s privilege.
When he stepped through the door to the sheriff’s department, the occupants fell quiet. Ben even glowered at him, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Can we help you, Simon?” the sheriff asked, cool and controlled. His calm helped counter some of the heat in Lori’s dark eyes.
“Yeah, I, uh...” Simon leaned to the side, hoping to make eye contact with the fuming woman behind her gatekeeper. “I wanted to tell you I think I’ve seen this Dale guy around town.”
“Great,” she said sarcastically. “Thanks for the intel.”
“Actually, it is great,” Ben interrupted. “If Simon remembers him, maybe other people will too. We can start canvassing.”
“I’m also pretty sure I’ve seen his car.” Reaching into his pocket, Simon extracted his cell and swiped at the screen until the information contained in the Amber Alert came up again. He frowned at the information and searched his memory. “It was a Toyota. Older model. I don’t remember looking at the plates.”
“Thanks for confirming what we already know,” Lori said drolly. “We’ll contact your office if we need you to be even more unhelpful than you already are.”
Tired of being the target of her ire, Simon switched his attention to Ben. “You don’t think it would be helpful to note that the car was more primer gray than silver? Or about the oversize airfoil wing?”
Ben dug into his shirt pocket and extracted a small notebook with a golf pencil jammed through the binding rings. “Airfoil wing? A spoiler?”
“For the sake of simplicity, yes. They’re technically different, but you get what I mean.”
Ben frowned. “What’s the difference?”
“A spoiler creates better airflow and decreases drag, but a wing deflects airflow to add drag.”
“Why would you add drag?” Ben asked, his pencil poised.
“Well, on actual race cars, to improve stability and cornering at high speed. These guys probably just think it looks cool.”
“Could you two make a date to play Grand Theft Auto some other time?” Lori asked, agitation pitching her voice higher than usual. “It’s got a wing thing on the back. Anything else you care to share, Counselor?”
Simon resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “The usual aftermarket tricks, taillight covers and I’d guess xenon headlights. The exhaust was modified.”
“Roar or popper?” Ben asked.
“More of a popper, but they had a whistle effect in there, I think.”
Lori rose from the desk, dividing an incredulous look between Ben and himself. “How is the sound of his muffler supposed to help us find Jasmine?”
“Because people notice noisy cars,” Ben murmured, jotting a few more notes. “Anything else?”
Simon shook his head. “If I think of anything more, I’ll be in touch.”
Nodding, Ben pivoted on his heel and headed for his own desk. “I’ll send the information to the state coordinator and they can distribute it to surrounding areas. Thanks, Simon.”
“Yeah, anything I can do.” His response had been automatic, but he regretted the words. Not because he didn’t mean them, but because they sounded trite.
“Yes, thank you so much, Simon,” Lori said with a sneer. “You threw us a Froot Loop when we need a life preserver, but hey, you’re still a great guy.”
“Hey, now,” Ben chided from his office.
“Lori,” Julianne gasped at the same time.
Lori stared at him, practically daring him to protest her treatment of him. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. He would do everything he could do—legally and ethically—to help find the missing girl, but he wasn’t going to open his client up to an abuse of power because he wanted to make nice with the pretty deputy with the giant chip on her shoulder.
At last, Lori plucked a business card from the holder on the desk and handed it to him. “Please feel free to pass along any other information you would like to share, Counselor.”
He took the card and nodded to Julianne as he passed her desk. “I’ll call if I come across anything useful.”
He hit the push bar on the glass door hard and had one foot in the atrium before he heard Julianne call after him, “Thank you, Simon.”
Looking back through the glass, he saw Julianne’s hand lowering slowly to her side, her expression anxious and guilt stricken. Lori stood with her arms crossed over her chest and her gaze locked on him. He shouldn’t care. What did it matter to him if a Hicksville sheriff’s deputy looked at him like he was something she’d scraped off her shoe?
He did care.
Because he did, Simon shoved his way out of the Masters County Municipal Center, hell-bent on proving himself innocent, though presumed guilty by association.
Back in his office, Simon closed the door and dialed his father’s number. It went immediately to voice mail. Sighing because he was all too aware he was letting himself in for a lecture on legal ethics, he swiped the screen again and hit the speed dial for his grandfather. Wendell answered on the second ring.
“Have you burned my office down?” he asked in lieu of a hello.
“Not yet,” Simon replied. “The day is young.”
“Two phone calls in one week,” Wendell commented. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not calling simply because you enjoy talking to your dear old granddad?”
“I do enjoy talking to you,” Simon retorted.
“We’ve never talked this much,” Wendell challenged. “I’m not complaining, mind you.”
“Sounds like complaining.”
“If I were to complain about anything, it would be the godforsaken rubber-chicken lunch I have coming up. Why don’t you tell me what it is you need?” his grandfather suggested.
“Absolution?”
The whoosh of a heavy exhalation rushed through the line. “Hoo-boy. What have you done?”
“Nothing yet.”
“What are you thinking
about doing?” his grandfather pressed.
“Firing Samuel Coulter,” Simon answered honestly.
There was a prolonged silence on the other end. Finally, his grandfather asked, “Okay. Why?”
“Why?” Simon gave a short laugh. “Because the guy’s creepy?” he said, only half joking.
“Creepiness isn’t reason enough. You took the man’s retainer. You need a genuine conflict or cause in order to sever the relationship.”
“I don’t think I’m capable of giving the man an unbiased defense.”
“If he’s willing to accept your reason, good for you. I have to warn you, you’re never going to make it through a life in law or politics without having to deal with some real scumbags,” Wendell said bluntly. “If you can’t get over feeling squeamish from time to time, you’d better start thinking about an alternative career plan.”
“To be honest, I’m starting to think so too,” Simon said quietly.
“Are you considering giving up the law entirely?” his grandfather asked, a note of worry in his question.
“No,” Simon answered without a thought. “I’m not into handling the criminal stuff—I can tell you that. I don’t mind doing the wills and probate, real-estate transactions, normal kind of stuff.”
“Son, if we could all choose to deal only with the tidier aspects of the law, we would, but in a small-town practice, you take what comes to you.”
“Even if the people coming to you are flat-out wrong?”
“Do you know for a fact your client is actively engaged in breaking the law or making you a party to his alleged illegal activities?”
“No.” Simon couldn’t keep the sulky note out of his admission. “I know there’s something wrong about this guy and I don’t want anything to do with him.”
“Your opinion wouldn’t be influenced by Deputy Lori Cabrera, would it?”
“Lori?” Simon tried to sound amused but was pretty sure he came off defensive.
“I hear the two of you were chatting it up at your cookout the other night,” Wendell commented mildly.
Simon snorted but sat up straighter in his seat. “Your informants passed along faulty information.”
