CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Stone’s neighborhood was the kind no one lingered in if they had a choice. Paint peeled from rowhouses like molting skin, and the only signs of prosperity were the chrome rims on cars that possibly hadn’t rolled out of a showroom legally. Marcus slowed the sedan as they turned onto the block.
“That it?” Kate asked.
“Yeah.” Marcus nodded toward a sagging chicken joint with a flickering neon sign: King Cluck’s Best Fried. Around the back, a narrow alley reeked of fryer oil and urine.
As they pulled in, a transaction seemed to be in progress—two guys were leaning against a Buick, one handing off a plastic baggie, the other peeling off cash.
The deal froze mid-air. Four wary eyes locked on the Bureau sedan. The cash vanished. The baggie disappeared.
“Afternoon, gentlemen,” Marcus called, his voice as dry as sandpaper.
The men bolted down the alley, sneakers slapping against the concrete.
“A select neighborhood,” Kate muttered.
“I can’t decide if it reminds me more of Paris,” Marcus said. “Or Florence.”
The stairwell at the back of the restaurant was lit by a single bulb. A paper sign on the door read: Edward Stone, Attorney at Law.
Inside, the stench of old grease gave way to dust, paper, and cat urine.
The office looked less like a place of business and more like a hoarder's tomb.
Files slumped in teetering towers; loose pages drifted like dead leaves across the floor.
Cats prowled everywhere—on the desk, in boxes, nestled atop piles of age-old legal briefs.
Their eyes glowed in the dim light like sentinels.
And behind the desk: Edward Stone.
Immaculately dressed, as if the chaos never touched him, Stone was in his mid-forties: a gaunt but almost handsome man in a gray three-piece suit, polka-dot pocket square folded crisp.
His shoes gleamed like mirrors. His eyes, however, were glassy, and the half-empty bottle of Old Crow at his elbow explained why.
“Agents,” he said, standing with courtly precision. His baritone voice carried the echo of a man who had once lived for the courtroom. “To what do I owe the honor on this quiet Sabbath afternoon?”
Kate looked to Marcus for the introduction, but he seemed to be squinting at something on the lawyer’s desk, so she explained who they were and the nature of their enquiries. Before Stone could respond, however, Marcus erupted in a volley of sneezes.
“Jesus. It’s cats. I’m sorry, they— atchoo! Sir, can you —atchoo!”
Stone’s lips twitched. “Out, all of you. Out!” He clapped his hands, ushering the cats toward a back room. They slunk off, tails flicking, until the door closed behind them.
The moment it did, Marcus’s sneezing stopped. He straightened, grinned slyly at Kate, then pulled a folder from a stack marked in bold scrawl: Whitfield: Schedule.
Inside: a meticulous diary of the preacher’s daily comings and goings. Gym appointments, physiotherapy, dinner engagements, sermon rehearsals, and the precise hour he liked to walk by the lake. Every detail accounted for.
Marcus replaced the file just as Stone returned, dusting off his hands.
“Better?” Stone asked, somewhat warily, as he opened a window.
“I will be,” Marcus said. "Apologies for that. They didn't use to set me off."
“But now they do,” Stone said, pointedly.
Kate leaned forward. “Let’s start with Dr Angela Phillips. You sent her a message after the murders. Celebrating.”
Stone’s eyes flickered, and a flush of embarrassment colored his high cheekbones.
“An error of judgement, as numerous people pointed out subsequently. If I’d been sober, I wouldn’t have sent it.
But I won’t deny—yes, I was pleased, and I remain so.
Earthly courts failed. Judges and lawyers failed.
The entire system failed as those men bled their flocks dry and walked away smiling.
Their deaths… well, they felt like justice. ”
“Divine justice?” Kate asked softly, letting her gaze drift to the large wooden crucifix high on the wall behind his desk.
Stone’s eyes followed hers. His mouth tightened. “A figure of speech. I stopped believing in any just, loving God a long time ago.”
“Then that’s a strange item for a non-believer to display on his wall,” Kate said.
“Not really. It came with the office,” Stone replied diffidently. “I’d need a ladder to take it down and—” He glanced almost apologetically towards the whiskey bottle. “I’m not very steady at height.”
That point was probably true, but neither agent looked satisfied.
Marcus leant forward and tapped the file he’d just looked at. “In here, you've got Whitfield’s movements, down to the hour. You knew his life better than his secretary did. How? And why?”
Stone’s face hardened. “You rifled through my files? Without a warrant? That’s a violation. You think I don’t know procedure, Agent Reid?”
“Answer the question,” Kate pressed.
“Answer?” Stone barked a laugh. “You don’t get answers without the proper paperwork, sweetie. That’s the law.”
Kate shifted tactics. “Where were you Thursday night, between midnight and one?”
Stone leaned back. “With a client.”
“And Friday night?”
“The same. Actually, not with, on that occasion. Speaking to. Thanks to the wonders of the World Wide Web.”
“One client, both nights? Or two different clients?”
"I can tell you that it was one client. And sorry, I got that mixed up. My meeting on Thursday was online, and Friday was in person."
Kate and Marcus exchanged a glance. “Is that your final version of the story?” Marcus asked. “Or do you want to change it again?”
“Agent Reid, I simply made a mistake.”
“Who was the client?”
Stone tutted. “I am not going to disclose that. Attorney-client privilege is absolute.”
Kate’s eyes narrowed. “We’re investigating two murders.”
“Bella veniunt et abeunt, reges nascuntur et moriuntur, et tamen lex, lex manet,” Stone replied smoothly.
“Once more in English?” Marcus growled.
“Wars come and go, kings are born and die, and yet the law remains the law,” Kate said. “Virgil, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps,” Stone replied, with a shrug. Kate was beginning to dislike this man intensely.
The phone rang, slicing the silence. Stone snatched it up. “Mother, I told you—yes, I sent the check—no, Consuela doesn’t come today, it’s Sunday— SUNDAY, Mother, please—” He turned away, shoulders tight, his voice rising in frustration.
Kate leaned toward Marcus, her voice low. “He’s a schmuck, but he knows the law inside-out. If we want anything solid, we’re going to need a warrant.”
Marcus nodded. "And we'd better get it fast."
Now Kate’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen: Winters.
“Valentine,” her boss’s clipped voice snapped through the line, typically without preamble. “Cox has been stabbed. He’s in the hospital wing. The guy visiting him—priest called Santos—is in custody. Prison’s on lockdown.”
Kate’s pulse spiked. She met Marcus’s eyes across the paper-strewn office.
Stone’s voice droned behind them, still arguing with his mother.
But the crucifix loomed above, its shadow sharp on the peeling wall, and Kate had the sick sense that Stone wasn’t the only one living in its shadow.