Seventeen Detective Walter Duncan #2
“But this,” I say with a nod toward the property we’re about to drive away from, “would be a great place to hide the bastard if they didn’t barbecue him in that barn in the woods.
” Our gazes meet. “If we don’t reach one or the other of these two by morning, we’re going to go for that BOLO on account. ”
Liv makes a funny face. “On account of what?”
“On account of”—I shift into Drive—“they’re pissing me off.”
Her laughter makes me feel like maybe, just maybe, she’s getting back to her old self.
My cell vibrates and I take the call. “Duncan.”
It’s the Chester County sheriff. I listen to his update and then thank him. When the call ends, I give Liv the news. “No remains found in the burned-out barn. But the fire marshal says definitely accelerants were involved.”
No surprise there . . . the question is why.
The lawyer’s office is on the west side of town in a sketchy strip mall.
Not too far from the Reeves Accounting firm, in fact.
Reeves’s office is still locked up tighter than a drum.
But, like I told Liv, we’re not going to let those two get away with their evasion tactics for another twenty-four hours.
This has gone on long enough.
We park in the lot and eye the two remaining businesses still operating in the strip mall. A nail salon and the lawyer’s office. The other three shops are for lease. Considering the faded signs and the peeling paint, they’ve been empty for a good long while.
Liv sits up straighter and asks, “We doing the good cop / bad cop routine?”
“I get to be the good cop this time,” I say.
“Suits me. Right now, I feel a lot more like a bad cop than a good one anyway.”
I chuckle like she’s joking, but I have a feeling she’s not kidding.
We climb out and cross the lot. The traffic on Powell is heavier than I would have expected for this time of day. There are two cars parked in front of the nail salon. One of the technicians or whatever they’re called stands in the open door. She shouts a two-for-one deal at us as we move past.
Liv waves her off and goes for the lawyer’s door. The door as well as the plate glass windows on either side of it are covered with iron bars. There are no vehicles parked in front of this office. I imagine most of his business scurries in on foot and well after dark.
Inside, the place smells of roses, compliments of the candle burning on the receptionist’s desk. The chair behind the desk is empty.
The sound of rain draws my gaze to the ironclad windows. A torrential downpour has started. Damn. That was fast. One minute the sun was shining, and now, this. The weatherman said it was going to rain. I guess he got it right this time. “Looks like we walked in just in time.”
Liv nods. “Hopefully, it’ll pass before we’re done here.”
“Can I help you?”
The man—Alexander Cagle—is standing in the doorway of what I presume to be his office. “My secretary is at lunch.” He gestures to the empty desk.
I flick the lapel of my jacket aside and reveal my badge. “Detective Walt Duncan.” I hitch my head toward Liv. “My partner. Olivia. We need to ask you a few questions about a client of yours—Carl Fanning.”
Cagle’s expression closes instantly. “I’m sure you know that—particularly in light of your ongoing investigation—I can’t answer any of your questions, Detective.”
“Your client is missing,” Liv says. “If you expect us to find him, I suggest you hear us out.”
Reluctantly he leads us into his office. As soon as we’re seated, he picks up his cell and appears to answer a text.
While the reception area was as plain as hell with its seventies-style paneling and the utilitarian tile floor like you see in hospitals, his office is as lavish as any I’ve encountered in the high-end law firms downtown.
Mahogany desk and matching credenza. Lush carpet.
Richly painted walls adorned with elegant artwork and the framed accolades that herald his right to practice law.
His chair is as big as a throne and every bit as ostentatious.
The two chairs flanking the front of his desk are overstuffed and clad in a classic paisley fabric.
“Sorry for the interruption, my secretary needed to confirm my order for lunch. So, what can I do to help?” He looks from me to Liv and back.
I go first. “Have you spoken with your client since his release from Riverbend?”
“I have, yes.” He braces his elbows on his desk and steeples his fingers. “Of course, our conversation is privileged.”
Liv throws the next punch. “Did he at any time mention feeling as if he was being watched or followed?”
“He did not. In fact, he insisted he was settling in well. I can tell you that he accepted part-time employment to supplement his social security.”
“Where?” Liv asks. This is news to us.
“Dawson’s Detail Shop just off Dickerson Pike. I can give you the specific address, but you cannot harass the owner.”
“We get that part,” I remind him. Then I ask again, “Have you heard from him by any means since he disappeared?” Lawyers can be tricky. Being more specific is sometimes necessary.
“As I said, I have not. If I had, I would have urged him to turn himself in so as not to waste taxpayer dollars.”
How nice. The two-bit, ambulance-chasing lawyer is concerned about waste in government spending.
I wish I had a nickel for every sign plastered around the city with his face and stupid logo on it.
Not to mention the television and radio commercials.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. The man has no class whatsoever beyond the paisley fabric he chose for these fancy chairs.
Stella always loved paisley, said it was classic.
“Do you have any theories on what may have happened to him?” This from Liv.
“I believe a vigilante has taken him somewhere and murdered him. I don’t think we’ll ever hear from Carl Fanning again unless his body is found.”
Funny, he doesn’t sound too torn up about it at all. I inquire, “Are you speaking from firsthand knowledge about some aspect in his disappearance that we don’t know about or are you simply theorizing?”
“She asked for a theory.” He turns his hands up, his face smug. “I gave her what she asked for.”
When Liv doesn’t take her turn, I move on to another avenue. “Does Fanning have any friends or relatives we don’t know about who might be hiding him?”
“He has no family and certainly no friends.”
Liv doesn’t say a word about her father. I decide to follow her cue. Maybe she’s changed her mind.
She stands. I do the same. “Well, thank you, Mr. Cagle. I hope you’ll call us if you think of anything that might help us find your client.”
The attorney pushes up from his elegant chair and gives me a nod. “I certainly will. I am just as interested in finding my client as you.”
I keep the chuckle to myself. Yeah, right.
We’re almost to the door when Liv turns around. “Mr. Cagle, did you hire on Mr. Fanning’s behalf a private psychiatrist to help him with transitioning back into society?”
The lawyer’s flinch is almost imperceptible, but I spot it. Good move, Liv!
“He mentioned wanting one,” Cagle says, “but I think he found one on his own.”
She tilts her head. “I’m sure you remember the therapist’s name.”
Cagle shakes his head. “Actually, I don’t.” He reaches for a file on his desk, a cue that he’s done answering questions. “I’ll call if I think of anything else.”
I follow Liv across the lobby. We stall at the door. The rain has stopped, but half a dozen news vans are waiting outside right next to my Tahoe.
Son of a bitch. Cagle wasn’t ordering lunch. He was ordering publicity.