A Trace of Murder. Блейк Пирс

life before she lost Evie.

      Sometimes she hated this job.

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      Keri’s stomach was a churning pit of anxiety as she sat in the waiting room of Jackson Cave’s law firm. He’d made her wait twenty minutes already, long enough for her to repeatedly rethink whether this was a good decision.

      She’d been on the way back from San Pedro, calculating how long it would take her to get to the houseboat to change into an evening gown and then to Beverly Hills for the All Smiles fundraiser. But as she headed north, she saw the skyscrapers of downtown Los Angeles in the distance and a powerful urge took over. She found herself driving to Cave’s office, without any kind of plan to fall back on.

      On the way there, she’d called Brody so they could debrief each other. After she filled him in on the Coy Brenner dead end, he told her about San Diego.

      “Jeremy Burlingame’s alibi checks out. He was in surgery all day yesterday. Apparently he was supervising some doctors down there, teaching them a new facial reconstruction procedure.”

      “All right, listen, traffic’s a real bitch here,” Keri said. It was partly true but also an excuse for her to stop at Cave’s. “So if you get to the gala before me, please just scope the place out. Don’t start interrogating people.”

      “Are you telling me how to do my job, Locke?”

      “No, Brody. But I am suggesting that going into this place like a bull in a china shop might be counterproductive. Some of these socialite women would probably open up more to another chick in a dress than to a guy whose longest relationship has been with his car.”

      “Screw you, Locke. I’ll talk to whoever I want,” Brody said indignantly. But she could hear in his voice that he had doubts about how good an idea that was.

      “Suit yourself,” Keri replied. “See you there.”

      Now, a full half hour later, she still hadn’t gotten in to see Cave. It was almost 5:30. She decided to take advantage of the lull to look around. She walked up to the reception desk.

      “Do you know how much longer Mr. Cave is going to be?” she asked the secretary, who shook her head apologetically. “Then can you tell me where the restroom is, please?”

      “Down the hall to the left.”

      Keri headed that way, her eyes alert for any detail that could work to her advantage. Directly across from the women’s restroom was a door marked Exit. She opened it and saw that it opened into the same hallway she’d come down to get to the main entrance of the firm.

      Glancing around and seeing no one in the hall, she pulled a tissue out of her purse and shoved it into the tube latch hole so that it couldn’t lock automatically. Then she stepped into the restroom briefly for the sake of appearance.

      When she returned to the lobby, an attractive woman in a crisp business suit was waiting to lead her to Jackson Cave’s office. As she followed the woman, she tried to keep her heart from beating out of her chest. She was about to meet with the man who might hold the key to getting crucial information about Evie’s whereabouts and she had no game plan.

      The only other time she’d met with Jackson Cave had been at a police station in a small mountain town. He’d come to try to bail out his client, Payton Penn, the brother of California Senator Stafford Penn. Ultimately, she discovered that Penn had hired Alan Pachanga to abduct his niece, Ashley. Things had gone her way back in that mountain town, but now she was in enemy territory and she could sense it.

      Jackson Cave was known throughout most of the city for his reputation representing major corporate clients. But to law enforcement, his pro-bono work defending rapists, pedophiles, and child abductors was his claim to infamy.

      Keri was immediately suspicious of a man like that. It was one thing to defend a murder suspect in a death row case or some desperate guy who robbed a bank to support his family. But to exclusively and enthusiastically represent the worst perpetrators of sexual violence that the city had to offer, free of charge, struck her as an odd choice.

      Nonetheless, Keri hoped to put his work to her advantage. She knew that somewhere in Cave’s possession must be a cipher that could crack the code to Alan Pachanga’s computer. If she could find it, that could lead her to information on a whole network of abductors for hire. It might even include something about the man who’d taken Evie, a man she believed went by the name “The Collector.”

      Everything about the place was designed to intimidate. The firm itself consumed the entire seventieth floor of the seventy-three-story US Bank Tower. There were floor-to-ceiling windows everywhere, looking out on the vastness of Los Angeles. Expensive art covered the walls. All the furniture was leather and mahogany.

      They finally reached an unmarked office at the end of the hall and the woman led her in. It was empty. Keri was directed to a plush chair across from Cave’s desk, which was immaculate.

      Left alone, she glanced around, trying to glean something about the man from his surroundings. There were no personal photos on his desk or credenza. On the wall were some photos of Cave with movers and shakers such as the mayor, several city councilmen, and a few celebrities. His college (USC) and law school (Harvard) diplomas were displayed as well. But nothing gave a sense of the man or his passions.

      Before Keri could study the room further, Jackson Cave walked in. She stood up quickly. He was just as she remembered him from their last meeting. His coal black hair was slicked back like Gordon Gekko in Wall Street. His blindingly white teeth filled out a mouth twisted into a fake, plastic smile. His tan skin gleamed underneath his navy Michael Kors suit. And his penetrating blue eyes glinted with a fierceness that reminded her of an eagle hunting prey.

      And then, in a flash, she knew her course of action. Jackson Cave, with his personal photos with power players and his immaculate grooming and attire, was a man who cared about how he was perceived. He made his living off winning people over—politicians, juries, the media. And Keri knew he wanted to win her over too. It was his nature.

      I have to undermine that goal. I have to come at him hard and fast, upend his expectations, keep him off balance. The only way I’m going to poke through his armor and get him to slip up is if I jab him in enough places. Maybe then he’ll say something inadvertently that could lead me to crack the cipher.

      If she could get him upset, or even just annoyed, maybe he’d make a mistake and inadvertently reveal something important. Considering she already despised the man, it wasn’t a big lift. She just had to amp it up and look for cracks in his perfect façade. She didn’t know exactly what those cracks might be, but if she stayed alert, she was sure she’d find something.

      “Detective Keri Locke,” he said as he swept past her to his side of the desk, “what an unexpected surprise. It was only a few weeks ago that we chatting in the fresh mountain air. And now you’ve consented to visit me here in the concrete jungle. To what do I owe the honor?”

      Before speaking, Keri took a step toward one of the photos of Cave with a local dignitary so that her back was to him. She did it partly to show that she was in charge of the meeting, partly to get under his skin by refusing to look at him directly, and partly because her ribs were starting to ache again and she didn’t want him to see her gritting her teeth in discomfort.

      “Sorry to bother you, counselor. I know you must be busy, preparing to defend an accomplice to child abduction.”

      “Alleged, Detective. Alleged accomplice.”

      She ignored his comment and continued.

      “I came down here to ask you a question. Why is it, with so many powerful corporate clients at your disposal, you insist on representing the dregs of society?”

      She glanced casually over her shoulder as if she didn’t have a care in the world but focused intently on Cave’s eyes, looking for any sign of distress. He offered none. Clearly, he was used to these kinds of put-downs.

      “Everybody deserves quality representation, Detective. It’s in the constitution—sixth amendment. Look it up.”

      “I’m