Once in the hallway, she said, “If he’d been disturbed, he wouldn’t be so calm. He’s a nervous sort, my brother. Scared of his own shadow. But so good at his job. You need someone caring at this stage, and he’s a love. Come on. Let’s get back upstairs.” The girl’s natural exuberance showed itself. “I’m sure you want to call your cop friend, let him know we had a visitor.”
Sam called Fletch’s phone, but he didn’t answer. Moments later, they heard the doorbell ring.
“Ah, there they are,” Sam said.
They went to the foyer and Regina unlocked the front door. The men came in, both breathing heavily and sweating.
Regina took Davidson to the autopsy suite to show him what happened, leaving Sam and Fletcher alone. She handed him a bottle of water from her bag. He gulped greedily while she explained what had transpired, and Fletcher’s brows drew closer together.
“What happened earlier?” Sam asked.
“June caught a flash of the baseball cap, called out for him to stop, but he took off at a sprint. We got after him, but he ducked into the woods and disappeared. Poof, gone. He must have circled back and come in through the garage doors. Nothing’s missing?”
Sam shook her head. “Not that we can see. Fletch, he was standing over the body, and it sounded like he was crying. Do you think this could be the son, Henry Matcliff? The glimpse I had, he looked young.”
“Maybe. Xander checked in—he’s going into the woods to see if he can spot the man for us. Keep that under your hat for now.” His voice dropped, and she had to lean forward to hear him. “I don’t trust Davidson, not yet. I don’t think he’s told us everything about Savage. Something odd’s going on here.”
“No kidding.”
Before they could analyze things further, Davidson returned with Regina.
“We better get over to the law firm. I’ll send an officer out here to keep an eye on things until we get Savage’s wishes cleared up. Regina will keep watch, won’t you, honey?”
Regina rolled her eyes at the endearment, clearly offended, but nodded. She pointedly ignored Davidson, but shook Sam’s hand, and Fletcher’s. “Thanks for everything, Dr. Owens. I’ll see you around. You need anything, just call.”
She waited for them to leave, and Sam clearly heard the bolt thrown on the front door. Good. At least someone wasn’t going to take any chances.
* * *
The law offices of Benedict, Picker, Green and Thompson were on Rivermont Avenue, only a ten-minute drive from Hoyle’s. They were in a redbrick two-story Victorian dollhouse, complete with white trim and turrets, which, they soon found out, housed the firm’s library of law books.
They were met in the reception area by an older gentleman with white hair and a rotund stomach. He wore a gray summer-weight wool suit, his tie a florid green slash across his belly.
“Good, you’re here at last.” He turned to Sam and Fletcher. “I’m McKendry Picker. You can call me Mac. We’re all just sick about Rolph. What more can you tell us about his death? I need to let his wife know the details, and his kids, they’re flying in from around the country to be with their mother, and this is all just so heartbreaking. We knew he wasn’t going to last long with the disease and all, but to die like this, murdered, so far away from home, it’s just—” He burst into tears.
Sam’s first instinct was to comfort him, but Fletcher cleared his throat and imperceptibly shook his head at her, so she stood her ground.
Davidson was the one who laid a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Mac, shh, it’s okay, man. I know how hard this is for everyone. Where are Tony and Stacey?”
Picker got himself together, sniffling and wiping his eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. “They’re in Las Vegas. A deposition for a client. They’ll fly back as soon as they’re finished, should be in this evening.” He turned to Sam and Fletcher and cleared his throat, the tears still sparkling on his cheeks.
“I’m so sorry to lose control like that. Saying it aloud made it so real. Rolph and I have been friends for forty years. I’m going to miss him dreadfully.”
Fletch bowed his head and said softly, “We understand, sir. Is there someplace we can sit and chat for a bit?”
“Of course. We have pastries and coffee waiting in the conference room. Follow me, please.”
Sam noticed the man’s stride was slightly off, as if he were wearing a knee brace, or had twisted his ankle. When they got into the conference room, which was gorgeous—dark wood and gleaming floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking an extravagant all-white flower garden—Sam asked him about it as they settled around the table.
“Korea, I’m afraid. Lost the leg. I was shipped over toward the end, when I was only seventeen, though Uncle Sam didn’t know that. I was green as a sapling, and stepped on a mine the first day I was there. Blew it right off. I was lucky, they saved my knee, and prosthetics have come so far since I first began wearing them. And I’m blessed with excellent insurance.”
“I’m so sorry,” Sam said. “You seem to manage beautifully.”
“Years of practice. And don’t be sorry. Government paid for everything, from my leg through to my schooling. I wouldn’t have gotten into law without the push. Everything happens for a reason, Dr. Owens. Even losing a leg in a stupid accident, or the untimely death of a friend. Now please, tell me what’s happening. Why was my best friend murdered?”
Chapter
16
FLETCHER LET JUNE Davidson do the talking, and watched the array of emotions parade across Mac Picker’s face as he heard the story.
“Let me get this straight. Savage hired Rolph to put together a will, and named Dr. Owens here executor? That’s very odd, very odd indeed. When you called and told me the details, I checked our database. We don’t have a record of Savage being a client. There’s nothing to indicate he and Rolph ever even met.”
“Did Benedict have a history of doing pro bono work?” Fletcher asked.
“Well, sure. We all do our part to help out indigents, and other cases where it would be to our benefit to be involved for a nominal fee. And there’s always the chance Rolph was helping out on his own time, not on behalf of the firm. But I’m sorry, there’s nothing here, nothing at all.”
“Did Mr. Benedict have a paralegal? Someone who may have helped him draft the will?” Davidson asked.
“We do have paralegals, but they’re absolutely one hundred percent bound by the law and our internal policies to put everything into the system as it comes in. It’s procedure. We may look like a small Southern operation, but we’ve got a state-of-the-art legal electronic filing system. We’ve been electronic for about five years now, and everything, everything, goes through our database directly into the judiciary. It’s mandatory.
“Now the only outsiders are some interns who come in a few times a week, students from around town who are taking prelaw and want to experience the real deal. But they don’t have access to the databases. The interns are more for show, if you’ll forgive the admission. It makes them feel like they’re learning, and the school gives them class credit for their time spent here. The firm gets the cachet of having the top students in the area fight to work for us. But we don’t let them actually do anything.”
Fletcher picked up an iced cinnamon roll, took a casual bite. He used the remains to point at Picker. “So you’re saying Benedict must have done his work for Savage off-book?”
Picker’s face reddened. “I suppose that’s exactly what I’m saying, though the way you put it, it sounds quite sordid.”