Brian Freeman - In the Dark aka The Watcher

She didn’t like it.

Serena drove west along the Point on Wednesday morning. After several days of rain, the clouds had blown out across the lake, leaving the city sunny and warm. In the calm harbor on her left, she spotted the rust-colored superstructure of an ore tanker shouldering through the deep water toward the lift bridge. She swore. She was running late already for her meeting with Peter Stanhope, and she knew that she would have to spend ten minutes now waiting for the boat to clear the canal and make its way to the open water.

As she expected, the bridge was up. Hers was the fourth car in line. She parked, rolled down her window to let in a humid breeze, and picked up a paperback by Louise Penny. When you lived on the Point, you were always prepared for delays at the bridge. Serena read several more pages of Still Life, until she saw the giant ship gliding under the bridge span. The boats always seemed to clear the bridge with only inches to spare, and they were an impressive sight, vast and silent. When the ship and the bridge exchanged farewell blasts of their signal horns, Serena turned her Mustang back on, and a couple of minutes later, she headed through Canal Park toward the city center.

Peter Stanhope’s law firm occupied the top two floors of the Lonsdale Building, in the commercial sector of Superior Street, among the banks, brokers, lawyers, and government workers that made the city tick. The facade was made of elegantly carved, copper-colored brick, with a roof line that resembled a Doric column. The building was smaller than the other high-rises around it and dated back to 1894. Peter could have chosen taller and more modern surroundings in the glass tower of the bank building one block east, but he had explained to Serena that he wanted his office to have a link to a more glamorous past, when the city, like his father, was rich and prosperous.

Serena found a parking meter and hurried across Superior Street between cars. She wore black pinstriped dress pants that emphasized her long legs, pointed-toe heels, and an untucked turquoise silk shirt. Her black hair was loose and fell around her shoulders. She carried a slim burgundy briefcase and felt as if she were dressed to be a ladder-climbing corporate executive. It was a strange feeling. When she was a Vegas cop, she had worn tight jeans and sleeveless T-shirts and hung her shield from her belt.

She took the elevator to the top floor at ten minutes after ten o’clock. She was panicked about being late, but she relaxed when the receptionist told her that Peter was tied up in another meeting and was running at least twenty minutes behind schedule. She took a seat on the sofa, then got up again and paced restlessly in the waiting area.

The lobby furniture was antique and expensive. Black-and-white photographs adorned the wall, showing Peter’s father and the postwar buildings, ships, and train cars of Stanhope Industries. Serena saw more modern memorabilia, too, including framed newspaper headlines of the major litigation victories of Peter’s law firm. They had won forty million dollars in punitive damages from a Twin Cities manufacturer over a defective heart stent. Almost twenty million dollars following a school bus accident that left one child dead. And so on. Peter and his team of associates were personal injury lawyers with a vengeance.

Serena wondered, not for the first time, what she was doing here. She was a homicide detective. A private investigator. She had a hard time imagining herself working for a law firm, even though the work would not be all that different from what she did now. She would still interview victims and witnesses. She would try to find sources inside corporations to uncover things that their executives wanted to keep hidden. It was still investigative work. She worried that the job wouldn’t be as exhilarating as her time on the street, but her experiences over the winter had worn down her physical and mental willingness to put herself in constant danger. For at least a year or two, she wanted to take a step back and rethink her life.

The opportunity had come out of the blue. Two months earlier, Peter Stanhope had read an article in the Duluth newspaper about Serena’s background as a detective in Las Vegas. He called her with a freelance assignment to uncover evidence of fraudulent billing practices at a Twin Cities hospital. Over the course of the next six weeks, Serena built relationships with two nurses and an accountant, who turned over papers that allowed Peter’s lawyers to pinpoint their discovery request and fast-track settlement negotiations. Peter was so impressed that he called Serena the following week to ask her to join the firm as a permanent employee.

She had been confused by Stride’s reluctance when she told him about the job offer, because she knew he wanted her to find a less risky line of work. Now that she knew his background with Peter, she understood. Her own excitement had soured, too.

A paralegal escorted Serena to Peter’s office at 10:45. The corner suite was at the rear of the building, with a sweeping view toward the lake. Like the rest of the firm, Peter’s office was decorated as if the year were 1950. On some level, Serena thought, Peter was trying to live up to his father’s legacy. It couldn’t be easy living in the shadow of an industrial giant. Serena thought it was interesting that after Randall Stanhope died, the first thing Peter had done was sell the family business.

Peter came around his desk and shook her hand firmly. “Serena, I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” he said. “This is what’s called ‘lawyer time.’ We are perpetually late for everything except court dates. It’s an occupational hazard.”

“That’s all right,” Serena told him.

He gestured at the round oak conference table near the window. “Please.”

They both sat down. Serena noticed a photograph over Peter’s shoulder of Randall Stanhope and his son, who was about ten years old in the picture, standing on the span of the aerial lift bridge over the ship canal near the Point. Peter saw her staring.

“That’s one of the few photos of me and my father together,” he told her. “Randall didn’t spend a lot of time with me. Anyone who says those were simpler times doesn’t know how hard he worked.”

“I’m a little surprised that you’re a lawyer now and not CEO of Stanhope Industries,” Serena said.

“I saw the writing on the wall,” Peter replied. “The big money in steel was long gone and never coming back. Too much foreign competition. When Randall died, I figured I would let someone else run the company into the ground. Which they did.”

“So you decided to become a lawyer?”

“Yes, Randall’s probably turning in his grave. He hated lawyers. To me, though, litigation is the ultimate competition.” He added, “Would you like some coffee?”

“Sure.”

Peter retreated to his desk to phone his secretary.

This meeting was only the second time that Serena had met Peter Stanhope in person. Peter didn’t hide his money. His suit was cut out of a charcoal fabric that glistened in the light. His shoes were like mirrors. He wore an amber-colored silk tie with a matching pocket square, a Tiffany watch, and silver cuff links engraved with his initials. In her heels, Serena was about two inches taller than Peter. He was handsome, though, with a stocky, muscular frame. He had a strong chin and sunburned nose, and freckles dotted his face. He wore glasses that made two tiny copper circles around his eyes. His thinning silver hair was swept straight back. Like Stride, he was in his late forties.

Serena always found that intelligence was in the eyes, and Peter’s eyes were smart. He carried himself with polish and confidence, like someone at ease in his own skin. Even so, you couldn’t have so much wealth, or so much success, and not have arrogance ooze through in your demeanor. Every now and then, Peter smirked, and Serena saw the cocky boy peek out from his soul. She knew that lawyers were experts at wearing masks, and she wondered who the real Peter was, the savvy professional or the arrogant teenager. Probably both.