Michele Martinez - Most Wanted

“Hadn’t thought of it that way,” Randall said, a catch in his voice. “Maybe you’re right.”

The elevator reached the lobby. As the doors opened, she read in Randall’s face a lot of years of watching a child suffer.

“How old are you, Randall?” she asked as they stepped off the elevator and headed for the exit.

“Me? Forty-seven. But that’s cop years. Twice as long as regular-people years, so really I’m ninety-four.” He chuckled at himself, then turned serious. “But why do you ask, dear?”

“I don’t know. Something in your face just now. You look like you’ve seen a lot.”

He smiled wearily. “That I have. Including plenty of things I’d rather forget.”

She wouldn’t ask him directly about his son’s overdose death. She didn’t feel right about that. He might be upset that Dan had told her.

“The job must take its toll,” she said instead, as they emerged onto the street. “How long until you retire?”

“Soon, very soon. And then you won’t be seeing me around here no more. I’m gonna take my pension and my savings, buy a little shack somewhere with a stream out back. Somewhere warm, good for my wife’s health. I’ll catch a fish for dinner every night, and she’ll cook it up just right.”

“Sounds nice. Too quiet for me, but nice.”

“Aw, you should give quiet a try. Good for the soul. Anybody looking in your eyes can see you need it as much as me.”

She didn’t respond. She couldn’t, so taken aback was she that he saw through her like that.

“Need a lift?” she asked after a silence. “I have an appointment at Benson’s law firm in twenty minutes, but I could drop you somewhere on the way.”

“No thanks. I’m parked around the corner.”

“Okay. Catch up with you later, then.”

“Yup. You take care, child.”

Melanie got into her car, turned on the engine, and pulled out into the stream of traffic. Because their conversation had taken a personal turn, Randall hadn’t questioned her further about her decision to back off on interviewing Amanda Benson. But, thinking about how little information she’d gotten from this visit, she questioned herself.

PRESTIGIOUS NEW YORK CITY LAW FIRMS, RATHER than bustling with commerce, tend to be hushed and reverent places. The attorneys who work in them neither remove their suit jackets nor raise their voices. And they prefer to think of their profession as sublime and intellectual, rather than the hard-nosed business it really is.

Melanie recalled this attitude the moment she stepped off the elevator into the tasteful thirty-second-floor reception area of Reed, Reed and Watson. She’d spent two years after her judicial clerkship toiling in the silent law library of just such a firm, researching the fine points of reinsurance law and the Uniform Commercial Code. Occasionally the partners she worked for took her to lunch at some elegant old establishment. They all shared an uncanny ability to make restrained, polite conversation while revealing nothing whatsoever about themselves or their opinions. She never knew whether they liked her or merely tolerated her, or whether she had the slightest chance of making partner if she stayed for the requisite eight or ten years. The arctic chill of the place sent her fleeing the second she landed a prosecutor job.

As she approached the prim receptionist seated behind an imposing cherrywood desk, she understood that Reed, Reed and Watson was exactly like her old law firm. Which meant that it was better defended against outsiders than an underground bunker. She could be certain of getting the runaround. Politely, of course.

“Yes? Have you an appointment, miss?” the receptionist asked in a plummy English accent. She was of indeterminate age, wearing a high-necked silk blouse fastened with a cameo and half-rim glasses she peered over disdainfully. Once upon a time, Melanie might have felt intimidated. But now she had the power of the federal government behind her.

She flashed her credentials. “Melanie Vargas, U.S. Attorney’s Office. I have an appointment with Dolan Reed regarding the murder of Jed Benson.”

The receptionist sniffed pointedly, apparently finding the use of the word “murder” to be distasteful.

“Very well, then, I’ll announce you. Please have a seat.”

She gestured toward a nearby grouping of sofas and armchairs, impeccably upholstered in quiet shades of beige. A large oil portrait of a man dressed in the style of a century earlier dominated the sitting area. Melanie walked over and studied it. According to the tiny brass plate affixed to the gilded frame, it depicted one George Dolan Reed, founder of the firm. Presumably an ancestor of the man she’d come to see, with the steely eyes and Roman nose of a robber baron. Melanie stood gazing at the painting with her back to the receptionist, trying to overhear what the woman was saying into her wireless headset. The plush carpeting absorbed most of the sound. Melanie made out her own name and Jed Benson’s, but little else. A young woman in a pink suit strolling through the reception area stared at Melanie searchingly, then moved on.

“Ms. Vargas?” asked someone close behind her.

Melanie whirled around. The woman who’d spoken was perhaps in her fifties, with a handsome face and matronly figure, wearing a tweed suit and low-heeled pumps.

“Yes?”

“Mary Hale,” the woman said in a composed voice, extending her hand. Melanie shook it and winced. The woman’s hands were meaty and callused, with one helluva firm grip.

“I’m a bit confused, Ms. Hale. My appointment is with Dolan Reed.”

“Mr. Reed is our managing partner. As you can imagine, he’s extremely busy. He asked me to handle this matter, since I’m on the assignment committee. I assure you, I’m quite familiar with Jed Benson’s cases.”

She started off down the adjoining hallway, leaving Melanie no choice but to follow. Just as Melanie had anticipated, the runaround. Naturally Dolan Reed would decline to meet with her. Hierarchy was everything in these places. The most senior partners were worshipped like oracles and guarded like the crown jewels. If she wanted results here, she’d need to play hardball and start issuing subpoenas.

Mary Hale opened the door to a windowless conference room furnished with a long, gleaming table surrounded by red leather armchairs. At the near end of the table, precisely aligned with the edge, lay a thin manila folder. Mary nodded toward it.

“Please have a seat, Ms. Vargas. I ordered a computer run of Jed Benson’s current matters for your review. The results are in that folder.”

Melanie raised her eyebrows skeptically as she pulled out the heavy armchair and sat down. Judging from the thickness of the folder, what it contained wasn’t worth the trip to midtown. She opened it and saw she was right. A single sheet of paper bore the titles of three cases. According to the headings at the top of the page, the computer had spit out client-identification numbers and the hours billed for each case as well, but those columns were blacked out with thick marker. The page was virtually useless.

Melanie looked up at Mary Hale, who regarded her with cold gray eyes.

“Ms. Hale, there’s been some misunderstanding. I told Mr. Reed’s assistant when I made the appointment that we need to conduct a thorough search of all Mr. Benson’s files.”

“There has been a misunderstanding, then. If I’d known that, I would have told you not to waste your time. There’s nothing here, Ms. Vargas. Mr. Benson’s work for the Reed firm had nothing to do with his death.”

“That’s a judgment my office has to make after a full investigation. This printout is not sufficient. I need to know the substance of the matters Jed Benson was working on.”