Lisa Scottoline - Legal Tender

“Interesting, huh?” the detective asked, looking from Grady to me.

Grady hustled me to the door. “We’ll see you at the Roundhouse, Detective.”

“What did it say?” I whispered, when we hit the hall. Grady was about to reply when we turned the corner and ran smack into Eve Eberlein.

“Oh!” She stood back from us as if shocked. She’d obviously been crying, her eyes were swollen and she wore no makeup. Her short hair was a mess and her chic dress was wrinkled. “What happened, Bennie? What happened?” she said, her voice pained and confused.

I knew just how she felt. I felt a terrible twinge inside. We shared the same loss. “I don’t know,” I answered, before Grady took my arm and lifted me almost bodily down the hall.

“I’m sorry, too, Eve,” Grady said. “Goodbye. Take care.”

I glanced back for one last look. In front of Mark’s office stood Detective Azzic. He was watching me as he lit a cigarette and blew out a jet of smoke. His eyes narrowed behind the smoke, his expression grim and knowing.

We stood in the two-car parking lot behind the office while Grady dug in his suit pocket for his motor cycle key. The bike was a vintage black and maroon with a duct-taped leather seat and tarnished chrome pipes engraved with Norton. I didn’t relish riding it to the Roundhouse, but that was the least of my worries right now.

“What did the will say, Grady?”

He found his key, swung a leg over the bike, and settled in the ripped seat. “Get on the bike, please.”

“First tell me what the will said.”

“Kindly get on the bike, Bennie. I’ll talk to you about it when we’re away from the office. The press is right out front. I don’t want them finding us in the middle of the conversation.”

“I can’t wait. Tell me about the will.”

“Is this how it’s going to be?” He frowned at me as he straddled the bike. “Are you going to fuss with me about everything?”

“You’re the one who was yanking me around the office.”

“I was defending you. I’m your lawyer.”

I couldn’t get used to the way it sounded. “Grady, get real. I’m your boss and I have crow’s feet older than you.”

“I hate to disagree with you, but I’m your boss now. I’m barely five years younger than you, and I have to call these shots as I see them. So I’m advising you, as a purely legal matter, to get on the bike. Before I become angry.”

“Do you even get angry?” I’d never seen it around the office.

“I do, surely.” He nodded.

“What happens then? You throw things? Curse?”

“Never,” he said, without further explanation. He pushed back his hair and shoved his head into a black Shoei helmet. All that remained of his face were glaring gray eyes and a determined jaw. “See the extra helmet on the back? Kindly put it on.”

I looked at the helmet, a shiny white orb that looked like a lightbulb. “Why do you have an extra helmet?”

“In case I meet a woman with better manners than you.”

I folded my arms. “I’ll put it on if you tell me about Mark’s will.”

He sighed and pushed his helmet up over his hairline, then readjusted his glasses. “What do you think the will said, Bennie?”

“I don’t have a clue. Mark has no family left, just a stepbrother in California-”

“He didn’t count as much as you,” Grady said, an edge to his voice. “The will doesn’t set the dollar amount, but Mark left you everything he had. The townhouse, the corporate accounts, even his personal accounts. Stocks and municipal bonds, mutual funds. The will expressly provides that you inherit R amp; B and continue it if he dies.”

My mouth dropped open. I was amazed at Mark’s generosity, and his love. Then I realized why the police suspected me. If I’d known about the will, the only way I could keep R amp; B would be to kill Mark before he dissolved it. I imagined the Commonwealth’s case taking shape, the facts gathering like thunderheads before a storm. Homicide investigations had a momentum of their own, particularly in high-profile cases. The pressure to produce a suspect invariably led to a quick arrest, just in time for the evening news. And until a charge came down, innuendo damaged as surely as indictment.

“I’m in deep shit, aren’t I?” I said, thinking aloud.

“Not if I can help it.” Grady tugged his helmet back on and kick-started the motorcycle, which rumbled to life in a throaty way. “Put on your helmet,” he shouted.

I took a deep breath, then put the lightbulb over my head.

I walked into the grimy waiting room in the Homicide Division on the second floor of the Roundhouse, Philly’s police administration building, and was immediately confronted by that horrific photo gallery. It hadn’t changed much, even over many years.WANTED FOR MURDER, it said on both walls, above about fifty 8 × 10 head shots. Each man’s expression was slack with the oddly flat effect only the deepest rage can bring to a human face. I couldn’t help noticing that none of the faces was white and none was a woman. The only whites were the detectives and women were nowhere in evidence.

Except for me. I stood next to Grady, and as conspicuous as I was, was pointedly ignored by the ten-odd detectives in the shabby squad room, which was painted an ugly blue. I recognized some of them as witnesses from past lawsuits, and they milled frostily around battered steel desks arranged in jagged rows. Water-stained vertical blinds blocked out the sun, one window was completely closed off by dingy gray file cabinets. I took it all in as if it were a room I had never seen. In a way it was, now that I was the murder suspect.

The phone jangled at the desk in front of us. “Homicide,” a detective barked in a raspy voice, picking up. He was a stocky redhead and sipped coffee from a mug that saidSTUDMUFFIN. “Nah, he’s out. This is Meehan.”

Meehan. The name sounded familiar, then I realized who he was. He’d lost a lot of weight, but the voice was the same. I heard it last year, in that assault case in the Northeast. The defendants had been uniformed cops and Meehan had been a witness to the beating, one of three cops who stood by. He wasn’t charged and had evidently been promoted. I met his eye as he listened on the telephone, and he regarded me only coldly. I could expect nothing else. I’d embarrassed him on cross. Grady had been right. I’d have no friends here.

“Ms. Rosato.” Detective Azzic appeared and motioned for us to follow him.

“We’re coming,” Grady said. I squared my shoulders and walked with him into the squad room, past the small adjoining room whose open door was labeled Fugitive Squad. Inside, two detectives sat before state-of-the-art computer screens. It was the only place in the Homicide Division that looked as if it were in this decade.

“We’re in Interview Room C,” Detective Azzic said, opening its door.

Interview Room C was the way I’d remembered it from the old days, as small as the waiting room and just as filthy. A two-way mirror hung on the wall opposite a table with an office chair tucked under it. Another chair, a heavy steel one, was bolted to the floor on the other side of the table.

“Have a seat,” the detective said, easing his large frame into the chair in front of the desk. He waved for me to take the steel chair, and I did. Grady stood by me, and we were joined by a tall, thin-lipped detective whose brown jacket hung loosely on his bony shoulders. He introduced himself as Detective Mayron and leaned against the wall, his crepe sole resting flat behind him. The cops usually questioned in twos on murder cases; one to watch while the other did the talking. I used to tell clients it was so they could play bad cop, bad cop.