J. Kerley - The Death File - A gripping serial killer thriller with a shocking twist

Roy raised an eyebrow. “Detective Nautilus is working on finding out why, right?”

“Exactly,” Harry said. “Carson was just along for the ride.”

“If you’re gonna ride at all, Carson, ride in back,” Roy said, patting down the hay-bright cowlick that immediately bounded back in defiance. “And am I correct in my assessment – sent to you last month – that you’re getting a big backlog of vacation time?”

I was never big on vacation unless I had someone to enjoy it with. In the past this was a girlfriend or suitable feminine companionship, but I’d taken up full-time with Vivian Morningstar, whose hospital schedule currently precluded vacation and who would not be overly happy if I ran off with even a temporary vacation companion.

“I, uh – yep, Roy. I’ll vacation, uh … soon.”

“Didn’t you claim a heavy caseload and say you’d take some time off when Nautilus came on board?”

“I, uh may have said …”

“Is this not Nautilus standing beside you, Carson?”

“It seems so,” I admitted. “But Harry’s new and needs—”

Roy turned to Harry. “Can you function without Ryder, Detective Nautilus?”

Harry, blast him, gave it two beats and a grin. “Sometimes better.”

Roy clapped a huge red hand on my shoulder and pulled me close, half hug, half threat. “There you go, Carson, you’re covered, even more when Gershwin gets back next week. Take some time off. Recharge the batteries.” He paused, thought. “Y’know, that’s an order.”

And then the elevator door opened and the whirlwind of Roy McDermott blew out, pulling his pocket recorder as he turned the corner to his office, bellowing, “Memo to self, make sure Ryder starts taking his freaking vacation time!”

“Damn,” Harry said, staring at the corner Roy had vanished around. “He always like that?”

“Not generally,” I said. “Looks like he remembered his Prozac this morning.”

Jeffrey Cottrell’s desk was shaking so hard one of the drawers rolled open. His nameplate – T. JEFFERSON COTTRELL, ESQ. – tumbled to the blue pile carpet, followed by a ceramic mug loaded with pens and pencils. Cottrell’s eyes were on the closet door across the room, opened wide and mirrored on the inside so he could enjoy the reflection, his jeans down to the tops of his hand-tooled cowboy boots, a woman on the desk with her red dress hiked to her waist, ankles locked around his buttocks.

“Oh yesssss …” the woman hissed as Cottrell’s hands raked her side-drooping breasts.

He shot a glance at his watch. Shit, lost track of time . He increased his rhythm, pushing to the finish, pinching the engorged nipples.

“Easy, Jeffrey,” the woman said. “You’re hurting …”

Cottrell grabbed broad hips and pulled the woman tight as his orgasm arrived in a frenzy of grunts and spasms.

“Urrrr … UHHH.”

And then he was backing away on unsteady legs and reaching for his pants.

“Jesus, Jeffy,” the woman said, pulling down her skirt with one hand and pushing back a stack of disheveled brass-blonde hair with the other. “You’re a crazy man. But fun. Got any more of that Cuervo?”

“You gotta get gone,” Cottrell said, tightening the concho belt around his Levi jeans. “I’m supposed to meet a client.”

“At ten at night?”

“It’s the law biz, hon.” He slapped her ass. “Come on, get moving.”

The woman shot him a dark glance, had a second thought, pecked his cheek with a kiss. “You gonna take me to Casa Adobo this Friday?”

“Yeah, sure. Use the back door, would you?”

A sigh and the woman slung her purse over her shoulder and was gone. Cottrell put the fallen items back on the desktop, pulled on his black sport coat and popped a breath mint, his mouth still tasting of tongue and tequila. He buttoned his pink Oxford shirt in the mirror, slipping the loosened bolo tie to his throat and finger-combing the long silver hair back over his ears. It might start tonight , he thought. Less than three weeks until the reading of the Kubiac will. It might not finish tonight, but it had to start soon.

Let’s get this done, kid …

Cottrell sucked in his gut and threw faux punches at the mirror. Forty-six and I still got it … A bit of roll over the belt, but he’d been busy lately, and the fucking gym was a drag. He had to look into getting a personal trainer, some skank with a hard-body going on. Both of them could get a workout.

Cottrell heard the buzz of the bell in the entry and shot a look at his Rolex, a gift from Ramon Escheverría, a client he’d made good money from in the past, with more undoubtedly coming in the future. El Gila … a scary street name, but Escheverría liked Cottrell, a very good thing.

Eleven on the nose; the kid’s on time at least.

Cottrell went to the door and saw Adam Kubiac, a lithe young woman at his side. His eyes expressed several seconds of visible surprise at seeing Kubiac was accompanied, and he extended a lamp-tanned hand to him. “I haven’t had a chance to call you again, Adam, but I want you to know you have my deepest condolences. Anything I can do to—”

Kubiac swept by with his hands jammed deep in his pockets. “Well, uh … sure,” Cottrell said. “Step back into my office and let’s get comfortable.”

In addition to Cottrell’s desk and chair, the room held a puffy brown leather sofa against a wall and two high-backed chairs facing the desk, also brown leather. “Have a seat, folks,” Cottrell said, gesturing to the chairs. The woman took a chair, sitting and crossing long and slender legs. Kubiac fell into the sofa, arms crossed over his chest. Cottrell leaned back in his swiveling chair and regarded Kubiac with warm sincerity.

“Who’s your friend, Adam?” Cottrell said, smiling politely at the gorgeous young woman while trying to avoid winking.

Kubiac ignored the question, arms tightly crossed as he glared fire at Cottrell.

“I think I know what you’ve come to discuss, Adam. But I have to be perfectly clear that nothing’s going to change.”

“You wrote the fucking thing, bitch,” Kubiac spat. “Hashtag: fuckAdamKubiac.”

Cottrell sighed. “I basically took dictation, Adam. The will reflects your father’s wishes. I probably shouldn’t have showed it to you, but … Hey, I wish I could change things.”

Kubiac’s eyes tightened to slits. “One freakin’ dollar to me. Twenty million to charities and shit? WHAT THE FUCK WAS GOING ON?”

Cottrell tried to shape his face somewhere between empathy and inspirational. “Maybe the will was your old man’s way of saying you’ve already got all you need, Adam: It’s that amazing mind of yours. You can use it to make your own—”

“YOU’RE THE KUBIAC FAMILY LAWYER, RIGHT?” Kubiac screeched. “WHAT ABOUT ME!”

“Adam …” the woman said quietly. “We talked about this.”

“He’s one of them,” Kubiac snarled as if Cottrell wasn’t there. “A Neanderthal.”

“I fought for you, Adam,” Cottrell said. “I told your father: ‘Think what you’re doing, Eli. Don’t punish Adam like this.’ But your father … you know how Eli could get, Adam – like you kid – he was adamant. I figured I could change his mind with just a little time, but, uh, the sad circumstances and …”

“I’M NOT PAYING YOU A CENT, ASSHOLE!”

“Uh, actually, that’s all been taken care of, Adam.”

“What … did you steal a million bucks off the top?”

“Come on, Adam,” Cottrell said, adding irritation to his voice. “Don’t treat me like this. I’ve been on your side from the start. I think you got screwed royally, unfairly … there, I said it.”