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Authors: ADAM L PENENBERG
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Bar Association, all that stress, all for nothing. “What did you have to barter for Raines’s enlightened generosity?”
“I had to promise to keep it real quiet so the press, especially Bragg, wouldn’t get wind.”
When Summer sighed, she spilled coffee on her blouse. “O-o-oh,” she groaned.
“Good thing you drink it black, so it won’t stain,” Levi said. “When you get home, boil some water and pour it over your blouse like it’s a coffee filter.”
Summer dabbed at the stain with a napkin. “Sometimes I’m not sure whether you’re more like a mother or more like a father.”
“Neither,” Levi said.
Summer tossed the damp napkin in the trash. “We know Raines didn’t suddenly develop a conscience, so what made him change his mind?”
“He probably figured the negative PR wasn’t worth it, especially with you on the SK case.”
“He’s banking on the fact that SK’s case will do more damage to me than any charges he could raise with Cruz.” Summer took a long sip. “He’s probably right, too.”
Levi snatched SK’s file off Summer’s desk. “Ready?”
Summer tried not to look as Levi pulled Gundy’s death pics out of the folder and neatly ordered them on the floor, one by one, angle by angle, Gundy by Gundy, until neither of them could walk without stepping on them.
Rosie walked with sulky steps by the open door, carrying an armful of legal books.
“Hey!” Summer called.
But Rosie didn’t stop. Summer heard her sigh loudly and drop the books in her office. She got to the door just as Rosie poked her head in.
“What?” Rosie said.
“You mad at me?” Summer asked, lowering her voice.
“No.”
“Then why have you been avoiding me?”
She buzzed her lips. “I haven’t been avoiding you. I’ve just got, you know, work to do.”
Rosie’s tone stung Summer. She stepped carefully between Gundy’s bloody pictures and sat on the edge of her desk. Was she being paranoid? Was their friendship fracturing? She needed Rosie’s easy camaraderie now more than ever. “We’re talking about SK,” she said.
“I can see that,” Rosie said, taking in the photos.
“I could really use your help.”
“There’s no place to sit.” When Summer and Levi shot her vinegary glances, Rosie said, “OK, OK,” and dropped to her knees.
They were quiet as they studied what the murderer had done to Harold Gundy. Summer felt a headache coming on; she had an irrational need for a cigarette, as if the nicotine would drive away the dizzies and the thickness clawing her stomach.
Get a grip , she commanded herself. She started with the broken railing, the puzzles of glass spread around the floor, but it got ugly fast—Gundy lying in blood and mescal, shards of the bottle nearby, close-ups of his crushed skull, the eerie marks on his back. The marks. Summer couldn’t take her eyes off them: ancient symbols, or designs created in the brain of a madman—or woman.
Levi spoke first. “We can assume, judging by the nature of his injuries, that Gundy was thrown from his second floor loft onto a glass coffee table. But the ME claims the fall didn’t kill him, although he suffered internal injuries consistent with a hard fall. It was the blow to the head.”
“Like I always say, mescal is some nasty shit,” Rosie said. She picked up a photo. “Why are Gundy’s pants pulled down around his ankles?”
“You think he could have been doing the deed alone, got startled, and accidently busted through the wooden railing?” Levi asked.
“Oh, that’s a compelling defense,” Rosie said, smacking her forehead.
Levi shrugged. “What’s the ME report say?”
“Nega—” Summer hacked at a ball of phlegm in her throat. “Negative on any semen. If Gundy was seeking sexual gratification, he came up short.”
“Prolly wouldn’t have been the first time,” Levis said. “Any possibility the pants came down after he was killed?”
“Not according to the M.E.,” Summer said.
Rosie
“I had to promise to keep it real quiet so the press, especially Bragg, wouldn’t get wind.”
When Summer sighed, she spilled coffee on her blouse. “O-o-oh,” she groaned.
“Good thing you drink it black, so it won’t stain,” Levi said. “When you get home, boil some water and pour it over your blouse like it’s a coffee filter.”
Summer dabbed at the stain with a napkin. “Sometimes I’m not sure whether you’re more like a mother or more like a father.”
“Neither,” Levi said.
Summer tossed the damp napkin in the trash. “We know Raines didn’t suddenly develop a conscience, so what made him change his mind?”
“He probably figured the negative PR wasn’t worth it, especially with you on the SK case.”
“He’s banking on the fact that SK’s case will do more damage to me than any charges he could raise with Cruz.” Summer took a long sip. “He’s probably right, too.”
Levi snatched SK’s file off Summer’s desk. “Ready?”
Summer tried not to look as Levi pulled Gundy’s death pics out of the folder and neatly ordered them on the floor, one by one, angle by angle, Gundy by Gundy, until neither of them could walk without stepping on them.
Rosie walked with sulky steps by the open door, carrying an armful of legal books.
“Hey!” Summer called.
But Rosie didn’t stop. Summer heard her sigh loudly and drop the books in her office. She got to the door just as Rosie poked her head in.
“What?” Rosie said.
“You mad at me?” Summer asked, lowering her voice.
“No.”
“Then why have you been avoiding me?”
She buzzed her lips. “I haven’t been avoiding you. I’ve just got, you know, work to do.”
Rosie’s tone stung Summer. She stepped carefully between Gundy’s bloody pictures and sat on the edge of her desk. Was she being paranoid? Was their friendship fracturing? She needed Rosie’s easy camaraderie now more than ever. “We’re talking about SK,” she said.
“I can see that,” Rosie said, taking in the photos.
“I could really use your help.”
“There’s no place to sit.” When Summer and Levi shot her vinegary glances, Rosie said, “OK, OK,” and dropped to her knees.
They were quiet as they studied what the murderer had done to Harold Gundy. Summer felt a headache coming on; she had an irrational need for a cigarette, as if the nicotine would drive away the dizzies and the thickness clawing her stomach.
Get a grip , she commanded herself. She started with the broken railing, the puzzles of glass spread around the floor, but it got ugly fast—Gundy lying in blood and mescal, shards of the bottle nearby, close-ups of his crushed skull, the eerie marks on his back. The marks. Summer couldn’t take her eyes off them: ancient symbols, or designs created in the brain of a madman—or woman.
Levi spoke first. “We can assume, judging by the nature of his injuries, that Gundy was thrown from his second floor loft onto a glass coffee table. But the ME claims the fall didn’t kill him, although he suffered internal injuries consistent with a hard fall. It was the blow to the head.”
“Like I always say, mescal is some nasty shit,” Rosie said. She picked up a photo. “Why are Gundy’s pants pulled down around his ankles?”
“You think he could have been doing the deed alone, got startled, and accidently busted through the wooden railing?” Levi asked.
“Oh, that’s a compelling defense,” Rosie said, smacking her forehead.
Levi shrugged. “What’s the ME report say?”
“Nega—” Summer hacked at a ball of phlegm in her throat. “Negative on any semen. If Gundy was seeking sexual gratification, he came up short.”
“Prolly wouldn’t have been the first time,” Levis said. “Any possibility the pants came down after he was killed?”
“Not according to the M.E.,” Summer said.
Rosie
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