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Authors: Kristine Grayson
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arrest for a murder that he couldn’t possibly have committed.
At least, not if the body was up and walking around. Dead bodies didn’t grin. Murdered people didn’t get on elevators.
Max hurried to the elevator banks. An elevator opened in front of him, and he was grateful that it wasn’t the one the woman had just used. As the doors closed around him, he saw Lane and Bill bounding up the stairs.
Max used the few minutes in the elevator to calm himself. Obviously, Lane and Bill or the cops who had called them hadn’t checked the woman’s pulse. She may have had the whitest skin Max had ever seen, and those red lips made it seem even whiter, and that black hair gave her an undead look, but that still didn’t excuse their mistake. They should have checked her vitals before assuming she was a murder victim.
Oh, he’d have a field day with this one.
By the time the elevator door opened, he had worked himself into a proper defense attorney lather. He was almost rubbing his hands with glee. Which disappeared as the elevator beside his opened and the not-dead woman got off. He had a creepy feeling that somehow she had held the elevator to wait for his.
He ignored her and headed for the desk sergeant. The sergeant spent most of his day behind a large counter with an open window. He was a muscular balding man who looked like he could take on all comers. Max had gone there a dozen times before and had a casual relationship with the sarge. When Max reached the counter, he leaned on it, thinking it was built to make short attorneys feel even shorter.
Max introduced himself and asked where he could find his client.
Before the sarge could answer, though, the ambulance attendants reached the top of the staircase.
They were screaming something about death and gas and dead women and dead bodies walking, and the entire squad grew silent. Police officers turned in unison to see the two attendants, still in uniform, shouting and screaming and pointing at the not-dead woman as if she had committed a horrible crime.
She, on the other hand, had come up beside Max. Only she seemed unperturbed by the screaming behind her. She was wearing a strong musky perfume—the kind that always overwhelmed him when he walked through the cosmetic section of a department store on his way to the menswear—and she had elaborate jeweled rings on every finger. She was taller than Max by a good four inches. She leaned on the sarge’s desk, her thin gold watch clinking against the wood, and asked in a very cultured, very reasonable voice, “Is there someone I can talk to?”
The sarge looked at Max, then glanced over Max’s shoulder at the shouting ambulance attendants who, for some reason, weren’t getting much closer. Apparently the police academy hadn’t prepared people for moments like this, because the sarge decided to use the same tack Max had.
The sarge ignored her.
“Let me take you back,” he said to Max, then came around the desk, grabbed Max’s arm, and pulled him through the door that led to holding.
Blackstone was in one of the interview rooms, the first one just off the corridor. Max braced himself as the sarge opened the door. Most clients Max saw in places like this were upset or angry or in tears, and Max always had to deal with the rush of emotion first and the problem later.
But Blackstone wasn’t upset at all. He was leaning against the peeling green wall paint, his arms crossed, looking as if he were waiting for a cab. He was one of the most striking men Max had ever seen—and Max never usually noticed whether other guys were good-looking—a man who looked like he should be on television, not standing in a grungy interview room near a fake Formica table with a tape recorder built into it.
“You must be the attorney Nora Barr sent.” Blackstone’s voice was deep and had a faint English accent that somehow seemed just right. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”
Max suppressed a sigh as he stepped into the
At least, not if the body was up and walking around. Dead bodies didn’t grin. Murdered people didn’t get on elevators.
Max hurried to the elevator banks. An elevator opened in front of him, and he was grateful that it wasn’t the one the woman had just used. As the doors closed around him, he saw Lane and Bill bounding up the stairs.
Max used the few minutes in the elevator to calm himself. Obviously, Lane and Bill or the cops who had called them hadn’t checked the woman’s pulse. She may have had the whitest skin Max had ever seen, and those red lips made it seem even whiter, and that black hair gave her an undead look, but that still didn’t excuse their mistake. They should have checked her vitals before assuming she was a murder victim.
Oh, he’d have a field day with this one.
By the time the elevator door opened, he had worked himself into a proper defense attorney lather. He was almost rubbing his hands with glee. Which disappeared as the elevator beside his opened and the not-dead woman got off. He had a creepy feeling that somehow she had held the elevator to wait for his.
He ignored her and headed for the desk sergeant. The sergeant spent most of his day behind a large counter with an open window. He was a muscular balding man who looked like he could take on all comers. Max had gone there a dozen times before and had a casual relationship with the sarge. When Max reached the counter, he leaned on it, thinking it was built to make short attorneys feel even shorter.
Max introduced himself and asked where he could find his client.
Before the sarge could answer, though, the ambulance attendants reached the top of the staircase.
They were screaming something about death and gas and dead women and dead bodies walking, and the entire squad grew silent. Police officers turned in unison to see the two attendants, still in uniform, shouting and screaming and pointing at the not-dead woman as if she had committed a horrible crime.
She, on the other hand, had come up beside Max. Only she seemed unperturbed by the screaming behind her. She was wearing a strong musky perfume—the kind that always overwhelmed him when he walked through the cosmetic section of a department store on his way to the menswear—and she had elaborate jeweled rings on every finger. She was taller than Max by a good four inches. She leaned on the sarge’s desk, her thin gold watch clinking against the wood, and asked in a very cultured, very reasonable voice, “Is there someone I can talk to?”
The sarge looked at Max, then glanced over Max’s shoulder at the shouting ambulance attendants who, for some reason, weren’t getting much closer. Apparently the police academy hadn’t prepared people for moments like this, because the sarge decided to use the same tack Max had.
The sarge ignored her.
“Let me take you back,” he said to Max, then came around the desk, grabbed Max’s arm, and pulled him through the door that led to holding.
Blackstone was in one of the interview rooms, the first one just off the corridor. Max braced himself as the sarge opened the door. Most clients Max saw in places like this were upset or angry or in tears, and Max always had to deal with the rush of emotion first and the problem later.
But Blackstone wasn’t upset at all. He was leaning against the peeling green wall paint, his arms crossed, looking as if he were waiting for a cab. He was one of the most striking men Max had ever seen—and Max never usually noticed whether other guys were good-looking—a man who looked like he should be on television, not standing in a grungy interview room near a fake Formica table with a tape recorder built into it.
“You must be the attorney Nora Barr sent.” Blackstone’s voice was deep and had a faint English accent that somehow seemed just right. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”
Max suppressed a sigh as he stepped into the
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