All in all, I just couldn't believe the amount of work his third grade teacher assigned each week, and it was all I could do to keep up. Didn't schools realize mothers want to spend quality time with their children in the evenings?
So now I was in my office, still grumbling. It was early evening and raining hard. Occasionally the rain, slammed by a gust of wind, splattered against my office window. The first rain in months. The weatherman had been beside himself.
I liked the rain. It touched everything and everyone. Nothing was spared. It made even a freak like me feel connected to the world.
So with the rain pattering against the window and the children playing somewhat contentedly in their room, I eventually worked my way through all of Kingsley's files. Only one looked promising, and it set the alarms off in my head. I've learned to listen to these alarms.
The case was no different than many of Kingsley's other cases. His client, one Hewlett Jackson, was accused of murdering his lover's husband. But thanks to Kingsley's adroit handling of the case, Jackson was freed on a technicality. Turns out the search warrant had expired and thus all evidence gathered had been deemed inadmissible in court. And when the verdict was read, the victim's brother had to be physically restrained. According to the file, the victim's brother had not lunged at the alleged killer; no, he had lunged at Kingsley.
There was something to that.
And that's all I had. A distraught man who felt his murdered brother had not been given proper justice. Not much, but it was a start.
I sat back in my chair and stared at the file. The rain was coming down harder, rattling the window. I listened to it, allowed it to fill some of the emptiness in my heart, and found some peace. I checked my watch. Open House was in an hour and still no sign of Danny.
I pushed him out of my thoughts and logged onto the internet; in particular, one of my many investigation data bases. There had been no mention of the brother's name in the file, but with a few deft keystrokes I had all the information I needed.
The murder had made the local paper. The article mentioned the surviving family members. Parents were dead, but there had been two surviving siblings. Rick Horton and Janet Maurice. Just as I wrote the two names down, the house phone rang. My heart sank.
I picked it up.
"Hi, dollface."
"Tell me you're on your way home," I said.
There was a pause. He sucked in some air. "Tell the kids I'm sorry."
"No," I said. "You tell them."