Cut and Run (Lucy Kincaid #16) - Allison Brennan Page 0,40

could lower his phone. He stepped back into the house and heard Marie on her cell phone in the kitchen. After he listened for a few seconds it was clear that she was talking to the police and wasn’t happy with their responses.

“Someone followed me all the way to Lake Charles!” she said, exasperated. “Why would someone do that? Why would they leave a photo of my mother-in-law’s house?… I don’t know why!” She listened as she walked into the living room. She wore heels that took her from very short to short. “Fine,” she snapped, and looked like she was going to throw her phone across the room.

“They told me I have to go to the police station to file a report,” she said. “I need that photo.”

Sean handed it to her. “I already checked it for prints—there are none. I checked it under a black light for hidden messages or any impressions—nothing. But maybe seeing is believing and they’ll open a case. I’d suggest that you be diligent driving to and from work and the courthouse. Do you have an alarm system?” He saw no sign of security.

She shook her head. “It’s a safe neighborhood.”

“Safe neighborhood means nothing to some people,” Sean said. “Max is talking to Stan now. I’ll introduce you when she’s done.”

“I looked her up while I was on hold with the police. She’s the crime reporter. She did a big show on a woman who killed her own son. I saw it, it was awful. How could someone do that? Kill their child so mercilessly?” She shook her head as she slung an oversized purse over her shoulder. “I’m ready.”

“I’ll follow you.”

Chapter Ten

Max was surprisingly patient when working a case. She’d been on stakeouts, spent hundreds of hours in libraries, and once stared at a killer during an interview for a solid thirty-five minutes before he decided to speak.

Patience meant she usually got what she wanted.

But when she was running against a court docket and had a narrow time window in which to find answers, she grew agitated. Any number of things could go wrong.

And Oliver Jones was late.

She couldn’t even enjoy the architecture that distinguished the historic building. She was frustrated and had the beginnings of a fatigue headache.

She hadn’t been this tired in months, but three hours of sleep wasn’t going to cut it for the day.

Max had already picked up the files that Sean wanted—the records building had opened at eight. She glanced through them; nothing jumped out at her, though she was distracted. She understood LLCs and how they worked—this one appeared standard, though the paperwork was extensive. She would read it in greater detail tonight—or pass it off to Sean.

“Ms. Revere.”

She stood before Oliver finished his greeting.

The lawyer seemed preoccupied. “Follow me.”

She strode behind him. He went up the main staircase and turned down a long, wide hall. He showed his identification to a bailiff near the end. “Oliver Jones and associate, attorney for Stanley Grant.”

The bailiff looked at the docket, made a note. “Room two.”

“Thank you.” Oliver turned around and walked past a door marked “Attorney-Client Room One” to the next entrance.

The small room had two chairs on their side, a single chair on the other, separated by a clear floor-to-ceiling partition with holes in which to speak. A camera was mounted in the corner at an angle that could view most of the room, facing the defendant.

Oliver turned to her and whispered, “I’m requesting bail for my client. Though it’s a capital case, the court has his passport and a hold on his bank accounts. He owns property that can be used as collateral. So this meeting may be moot—you should talk to Mr. Grant later.”

“I have questions now.”

Oliver frowned.

She didn’t answer his unspoken question. If Grant was guilty, she would prove it. From what she and Sean had dug up, the case against him was weak, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t killed Victoria. The only thing the prosecution had going for it was his confession coupled with a weak but plausible motive.

A moment later, the bailiff escorted Stanley Grant into the room. He didn’t have leg restraints, but was handcuffed.

Max had met Stanley at Victoria’s wedding many years ago and had seen recent pictures of him in the media. This man looked liked a hollowed-out version of the man she remembered. His suit hung limp on his body, evidence of recent weight loss. Though his dark hair was clean and neatly trimmed, it was thinning