at my office the next morning and spent several hours putting together a file for Guzman, Smith, Aldridge & Haze, something Margaret Haze had asked me to prepare for her. Neil had helped gather the intelligence. He was a natural snoop.
Diane was sitting at her enormous kidney-shaped desk in the reception area outside Haze’s office. Her short blonde hair was perfectly highlighted and a little spiky, as always, and her makeup was impeccable. Diane was one of those people who could be experiencing a private storm in her life without anyone ever knowing it.
I, on the other hand, am not as good at disguising my problems.
“Okay, you’re tired and something’s wrong,” she said the moment she saw me.
I told her about the package that arrived at the Georgian and its terrible contents. I told her about Mirror Chang’s heartbreaking telephone call to me. I told her about Charlie attacking me in my office, and then it all spilled out of me. How I’d trusted and even cared for him, how violent he’d been, the strange and deceptive life he led, his past, the clippings I’d found. The police interrogation. How Rauser had apparently linked him to three victims now. How I felt I’d failed by not sensing, not seeing something sick and devious about Charlie. Diane disagreed. She knew Charlie too and she could hardly believe it.
“So.” I forced a smile. I was ready to talk about something else. “Tell me something about the new guy. Is it still serious?”
Diane laughed. “Still serious, but did I mention I’m seeing a woman?”
“Um, no. You left that part out.” I had known Diane since we were kids. I never had an inkling she was attracted to women. It wasn’t exactly like hearing that Michael Jackson had died, but it did prove that you absolutely never know who is going to pop out of the closet and shock the shit out of you. “Why didn’t you ever mention this?”
“It never came up,” Diane said, and I gave her an oh sure look. “Seriously. I don’t know what it is about her, but it’s about her.”
“I don’t know what to say. Do you say congratulations at a time like this?”
“That would be nice,” Diane said, smiling. She picked up the phone on her desk. “Ms. Haze, Keye Street is here for her appointment.”
“Well, then, congratulations.” I hugged her. “Movie or pizza night soon, okay? So you can tell me all about her?”
“Sure,” Diane said with a nod, and turned her attention to the work on her desk.
I followed the hand-woven wool runners through the lush reception area to Margaret Haze’s office, feeling guilty. Diane had wanted something from me. I just wasn’t sure what. Or if I even had it to give at the moment.
Haze stood and shook my hand. Behind her, the view from her windowed wall meandered south and east over suburbs and stretched across the city. CNN Center and Philips Arena to the right, Stone Mountain dead ahead twenty-five miles, Midtown’s towers on the left and I-75 heading north.
She was wearing Chanel pumps. Power shoes. I wanted them. With the light streaming in behind her, she was almost a silhouette. I’d rarely seen her in anything other than black. Everyone in Atlanta always seemed to be dressed for burgling.
I opened my briefcase and, once Margaret was seated, handed her everything I’d managed to dig up on the dead owner of Southern Towing, whose driver—Margaret’s client—had shot twenty-three times and, according to Margaret, in self-defense.
“You were right,” I told her. “He was a scary guy. Long record of assaults, jail time, three arrests, lots of bar fights. Friends and coworkers say he beat his wife, he beat his kids, and sometimes he knocked his drivers around. Most everyone I talked to was afraid of him. His wife admitted that he had a temper but denies the beatings. I gave you copies of the hospital records. Four visits to the emergency room in two years. Cops have been out there six times on domestic disturbance calls. The guy was a bully. If he was coming at me, I would have used my weapon too.”
“I wouldn’t have taken the case if I believed my client was a murderer.”
“Uh-huh.”
Margaret smiled. “Careful, Keye, your bias is showing. Did all that time at the FBI turn you against criminal defense attorneys?”
It was my turn to smile, but also a very good time to remain silent. Something my mother always said about knowing who butters your bread.
Margaret looked