"Or she'll be even more ticked off and Beth will get killed."
Dex gulped down half his glass of orange juice. His eyes bulged as the stomach erupted in scrambled-egg revolt, but he managed to keep it silent. "You got two choices. You either gotta go through Shirley Borge or around her."
It sounded like mindless jock talk. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"Shirley has information you want. You're telling me you can't beg it, force it, or buy it out of her. So go around her. Find someone else. Someone who knows her secrets."
"Like who?"
Dex shrugged. "The usual suspects. Friends. Lovers." "That's a list I don't have."
"Don't need the whole list. Just one person she might have confided in somewhere along the line."
Gus sipped his coffee, thinking. Then his eyes brightened.
Dex smiled thinly. "You got one already?"
Gus lowered his cup, then answered, "I think maybe I do."
Sympathy got Gus an immediate meeting with Kirby Toombs. Rarely did he make himself available on a moment's notice, but he made an exception for a fellow member of the bar whose wife was missing.
Kirby had read about Gus's plight in the newspapers. Though he had seen the reward advertised, he was completely unaware that Shirley Borge had responded to it. After Gus explained his predicament on the phone, Kirby couldn't blame him for wanting to talk to the lawyer who had represented her.
Kirby had been a rookie public defender at the time of Shirley's trial. Many talented lawyers had come out of the P. D.'s office, but Kirby wasn't one of them. He'd been fired four months ago, couldn't find a job, and was now in the process of setting up a solo criminal defense practice. From the looks of things, he had a long way to go. His office was near the state courthouse in a decaying brick building that looked ready for the wrecking ball. Gus knew it well, since one of his clients owned it and was waiting on a historic designation that would make renovation worthwhile. About half the building was vacant. The rest was filled with questionable tenants, many of whom weren't even paying rent. The sign outside Kirby's door read VENTURA ENTERPRISES, the name of a former tenant, probably not even the most recent former tenant. Gus rang the buzzer outside the door. It didn't buzz. He tapped on the glass. Kirby answered from behind the closed door.
"Who is it?" He sounded as though he were talking into a trash can.
"It's Gus Wheatley. I just got off the phone with you."
The chain rattled. Three dead bolts clicked. The door opened. Kirby was standing in the doorway. He was perhaps two years out of law school, still sporting the chubby look of a kid who drank too much beer in college. He wore a bad brown suit, the exact shade Gus told the young lawyers in his firm never to wear unless they wanted to look like a walking turd.
"Come on in."
Gus thanked him and entered. The dowdy suite bore no resemblance to a law. office. It was two rooms, counting the tiny reception area. There was no receptionist, just an ugly metal desk and an answering machine.
"Want some coffee?"
The pot on the credenza looked as if it had been there since Mr. Coffee was in diapers. "No, thanks."
Kirby poured himself a cup and led Gus to the main office. Dusty venetian blinds cut the morning sun into slats on the rug. Overloaded banker's boxes were stacked on the desk and couch. Kirby made room for Gus on the couch and took a seat in the squeaky desk chair.
"Just moving in?"
"No," he said, a little offended.
"I'm sorry. I just thought--"
"I know, I know. It doesn't look like the cherry-paneled offices of Preston and Coolidge."
"That's not what I was going to say."
"You didn't have to. It was written all over your face." "Really, it's not like that at all. I have a lot of respect for a young guy who tries to strike out on his own."
"Yeah, sure you do. I think you mentioned that somewhere in the rejection letter I got from you in law school. Dear Mr. Toombs. Thank you very much for your interest in our firm. It gives us all great wracking belly laughs to dump on the drones who aren't top ten percent and law review."
Gus turned cautious. The guy was a little off. "It's a competitive market, Kirby. You can't take rejection personally."
"How else am I supposed to take it?"
"It's . . . business."
"Easy for you to say, hot shot. Do you have any idea what it feels like to be fired?"
Gus felt a twinge inside. He thought of the way the executive committee had so abruptly removed him as managing partner and replaced him with Martha Goldstein. "I can imagine."
"No, you can't. It hurts, man. And I'm not just talking about your ego. The word gets out on the street. You're damaged goods. I wasn't a bad lawyer. I just didn't get along with the more important people over at the P. D.'s office. So they fired me. Now look at me. There's not a law firm in the city who wants a reject from the public defender's office."