When she didn't respond, he leaned forward, placed his hands on the arms of her chair, and swung her around to face him. "There was no appointment listed for you. Why were you here?"
His face was inches from hers and Addison could smell garlic on his breath. "Is he dead?" she asked.
"I'm afraid so."
"Oh, God." Nausea roiled in her stomach. "I can't believe it."
Resting his hand on her forearm, he spoke over his shoulder to a uniformed officer. "Get me a glass of water here."
He turned back to Addison. "Did you know him? Were you friends?"
"He's ... my lawyer. I've known him for years. He was a family friend."
"Was there anyone else in the office when you arrived?"
"No."
"Did Bernstein, know you were coming today?"
"No. I just ... stopped by to pick up some records."
"What kind of records?"
She stammered, feeling too disoriented to explain something as complicated as her search for her birth parents. "Records on my biological parents."
His brow creased. "Biological parents?"
Irritation sparked through her. "Yes. I'm adopted. Jim helped me locate my birth mother."
"He was working for you?"
"No." She sighed. "I mean, yes. But he was doing it as a favor, in his spare time. He wasn't billing me. He was a friend of my father's." It was the third time she'd answered that question, and she could tell by the way the detective was watching her that he wasn't quite sure what to make of her answers.
Van-Dyne accepted the paper cup the officer brought him and handed it to Addison. "Here, drink this. It'll help."
She accepted the water and sipped carefully, not quite trusting her stomach. ''Thanks.''
Digging into his pocket, the detective removed a white handkerchief and handed it to her. "It's not often I see someone like you in the middle of something like this twice in two days," he said.
Addison reached for the handkerchief and wiped the drying blood from her right hand. "Seems like I've been in the wrong place at the wrong time a lot lately."
"Did you touch the body, Miss Fox?"
"No. I-I couldn't. ... "
He held out his hand for the handkerchief. She passed it to him, then watched with a feeling of sick dread as he removed a small plastic bag from his coat pocket. He dropped the handkerchief into it. "How did you get blood on your hands?"
"I ... I picked up the pen, the Mont Blanc. I was going to leave him a note. Jesus, you can't possibly think I had anything to do with ..."
He raised his hands in a gesture that did little to reassure her. "I'm just trying to get a picture of what happened. But I must admit I'm curious as to why you've been in the vicinity of two shootings in two days."
They stared at each other, his expression hard and unsympathetic, hers aghast at what he might be thinking.
"Why the show with the evidence bag?" The voice was imperious, challenging, and vaguely familiar.
Addison looked up to see Jack Talbot rolling his wheelchair toward her. Relief flooded her. "Jack."
He wasn't a conventional-looking private detective. Clad in black leather and denim, he more closely resembled a revolutionary from the 1970s. His black hair was pulled into a tight ponytail that reached halfway down his back. Two days of stubble darkened his jaw. A gold hoop glinted at his left earlobe.
Without speaking, he removed his identification from his wallet and flashed it at the detective, all the while eyeing Addison as if trying to gauge her state of mind.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
She nodded, vaguely remembering the call she'd made to his office after dialing 911. "I'm okay. Thanks for coming."
Jack shot the detective a hard look. "What's the problem, Van-Dyne, did you run out of junkies to hassle?"
"Just doing my job, Jack. How's the back these days?"
"Can't complain."
Addison risked a look at the detective. "I've told you everything I know. I'd like to go now."
The detective glared at her. "You can leave when I say you can."
"I didn't do anything wrong."
''Nobody said you did."
Jack made a rude sound and very quietly suggested Van-Dyne do something anatomically impossible. "Come on, Adam, you've had her for nearly two hours. What the hell else do you want?"
The detective's glare swept from Jack to Addison. "Don't leave town."
She jerked her head once.
Wheeling his chair around, Jack started for the door. "There's a car without a permit parked in the handicapped zone, Detective. You might want to grab your ticket book and check it out." He winked at Addison."Your place or mine?"
Wondering what she was getting herself into, Addison rose, relieved when the floor felt solid under her feet. She started for the door.
"Miss Fox?"
Van-Dyne's voice stopped her dead in her tracks. Jack continued rolling toward the door. She turned to the detective, aware that Jack had reached the door.
"I expect you to make yourself available to the police for questioning for the next few weeks," the detective said.
"Of course," she replied, then turned and followed Jack.
*