It’s piled pretty high. From the looks of it, Price’s secretary has tried to organize everything. Top stuff is faxes. There are some memos mixed in with some UGA alumni stuff. Mail’s at the bottom. Nothing good though.
Okay. Moving on. I open the desk drawers, flip through the file names. Case paperwork. I switch to the desk’s other side, shutting the top drawer, opening the lower. It’s more of the same. File. File. File. Some of them thick as my wrist. Ridiculous. There’s no way I’m going to find the pictures. Even if they are here, it would take days to filter through everything.
I shove the file folder into its slot, start to close the drawer, and realize there’s a gap behind the folders. I must not have extended the drawer all the way.
Rolling my chair to the side, I pull the drawer forward, lengthening it another foot. The file folders stop and behind them is a clutter of law magazines, the edges of a manila envelope poking out from underneath like it had been forgotten . . . or shoved away hastily as if someone was coming.
I tug out the envelope, peek inside. Something’s at the bottom. I stick my hand in, fish around. Huh. Piece of folded paper and something that feels like a jump drive.
I squint at the small white rectangle. Yep, it’s a jump drive. Why would you need to hide something like this?
I flip open the paper.
There are more where these came from. I’ll be in touch soon.
Even more interesting. I plug the drive into the USB port of my computer and check the time. Crap. I need to wrap this up. When the file listing appears, I click the first item.
My heart double-thumps.
It’s a dead body. Are these crime scene photos?
I scroll through, squinting in the dark. It’s a dead woman. Blondish. Youngish. Lots of blood.
Why would Chelsea have these? Is it related to a case she was helping Bay with? And why would Corey’s client have wanted them?
I copy the files from the jump drive to my laptop. Most of the shots are close-ups of the wounds. Looks like the girl was stabbed to death. I select another photo and pause, enlarge the picture and stare. The girl’s face is turned up, eyes and mouth pulled wide.
It’s Lell.
“Griff,” I murmur, touching two fingers to my earbud. “I think we have a problem.”
“Yes, you do.”
I jerk to attention. Milo? What the hell is he doing on our channel?
“Surprised?” Milo continues in a come on down and tell her what she’s won tone. “I would suggest you get your ass moving. You have company.”
Company? I open my mouth to tell Milo to screw off and hear footsteps. Oh. God.
I step away from the desk, listening. The footsteps are heavy, rubber soles thumping against the linoleum. They’re not moving quickly, but they are headed this way.
I unhook my laptop and drop it in my bag with the jump drive and envelope. I push the CPU back to where it was and hesitate. Now what? If I run for it, whoever’s outside will see me.
“Yep,” Milo says, sounding thrilled. “That is definitely an Officer Friendly moving your way, Wick. I would find somewhere to hide. Fast. Looks like he noticed the door you left open.”
I cut my eyes to the office door. Shit. Sure enough, I left it cracked. I spin around, looking for a hiding spot. Desk. Two chairs. Bookshelves. Nothing. Double shit.
I rocket around, fling myself behind the door so, if he opens it, I’ll be hidden. With any luck, he’ll just close the door as he goes by.
Only he doesn’t.
He opens it.
The wooden door swings wide, arcing in front of me as I suck suck suck myself in. The officer steps inside, snaps his flashlight on, twirls the beam over the office, and snaps it off.
Almost there. I hold my breath.
He comes inside.
With the door in my face, I can’t see where he is, but I can hear him. He’s opening drawers, moving things around. Papers flutter.
This isn’t a security cop. Can’t be.
Holding my bag tight against my chest, I step to my left and peek around the door’s edge. The guy’s finished with the desk and gone on to the filing cabinets on the other side. He’s moving things around with force, not caring about the mess. He straightens and I jerk back. Something slams. A drawer?
Footsteps cross the office, heading for the door. He pulls it shut behind him, and through the space between the jamb and door, I get a glimpse of the guy’s profile.
It’s Judge Bay.
24
Milo clears his throat. “Uh, if I were you, I’d get moving right about now.”
I’m still pressed against the wall. Moving would be awesome. Too bad my joints have turned to puddles.
“What the fuck are you doing, Milo?” Griff’s voice crackles in my ear.
Milo ignores him. “Seriously, Wick. Get going.”
“Is Bay gone?” I hiss.
“For the moment.”
A wave of nausea rushes over me. Somehow, Milo must have gotten on the security feed. The thought does not make me warm and fuzzy. I force myself forward, peek into the hallway. It’s clear.
“He took your exit,” Milo continues. “You’ll need another way out. Go left.”