“What am I supposed to tell Gracie?”
“Nothing. I warned you not to say anything in the first place.”
“I hadn’t planned on it. Things just got out of hand, quickly. And she’s not going to back down until her father’s name is cleared.”
“Well, she had better learn patience because if this is true, and Mantis killed Abe to protect himself from being busted for corruption . . . what do you think he’ll do to avoid getting nailed with murder?”
A chill runs down my spine. “Gracie doesn’t have anything on him.”
“Let’s make sure he doesn’t think otherwise, because word gets around, fast. So go, show Grace around the city, take her shopping, hang out by your pool . . . do whatever a twenty-five-year-old guy needs to do to keep a pretty girl occupied on things that pretty girls should be occupied with.”
I want to tell him that Gracie’s not the type to throw on a bikini and lie out in the sun to get away from her troubles. But I simply nod.
He frowns. “What were you two coming here for, anyway? You knew I had court this morning.”
In my rush to tell Silas everything, I realize that I forgot to mention Maxwell’s connection. But something tells me that Silas will forbid me from stepping within a hundred feet of his ADA. And if I can’t talk to Maxwell, then I’m stuck wondering, and thinking the worst about yet another person in my life. I’d rather plead forgiveness than ask permission as far as Maxwell goes. “I wanted to check the database for arrest records for Betsy, if you don’t mind,” I say instead. “It’d be good for both Dina and Gracie if we could find her. And it’ll keep Gracie occupied.”
“Go on ahead.” He glances at the clock on the wall. “Listen, I have to run to court to fight a case I actually do have evidence for.” He ushers me out of his office, pulling the door shut behind him.
“We’ll talk soon.”
“Yes, sir.”
I watch him hobble away, messenger bag hanging from one hand, an apple in the other.
His shoulders slumped as if by a great weight.
CHAPTER 33
Grace
“So, where y’all from?” Maxwell asks with his thick Texas croon. Awful stereotype or not, I can’t help but picture him going home to trade in his poorly fitting suit for a pair of dusty cowboy boots and a wide-brimmed hat.
“Originally from here, but I moved to Arizona.”
“You known Marshall a while then?” He pours himself a cup from the fresh pot of coffee, his shaggy black hair falling across his forehead messily.
It’s taking everything in me not to blurt out who I am and demand answers about why my father scribbled this guy’s name on a newspaper clipping fourteen years ago. “You could say that.”
“When’d you two start dating?”
“We’re not dating.” I take my time, sipping at my can of Coke as my eyes roam the small staff lounge. It’s nothing fancy—a common area along the west side of the building, overlooking the parking lot, with small café-style tables and chairs scattered throughout and a cherry-red kitchenette along another wall.
A tall, lanky guy strolls in then, mug in hand, to distract Maxwell. “Did I hear something percolating?”
“In your five years here, have you ever made a pot of coffee?” Maxwell shakes his head, but he’s smiling when he turns to me. “Darlin’, why don’t you just grab a seat anywhere.”
I bite my tongue about the “darlin’?” and find an empty chair that puts my back to them and occupy myself with my phone. No calls from the rehab center to tell me that my mom escaped yet. That’s a good sign.
“You done with those depositions yet?” Maxwell asks.
“When am I supposed to do those?” the other guy whines. “I’ve been reviewing surveillance video feed for Rolans since yesterday. My eyes are starting to bleed.”
“Best of three says who you work for today.”
I glance over my shoulder in time to see them with their hands out in front of them, making hand signs for rock-paper-scissors. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mumble under my breath. This Maxwell guy isn’t exactly the mastermind criminal I was envisioning.
“Tell Rolans he’s shit outta luck! I’ll check in on you soon.” Maxwell wanders over to me, chuckling as he sits his bulky body down across from me. “Gracie, right?”
“Grace.”
“So, tell me . . .” He lowers his voice and it’s like that boisterous bubble around him has been popped by a needle. “How’s Noah doin’, really?”
“His mother shot herself, so . . .” I’d say Noah is holding up miraculously well, but I don’t have a comparison point.
“Right.” His brow furrows deeply. “Did you know Jackie?”
“A long time ago.”
He dumps two packs of sugar into his coffee and I watch him stir, much like any typical man—rushed, the metal spoon clanging noisily against the porcelain sides.
“Were y’all neighbors?”
“No. My dad and Jackie were partners a long time ago.”
“So your daddy’s a cop! Is he workin’ out of Arizona?”
A segue, if I ever did hear one. “He died fourteen years ago. He was shot by a drug dealer, here in Austin.” I take a sip of my Coke, watching Maxwell’s large gray-blue eyes as they skate over my face. I sense a glimmer of recognition there.
“What’d you say his name was?”
Noah can’t get mad at me for answering a simple question. “Abraham Wilkes.”
I get another intimidating, bulgy-eyed look. I’ll bet he uses those in court with great success. And then Maxwell leans back in his chair, muttering a “no shit” under his breath as he tests his coffee.
“Did you know him?”
“Know him? No. I talked to him once, though.”
“What about?” I ask as innocently as I’m capable, hiding my cringe as he adds another sugar to his coffee.
“A case. He had evidence he thought would help me.” He takes a long sip, and a part of me thinks he’s weighing his words, deciding what he should tell me. “I started out as a public defender, and I ended up on this case where this guy got busted with a trunk full of drugs. He was goin’ away for a long time.”
My heart starts racing. “When was this?”
He frowns. “It would have been . . . ’03? Yeah, that’s right. Spring of ’03. I remember because I was picking up my wife’s engagement ring from the jewelry shop when Wilkes called. I proposed to her over Easter brunch. You should have seen her face when she opened the plastic egg that I—”
“Do you remember what the case was about?” I interrupt.
“Darlin’, I remember every detail about it, it was so bizarre.”
“And what’d my dad have for you?”
“Well, that’s a story and a half. I suppose I can tell you, seeing as my guy won’t be minding anymore. The way it went was the defendant swore up and down that he had a pile of cash in the trunk and that the cops stole it when they busted him outside this dive motel. I told him no one’s gonna buy what he’s sellin’. But, days later, lo and behold, I get a call from an APD cop—your dad—who tells me that he was there that night and he saw the whole thing shake down, and he had a video to prove it. He was ready to testify for my client against another officer.”
Something like giddiness fills my chest. “Who was the officer?”
“Don’t matter, does it?” He takes a sip of his coffee.
I’d love to push that it does matter, and that he has to give me a name, but I don’t want to give Maxwell a reason to grow suspicious and stop talking. “Did you see the video?”
“That’s the thing. Your dad died before I even had a chance to meet him in person. Needless to say, his testimony never made it to court.”
Despite my attempt to remain calm and innocent, my anger flares. “And you didn’t think it was at all strange that he was shot right after telling you he wanted to out a cop for corruption?”