Maximum Security by Rose Connors Read Free Book Online

“And as long as it’s anyone’s guess, nobody goes to jail over it.”

    He’s right, of course. I hadn’t thought of it that way, but he’s right. It’s the cops and prosecutors who need to figure out what actually happened, not the defense attorney. A seasoned defense lawyer would be overjoyed to have every one of his cases remain a mystery. And Harry’s a seasoned defense lawyer right down to his soul.

    He leans over and clinks his green bottle against my wineglass, then swallows a mouthful of beer. “Here’s hoping old Herb never surfaces.”

    I shake my head and close my eyes.

    “What?” he protests. “What’d I say?”

    I open my eyes again, to see if he’s serious. He is. “The man is dead,” I remind him.

    “I know that, Marty.” He sets his beer down and leans forward, resting both hands on the rim of the tub. “That’s the point. If I thought the guy could be rescued, I’d want him to turn up. But since he’s dead, he may as well rest in peace in the depths of the Great South Channel. He won’t cause any trouble there.”

    “He won’t have a proper burial either.”

    “Says who? What’s wrong with the ocean floor? Beats the hell out of a patch of dirt. Tell you what. When the time comes, you can bury me in the Great South Channel too. I’ll keep old Herb company.”

    “Swell, Harry. Maybe you and Herb should invite Glen Powers to join you. A reunion of Louisa alumni.”

    He laughs and retrieves his beer. “How’d it go today, anyhow? Did you two hit it off?”

    I don’t think Harry’s ever asked me if I hit it off with a client before. “It was fine,” I tell him. “But we have a lot more ground to cover before Monday.”

    He nods, then tilts his head to one side. “Did Louisa ever have any kids?”

    I know Harry’s never asked that about a client before. “No,” I tell him. “But she does have a wicked stepdaughter. Five years her junior.”

    “Sweet Jesus,” he says, taking another swallow. “That could get ugly.”

    “Louisa refers to herself as the trophy wife,” I tell him. “God only knows what the stepdaughter calls her.”

    “Trophy wife?” Harry laughs. “She must have mellowed over the years. The Louisa I knew wouldn’t have settled for being any old trophy. She’d have called herself the Triple Crown.”

    Well, of course she would have.

    I’ve had about enough of Louisa Rawlings for one day. And my bathwater has grown tepid. I pull the plug and Harry gets my towel from the hook on the door. He wraps it around me as I step out of the tub, then pulls me close for another kiss. Another real one.

    “I’ll bet the water’s boiling,” he says. “Ready for lobster?”

    Lobster isn’t what I want at the moment, but I don’t say so. “Sounds good,” I tell him instead. “I’ll make a salad.”

    He kisses me again—a quick one this time—and then heads for the kitchen.

    I wipe the mist from the bathroom mirror, turban a towel around my wet hair, and sit for a moment on the edge of the cedar chest. It’s just as well. I am sort of hungry. And I’m too damned tired to compete for the Triple Crown.

C HAPTER 8

    Saturday, October 14

    Even on Saturdays, the Kydd is invariably the first one at work. Today is no exception. He’s stationed in the front office when I arrive, his feet propped up on the old pine table. His face is buried in an advance sheet, a paper rendition of the Commonwealth’s most recent judicial opinions, the industry’s heads-up to practitioners. Advance sheets are published within days of appellate decisions being rendered, long before hardbound casebooks can be produced. The Kydd’s focused expression tells me one of the high courts of the Commonwealth has recently waxed eloquent on the topic of life insurance.

    Casebooks surround the Kydd in stacks of three and four, pink Post-it notes sticking out from their pages like multiple taunting tongues. My watch says it’s not quite eight o’clock, but