Natural Suspect (2001) by Phillip Margolin Read Free Book Online Page A

This Devin McGee woman gave a powerful opening statement. And you know we've got some evidence problems she didn't even mention, although she knows about them. I think she's setting a trap, and frankly, I'm worried that you might step into it."
    Trent frowned at the criticism, then tugged gently on the specially made leash that he'd attached to Buck's front legs and around his neck. But the rabbit obstinately huddled down into the snow, unmoving.
    For an instant, McCandliss considered that Ballard might have been correct--maybe the rabbit did have some intelligence. Certainly, Buck was now regarding his master with an almost human malevolence--and more intelligence than he ever expected to see in a rodent.
    "Okay, you bad boy, no treats for you tonight." Trent gave up pulling on the leash and turned back to McCandliss. "Don't you worry about Devin McGee, sir. That situation is completely under control. Totally."
    He gave another smallish tug on the leash, and must have been standing on a patch of ice over snow, because the movement caused him to slip, and suddenly he was on the ground, moaning. Sometime during his fall, he let go of the leash, and Buck--an immovable statue up unti l t hen--jumped up and covered twenty feet of snow-covered sidewalk in three leaps.
    Through his pain, Trent called out, "Buck! Here, boy. Come on back."
    "Ballard!" McCandliss employed his sternest tone. The rabbit could wait, damn it. "Why shouldn't I worry about Devin McGee?"
    Trent had pulled himself to his feet and was wiping snow from his coat, all the while using a cajoling voice, his attention focused upon his pet. "Just stay there, Buck. Don't move. Easy, boy." At last he remembered his boss. "Devin McGee? Because I can handle her, sir. Personally." A conspiratorial wink. "A little charm, a little of the old--you know. Piece of cake. I own Devin McGee."
    The rabbit hopped again, trailing his leash. "Buck!"
    District Attorney Aaron McCandliss watched Trent Ballard--the man he'd chosen for the year's most high-profile murder case--as he attempted to stalk and capture his huge, house-trained rabbit in a snowstorm on a busy Manhattan street. Trent Ballard was confident that he could handle Devin McGee, was he? He owned her?
    McCandliss watched Buck jump a few more feet, the super-intelligent bunny rabbit managing to keep the leash just out of Ballard's grasp.
    "Here, Bucky, come on. Be a good boy now. Come to daddy."
    The D . A . suddenly wished he'd brought his antacids. His ulcer was acting up. He couldn't bear to watch any longer. But the farce held his attention for another few seconds, and in those seconds, his ace trial attorney Trent Ballard slipped and fell a second time and the old Buckster, the Buckaroo, the Buckwheat Bunny, put another five yards between himself and his master.
    "Pathetic," McCandliss muttered under his breath. He turned on his heel and didn't look back.
    Patrick Roswell knew that he wasn't going to become a famous reporter if he let opportunities like this one get away.
    Love-struck, crossword-challenged Henry from Murray's Bar & Grill might be an impeccable source for great cheeseburgers, but as a s ource for hard news, he was as yet unproved. Still, if Patrick could verify Henrys information about Arthur Hightower Sr.'s condition on November 4--that he'd been alive, and at the Sweeney Hotel--it would break the case wide open. And even more important, it would prove to Mr. Whitechapel that his young advertising salesman had what it took to be an investigative reporter.
    But first, he had to endure a long, slow afternoon calling on his accounts--Hargrove Printing, DeBrook's Flowers, Dodge's Storm Doors, Cornelius Cups and Trophies, Cantors Custom Accessories, whatever they were. And all the while the wind was picking up and the clouds piled on one another.
    He made his last call on Karpfinger's Quality Caskets at seven-fifteen and, since he'd neglected to bring his heavy overcoat to town with him that morning, he