RK02 - Guilt By Degrees by Marcia Clark Read Free Book Online

Doe lay on the ground for two and a half hours before the police arrived.

10
    Chase sauntered into her office and dropped the flash drive on her desk with fake nonchalance. “We’ve got him,” he said with a superior smile.
    Sabrina flashed him a skeptical look. “We’ll see,” she replied. She didn’t really doubt him, though. Chase wasn’t a braggart. Tenacious and whip-smart, he had an almost perfect track record. Which was why she’d brought him in as her right-hand man. Well, that, and the fact that she’d always trusted him more than anyone else in the world. Though what that meant was somewhat murky, since she trusted no one else at all. Sabrina waited as Chase flopped down into the cushy sofa to the right of her desk and pulled off his “cover”—a wig and fake glasses. Sabrina wasn’t usually a fan of disguises. Too often, they screamed “costume,” which only managed to draw more attention. But she was forced to admit that for Chase, there was no other option. His long nose, piercing black eyes fringed by insanely long lashes, and thick curling brown hair presented a combination distinctive enough to make an impression on even a marginally observant witness.
    “I take it my intel was good, then?” she asked.
    “I don’t know how you do it, but it’s the best.”
    Sabrina plugged in the flash drive, then picked up the remote and pressed a button. The floor-to- ceiling metallic shades moved quietly across the wall of windows and shut out the afternoon sun. Now the only light in the cavernous office came from the glow of the cobalt-blue buttons on the remote in her hand.
    She swiveled her chair to face the wall on the right and pressed another button. A flat screen descended and locked into place at eye level. Sabrina hit play, and the image of an empty bedroom filled the screen in gray scale. The colors were so muted, it was difficult to make out what was in the room. She adjusted the contrast for maximum definition, and the outline of a bed, a dresser with a television set, and two nightstands—typical hotel furniture—came into view. Seconds later, a man in his sixties—in slacks and shirtsleeves, his expensive suit jacket slung over one shoulder—entered, loosening his tie. He tossed his jacket onto a chair in the corner, lumbered over to the king-size bed, and sat down heavily, hands hanging loosely between his thighs. Sabrina smirked. The man was obviously more than a few drinks into his good time. He rubbed his face, then looked around the room. Sabrina hit pause and peered over at Chase.
    “Can you enhance this? I don’t want there to be any doubt.”
    “Yeah, of course. But, trust me, there won’t be.”
    Sabrina turned back to the screen and continued the footage. The man went over to the minibar and pulled out two small bottles of champagne and two flutes. The door of the mini-fridge closed with a thunk, and when he set down the glasses, the clink gave a clear treble tinkle. Sabrina noted the clarity of the sound, pleased. A knock came at the door, and the man went to answer it. The visitor moved past him into the room and stopped dramatically at the foot of the bed.
    She was tall and slender, with waist-length blond hair, and dressed in a classic trench coat cinched with a knotted belt. When she spoke, her words nearly boomed from the speakers in the silent room. “Pour the champagne, darling. We don’t have all day.”
    The man obeyed, and the visitor undid the belt and dropped the coat to the floor to reveal a black sequined bustier and black fishnet stockings. She strutted over to the man. They clinked glasses and drank, and the man reached out with one hand and began to caress her breasts.
    She drained her glass, sat down on the bed, and leaned back on her elbows, letting her hair cascade down her back. “Bring me any prezzies?”
    “Just this,” the man said, brandishing a clear baggie holding what looked like three grams of white powder.
    “For the girl who has