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Copyright 2002 LB Cobb. All Rights Reserved.

TWO

Friday, May 22, 4:30 p.m.

Leo Zachmann's secretary stuck her blond head into his office. "Pick up line three," Martha Dee ordered. "You'll want to talk to this guy."

"Want to give me a clue?" Leo glanced at the wall clock above the door cognizant of his five o'clock deadline for faxing answers to interrogatories in a civil case. He'd rather be doing just about anything else at the moment, but such tedious work kept the firm prosperous between the sporadic but much more lively high-society murder cases. Actually, his wife's corporate deal-making kept them prosperous, but no need to quibble over details.

"The police are holding Mrs. Stuart Fullerton for the murder of her husband at the Concord Hotel."

"Fullerton? Washington-scandal Stuart Fullerton?"

"That's the one."

"She on the line?"

"No. It's a man. Says he's 'a friend' of Mrs. Fullerton. Won't give me a name, but he really wants to hire you."

Leo looked at the papers in front of him, then at the clock again. "Can you finish these up and fax them off?"

"No problem." Martha Dee grinned.

"What's so funny?"

"You. You look like a kid getting let out of school early."

Leo grunted. "Tell my wife I may be late for dinner." He pressed a button to start a tape recorder hooked to his phone and lifted the receiver. "Leo Zachmann here. What can I do for you?"

"I'm calling on behalf of Janette Fullerton, Mrs. Stuart Fullerton. The police are detaining her at the Concord Hotel. Will you help her?"

"Who are you?" Leo replied. "And what makes you think she wants my help?"

"Who I am isn't important," the voice said. "She needs you."

"Not so fast," said Leo. "Tell me what happened."

"You'll have to get the details from her. Please, just name your price, and I'll send you a check."

"Whoa," said Leo. "You tell me the nature of her problem, then we'll worry about my fee."

Leo heard a sigh at the other end of the line. "The police think she murdered her husband. I don't know any more than that, but I'll see that you're well paid, whatever you want. Just help her."

"How do I get in touch with you if I decide to sign on?"

"Write this number down." The voice recited a Washington DC area code and phone number.

Leo was now intrigued by just who the mystery man might be. "I'll talk to her, but I'm not promising representation."

"Please, just check it out, then call me back."

"That much, I'll do." Leo hung up and buzzed Martha Dee, then put on his jacket while she gathered up papers from his desk. As she left, he rang Jerry Thibideau, the firm's private investigator. "Meet me at the elevator. Right now. Happy hour at the Concord."

When Leo came through his office door, he found Miranda, his wife and law partner, beside Martha Dee's desk, blocking his escape. "I hear you're standing me up for a new client."

Leo swept Miranda into his arms and gave her a peck on the lips. "I would never give up an evening with you for a client, my dear. You and the kids start dinner without me if I run a little late."

Miranda's emerald eyes locked on his blues. "I'm coming with you to make sure you don't 'run a little late.'"

Martha Dee cleared her throat. "Would you two take it elsewhere? I have a five o'clock deadline; you're in my way."

"Certainly." Leo directed Miranda toward the elevators. "Oh, Martha Dee? Would you check caller ID and see if you can figure out who our mystery man is?"

"Yeah, yeah," Martha Dee said as she fed the fax machine.

Jerry Thibideau came out of his office just as Leo and Miranda reached the elevator. "What's up?"

"Don't know yet," Leo said. "Some man, who didn't want to tell me his name, thinks Mrs. Stuart Fullerton needs a lawyer."

"Fullerton? The guy who went after those politicians?"

"That one. Apparently he's no longer among the living, and the police think his wife did him in. While I talk with the widow, see if you can get your cop buddies to tell you what they have on her."

"I'll wait in the bar," Miranda said.

"No, no, my dear. You wanted to come; you can assist me in interviewing our potential client, act as my truth-seeking missile, then tell me whether you'll let me get on this horse and ride."

Miranda gave Leo her skeptical look.

"Don't I always listen to your opinions?"

"You listen, then you do what you damn well please."

* * *

Police cars with strobe lights flashing and television station vans with antennae turning were parked helter-skelter in front of the hotel. Reporters babbled into microphones on the front steps. It looked like Christmas at the Concord and Leo felt the anticipation of a present inside waiting to be opened.

Leo and Jerry formed the offensive line with Miranda on their heels as they crossed the granite-floored lobby. A young Hispanic officer stepped out of the open elevator car they approached. "Sorry, sir. We have a police problem upstairs. Hotel management is offering guests free refreshments in the Rustler's Lounge. Wait there, and we'll let you know when we're done."

"About that little problem you have, that's where we're headed. I'm Leo Zachmann. You guys are holding my client, Mrs. Stuart Fullerton, on the eighteenth floor."

"I'm sorry, sir," the cop said, "but no one goes up."

Leo moved closer to read his badge, towering over the cop. "Tell you what, Officer Cuellar. We're getting on this elevator. You call whomever you need to call and tell them they'll have to shoot Mrs. Fullerton's lawyer to keep him from getting off. And someone else might get hurt in the shoot-out. You want to tell them that?"

The officer, right hand resting on his gun, glared up at Leo, then shrugged and stepped aside. "I'll let them know some loco abogado is coming up."

"Thank you, kind sir," Leo said, "but make that some big-and-mean crazy lawyer, so they'll know which one."

Miranda kicked Leo in the calf as the elevator doors closed.

"Ouch!" Leo yelped. "Why'd you do that?"

She glared at him. "One of these days some hot-headed cop will call your bluff."

"You've always looked good in black."

"Not to worry," interjected Jerry, "not with our new improved police department. Now, back in my day, it was bang, bang, 'you're under arrest,' bang, bang, 'you have a right to remain silent.' These days, they're too scared of the Internal Affairs Division."

"Clean up your act or I'll take you home," Miranda warned.

Jerry grinned at Leo over Miranda's auburn head. "Course back then, internal affairs took place behind closed doors between the chief and his secretary. Now, it's cops screwing cops."

Leo had hired six-foot-six chocolate colored Gericault Thibideau away from the Bayou City Police Department over twenty years ago after Jerry came up with evidence that helped the then hot-shot Assistant District Attorney and now distinguished DA Wendell Boettcher whip Leo soundly in his first big love-and-murder trial. Fortunately, Wen had never done it again, and Jerry still held the respect of the older cops, at least enough they sometimes let him in on what was really in their evidence locker.

The elevator door opened at the eighteenth floor and Jerry turned right toward a group of officers. A tall, black cop in a tailored suit stepped forward. "Whatcha doin' here, Thibideau?"

Jerry extended his hand. "What's up, Smitty?"

Leo watched as Smitty-the-cop warmed to Jerry-the-ex-cop, then he scanned the crowded hallway looking for one of Boettcher's people. Wen would definitely have a prosecutor guarding against a screwup on a case this big.

He saw her talking with a police photographer at the door of 1807 and smiled. That's Virginia, he thought, already at work on her trial exhibits.

Leo placed his hand on the small of Miranda's back. "Would you accompany me to the boudoir, my dear?"

"Don't start an LB Cobb mystery if there are any demands on the next few hours of your time. From the opening page, you are hooked and delighted to hang onto the hook" - Review of Texas Books

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