The Return of the Fallen Angels Book Club (A Hollis Morgan Mystery 3) by R. Franklin James

time of day. She stopped to look out Triple D’s almost floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Bay. The new Bay Bridge, which joined San Francisco with the East Bay, provided a picturesque backdrop. The sun had begun its rise over the Oakland-Berkeley hills and cast a warm yellow glow on the water as it chased the fading blue of the night sky away. But today she could hardly enjoy the sight.
    She hadn’t slept well.
    In the middle of the night, the cold realization that Jeffrey Wallace had been murdered had finally hit her. She felt obligated to honor his life and the good he had done. Looking at his family, she’d realized there was a side to him she hadn’t known; however, from what she did know, he hadn’t deserved to die the way he did. She labeled her own file for Jeffrey’s murder and placed the ME report and her notes inside.
    The firm was coming to life. She heard the early morning banter and smelled the aroma of fresh coffee. In her inbox was the file George had returned. He’d written comments on one of her legal research memos, and she had to grudgingly admit his suggestions were right on.
    She spent the next hour doing paperwork and making client contacts until her phone buzzed.
    “Hollis, you have a call from a Mr. Brian Wallace. I’ll transfer,” Tiffany announced. Performance bonuses were being discussed this week. Hollis noticed Tiffany was executing her receptionist’s role with renewed commitment.
    “Brian, how can I help you?”
    “I need to discuss something with you as soon as possible,” Brian said, not even bothering with a hello. “I can take off work for an early lunch. Are you free at eleven?”
    She agreed, curious about his urgency.
    Hollis told Tiffany she would need one of the conference rooms for a morning appointment. Tiffany nodded and immediately entered the room assignment into the computer. That was one definite advantage of being an attorney over a paralegal; your requests were rarely questioned.
    Hollis was finishing up George’s morning assignment when Brian arrived.
    She’d asked for the small conference room without the panoramic view. It limited distractions and kept conversations from wandering off point. Tiffany had put out glasses and a pitcher of water.
    Dressed for the office, Brian wore a conservative light gray suit, white shirt, with gray tie. His light brown hair was slicked back and his blue eyes darted around the room. He sat down and began to fidget with the stapler on the table.
    “Hollis, I need your help, and maybe Gene’s too … maybe all of the Fallen Angels.” Brian stood and paced the room.
    She noticed the assumed familiarity with his use of first names.
    “I understand you need our help, but it would help to know why.”
    “You already met Frances, my stepmother. She and Dad were married about eight years. It seemed like an okay marriage to me—I wasn’t living at home—and Dad seemed happy, until about six months ago. They’d gone on a vacation to Hawaii and when they got back, Dad told me that he and Frances were going to set up a revocable trust. If anything happened to him, he wanted me to be executor, but Frances would have access to all their holdings for her life—except ten percent, which would go to the Public Library Foundation. I am to have his separate property now and after she dies. I’m the sole beneficiary of their trust. If there are still assets after my death, then the Public Library Foundation receives the remainder of the trust.”
    Hollis busily took notes.
    “Was the trust funded and finalized?”
    “Yeah, five months ago.”
    “All right, what you describe is not uncommon. That’s standard language for a revocable trust.”
    “I realize that, but about three months ago, Frances filed for divorce. Dad was surprised and I think, hurt. He didn’t see it coming. None of us did.”
    Hollis wrote, then circled the word divorce on her note pad. Now she knew why he needed her help.
    She put down her pen. “The