Thicker Than Water by P.J. Parrish

and framed prints of English hunting scenes. The blue carpet gave like a sponge. The receptionist’s desk was empty, but there was a lipstick-ringed Garfield coffee mug on it.
    Louis went to the window. Nothing to see but the tarred and tiled roofs of downtown Fort Myers with a glimpse of the green-gray Caloosahatchee beyond. No view for the hotshot either.
    â€œCan I help you?”
    Louis turned and looked down at a tiny woman with a fluff of gray hair. She was in her sixties, wearing a tan suit with glasses dangling from a chain around her neck.
    â€œI’m Louis Kincaid. I have an appointment with Mr. Bernhardt,” Louis said.
    The woman’s eyes swept over him. “Mr. Bernhardt had to leave early. I called your office but there was no answer.”
    Office . . . it was his home phone. He had to get an answering machine. He stifled a sigh at the wasted trip. He was hoping to at least get a look at Duvall’s office. He glanced at the closed door over the secretary’s shoulder. Damn Bernhardt. He was probably in there, ducking him.
    He thought about trying a smile, but then realized it wasn’t going to break the ice with this old biddy. “Look,” he said, “I really need to see Mr. Bern—”
    â€œEllie?”
    The secretary jumped to her desk and punched a button.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œIs Pearson here yet?”
    â€œIs that your boss?” Louis asked.
    The old lady ignored Louis. “No, he’s not, Mr. Bernhardt,” she said into the phone, “but Mr. Kincaid is.”
    There was no answer. The secretary hung up and gave Louis a frown. “I hate lying for him,” she said.
    Louis was about to speak when a man in a blue suit appeared. He was short, overweight, about fifty but looked older, with thin gray-blond hair and the ashy skin of a future coronary patient.
    â€œLyle Bernhardt,” he said briskly, extending a hand.
    Louis accepted the soft, damp handshake. “Louis Kincaid.”
    â€œI don’t appreciate being strong-armed,” he said.
    â€œI had an appointment,” Louis said calmly.
    Bernhardt frowned. “Well, come in, then,” he said, motioning Louis toward his office.
    â€œI was hoping I could see Spencer Duvall’s office,” Louis said.
    Bernhardt hesitated. “What? Why?”
    â€œIt’s just routine, Mr. Bernhardt. Part of any investigation.”
    Bernhardt pursed his lips and glanced at the secretary. She was watching him closely.
    â€œI don’t think that would be proper,” he said. “Besides, it’s all been cleaned up now anyway.”
    â€œThe scene’s been cleared?” Louis asked.
    â€œYes, thank God. Terribly distracting, if you know what I mean. Our clients were most uncomfortable. Why don’t you come into my office?”
    Bernhardt led Louis into a large office done in the same pseudo-English manor style as the reception area. Louis took a chair across from Bernhardt’s imposing desk. The desk was heaped with papers and fat legal files. Bernhardt stared at the piles for a moment, as if confused.
    â€œSorry for the mess. Things have been in such an uproar since . . .” Bernhardt’s voice trailed off. “The police don’t seem to appreciate the fact that business must go on no matter what.”
    â€œIt was just you and Mr. Duvall, right?” Louis said.
    Bernhardt nodded. “That’s the way it’s been for almost twenty years now. I wanted to expand, but Spencer wouldn’t hear of it. Now I’m left with all of it.”
    â€œYou could hire someone now,” Louis offered.
    Bernhardt looked at him like he was nuts. “You don’t just go out and find someone overnight. At least not someone who can handle the kind of cases Spencer did.”
    He was rubbing the spot between his eyebrows. “What a mess he left me with,” he muttered, staring at the files on the desk.
    Finally, he looked up at