fax copier. They all went down to the driveway and looked for bits of glass, footprints in the still-damp pine needles in the cracks in the asphalt, anything. The driveway had no conspicuous clues to yield.
“You're sure you lost your car key sometime during the day yesterday,” Officer Scholl said at least five times.
Nina had spent the past few minutes reliving the night's activities in excruciating detail. Her car key was gone. That was a fact. “I can't find it in my purse or the pockets of the clothes I was wearing.”
“But you don't think the key could have fallen between the seats. Or something.”
“I don't know. What I'm saying is that I locked the doors of the Bronco last night with my spare key. So nobody just came up and was searching through an unlocked car and just happened to find my key. Either they broke in and hot-wired the Bronco or they somehow have my lost key.”
“No one could have used your spare key. The plastic one.” The monotonic, carefully nonjudgmental voice made Nina feel worse.
“It was in my wallet in the living room. I always lock the house up tight and turn on the alarm. It was right there. This morning I found it in the wallet where I left it.”
Officer Matthias gave the gate an experimental kick, as though this might make it give up a hint.
Nina went on, “It was the storm. It's a quiet neighborhood. I meant to go back out right away but I got distracted.” Thank God, the house and office keys hadn't been on the same keychain. Nina closed her eyes for a moment, recalling a recent conversation with Paul in the Long's Drug Store parking lot as they had watched a man get out of his car and go into the store, leaving his motor running. “If someone drives off in that car,” Paul said, “he's doing that ass a favor. They oughtta arrest him as an accessory, teach him a lesson.”
The officers wrote down what Nina told them about the three files. “Legal files,” she said.
“Client files?” Scholl asked, scribbling on a notepad.
She bit her lip. “Yes.”
“Names on the files?”
“Yes. The files were labeled.”
“I get that. But what were the names?”
“I can't tell you that.”
“You won't give us the labels on the files? How are we supposed to identify them if they're found in a trash can behind some house in Meyers?”
“Call me and I'll come down and look at any legal-sized manila folders you find.”
“And what if one of the people in your files decided he wanted them back? How are we going to question him if we don't even know his name?” Scholl asked, putting her pad down for the moment, letting only a glint of irritation enter her eyes.
“I can't help you there.”
“Kind of a drawback to our investigation.”
“Yes. It is.”
“What's in the files?”
“Pleadings.” Those she could reproduce, with copies from the clerk's office. Those were public documents. The Decree of Dissolution with the attached Marital Settlement Agreement in Kevin Cruz's case, for instance. “And business correspondence,” mostly boring. Innocuous or technical lawyer letters from the other side. Transmittal memos to the court.
“And?” asked Matthias. Both officers now stood side by side waiting to hear the rest. They already knew, but they wanted her to say it.
“Confidential material.”
Officer Scholl wrote. “That would include what?”
“My attorney work-product, including my legal research notes, my notes of consultations with experts. Confidential.”
“Uh huh. Like what?”
“Like my client-intake notes. I can't give details. Most of it is protected by the attorney-client privilege.”
“Written documents?”
“Right,” Nina said, picturing the client-intake forms in her mind. Addresses for people who did not want to be found. Figures for a hefty insurance settlement that would make some people sit up and take greedy notice if they knew about it. Kevin's secret.
The ramifications rushed at her like a Roman phalanx. Kevin Cruz
“You're sure you lost your car key sometime during the day yesterday,” Officer Scholl said at least five times.
Nina had spent the past few minutes reliving the night's activities in excruciating detail. Her car key was gone. That was a fact. “I can't find it in my purse or the pockets of the clothes I was wearing.”
“But you don't think the key could have fallen between the seats. Or something.”
“I don't know. What I'm saying is that I locked the doors of the Bronco last night with my spare key. So nobody just came up and was searching through an unlocked car and just happened to find my key. Either they broke in and hot-wired the Bronco or they somehow have my lost key.”
“No one could have used your spare key. The plastic one.” The monotonic, carefully nonjudgmental voice made Nina feel worse.
“It was in my wallet in the living room. I always lock the house up tight and turn on the alarm. It was right there. This morning I found it in the wallet where I left it.”
Officer Matthias gave the gate an experimental kick, as though this might make it give up a hint.
Nina went on, “It was the storm. It's a quiet neighborhood. I meant to go back out right away but I got distracted.” Thank God, the house and office keys hadn't been on the same keychain. Nina closed her eyes for a moment, recalling a recent conversation with Paul in the Long's Drug Store parking lot as they had watched a man get out of his car and go into the store, leaving his motor running. “If someone drives off in that car,” Paul said, “he's doing that ass a favor. They oughtta arrest him as an accessory, teach him a lesson.”
The officers wrote down what Nina told them about the three files. “Legal files,” she said.
“Client files?” Scholl asked, scribbling on a notepad.
She bit her lip. “Yes.”
“Names on the files?”
“Yes. The files were labeled.”
“I get that. But what were the names?”
“I can't tell you that.”
“You won't give us the labels on the files? How are we supposed to identify them if they're found in a trash can behind some house in Meyers?”
“Call me and I'll come down and look at any legal-sized manila folders you find.”
“And what if one of the people in your files decided he wanted them back? How are we going to question him if we don't even know his name?” Scholl asked, putting her pad down for the moment, letting only a glint of irritation enter her eyes.
“I can't help you there.”
“Kind of a drawback to our investigation.”
“Yes. It is.”
“What's in the files?”
“Pleadings.” Those she could reproduce, with copies from the clerk's office. Those were public documents. The Decree of Dissolution with the attached Marital Settlement Agreement in Kevin Cruz's case, for instance. “And business correspondence,” mostly boring. Innocuous or technical lawyer letters from the other side. Transmittal memos to the court.
“And?” asked Matthias. Both officers now stood side by side waiting to hear the rest. They already knew, but they wanted her to say it.
“Confidential material.”
Officer Scholl wrote. “That would include what?”
“My attorney work-product, including my legal research notes, my notes of consultations with experts. Confidential.”
“Uh huh. Like what?”
“Like my client-intake notes. I can't give details. Most of it is protected by the attorney-client privilege.”
“Written documents?”
“Right,” Nina said, picturing the client-intake forms in her mind. Addresses for people who did not want to be found. Figures for a hefty insurance settlement that would make some people sit up and take greedy notice if they knew about it. Kevin's secret.
The ramifications rushed at her like a Roman phalanx. Kevin Cruz
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