Page 83 of The 1 Lawyer

I was about to ask him what he meant—it sounded like he was aware that I was looking into the events surrounding the trial—but at that point, he picked up the phone and said, “Opal, send security in.” After he hung up, he said, “You ought to quit thinking about Daniel altogether, start straightening up your own mess. Look at you. Law practice shot to hell, you’re a middle-aged man with a part-time job on the beach. Everyone knows you’re a drunk.”

There was no point in arguing with him. No opportunity either. The door opened, and two men in matching black security uniforms appeared. As they escorted me out of the office, Caro took one last shot.

“If you’re sober, you can give me a call next spring. We hire lifeguards to sit by the casino pool from May to September.”

CHAPTER 64

IF HIRAM CARO thought his abuse would discourage me, he was wrong.

I was determined to keep digging until I found the person responsible for the attack on Jenny. But at that moment, I had to head home. I needed a shower and a change of clothes. I could grab an hour of sleep, and when I woke up, I hoped I would be sharp again. Then I’d go back to the hospital, talk to Jenny, piece the puzzle together.

I got into my Prius, still parked at the front door of the casino, and drove off through town. My empty stomach growled. I considered pulling into a drive-through to get a burger.

As I scanned the fast-food options, I passed Daniel Caro’s ob-gyn clinic.

“Son of a bitch,” I said aloud.

On impulse, I made a U-turn and drove into the clinic parking lot. Scaring pregnant women wasn’t my style, but I was itching to bust through the doors and confront Caro in his office. Then I saw that his personal parking spot—marked DANIEL CARO, MD—was empty.

The digital clock on the dash read 1:30 p.m. Caro was probably eating lunch somewhere. I was still debating what to do when he pulled his Bentley into his designated parking space.

I was out of my car in a flash, and I trotted up to the Bentley just as he exited. I heard the beep as he locked it with the fob, saw his taillights blink. When he saw me approaching, he recoiled and grabbed the handle of the car door as if he was going to get back in and drive away. Then he changed his mind, apparently, and took off at a run to the clinic entrance.

But I beat him there. Leaning against the glass, I said, “Hey, Daniel. We need to talk.”

His face was flushed. “If you need to speak with me, call my office for an appointment.”

“I want to talk right now.”

“That won’t be possible. I have to get inside; I have patients waiting.”

He grabbed for the door handle, but I blocked him. “What I have to say won’t take long. Jenny Glaser was attacked last night. Two men broke into her home.”

His eyes blinked behind his glasses. “Jenny who?”

The anger surged in my chest, making me blurt out words without weighing them first. “You despicable shit—you know exactly who Jenny is. She was the investigator who helped keep your worthless ass out of prison.” I grabbed the lapels of his coat and jerked him toward me. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

“Me? Break into someone’s home like a common burglar?” He let out a high-pitched laugh; it sounded almost like a giggle. “Are you insane?”

“You engineered it. Didn’t you?”

“Oh, please.” He rolled his eyes like a teenage punk. The eyeroll pushed me over the edge. I thought of Jenny beaten and bloody on my doorstep.

I grabbed his throat and squeezed. “Don’t bullshit me. I know what you’re capable of doing. I’m your lawyer, remember?” He struggled, but I tightened my grip. “There’s evidence. You know that?”

“I was acquitted!” When he croaked out the words, spit sprayed in my face.

I wiped my chin on my sleeve. “I’m not talking about Aurora Gates. You’ve got double-jeopardy protection on her. I’m talking about other women. What about your patient Desiree Whitman? Let’s talk about her.”

His mouth dropped open. Then he broke free from my hold and pounded the window beside the door with his fist. “Brenda!” he cried. “Let me in!”

I gave him a shove, and he stumbled. I said, “Jesus. That’s typical, screaming for your office help to come to your rescue. Telling some woman to save your ass.”

I stepped out of his way. He grabbed the door handle, staggered inside, closed the door, and turned the lock. Once he was safe, he shouted at me: “You’re crazy. All that drinking affected your brain.”

I could see a cluster of women sitting in the waiting room. They were staring at me through the glass, looking frightened. I was forcibly reminded of my appearance, my bloody clothes and uncombed hair.

Those women had it backward. They had nothing to fear from me. Their physician, though? He was a suspicious character. They needed to watch out for him.

---