Page 54 of Winning Bid

Ikick the lower drawer in my desk. Pretty sure I dented it this time. My office is nice, or rather, it was nice. But with me destroying the furniture, my office will be thrashed in no time.

I’d spoken with Otto briefly this morning. He had no new news for me. But I didn’t believe him. I didn’t believe any of it. Otto is a practiced liar—it comes with the territory. I should trust him. He’s the best at what he does. Dad hires only the best. He’d told me I was getting paranoid and that he was handling things. To trust the process.

Even still, I just have a feeling. I want more reassurances, and I’m not getting them.

I hate making actual phone calls, and this is humiliating. I shouldn’t have to hunt my lawyer down. I’m not up against a traffic ticket, for fuck’s sake. When I get his voicemail for the fifth time, I want to punch something. But first, I leave another message.

The words snarl out of me. “Otto, this is Anderson West. Again. I’ve heard some disturbing rumors about new evidence, and I need you to call me immediately.” Not for the first time, I wish I had a handset so I could slam the phone down and have it matter.

If I had another way to find out about the video, then I could forgo this embarrassment. But Moss’ people don’t have direct access to it. Otto is the only legitimate way for me to find out about the evidence without drawing more attention to myself. If I go to the police myself, then it looks suspicious. Because it is.

I have no way around Otto. And he’s not returning my calls.

I try to give him the benefit of the doubt. He could be in trial. He has other clients. But this is a murder case. Surely, that takes up more of his time than anything else. The man carries three phones. Perhaps he lost this one.

I’m being too generous. He’s Otto Pym. The Blade. You don’t get that nickname without being able to multitask.

Drumming my fingers on my desk isn’t getting anything done, and it’s not as if I can work like this. Not when I’m convinced the police are going to knock at any moment. If they have a video of the fight, it’ll be sooner rather than later. But if I bail on work again, that’s suspicious activity.

Think, dammit.

The first thing I do is test my desk drawer. Yeah, I dented it good. When I pull it out, the mechanism sort of scrapes on itself. Hoorah. I’ll have to get maintenance or a handy man in here to fix it. One more thing on my to-do list. Just what I’ve always wanted. But this drawer is important. It’s where I keep the whiskey. So, I definitely need to get this fixed.

My mind runs on with what I’m supposed to do about Otto. I don’t know. Am I being obsessive? Yes. Should I be? Also yes. Murder charges don’t sort themselves out.

Not that I’ve been charged yet. I’m a person of interest. But it’s coming. I can feel it.

Dad might know what’s going on with Otto. He did hire him, after all. But asking Dad for information is like asking a snake not to bite you. It’ll happen. You just don’t know when.

When the time came to make an excuse about being out, it was easy enough. His secretary, Margaret, had gotten a well-timed cold. I hope she’s doing well. She’s older than sliced bread. I don’t know what Dad will do if Margaret retires or dies. God forbid the cold takes her out. He’d be lost without her. He likes things the way Margaret does them, so he’s too stubborn to hire a temp to sit in as a replacement, which means his door is unguarded.

When I walk to his office, it’s eerie to see her desk empty. She sits right outside his door, the rabid guard dog who fixes his coffee. The woman is like a grandmother to me, and I have nothing but respect and admiration for her. But her absence does make this easier.

Just before I knock, I hear voices. One voice in particular catches my ear. Dad is meeting with Otto.

No wonder he didn’t take my call. Is anyone else in there? I listen in to find out. No sense in going in there without knowing what I’m dealing with.

My lawyer’s gruff voice carries well through the door. “… could be worse. Could be a double homicide.”

Dad laughs. “I didn’t hire to you to play Devil’s Advocate, Pym. I hired you because the Devil himself is what he’s up against.” He pauses. “My boy against a murder charge. It’s surreal. He’s still green. How in the hell did he get himself into this mess?”

“Moss should have taught him better by now. Pounding a man to death in public? Jesus Christ, he should have known better.”

There’d better not be anyone else inside. Fuck, I cannot believe they’re discussing the case among them. Yes, Dad hired him, but confidentiality makes their discussion beyond inappropriate. Otto could be disbarred for this. My blood boils as their conversation goes on.

Dad says, “Moss is clearly getting soft. I like the guy, but you’re right. Anderson should have known better. Still can’t believe he wants to marry that whore.”

My fists clench.

“The boy swears they weren’t together when the incident happened?—"

A loud slam echoes in his office. Dad snaps, “Bullshit! They were together, I promise you. He’s embarrassed she was cheating on him, and he lost his temper when he saw them together. That’s all this is! His whore of a girlfriend couldn’t keep her legs closed, and now my boy is up on a fucking murder charge!”

Just as I’m about to storm in, Otto’s laugh sends a shiver up my spine. He says, “Well, that’s why we’re pinning this on her.”

The fuck.

When Dad speaks, I can just picture the sneer on his face. “It’s no more than the bitch deserves. You know, I invited her into my house several times, and she sits there and eats my food, making polite conversation, and all the while, all I can think is, who the hell else is she fucking behind Anderson’s back? When she went to the bathroom, did she go snooping around here? It’s maddening.”

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