Page 72 of I Know She Was There

“Take a look at this.” I passed my cell phone to Jeffrey across the greasy Formica tabletop. We’d set up Rex’s Roadkill as our official meeting place.

He palmed the phone, angling its surface at eye level. I said nothing as he watched the shoddy video footage I’d recorded from the side pocket of my purse. It looked like something a child holding an iPhone for the first time might produce. But the sound was perfect.

“Do you think I need to go to the police with this?”

“And tell them what? He accidentally killed your child?” Jeffrey handed the phone back. “It’s incredibly sad, but not criminal.”

“But he set me up.” My back stiffened. “Lied to the police and let the world believe it was me?—”

“Look, I’m not saying Tim isn’t dangerous. I think he is, and there’s no telling what he’ll do now that you’re questioning his handling of your mother’s estate.” He pushed his turkey club sandwich to the side and leaned his forearms on the table. “But you haven’t exactly provided ironclad evidence of a crime.”

I thought of the cops in my living room after I’d witnessed the bleeding woman at the Pine Hill house. If I handed over my odd cell phone recording, I could seem crazy, maybe even vindictive.

“You’re probably right.” I pressed my fingertips to my temples, feeling a tension headache developing.

“We’ll use this, Caroline, but we need more evidence of wrongdoing. Do you recall the law firm who handled your mother’s estate?”

“Yes.” I rubbed my chin as it came to me. “Sloane and Sloane, a practice about forty minutes from here, in the town where I was raised. My mother set everything up through them. I remember it because I once told her it sounded more like a detective agency than a law firm.”

Jeffrey stared at me. “You’re kidding me.”

I looked at him blankly. “About what? Sloane and Sloane? Itdoessound like a detective agency, right?”

His eyes darted to the sandwich he’d pushed aside moments earlier. He reached for it.

“Yeah, I guess it does.”

I studied him. His demeanor had altered drastically in the last twenty seconds, but I couldn’t make sense of the change.

“Do me a favor, Caroline,” he said as he lifted the turkey club to his lips. “Record your conversation with them on your cell phone, just like you did at Tim’s. We need to pile up as much evidence as we can.”

“What’s wrong?” I blurted out as I watched him bite into the sandwich. Something seemed odd about his behavior, but maybe it was just in my mind. I wasn’t adept at picking up on social cues.

“Could be nothing,” Jeffrey said around a mouthful of meat and bread. “Just be sure to record your visit. And call me right after you leave the law firm.”

* * *

Forty-five minutes later I turned the car into the parking lot next to Sloane and Sloane Law Associates. I stepped out of the car, stretching my legs and smoothing the wrinkles from the front of my slacks.

I made my way to the building, pausing to read the smaller bronze plaque under the firm name: “Brian Sloane, Esq. Stephanie Sloane, Esq.” I’d phoned the law firm and made a hasty appointment as soon as I’d left Jeffrey to his sandwich, recalling the receptionist’s reluctance to schedule anything new on a Friday afternoon. She’d tried to steer me to a time slot next week.

“I must talk with someone now. There is a lot of money at stake,” I’d said. “And since your firm handled my mother’s estate I’d hate to go elsewhere.” Part truth, part lie. I’d hoped I got the balance right.

I had. I was told Brian Sloane had a few minutes to spare that afternoon.

As I stepped inside, I gave the studious-looking woman with tortoise-rimmed glasses and a tidy dark bob behind the reception desk my name, and a few minutes later she ushered me into a richly appointed office with mahogany bookshelves and a tremendous antique desk in the center of the room. My gaze took in the heavy law tomes lining the shelves and the fastidiously neat desktop.

“Good afternoon,” said a slim, dark-haired man with unremarkable features, standing up behind his desk and reaching out to clasp my hand. “I’m Brian Sloane.” He gestured with his other hand for me to sit in one of two leatherbound chairs in front of his desk. “I’m afraid my receptionist didn’t get your name.”

“It’s Caroline,” I said, purposely not revealing my last name. Not yet. Jeffrey’s odd behavior at the greasy spoon had made me wary.

“You said you have business with our firm?”

Glancing from his suit, which looked like it cost more than my monthly mortgage payment, to the cell phone camouflaged in the mesh side pocket of my purse, I was certain it was recording. As I sat, I angled the oversized handbag upward so that it rested against my chest, the mesh pocket facing the desk. “Actually, you handled my mother’s finances while she was alive, and I believe you executed her estate upon her death.” I gave him my mother’s name: Lilith Messier.

“I see,” said Sloane, turning to the laptop to his left. He typed quickly, his fingers flying over the keyboard. “Do you have identification?”

“Yes, I brought my original social security card with my maiden name as well as my license and the new social security card I received after I married.”

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