Page 49 of Find Me

“Not here, you won’t. The warrant authorizes a search for trace evidence, which means I’ve got a team in there pulling latent prints—well, you know the drill. We might be done in time for you to sleep there tonight, but I’m not making any promises.”

“You’re disrupting my ability to provide effective assistance of counsel.”

He opened the door to his black Charger and climbed in. “Guess them’s the breaks when you set up shop in a murder suspect’s residence. Oh, but if you want your muffins back...”

She stepped closer to his open door and leaned one arm against it. “So who’s Richard Mullaney?”

Decker gazed up at her and shook his head. “Damn, she’s really got you fooled.”

29

Tuesday, June 22, 6:10 p.m.

Based on Lindsay’s experience defending clients before in Suffolk County, she knew that Hope was being transported to the East Hampton town police station, where she’d be placed in an interrogation room. Contrary to the criminal procedural rules of one-hour network dramas, Hope would not have the right to bring Lindsay into the room with her. Her only protection underMirandawas to have a lawyer present if the police actually interrogated her. Because Hope had already invoked her right to counsel, police, instead of questioning her, would leave her alone in silence. They’d let her imagine spending an entire night in a jail cell. They’d let her wonder what evidence they might have against her. Maybe she’d “happen to overhear” them speaking to each other about the strength of their case. In short, they’d wait for her to crack.

If she did—if the suspect herself initiated the conversation—then all bets were off. They could try once again to get her to waive herMirandarights. But one thing they definitely would not be doing was calling Lindsay to the police station.

Lindsay was confident that Hope wouldn’t break. She’d sit in silence.If they even asked her if she was hungry, she’d say “lawyer.” If Lindsay had to guess, the police might wait three hours, four tops, before pulling the plug. They’d either cut her loose when she didn’t incriminate herself or initiate the full booking process—in which case Hope would be photographed, fingerprinted, and held overnight. Lindsay would not see her again until shortly before her first court appearance the following day at the East Hampton Town Justice Court, where they’d learn whether the district attorney planned to pursue charges. If so, she would likely be remanded to the Suffolk County jail in Riverhead, where she’d be strip-searched by a female guard and given a set of dark-blue scrubs to wear.

That meant that Lindsay had three hours, four tops, to find some exculpatory evidence. She didn’t need to solve Alex Lopez’s murder or prove Hope’s innocence to a certainty. She just needed to rattle Decker’s cage hard enough to keep him from booking Hope. If that failed, and they kept her overnight, she’d take a second bite at the apple in the morning to persuade the district attorney’s office not to file charges.

She hopped into her car and started the engine to get the air conditioner running. The cottage’s Wi-Fi signal was fine from here. If the Lincoln Lawyer could run an entire law practice from the back seat of a town car, she could manage this for a few hours.

There was so much she didn’t know. She started with a Google search of Richard Mullaney.

The results were still loading when her phone rang. It was Scott.

“Hey,” she said.

“Did you get my text? The closing’s all done. I’m already in an Uber. I’ll be there in ninety minutes.”

It would be a $400 car ride, if she had to guess. “You didn’t need to do that.”

“Of course, I did. I want to be there for you. To help you, even if it’s just—to be there.”

“They arrested her.”

“Who? You mean Hope? They found her?”

“She came to the cottage right after we talked, after the police press conference. We were getting ready for her to turn herself in when the police came. They had a warrant, and I couldn’t stop it. She looked so damn scared. I don’t know what to do.” The words were tumbling out of her faster than she could control them.

“Just breathe, babe. Breathe.” She forced herself to do as he suggested and felt the panic begin to settle. “You’re a badass lawyer, and don’t you forget it. Hope could not be in better hands. So breathe. And focus. And rely on those killer legal instincts and kick some butt like you would for any other client, okay? And when I get there, I can drive you around or knock on doors or make photocopies at the Staples store. Anything you need. I’m yours.”

She swallowed and tried to shake the noise from her head. He was right. She could do this. And she did need his help. Jocelyn Hodge had located Lopez’s pickup in downtown Montauk. If Lindsay could find just one person willing to say they’d seen him after he was at the Stansfields’ house that Saturday night, she’d be able to work with that. “Okay. Let me know when you’re close.”

“Of course. I’m always going to be there for you.” She could tell that he appreciated the feeling of being needed. “I love you, Lindsay.”

“You too. I’ll see you soon.”

When she hung up, the search results for Richard Mullaney had finished loading. First on the screen was a Wikipedia entry.

Richard Mullaney

Richard “Hitch” Mullaney III was a noted attorney and philanthropist. A native of Detroit, Michigan, he earned a BA from the University of Michigan and a JD from Harvard Law School. He was shot to death in the driveway outside his home in Wichita, Kansas, leaving behind a wife, Melanie Locke, and ten-year-old daughter.

She didn’t need to click the hyperlink beneath Melanie Locke’s name. Even if she hadn’t read the woman’s book, the coverage of her Senate campaign was inescapable. Lindsay did not like where this was going. One of Alex Lopez’s last cell phone calls had been to LockeHome’s headquarters. There was only one reason why Decker would have asked Hope about Richard Mullaney.

She scrolled down for the details of Mullaney’s murder. Mullaney, his wife, and their daughter had driven to their horse ranch in the Flint Hills for a long weekend. Richard realized that in the shuffle to pack for the trip, he had left his briefcase at the family home in Wichita. According to Melanie, he made the seventy-minute drive back to town alone. A neighbor called police when she heard what sounded like firecrackers, but possibly gunshots, outside. Responding officers found Richard dead in his driveway in front of the family Range Rover. The sliding back door to the house was open. The single bullet that hit Richard in the stomach was from a .357, the same caliber as the gun that Richard typically kept in his home office and for which he had a lawful carrying permit. The weapon was never found, and no arrest was ever made.

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