Page 146 of Secrets Along the Shore
“Can I help you?” The receptionist—a woman in her late thirties wearing lipstick too red for anyone—sits behind a U-shaped desk with a chest-high counter in front.
“Is Mr. Hutchins in?”
“I’m sorry, no. You just missed him.” She appraises me as she speaks, her gaze settling on the massive diamond on my left hand, which actuallyismy engagement ring. I kept it on because it fits the look I’m going for.
True story…I didn’t want anything this ostentatious, but James wouldn’t take no for an answer. The wedding band I’ve slipped on for this act is the one Daniel gave me, which l keep in the porcelain box we got on our honeymoon in Italy.
“Oh, no,” I say, turning my mouth down in a full pout. “I need to speak with him as soon as possible, Ms.…I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name?”
“Angie.”
“Angie, I…have a matter that needs his immediate attention. If he has the capacity to work it in.”
“I’m sure he’ll be more than happy to talk to you as soon as he returns.”
“Hmm. So…he’s already busy with a case?” I glance off in the distance as if contemplating my options. “Is it very involved? I’d need his full attention. My divorce has…well, turned very ugly, very fast.”
“Mr. Hutchins is more than capable of handling multiple cases at one time.”
“I need to know…it’s not anothercheating husband,is it?” I whisper the words like uttering them aloud would make my tongue burst into flames. “I wouldn’t want him trying to do two of those at a time. It wouldn’t be fair to me or the other wife. Or is it a different kind of case? That would be all right.”
“I’m sorry. Information about his cases is confidential.”
“Well…I suppose I can wait, if you think he’ll be back soon.”
She grimaces. “He’ll probably be at least an hour. Are you sure you don’t want to just come back?”
I shake my head, turn toward the three chairs positioned against the windows, and lower myself into the nearest one. “I’ll wait.” I clearmy throat, then clear it again as she sits back in her chair. “Sorry—allergies. I don’t suppose you have a bottle of water?”
“Sure. I’ll be right back.” She disappears through a door to her right which, I’m assuming, leads to whatever makes up the back half of this place.
Normally, this would be where I’d scour her desk, check her computer, rifle through the papers stacked on the desktop—but I can’t. Not when I’m acting as an extension of law enforcement. I have more resources at my disposal when I’m working for the Mitchell County Sheriff or D.A, but there are also a lot more limitations on what I can do without a warrant.
Because that’s when those pesky constitutional protections kick in.
What Iamallowed to do is see whatever there is to see out in the open. I return to the counter and take in everything I can from that vantage point. Hutchins’ calendar—pulled up on the computer—contains a one o’clock entry for “Rosie’s, Mrs. Bateman.” I already know about that meeting, because I’m Mrs. Bateman. I made the appointment to ensure he wouldn’t be here. I pull out my phone and snap a photo of the rest of the week’s appointments.
It’s in plain sight. Don’t need a warrant for that.
The plethora of unorganized files, notes, and papers strewn across Angie’s desk gives the impression that there’s a lot that needs to be done, but isn’tgettingdone. I take more photos until approaching footsteps sound from behind the door. I turn back toward the chairs when inspiration strikes. Leaning over the countertop, I press the first speed dial button on her office phone console without lifting the handset. As expected, the name “Roy” comes up on the console’s screen, along with a phone number I memorize in seconds before scooting back to my chair.
It’s not exactly in plain sight, but I could learn the same information with some research. This is just faster.
I barely settle back in my chair when Angie appears in the doorway, her hand extended toward me. “Here you go,” she says, handing me a bottle of water.
I thank her and take a sip as she returns to her desk. “Could I have your name and number to give to Mr. Hutchins?”
“Ella Carter.” I grimace. “I’d rather not give out my number until I’ve decided to work with him, if that’s all right. You know…privacy issues and all.”
She looks down, apparently writing a note. I give it about half a minute, then walk over to her, pasting on my bestHousewives of Atlantaface.
“Listen, Angie, you’ve been great, but I'm not getting a good feeling about this. I don’t think I’m going to wait, after all. I mean, who knows how long he might be? I’ll get back in touch if I still need him. Thank you”—I wiggle the bottle—“for the water.”
Angie calls after me as I leave, asking if I’m sure I don’t want to leave my phone number.
I’m sure.
I got what I needed.
