A Clean Kill Read Free Page A

out beneath fog and rain. As evenly as possible, I said, “Mr. Baneberry? Which ‘major firm’ did you hire?”
    And he hung up on me.
    I fished out a business card Sheri Baneberry had given me and punched in the number. She answered her own phone.
    “Sheri?”
    “Yes. Is this Tom?”
    “Yeah. I just got a call from your father.”
    “I was afraid of that.” Her voice sounded tight and hoarse. “I talked myself red in the face last night trying to get him to understand why I hired you. I don’t guess it did much good.”
    “Not much.”
    “Are you still going to help me?”
    “Yep.”
    “Dad’s going to gum things up, though.”
    “It looks that way, Sheri. After the doctors and the hospital get a load of your father and his trial lawyers, well, they’re not going to be in a very cooperative mood, to say the least. So, considering all that, what we need to do is move fast and find out as much as possible before they start gumming up the works.”
    “I’ll call Mom’s doctor and see if she’ll talk to you. I’ve known her forever, and I think she’ll be normal about it.” She sighed. “I guess your job just got complicated.” Some of the stress had sifted out of her voice. “I’ll go ahead and send you the check, you know, the retainer we talked about.”
    I told her I’d send over a runner that afternoon with a contract of representation. “By the way, Sheri, which law firm
did
your father hire?”
    “Just a minute.” I heard scuffing sounds, and she came back on the line. “Here it is. I don’t have the lawyer’s name, but the firm is called Russell and Wagler.”
    “Shit.”
    A second passed before Sheri said, “That bad, huh?”
    “Depends on which side you’re on.”

Two
    Lush landscapes streamed by in shades of charcoal, stripped of color by heavy clouds and pouring rain. I was just north of Daphne, headed south from Mobile. The gray-tone groves and rolling pastures grew more manicured, the houses backed farther away from the highway, and suddenly I was in town. I turned off Highway 98 and headed east.
    A blinding flood of fat raindrops swamped the windshield. I reached down to flip the wipers on high and switch from low beams to fog lamps. I could now see lower, if not better. But I kept the halogen bulbs burning. They were highlighting gusts of rain and throwing shimmering zigzags across wet pavement.
    Inside the Jeep, the heater puffed hot air on my feet as Dean Martin sang “Silver Bells.” December was still two days away. I switched off the radio and listened to the pulsing whisper of wind billowing across the blacktop, making the Jeep sway a little as it went, and to thesoft steady swoosh of water passing beneath my tires and washing over the windows.
    When I had spoken with Dr. Laurel Adderson by phone, she had been subdued yet concerned—maintaining a perfectly measured professional distance. Yes, she had been Mrs. Baneberry’s longtime physician. Yes, it was a terrible loss and most unexpected. And no, of course she wouldn’t mind meeting with me if it would help ease the family’s pain.
    She had asked me to meet her just outside Daphne, which almost made sense. It was, after all, the town where Dr. Adderson lived and practiced medicine; and it was where Kate Baneberry had lived and died. So it would have been the perfect meeting place if only Dr. Adderson hadn’t insisted we meet at the Mandrake Club. She knew that in her offices I might have been tempted to ask to see medical records. I tried suggesting that we meet at the hospital. But that was where the treatment and death records were stored. So, without arguing, Dr. Adderson had simply said, “No.”
    We would meet at her club, where coffee, hospitality, and sincerity would no doubt be the only things offered the visiting lawyer. And where the good doctor could stand up and leave—or even have me politely expelled—if the conversation grew uncomfortable.
    Dr. Laurel Adderson was handling me a little,