A Job to Kill For Read Free Page B

felt a thump of hesitation. Almost a year ago, Dan had been charged with murder for a death he had nothing to do with. We’d found the real killer, and all had returned to normal. But I didn’t want to go through anything like that again.
    On the other hand, nobody had mentioned foul play here. And I had nothing to hide.
    “Can I ask you a few questions?” McSweeney asked.
    I nodded and sat down on a black Breuer side chair. She put a small digital tape recorder on the table between us. “If you wouldn’t mind, just give me a chronology of events. Everything you saw.”
    I didn’t mind at all. I spoke carefully, struggling to make sense of what had happened. But it didn’t make any sense. I had just gotten to the part where Cassie climbed the ladder when McSweeney’s walkie-talkie burst into activity. She apologized and began talking. In the rush of static and excited voices, I finally realized that it wouldn’t have mattered if the ambulance had gone to LA General, Cedars, or the moon. The victim had no heartbeat. The doctors in the ER had valiantly tried to resuscitate her, but it was too late. Cassie Crawford was dead.
     
     
    If the police had mobilized quickly when Cassie fell, now they rushed in like bargain hunters at a Gucci sample sale. In what seemed like minutes, so many uniformed cops and plainclothes detectives swarmed in that they probably had a quorum for a union vote.
    I had barely absorbed the news about my latest—and late—client when white-coated forensics experts appeared and began dusting for evidence. I sat numbly as my decorator’s dream transformed into a CSI showcase. I finally thought to call Jack Rosenfeld, family friend and lawyer. His secretary said he had run out of the office, but when she heard my trembling tone, she connected me to his cell phone.
    “Cassie’s dead?” Jack asked, stunned, after I’d quickly outlined the situation for him. “Cassie Crawford, Roger’s wife?”
    “It’s too unbelievable,” I said, my voice breaking. “One minute she was showing me a damaged picture frame, and the next minute she was dead.”
    “You were the only one with her.”
    “Right.”
    “Listen to me, Lacy,” Jack said sternly. “I’ll get there as soon as I can. But be careful about saying anything until I arrive.”
    “You want me silent?”
    Jack sighed. “I’ve learned not to ask for the impossible.”
    “Well, it’s too late, anyway. I’ve told them what happened, and they asked me to stay and sign a statement. I’ll just stick with the truth. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
    “That’s what Martha Stewart said before she went to jail.”
    Given the current stock price, jail had turned out to be a good thing. Before I could mention that, I heard a loud thwack in the background.
    “Are you playing tennis?” I asked. Not really a surprise. Jack played hard in a court of law, but he generally preferred a court with a net.
    “I’ll shower and come right over.”
    “Don’t worry. Play well,” I said, nobly.
    “No, I’ll quit right now,” Jack insisted. “My opponent happens to be the LA district attorney. If I default, he moves up the ladder. He’ll love that. And from what you’re telling me, I’d better keep him happy.”
    Default a set? Jack must be seriously worried. The tennis ladder at the Beverly Hills Racquet Club aroused more competitive instincts than America’s Next Top Model . The winner got a magnum of champagne, and the sixty-buck bottle of bubbly seemed to mean more to most of the men at the club than their seven-figure salaries. Now Jack would give up a victory to come be my advocate—and I hadn’t even known I needed one.
    We hung up, and a thought about Cassie’s last minutes suddenly struck me. I headed back to the library to investigate, but yellow crime-scene tape had been strung across the doorway and two burly cops stood staring at the blood-spattered floor.
    Unexpectedly, I heard the melodic notes of Beethoven’s Piano Trio