Penance Read Free

shaking her hand.
    Cynthia fished a white business card from the pocket of her jacket and handed it to him. He took it reluctantly. “This is the name of the woman who runs the treatment center,” Cynthia said. “She’s expecting you to call. So am I.”
    “I will, I will, I promise,” Tony said.
    “If you don’t call her, don’t ever call me again. And, hey. Next time take a cab.”
    “Oh, yeah, absolutely. Thanks, Miss Grey. No kidding. Thanks a lot.”
    Tony turned and headed for the elevators, shoving the card into his pocket as he went. Cynthia watched him go. She sighed deeply.
    “A lot of lawyers don’t want to dirty their hands doing drunken driving defense,” she said. “I was the same way. At first I took the cases because I was just starting out and I needed the billings. I didn’t like it, but I did it. I don’t struggle with it anymore. Now I realize that any time an accused drunken driver with an alcohol problem comes into my office, it’s an opportunity to get him some help. I’m doing the right thing. I believe in what I’m doing.”
    She looked directly into my eyes. “That’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it?”
    “It answers a question I’ve nursed for a long time,” I admitted.
    Cynthia Grey had shoulder-length brown hair with matching eyes, slim features and long legs largely hidden by her black pleated skirt. She wore a matching black blazer over a white collarless blouse, a white handkerchief peeking out of the breast pocket. Her leather briefcase was brown. She stepped halfway across the corridor and stopped. I met her there, my hand outstretched. She took it. Her hand was soft, yet there was nothing soft about her grip.
    “Good to see you again, Officer Taylor.”
    “Ex-officer Taylor,” I corrected her. “I’m a private investigator now.”
    “Ahh, that’s right. I’ve been reading about you. Tell me, how many men have you killed now? I lost track.”
    I winced at the question, considered a four-letter-word reply, thought better of it and said, “I need information concerning one of your former clients.”
    “I have no former clients.”
    “I want to know what John Brown’s been doing the past few months, where he’s been staying.”
    “Where he’s been staying? All things considered, you’re the last person I would give that information to. I might tell him you’re looking for him, though, the next time I see him.”
    “Well, hopefully, that won’t be for a good long time.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    Before I could answer, a man in a rumpled gray suit appeared at the end of the corridor and shouted, “Hey, Grey!” Cynthia turned toward him. “You might want to wander up to sixteen. One of your clients is standing on the ledge; says he’s gonna jump.”
    Cynthia dropped her briefcase and ran as best she could in heels to the elevators. I retrieved the briefcase and followed. She was waiting for the courthouse’s notoriously slow elevator when I reached her side. I took her arm and directed her toward the staircase. She went up the stairs quickly, reached the sixteenth floor and walked instinctively to the prisoner holding room. She was barely winded; I was sucking air. A small crowd had gathered outside the room, afraid to enter. Cynthia pushed through the gawkers. I was right behind her.
    The holding room was essentially a conference room with large, old-fashioned windows befitting the age of the courthouse. A prisoner had opened one of the windows and crawled out onto the twelve-inch ledge where he squatted, looking down and holding onto the bottom of the window for dear life. Cynthia moved toward him. I attempted to go with her, but she put a hand on my chest and shook her head.
    “Hi, James. How you doin’?” she asked as she approached the window.
    “I’m not going to jail!” the prisoner screamed.
    “Certainly not,” Cynthia agreed.
    She leaned on the windowsill. I watched her mouth move but could not hear what she said to