The Law Partners (Michael Gresham Legal Thriller Series Book 3) Read Free Page A

he rode the elevator back up to the woman’s condo. His plan was to mix in with the arriving cops and enter the condo as one of them.
    The uniform stationed at the entrance to the condo didn’t give him a second look when Stormont walked inside like he owned the place. The on-call detective told him, “I need you to search the premises. We’re looking for a gun.” He was made a part of the crime scene team.
    Officer Stormont started at the far end of the condo, the woman’s bedroom. The rest was simple. He searched the woman’s purse and there was the gun. A moment of inspiration caught him up and he jammed the revolver into his rear pocket. It was a tight fit but he didn’t have time to worry about that. Just then, the lawyer came into the room and snapped his picture with his smartphone. Stormont turned and abruptly left. He then made his way downstairs to the parking garage. He exited the parking garage elevator and pressed his back to the wall and began making his way north.
    He sidled along in the shadows until he was positioned directly beneath the CCTV camera. He reached above his head and turned the camera.
    Alone at the rear of the black Mercedes, he jimmied the trunk with his picks and up it popped. He withdrew the gun from his back pocket. Behind the spare tire he placed the weapon. He was still wearing the same blue gloves he had worn while searching the woman’s condo. Now he slammed the trunk, took a step back, and snapped the gloves from his hands. They went into the pocket of his navy pants.
    Stormont rode the elevator up to the lobby, walked through and came out onto Jefferson Street. He hurried off into the Chicago night.

Michael Gresham

4
    " Y ou have no idea how this happened?"
    We are sitting in the living room of Cook County prosecutor Miranda—Mira—Morales. She was voted Top Female Lawyer in Chicago just last year and she is nobody's fool. But tonight a dead body is obtrusively stretched out on the shag with a bullet hole between the eyes, and she has no explanation for me, Michael Gresham, the lawyer she has called. Skull and soft tissue are spattered against the wall beside the front door. The eyes of the dead man are crossed, staring inward, as if gazing at the incoming round a split-second before the lights went out.
    Assistant District Attorney Mira Morales is a woman of thirty-three years. She has invested the past ten years of her life achieving a trial record of 70-1. It's a world-class record and she is counting on it to win her the job of District Attorney in the November election. Her boss has announced his retirement and his return to private practice from whence he came some twenty-five years ago. The vacancy has attracted a crowded field of District Attorney wannabes in the Democrat primary election. Her competition is unaccomplished and mostly unelectable, as Mira Morales is the only career prosecutor among them. On the Republican side there is but one candidate, Lamont R. Johnstone. Until three months ago, Johnstone was the District Attorney's First Assistant. He jumped ship in order to run against his boss. But then his boss announced he was retiring.
    She raises a hand to say something to me when an involuntary shudder wracks her body. It is only then that I realize I've been staring at her. Her skin tones are dark browns and deep ferrous hues. Her long, thin nose and violet eyes are stunning and I cannot stop staring. Everywhere in Cook County you will spot pictures of this beauty staring out from her campaign posters while shaking the hand of the Chief Justice of the Illinois Supreme Court. But even those posed shots understate her elegance. She is beautiful beyond any woman I've seen in years. But right now she is jangled and her hands shake and her voice falters as I try to question her.
    "Mira, what happened here?"
    She only looks at me. Her mouth opens and shuts but there are no words.
    I am very tempted to call the police and give notice of the murder this minute,