The Rose Conspiracy Read Free Page A

gave Blackstone the note, and whispered, “It’s from Frieda, the secretary at your law firm. She said it was urgent.”
    Blackstone glanced down at the note. It read, “Please come to the law office as soon as your class is over. It’s about a new murder case.”

CHAPTER 3

    A fter class, J.D. Blackstone jumped into his Maserati Spyder convertible and motored over to his law office, a twenty-minute drive away in Georgetown. He walked quickly past the desk of Frieda, his secretary, who was on the phone. Frieda hurriedly put the person on hold, and then snatched up a slip of paper and shoved it at Blackstone.
    â€œJ.D.,” she said, “urgent message. New client. She is coming in momentarily.”
    â€œMaybe you ought to have Julia take her,” he said. “I need to get back to the college within the hour. We’ve got our dreaded faculty meeting for the fall semester, cleverly held at the beginning of summer just to torment us…”
    â€œCan’t do that. Julia’s in court. You’d better read the note.”
    Blackstone glanced down at the phone message slip.
    It read,
    A woman named Vinnie Archmont called. Says she is “target” of grand jury. Smithsonian Institution criminal case. Wants to meet ASAP.
    â€œIt’s the investigation,” Frieda whispered, “into the murder of the Secretary of the Smithsonian, Langley…and the theft—”
    â€œOf the John Wilkes Booth diary pages,” Blackstone interjected, finishing her sentence for her. “Yes, I do read the papers, Frieda.”
    Then he added, “Vinnie…what kind of name is that for a woman?”
    Frieda shrugged.
    â€œFine,” Blackstone said. “I’ll see her. When?”
    â€œShe should be here any minute.”
    Blackstone disappeared into his office. He leafed through his mail. Mostly magazines. A few of the legal trade papers, the two Capitol Hill dailies, and the latest issues of Scientific American, Philosophy Monthly, several current events publications, Psychology Today, and the Southern Poetry Review.
    His intercom buzzed. It was his new client on the way in, Frieda said.
    The door opened.
    A woman in her early thirties stepped in. She was uncommonly attractive, with deep, dark eyes and a kind of chiseled beauty that still managed to retain a softness to it. Almost a young, girlish look. She was dressed in an artist’s smock, blue jeans, and red cowboy boots.
    But her hairstyle was an eyeful. Her hair was jet black and configured in a kind of Gone with the Wind motif, complete with cascading ringlets, like Scarlett O’Hara. Blackstone was smart enough not to comment on a woman’s hair—unless it was to give a glowing compliment. Which he was not about to do.
    She was holding the law firm’s standard client information sheet, which she handed to Blackstone. He took it, glanced down at it, and then shook her hand. He took a few seconds to study both of her hands, and then smiled and motioned to the chair where she sat down across from his desk.
    Blackstone looked over the form. In the blank for “occupation” it said simply “artist.” Her studio was listed at an address in the “Torpedo Factory” in Alexandria, Virginia, a stylishly renovated former armaments warehouse dating back to World War II, now converted to boutique art studios and galleries.
    He studied her as she smiled brightly. She was grasping one more piece of paper in her hand, carefully folded, which looked like a letter with an envelope.
    â€œI’m here because of this,” she said holding up the letter and envelope. But Blackstone didn’t move to take them.
    â€œClients usually think they know why they are here,” Blackstone said. “But I find that most of the time they don’t. Not really.”
    Then he continued, tapping the client sheet he was holding, “You say here that you are an artist. By the way,