Hot Rocks Read Online Free PDF Page B

if you consider I spent the night in the hospital with a possible concussion and the morning with two homicide detectives, who at best, think I’m a liar, and at worst, think I’m a killer.”
    “Interesting. So what can I do for you? You mentioned something about a meeting. What’s on your mind?”
    “Sly. Don’t you listen?” His leg pulling was getting old in a hurry. “I’m in danger of being arrested. I need a lawyer. You’re a lawyer. I need you.”
    “Hmm, yes. I do seem to detect a note of urgency in your voice. I’ll put you on hold and see if Donna will clear some time. Five minutes enough?”
    “Sly.” I wanted to scream at him. Whoever said attorneys don’t have a sense of humor, perverted or otherwise, hadn’t met Sylvester Bergstrom. There was a click on the line, and Frank Sinatra crooned Chicago in my ear . He made his way from Chicago to New York, New York , then whined about the fog in London Town. I feared he might leave his heart in San Francisco before Sly returned. Thankfully, I left Frank in the fog.
    “Donna says we can do a late lunch,” Sly said with no introduction. “She’ll have it brought in. Be here at two.”
    I let my smile fill my words. “Thanks, Sly.” The hum in my ear said he’d hung up. Guess he was in a hurry.
    While returning my phone to its cradle, it dawned on me that the thing I wanted most was a cleansing. And I don’t mean in the biblical sense. Just a simple, stinging-hot shower. Enough hot water and gel to wash away everything that happened to me in the past twenty-four hours. One day. That’s all it had been. No, that wasn’t right. I checked my watch. Only twenty hours since I met Ms. Garcia at three o’clock the previous afternoon. Yet, in such a short period of time, my world had spun upside down, my confidence had been shattered, and my competence placed in serious question—even in my own mind.
    I showered, lathering several times, reveling in the feel of the water and the suds. Then I washed my hair, working carefully around the back of my head where a cowlick protruded over the lump. It was tender and the shampoo stung a bit, but it felt good. I realized I was flushing away my feeling of hopelessness. It swirled down the drain, replaced by my natural stubbornness. No way would Bannon or his Bluto, Detective Major Sargent, cow me again. There was a stench in this case, but it wasn’t coming from me. I smelled like strawberries.

seven
    After blow-drying my hair, being extra careful around the lump, I dressed in jeans and a polo shirt and slipped sandals on my feet. I’d made up my mind about my next move and felt good about it. If the police wanted to play games, I was ready and had an appointment with just the attorney who would match them chess move for chess move. My boss—well, one of my bosses—Sylvester Bergstrom.
    Images of my first encounters with Sly came to mind. Actually, he was one of the first people I met when I came to Florida. I had a letter of introduction from a large firm in Dallas that promised to open the inner doors of any law firm. Texas folks said when you had a letter from Jones, Staubach, and Owens, everyone paid attention. They were that prominent.
    My first call to Bergstrom and Bergowitz bombed. Once the receptionist heard me say I wanted to speak with one of the senior partners about a job, she cut me off. According to her, they controlled the market and hired whomever they pleased, and that did not include walk-ins—especially call-ins. With those words, the phone clicked in my ear.
    I counted to ten, then redialed the number. Same receptionist. “If you value your job, you will put me through to one of the partners. If you don’t, my next call will be to one of the seniors at Jones, Staubach, and Owens in Dallas. Then you will be answering the phone to one of them and explaining why you’re not very nice. I trust you’ve heard of them.”
    There was silence with some heavy breathing until I cut it off.