Maximum Security Read Online Free PDF

legal pad: Anastasia Rawlings.

    Louisa flashes a devious grin over her teacup when I look up, as if we share a wicked secret. “I’m the trophy wife,” she says.

    Well, of course she is. The term was probably coined for Louisa Rawlings. “What about your predecessor?” I ask. “Is she still in the picture?”

    “No. She was a good sort, Bess. Never cottoned to me, but I rather liked her. Passed on a few years back. Heart trouble.”

    “Is Anastasia Herb’s only child?”

    “Yes, thank the Good Lord. And a child she is. Forty-five years old going on seven.”

    “Is she married?”

    Louisa laughs. “Married? Anastasia? Good heavens, no. She’s a career woman of sorts. A professional spoiled brat.”

    Second entry: Only child. No love lost.

    “But she is joined at the hip to a washed-up beatnik,” Louisa continues, “a flower child gone to seed. Lance Phillips. Calls himself a murder mystery writer. A modern-day male incarnation of Agatha Christie. Lance is always one scotch away from a runaway best seller, so he finds Anastasia—not to mention her ready access to her father’s wallet—rather attractive.”

    Third entry: Beatnik boyfriend Lance Phillips. Aspiring writer.

    “Anyway,” Louisa says, “I had already heard that New England Patriot was kicking up a fuss about the claim. Steven Collier—he’s my financial advisor—had started the process the day before. He’d contacted the agent, had him surrender the policy. But the agent reported meeting with a good deal of resistance. A claim without a corpse is automatically suspect, I suppose.”

    It occurs to me that a claim submitted less than forty-eight hours after rescue efforts cease might raise a few eyebrows too. A fourth scribble finds its way to my legal pad: Steven Collier, financial advisor/Quick-draw McGraw.

    Louisa pauses to set her teacup on the side table. “Speaking of Steven,” she says, opening the drawer in the small table again, “he thought you’d want this.” She hands me a stapled legal-size document that the cover page identifies as a life insurance policy. Herb’s. Quick-draw McGraw is on top of things.

    “Anyway,” Louisa continues, “I couldn’t imagine what issues the insurance people might have raised with Detective Walker. He clearly wasn’t going to enlighten me on the telephone. And he was abrupt; his tone made me nervous. So I told him I’d cooperate in any way I could, but not without an attorney. He agreed. That’s when I called Harry.”

    She shrugs and folds her hands in her lap, then lets out a small laugh. “And here we are.”

    “When does Detective Walker expect to ask you these additional questions?”

    “On Monday,” she says. “He wants me at the station first thing in the morning.”

    “Then he’s in for a disappointment.”

    “How’s that?” Louisa tilts her head to one side, curious.

    “You’re not going to the station.”

    “I’m not?”

    “No. I’ll call Mitch this afternoon and tell him. He can ask his questions in my office. We’re talking to him voluntarily. We’ll do it on our turf, not his.”

    Louisa folds her arms, smiling at me. “My, you are scrappy,” she says.

    I bite my tongue. If Harry told his old flame that I’m scrappy , he’s a dead man.

    “Between now and Monday,” I tell her as I get to my feet, “we have a fair amount of work to do. Are you free to meet both weekend days?”

    Another small laugh escapes her. “I don’t have a date, if that’s what you’re asking.”

    “I like to work in my office in the mornings.” I hand her a business card. “But I think we should meet here again, walk through it all a few times and go into a little more detail. I’ll plan to be here at noon both days if that’s all right with you.”

    “It’s fine,” she says.

    “And I’d like to bring my associate along. If this thing heats up at all, or drags on longer than we expect, I might need an extra pair of