Morgan James - Promise McNeal 01 - Quiet the Dead Read Online Free PDF Page B

far from the evil South; though, one has to wonder if the workers had any choice in the relocation. After the war ended, the mill was rebuilt and produced cotton cloth until 1977. Today, the square brick building, and the surrounding area fronting the Chattahoochee River, is developed into upscale retail shops and restaurants. From Garland’s expansive office window you could watch the who’s who of Roswell gentry strolling along the river’s edge, shopping and remarking who is doing what, where, and for how much. Garland declares he learns more business and political news by watching the lunch crowd at The Roswell Mill than by reading the newspapers.
    Garland’s receptionist, the very svelte and very honey blond, Paige, rose and disconnected herself from the computer telephone system that was the life of the large law firm. In two seconds she was around the desk and gently guiding me across the reception room towards the conference room. “Oh, Dr. McNeal, so lovely to see you. Mr. Wang requested I bring you in straight away.” Before I could reply to her charming English accent, I was whisked into the sun-filled conference room and the door closed behind me. Garland, rising from his perch at the head of the massive mahogany table, smiled, a little too eagerly I observed, and came around to shake my hand. When he said good morning and thanked me for coming, it seemed we were near strangers and not ten-year friends. A small bead of perspiration glistened on his temple, then retreated into his hairline. He gestured to his right and took a step backwards.
    “Promise, Dr. McNeal, may I present Ms. Becca Tournay.”
    I extended my hand across the table and felt the reluctant grip of long slender fingers attached to an equally slender hand. It wasn’t so much a tenuous handshake, as one of someone who did not want to carry out the pleasantry at all. Cold hand, no rings, single strand diamond bracelet, five foot seven, more or less, thin, sinewy, rod straight back. As I held Becca Tournay’s hand, I had a fleeting picture of a baby crying in a crib. He had been crying for some time; tears mixed with his running nose to give his face a feverish sheen. My heart ached for the sad child in the crib. Then the image was gone. I focused on Becca again. Her short platinum hair was heavily moussed back from her face into sculptured stiff layers, accentuating her chiseled chin and nose. No smile was offered, only judging sapphire blue eyes. I noted the elegantly designed double breasted cut of her soft pink gabardine suit and decided it probably cost more than the book value of my Subaru. Remembering Garland had mentioned his client was about my age, I wondered if this could be true. If so, I needed to find whatever vitamins she was taking, because this woman could be late thirties and not early fifties. Now I really wished I had gotten a haircut, or at least added makeup to my early morning routine. She quickly withdrew her hand and sat down at the table, leaving Garland and me standing awkwardly at her attention.
    “Well, then,” Garland recovered, “Let’s get down to business, shall we?”
    “Yes, let’s.” I said, and sat to fumble through my briefcase to retrieve my pad and pen. I would not, I vowed, let this Becca person unnerve me. I had dealt with enough types of angry clients over the years to recognize fear hiding behind defiance. Looking squarely at her, I assumed a noncommittal look and tried to catch her eyes with mine. She evaded and picked at a non-existent piece of lint on her lapel.” Why don’t we start with you giving me some direction about what you want me to accomplish for you, Ms. Tournnay?”
    “Really, Mr. Wang,” She said, ignoring me. “I thought you had explained all of this to Ms…” She faltered, no doubt purposely not remembering my name.
    “McNeal, Dr. Promise McNeal,” I interjected, feeling the need to add the Dr. to the name. True, I hold a doctorate in psychology, not medicine;