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parked in front of a glass and steel building that had to be Martin’s headquarters. Drake parked his car behind the van and entered the fashionable reception area that opened all the way to the top floor. The whole area was illuminated by a giant skylight above.
    The receptionist sat behind a raised teak surround, with two security guards standing at each of the two doors leading from the reception room.
    “May I help you?”
    “I’m here to see Mr. Martin.”
    “He’s not seeing anyone today, sorry.”
    “Just let him know I’m here. I’m his lawyer.”
    “Oh Mr. Drake, I’m glad you’re here. The police are here, they’re going through everything. It’s awful what happened to Mrs. Lewellyn.”
    Drake looked down at her identification plaque.
    “Kimberly, I need you to reach Mr. Martin immediately, can you do that for me? He doesn’t need to speak to the police without me there.”
    With tears beginning in her eyes, Kimberly entered the numbers for Martin’s office and waited for someone to answer.
    “Mr. Martin’s attorney is here, would you please let him know?”
    After a moment, she looked up at Drake.
    “The policeman said they’re busy right now.”
    “Kimberly, I need to get up there. Tell security to show me the way. Now, please.”
    The security guard on Drake’s left had been listening, and motioned for Drake to follow him. He held his door open and led Drake to the bank of elevators beyond the reception area.
    “Mr. Martin shouldn’t have to put up with the crap the police are giving him. We run a tight ship here, it isn’t his fault Mrs. Lewellyn was killed,” the man said. Beefy, in his sixties, the man looked like a former cop.
    “You know any of these guys he’s talking to?”
    “Only the detective, and just by reputation. Name’s Carson, and he’s a mean son of a bitch. He had Kimberly crying because she wouldn’t let him up to see Mr. Martin without calling ahead. Kimberly was just doing her job.”
    Mean son of a bitch was an understatement where Detective Steve Carson was concerned. Drake knew him well. Carson had been prepared to perjure himself in one of Drake’s drug cases. The felon had agreed to accept a favorable plea deal in the middle of the trial, which prevented the perjury from occurring. When Drake was forced to explain the plea arrangement, he’d refused to cover for Carson. Carson was demoted and later terminated from the Portland P.D. Rehired in Hillsboro, Carson had apparently worked his way back to detective rank.
    When the elevator door opened on the fourth floor, Detective Carson was waiting for Drake.
    “I heard they kicked you out of the D.A.’s office. You doing criminal defense work now?”
    Carson had changed. He’d been a tough cop, crew-cut hair, five nine with a barrel chest and thick shoulders. He was still five nine but now just thick all over, with a shaved head and droopy mustache. The man looked like a heavy G. Gordon Liddy, President Nixon’s break-in “plumber,” famous for putting cigarettes out in the palm of his hand. Drake doubted Carson had ever done anything as painful, though he probably wanted people to think he had.
    “Where’s Martin? I want to see him, now.”
    “No problem, counselor, no problem. We’re just doing our crime scene investigation and asking questions. Why does Mr. Martin think he needs an attorney? They’re the victims here, right, or do innocent people need attorneys now?”
    “You’d know that better than me, right? Take me to my client.”
    Drake saw a flicker of understanding that quickly flamed to anger before Carson turned and walked down the hall.
    The hallway to the right took them past two offices before they reached Richard Martin’s executive suite. Two plain-clothes detectives stood in the outer office where Martin’s secretary had worked. In his office, Richard Martin stood beside his desk, talking with a young detective taking notes. When she saw Drake enter with Detective Carson, she