Page 130 of A Dead End Wedding

I held the phone out and stared at it, mouth open, then put it back to my ear. "You're sad that people aren't viciously murdered in Orange Grove. Is that what you said to me?" My voice sounded a little shrieky, even to myself.

"No, no, that's not what I meant at all, of course. It's . . . I'm thrilled that our residents aren't being murdered. It's just that working a case like that – well, you used to play in the big leagues. You must know what I mean."

Unfortunately, I knew what he meant. Working on cases where a couple of hundred dollars were at stake, like some of mypro bonocases, didn't have the same thrill as going into battle when millions of dollars rode on the outcome.

I didn't much like what that said about either of us, but I understood it. It would be like an NFL player training for years, but never allowed to play in anything but off-season games. Or what Dad had told me about why he enjoyed going off to sea and leaving us for months at a time. "You don't train for the big leagues and want to sit on the bench, pumpkin."

For a prosecutor, murder was the big leagues.

For me, it was something I never, ever wanted to face again.

"Are you there?" His voice cut into my mental wandering, and I sighed and hoped I'd snap out of my haze some day.

"I'm here, Matt. Big leagues, blah, blah. What's up?"

"I'm sorry to be so blunt, but if you're involved in a criminal matter, I can help you. If you need somebody to talk to about your contacts in the drug business, I know people at the DEA. Also, we have special programs in Florida for impaired attorneys."

It took me a beat, but I got it. "WHAT?? You think I'm – you think I had something to do with that man getting killed? Hey, buddy, I'm the innocent victim here. I didn't even know him. Well, I may have talked with him on the phone, but that was for, like, thirty seconds."

"Well—"

I cut him off. "Well,nothing. I. Do. Not. Do. Drugs. I never have done drugs. I'm the most boring, law-abiding person you know. I have to be desperate even to take a Tylenol. I don't have drug associates or drug contacts. I don't even think I have prescription drug benefits on my health insurance!"

There was a small silence. "I have no idea what you're talking about. I'm only offering to help, here. If you change your mind, call me. Oh – and would you like to have lunch with me this week?"

I stared at the phone again. "You think I'm a drug user with contacts who probably had something to do with a murder, and yet you want to take me to lunch?"

He laughed. "Live on the edge, that's my motto."

"Date sane men, that's my motto. No, thank you."

"If you change your mind . . ."

"I know. I have your number. Good bye, Mr. Falcon." This time, I hung up first.

The bell Max had installed on the front door jingled, and I heard Max and Mr. Ellison chatting. I stood up to go investigate our new small and furry colleague's purchases, but my phone rang again. As much as I wanted to ignore it, I picked it up.

"December—"

"This is Croc," a low and gravelly voice said. "I got your letter. You'd better stay out of my business, bitch, or I'll make life real bad for you."

"You're a little late for that," I said, rolling my eyes. I grabbed a pad of paper to jot down the time and essence of the call for the restraining order and the police.

"What? Look, I'm not messing with you. Stay out of me and that old bag's business. Or else."

The word choice struck me. "Or else? Is that you? Did you buy some Claritin after all? The allergies seem to be clearing up."

"What the hell are you talking about? Are you crazy? Shut up and mind your own business. That's all I've got to say."

"Wonderful! A concise criminal. My favorite kind. Usually you're all so long-winded," I said, trying to keep him talking so I could decide whether it was the same voice as my sinus stalker.

He wasn't going for it, though. "This is gonna be your only warning."

29

After a quick lunch, I spent the afternoon working on Charlie's discovery and preparing questions to ask my experts, talking to Mrs. Zivkovich and figuring out how to file a restraining order against Nervil, a.k.a. Croc, and taking half a dozen trips outside to convince our new puppy to pee on actual grass.

By the time I brought her in from our sixth walk around the square of grass in back of the offices, we were both worn out, but triumphant.

---