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Tate jabbed his finger at Caxton. “Anyone else would be going to prison now, but your client had the cash to hire the best lying lawyer that money can buy. Somebody ought to teach you two a lesson—the hard way.”
Caxton’s favorite story was about a client who’d asked him if he could seek justice. He’d answered, “Yes, and how much justice can you afford to buy today?”
The pounding music had been so loud that Jake had missed a call from Stuart, one of his best friends from when he’d served in the Marines. Later that night, Stuart had been found dead from a heroin overdose, and Jake blamed himself for not answering Stuart’s call in his time of need. And he resented his employer and Caxton, both of whom were responsible for the assignment in the first place.
He reached into his backpack for his bottles of meds, but put them back without taking any. After eliminating the first lawyer on his list, he’d earned himself a drink. The alcohol would serve as different form of medicine, one that would help dull the memories and the pain he lived with every day. Not too much though. No meds and a lot of liquor risked all hell breaking loose. If he dwelt too much on the woman he’d loved and lost, on how she’d died so young, her whole life ahead of her, he’d become angry at the world. The emotion hit him intensely once in a while, and he’d lose patience and
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“I owe Jake a photo—he gave me one of the shooter up in this tree.” Terrell held out his phone and showed Ryan the image. Ryan raised his eyebrows. “Jake, you’re lucky you didn’t get shot.” “I’m half Irish, so lucky stuff like this happens to me all the time,” Jake said. “Or in your case, my brother, it might just be dumb luck,” Terrell said, and smiled. Ryan’s brows furrowed. “He’s your brother?” Terrell nodded. “My brother from another mother.” “One time when we were deployed overseas, I got shot and almost died,” Jake said. “But Terrell gave me a blood transfusion, and now we’re officially
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One reporter’s question rang out louder than the rest. “Who wanted that lawyer dead?” Someone else said, “Who didn’t?”
Women who wore glasses and read books were his weakness.
To ensure complete secrecy, the developer had been killed after he’d completed the job.
A van Gogh painting hung on the wall. Zhukov had a deep appreciation for the artist and was surprised that he and Wolfe shared that in common.
Loyalty was why pain could run so deep. If you didn’t care very much, life wouldn’t hurt very much. People who didn’t have deep feelings never experienced deep joy or deep pain. They lived in a trivial, pale shadow of life where nothing was ever a big deal and all that mattered was pretending to be popular.
“That’s right, you’re Swedish. We could go to IKEA and have some of their Swedish meatballs. Maybe look at some shelves that are impossible to put together.”
His voice sounded cool and professional, like a Navy Top Gun pilot landing a fighter on an aircraft carrier in the ocean, at night, during a storm, with one engine on fire. No problem.
She realized that although she’d been wishing for a more interesting and exciting man in her life, it was true what they said—you should be careful what you wish for.
