Honeymoon

Chapter 92

CHOP, CHOP, O’HARA. Get a move on. Susan wanted an arrest, and that meant I was in hurry-up mode and presumably it would be okay if I bent a few rules. At least, that was my interpretation. Of course, sometimes I hear what I want to hear.

Sitting in a chair opposite Steven Keppler, I couldn’t help noticing a few things right away. First, the attorney had a really bad comb-over. Way too much surface area for way too little hair. Second, Nora’s tax guy was nervous.

Of course, a lot of people get nervous around an FBI agent—most of them for no reason.

I dispensed with any small talk and pulled a photograph out of my suit jacket. It was a print of one of the digitals I’d taken that first day in Westchester.

“Do you recognize this woman?” I asked, holding it up to him.

He leaned over his desk and answered quickly. “No, I don’t believe so.”

I extended my arm so he could see better. “Here, take a closer look. Please.”

He took the picture and did a B-movie actor’s job of studying it: furrowed brow, prolonged squint, finally an exaggerated shrug and a head shake. “No, she doesn’t look familiar,” he said. “Pretty lady, though.”

Steven Keppler handed back the picture, and I scratched my chin. “That’s really odd,” I said.

“Why is that?”

“How this pretty woman would have your business card and not know you.”

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Perhaps someone gave it to her,” he said.

“Sure, I suppose. Except that wouldn’t explain why this woman would tell me she knew you.”

Keppler went to his tie with one hand while simultaneously adjusting his comb-over with the other. His fidget factor was now officially off the charts.

“Let me take another look at the picture. May I?”

I handed it to him and watched, certain I was about to see some more classic bad acting. Sure enough.

“Oh, wait a minute! I think I do know who this is.” He tapped the photograph a few times with his forefinger. “Simpson… Singleton?”

“Sinclair,” I said.

“Of course, Olivia Sinclair.”

“Actually, it’s Nora.”

He shook his head. “No, I’m pretty sure her name is Olivia.”

This coming from a guy who a minute ago claimed he didn’t know who she was.

“I take it she’s a client, then?” I asked. “Pretty, as you say. I’m surprised you didn’t remember.”

“I did some work for her, yes.”

“What kind of work?”

“Agent O’Hara, you know I can’t divulge that.”

“Sure you can.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Do I? The only thing I know is that you’ve claimed not to recognize one of your own clients, who happens to be the subject of my investigation. In other words, you’ve lied to a federal agent.”

“Need I remind you that you’re talking to an attorney?”

“Need I remind you that I can be back here in an hour with a search warrant to turn your office upside down.”

I stared at Keppler, expecting him to cut his losses and fold. Instead, the guy showed some real spunk. Actually, he went on the offensive.

“Your absurd threats might work in some quarters,” he said with a raised chin, “but I protect the privacy of my clients. You may leave now.”

I stood from my chair.

“You’re right,” I said with a deep sigh. “You’re entitled to your client privilege and I’m way out of line. I apologize.” I reached into my jacket. “Listen, here’s my card. If you change your mind or if you’d like to arrange for police protection, give my office a call.”

His face soured. “Police protection? Are you telling me this woman’s dangerous? Olivia Sinclair? What exactly is she being investigated for?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, Mr. Keppler. But, hey, I’m sure if she entrusted you with her business, she must be convinced that you’d never divulge anything about your dealings.”

His voice notched up an octave. “Wait a minute—where is Olivia Sinclair now? I mean, you’re following her, right?”

“That’s the thing,” I said. “We were, but we don’t know where she is now. Mr. Keppler, I can’t tell you everything about this case, but I will tell you this. It involves murder. And possibly more than just one.”

So much for the lawyer’s spunk and his protection of his client’s privacy. When he was finally able to put a few words together, he asked me to sit down again.

“With pleasure,” I said.