to the chair in front of his desk and settled back into his own. “It’s a carrot they dangle when you reach a certain level. Time will tell, I guess.”
Clint grunted an acknowledgement.
“So.” Farago leaned back in his leather chair. “What brings you to see me after all these years?”
There were many things Clint could have said—payback, for example—but he elected to keep the threats to himself. He had learned that all things come back around in time. Karma truly was a bitch.
As if Farago had read his mind, he fidgeted a bit. Clint could almost swear he saw a sheen of sweat forming on the man’s forehead.
“I have a few questions—between old friends—about your colleague, Natalie Drummond.”
Farago lifted his head and said, “Ah. I’m certain you’re aware, of course, the firm requires we sign confidentiality agreements.”
“No doubt.” Clint stared straight into his eyes. “I’m equally certain you understand I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t essential. So, why don’t we cut to the chase? I need information and you need to give it to me.”
The flush of anger climbed from the collar of Farago’s crisp white shirt and quickly spread across his face. “I see.”
“I’m glad we understand each other.” Clint had no desire to waste time or energy debating the issue.
Farago’s glare was lethal. “What is it you want to ask?”
“You’ve worked with Natalie for the past four or so years. Until her accident had she suffered any professional issues?”
A haughty chuckle and a roll of the eyes warned that whatever Farago had to say it wouldn’t be complimentary. “She had a clerkship with one of our esteemed state court justices before coming on board. Some of us had to do our time performing grunt work here at the firm, but not Natalie. The Drummond name and the recommendation of the justice ensured she started with the cream of the crop cases.” Another of those unpleasant smirks. “The rumor was, before her accident she was about to become the youngest partner in the firm.” He exhaled a big sigh. “I’ll never understand why; she wasn’t even that good.”
Clint clenched his jaw to the count of three to hold his temper, then asked, “Tell me about the cases she worked in the months leading up to her injury.”
Farago made a face. “Let’s see. The White case—a mercy killing.”
Clint remembered the one. An eighty-year-old husband allowed his dying wife to end her suffering with a bottle of the opiates prescribed by her oncologist. The video they made with the wife’s iPhone proved the key piece of evidence that turned the tide with the jury. The woman made her own choice, the only thing the husband did was open the bottle since her arthritic hands couldn’t manage the feat.
“Other than that one, there was the Thompson versus Rison Medical Center—a medical malpractice case.” Farago turned his palms up. “Those are the primary ones I recall without prowling through databases.”
Thompson was the case Clint wanted to hear about. The firm represented the medical center. “Thompson versus Rison Medical Center didn’t go down the way anyone expected. Your client was damned lucky.”
Farago shrugged. “I don’t know. Lots of people claim injuries or trouble with medical facilities or their employees; those claims aren’t always based on fact. Emotion can become the center of the case, making it doubly difficult for the defendant’s attorneys.”
“There’s no other case that comes to mind?” Clint pressed.
Farago shook his head. “As I recall, those two pretty much took up her time that year. Why all the questions about Natalie? Is she being investigated?”
Clint ignored his questions. “Her accident was a lucky break for you. You took over her spot on the legal team and the win for Rison Medical Center put you on the partners’ radar.”
Another nonchalant shrug lifted Farago’s shoulders. “The win would have put anyone involved on the partners’ radar. It was a huge lawsuit. We performed above expectations and saved our client a fortune.”
“The rumor mill had Thompson pegged as the winner until the bitter end,” Clint reminded him. Clint recalled well the day the jury returned with the verdict, he’d been damned surprised. It wouldn’t be the first time a sharp legal team had pulled a client’s fat out of the fire. Whatever his history with Farago, the man was a good attorney. He just wasn’t always a good man.
Clint retrieved a business card that provided his name and cell number. “Call me if you think of anything interesting to pass along on the subject.”
Farago studied the card. “You aren’t with the BPD anymore?”
Clint smiled. “I decided to come to work with my old boss in her private investigations agency. I’m sure you know Jess Harris Burnett.” He stood. “We’re taking on the cases no one else can solve.” He gestured to the door. “Which office is Natalie’s?”
The look on Farago’s face was priceless. His eyes bulged. His jaw fell slack. It was almost worth the loss of the career Farago had stolen from Clint a decade ago.
But not quite.
6:50 p.m.
NATALIE WATCHED THE man driving as they moved through the darkening streets. Dusk came a little earlier every day, reminding her that the year was barreling toward an end. It didn’t seem possible that she’d lost so much of the past twenty-four months. She didn’t want to lose any more. She wanted her life back.
“You don’t have to stay with me every minute,” she announced to the silence. Neither of them had spoken since leaving the parking garage. She’d worked well beyond the number of hours allowed by her medical release and Clint had insisted on taking her to dinner. “I’m quite capable of taking care of myself, the incident in my kitchen yesterday morning notwithstanding.”
Clint smiled. She liked his smile. He was quite attractive for a PI. She’d had her fair share of dealings with private investigators. Most of whom had been older and far less easy on the eyes. In addition to attractive, Clint was well educated and his instincts appeared quite good. He wasn’t the only one doing research. She’d done quite a bit herself last night after he left. Clint Hayes possessed a law degree from Samford. He’d graduated with highest honors, but then he’d turned to law enforcement. There was a story there; she just hadn’t found it yet. He dressed particularly well. The suit was no off-the-rack light wool ready-for-wear. Neither was the shirt or the shoes. When did private investigators start earning such a high salary?
“Feel free,” he glanced at her as he made the turn into the restaurant, “to say whatever is on your mind.”
A blush heated her cheeks. She doubted he had any idea of what precisely was on her mind. She might as well see just how good his perceptive powers were. “You went to law school, yet chose a different career path. I wondered what happened to divert your course.”
He parked in the crowded lot and shut off the engine. The interior of the car fell into near darkness with nothing more than a distant streetlamp reaching unsuccessfully through the night. When he turned to her it was difficult to read his face, but his voice when he
