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Brewster was quiet a for a minute, then said, “There is a small chance it could be a firm to which we’ve outsourced work and that could explain her thinking she’s our client. We’ve been looking at expanding into Florida, because farming out case work opens up a lot of other problems, such as inefficient conflict checks and disclosure of confidential information. When you do get the name, let me know. If nothing else, I can get you a clearer picture on who it is.”

“Will do. Thanks,” Matt said. “But, going off on a tangent, out at the house just now Mom mentioned the office politics of freezing people out of promotions because someone above them considers them a threat. I don’t doubt it happens; I’m just wondering how much, and what you think.”

“But you just got promoted.”

“Not about me,” Matt said, and explained. “We were talking about Jason Washington coming in at number one on the captain’s list, and . . .”

After he had finished, Brewster Payne said, “In my experience, there very well is a great deal of truth to that. Happens all the time. And the reverse is true: promotions get made based not on one’s superior abilities but on some connection.” He paused, then added, “Apropos of nothing whatsoev

er, that is why I like what I do. No one limits how hard I can work nor how high I can go.”

Matt was quiet.

“Look, Matt, call if you need anything. I have to deal with this deposition that just came in.”

“Thanks for everything. And I really mean it.”

“Anytime. You know that. Good luck.”

Matt heard the connection drop out.

—

Ten minutes later, after thinking about what his father had said, Payne tapped the MESSAGES icon on the dash screen.

The sultry Kathleen Turner voice filled the car: “Yes, Marshal?”

“Text Daffy.”

After a short pause came: “Your goddaughter’s mother has Do Not Disturb enacted on her communication devices right now.”

“Of course Daffy does. She’s probably bent into a pretzel in some snooty yoga class and trying in vain to rein in her flatulence.”

“Shall I ask Mrs. Nesbitt that?”

Payne chuckled.

“And you would. No, text her, quote, Quick question: How well did you know Camilla Rose Morgan, question mark, unquote.”

The sultry voice repeated the message as it simultaneously appeared in a text bubble on the screen in the dash.

“Okay. How’s this, Marshal?”

“Perfect. Send it. That way, it’ll be waiting for her when she gets thrown out of the class for stinking up the place.”

“Sent. Anything else I can do?”

“Yeah. You seem to be pretty intuitive. Always quick with the answers, getting me what I need. Why can’t all the women in my life be as cooperative and accommodating as you?”

“Try making me mad and see what happens.”

Payne was quiet.

“Marshal? Does this have anything to do with Amanda?”

“Play a Bob French album,” he said.

“Excellent choice. And I will cue up some new Emily Asher you might like. I love traditional Dixieland Jazz. Okay, Marshal, there, it’s done.”