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CHAPTER 28
Alex Rousseau wasn’t happy as she drove her Lexus into the truck stop parking area, away from the brightly lit canopy and mini-mart to park in the shadow of the big rigs lined to one side.
In fact, when she thought about it, she was pretty damned pissed.
“This isn’t a good idea,” she said to Jonas, who had pushed the passenger seat into a near-reclining position and had sulked all the way from the hospital.
“So you’ve said. Like maybe . . . oh, I don’t know . . . a million times.”
“As your attorney—”
“You do what I say!”
“No,” she snapped back. “I advise you on the best course of action. Legally.”
“Oh, get over yourself!” He pushed a button on the electric seat and with a soft whirr it began to elevate him back to a sitting position again as traffic on the interstate barreled past Hal’s Get and Go. Semis, pickups, vans, SUVs and sedans, all racing on the freeway that hugged the edge of the Columbia. It had been closed earlier for inclement weather.
Now clouds were burgeoning, dark and threatening, snow starting to fall, but it was just a precursor to worse weather. Another blizzard was predicted to slam the Columbia Gorge within twelve hours. But now, at least for a few hours, the vital road was open.
“I don’t know how you and Merritt Margrove got along,” she told her new client, “but you need to treat me with more than a modicum of respect.”
“Modicum,” he repeated, mocking her. “Wow, there’s a twelve-dollar word for you.”
“Is it?” God, he was a dick. If there hadn’t been so much exposure and notoriety attached to Jonas McIntyre, she would have told him to go jump in a lake. Considering what had happened years ago, it seemed appropriate. “As your attorney, I’m advising against this—whatever you’ve got planned.” All he’d told her was that he needed a ride to this spot. To meet “a friend.”
Jonas nodded and threw her a glance. “Gotcha.” Then he reached for the handle of the passenger door.
She tried one more time. “I didn’t pull all the strings I did with the hospital just so you could walk away.”
“I know.” He threw her a cocky grin, opened the door and winced slightly, but seemed to ignore the pain. The sound of engines and wheels on pavement echoed over the quiet ding of the car’s alarm reminding her that the car was still idling as the door opened.
“Let’s be honest with each other,” he said, his face illuminated by the Lexus’s dome light and the reflection of the neon lights from the mini-mart.
“We are,” she snapped as the odors of exhaust and diesel blew inside on a blast of bitter wind. “At least I am.”
“Yeah, sure.” He didn’t bother hiding the doubts in his eyes, the skepticism. “We both know you’re in this for the money, Alex, and the fame. So whether I get out here or do exactly what you want or pretend to be the perfect patient under some prick of a doc’s care, it really doesn’t matter. Either way you win. No matter what, you get what you want. Airtime. Media attention. This might, I mean probably will, go national, don’t you think? So cut the crap. Let this go. I’ve got things I’ve got to do.”
“You’re not a hundred percent.”
A hard, sarcastic grin cut across his bearded jawline. “Who is, Alex? Who the hell is?” He stepped out of the car and slammed the door shut.
“Asshole,” she muttered under her breath as he hunched his shoulders and jogged, limping slightly, across the parking lot. He started to slip once on the ice but caught himself easily.
Maybe she should follow him. There was a good chance he would run because the cops were going to arrest him for Margrove’s murder. It was only a matter of time. He’d been at the murder scene. The victim’s throat had been slashed, just like his family members who were murdered in the McIntyre Massacre at Cold Lake twenty years ago.
As far as Rousseau knew, no murder weapon had been found in Margrove’s case, but as for motive? Jonas was a hothead, his volatile temper legendary, and he’d already told her that Margrove and his aunt had bled the McIntyre estate dry. That would be more than enough.
She watched as he made his way to a small sedan parked at the far edge of the lot.
Jonas was still rough around the edges, but she’d dressed him well, getting him new jeans and sweaters and jackets, even boots. She’d also bought him a cell phone—one of those temporary burners—and handed him a grand in cash. She needed to be able to communicate with him and would bill him for it, along with her time, as soon as he got even a penny of the McIntyre inheritance. He’d get his share and more of whatever was left, and then they’d sue the hell out of Faiza Donner, Merritt Margrove’s estate and his half sister for the rest of what Alex figured was his fair share, but that was just a pittance. The big hit would come when she sought restitution for Jonas being falsely imprisoned. She planned to sue the county and the state and she was just warming up. There could be others . . . oh, the opportunities were endless.
Jonas hadn’t been wrong when he’d called her out just now.
It wasn’t just the fame Alex Rousseau wanted, she intended to take the fortune, too.
She saw Jonas climb into the passenger seat of the beater car, and as the dome light of the little sedan blinked on, Alex caught a glimpse of the driver: Mia Long. No real surprise there. Mia was his most ardent and loudest supporter. Alex even saw the rosary dangling from the rearview mirror, visibly twinkling until the door was shut and the interior light dimmed.
Mia hit the gas.