Page 89 of Precise Justice

“Even if I did, I couldn’t tell you. That would probably be covered by attorney-client privilege.”

“Anything else,” Lucy asked Melissa.

“No, for now. Thank you for seeing us. You’ve been helpful,” Melissa said.

Davies stood to escort them out. On the way to the door he asked, “So, you think she was murdered.”

“Yes, without giving anything away, we’re certain of it,” Lucy replied.

“Any suspects you want to tell us about?” Melissa asked.

“No, none that I know of,”

With the door closed and Davies back at his desk, he thought,you could look at the company directory. It’s full of suspects.

Once back in their car, Melissa asked, “Now what?”

“I think our suspects are the same two we had from the beginning,” Lucy answered.

“Who’s to gain? It always comes down to, who’s to gain?” Melissa said.

Dr. Walter Miller was late. He had a meeting, a semi-monthly meeting, with his financial advisor. Miller, being bigoted toward all types of people, had used Seymour Chesnick, a devout Jew, for his personal advisor. Relying on his bigotry, Miller had always insisted on a Jew money manager. Seymour knew it too. Being the better man, Seymour simply shrugged it off.

Dr. Miller was half an hour late. His third trans surgery, a female to male teenage girl, had been more complicated than normal. No matter, he would bill the parents’ insurance for at least another ten grand.

He was leaving the university hospital and driving to downtown Minneapolis. On his way to meet with Seymour, all he thought about was how lucrative his surgical skills had become. The transgender affirmation explosion, legitimate or not, was making him rich. Miller was scheduling as many as ten per week. They were coming from all over America and even some from Britain and Europe. How was it his problem if the Brits and Europeans were scaling back on the procedure? Miller was a surgeon, not an ethicist.

The good doctor parked his new Jaguar PACE P-450 in the underground garage. At this time of the night there were only a few cars scattered about. Miller found an open spot ten feet from the elevator. Having called to let Seymour know he was running late; Seymour would be waiting.

Forty minutes later, having finished the meeting, Miller rode the elevator alone into the garage. His mind, and accompanying smile, were on one thing. Last year Seymour had earned a net of twelve-point three percent for his money. This year, even though it was barely February, it was shaping up to be even better. The best part was Seymour’s aggressiveness at tax avoidance. Miller was delighted not to pay his fair share of taxes, whatever that was.

The elevator door opened, Miller, his mind totally preoccupied, turned left toward the shiny, black Jaguar. When he stepped off the elevator, a dark figure wearing a black, rain ponchoand soft, rubber-soled shoes, went after him. Having removed the bulb from the light above Miller’s car, they were in the dark, almost invisible.

“Owen,” the caller who got Owen Jefferson out of bed before six said. “It’s Reggie. We got another one.”

“Shit,” Jefferson muttered.

“What?” his wife rolled over, looked at her husband and asked.

Jefferson held up an index finger to indicate he wanted a minute to listen.

“We’re at the Fremont Building, in the underground garage. Dr. Forner is here and says it looks like the claw hammer again. I figured you’d want to know.”

“Yeah, I do. I’ll be along,” Jefferson said then ended the call.

“What?” he heard her ask again.

“We got another one,” Jefferson said. “Go back to sleep.”

“Get in the shower,” she replied. “I’ll get some breakfast going for you. You’re in for a long day.”

THIRTY-FIVE

Dear Diary:January 23rd

Cynthia is out with her mother so I thought I’d write. I must be losing my mind. It has happened again.

I watched the news, mostly to get the weather report. Anyway, Dr. Walter Miller was murdered last night. Or so they think it happened last night. His body was found in a parking garage downtown this morning.