Page 48 of Zero Divergence
“We said no one would search the office or remove evidence without you being present. We asked Mr. Blakemore to tour the home with us to see if anything was out of place. He claimed nothing was missing in her office or anywhere else in the house.”
“It’s true, sir,” Blakemore said. He could’ve thrown them under the bus by telling the senior partner that he’d left them in Gross’s office alone while he went upstairs to pack a bag, but he remained silent. Self-preservation, perhaps? “Are you sure it’s missing?”
“I was there when they searched her home office and vehicle. It wasn’t in either place, so I assumed she’d left it at the office. The file is nowhere in this building either,” Elderwood said.
“What made you look for it?” Royce asked the attorney.
“I need to divide her caseload amongst the other attorneys, and they need to prioritize their schedules based on depositions, meetings, and court dates. The Humphries file is the only one unaccounted for out of dozens. I know it sounds cold, but some of her clients have trial dates for next week, and these things are scheduled months in advance. Our firm’s reputation depends not only on us picking up the fumbled ball and running with it, but also winning.” Comparing his slain lawyer to failed football plays was what sounded cold, not the expediency or necessity of rearranging the other attorney’s schedules. “That means emergency meetings with each of her clients to assure them they’re in capable hands.”
“I understand, sir,” Royce said.
Blakemore gasped. “I didn’t see her briefcase anywhere in the house.”
“Describe it,” Sawyer said.
“It’s a burgundy leather Burberry briefcase. It cost more than two weeks of my salary. Maybe three. She’s had it for as long as I’ve known her,” Blakemore said. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice it wasn’t in her office.”
“Shock does strange things to a person’s comprehension and perception,” Royce said sympathetically. “It’s why detectives interview witnesses and persons of interest multiple times.”
Vivian Gross was dead. The only things reported as missing were her briefcase and Humphries’s file. The police didn’t have it, which meant Vivian’s killer took it. And Humphries, the serial rapist and killer, just happened to be out of the country when Gross was the victim of a copycat or tribute killing. What were the odds?
Sawyer’s phone vibrated. He looked at his caller ID and swallowed a groan when he saw the name on the screen. He’d forgotten he had the man’s number programmed in his contacts. He glanced up at Royce. “I need to take this.”
“Sure,” Royce replied, then continued speaking to Elderwood and Blakemore about the missing briefcase and file.
Sawyer stepped out into the hallway, closing the door behind him, and glanced around to make sure he was alone. “Detective Key,” he sternly said into the phone.
“Things got out of control in a hurry this morning, and I take full responsibility,” Jack Vincenzo said calmly. “I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did, and I’m sorry. I was—and still am—in shock. I want to speak with you and Sergeant Locke again, Sawyer. Please. You were right. Vivian deserves my cooperation, and I want to help. No matter the cost.”
Sawyer heaved a sigh. “Okay, but we’re currently at her firm interviewing the lawyers and staff. I can’t say how much longer we’ll be.”
“I understand. Just call me back when you’re on the way.”
“Will do.” Sawyer disconnected without saying a proper goodbye.
The door to the conference room opened just as Sawyer slid his phone inside his pocket. Blakemore poked his head around the door. “Is it okay to come out?”
“Sure,” Sawyer said. “I just finished my call. Is Sergeant Locke done with your interview?”
Blakemore nodded. “For now.” The blond man looked like he barely had the strength to walk to the car. He took two steps toward him and tripped, stumbling into Sawyer, who raised his arms to catch the guy so he didn’t faceplant on the floor. The impact was hard enough to carry them both into the wall.
“Oops,” Blakemore said, but he didn’t pull out of Sawyer’s loose hold or straighten away from him. He looped an arm around Sawyer’s waist, rested his head against Sawyer’s shoulder, and appeared to melt into him.
“Looks like you’ve hit the wall,” Sawyer said.
“Of muscle,” Blakemore replied, his voice muffled by Sawyer’s shirt. Then he began to cry. “I can’t believe she’s gone. My beautiful Vivian.”
Someone cleared their throat. Sawyer jerked his head toward the sound and found Royce and Mr. Elderwood watching them with vastly different expressions. Royce’s lips quirked up on the left side, and his eyes twinkled with humor. Sawyer was so going to catch hell for this. Elderwood’s brow furrowed over narrowed eyes as he studied the scene before him. Suspicious bastard.
“Maybe you should call your friend, Kendall,” Elderwood suggested, sounding grandfatherly.
“She’s dead, Mr. Elderwood,” Blakemore said, then began crying harder.
“I meant the one who drove you here and is waiting for you in his car,” the older man said.
“Oh, yeah. I forgot.”
Sawyer met Royce’s gaze once more, and he hoped his boyfriend could read the silent plea for him to do something. Before he met Royce, and under different circumstances, Sawyer might have liked having Kendall Blakemore in his arms.