Free The Fall by John Lescroart

gave him my business card, and maybe a good thing I did, too. He was on my voicemail when I got back from lunch. Inspector Waverly and his partner wanted to come by and ask him some more questions.”
    “After his taped interview last night? What about?”
    “Evidently, stuff Waverly had forgotten to ask.”
    Hardy’s hackles went up at the ominous portent.
    “What?” his daughter asked.
    “Maybe nothing, but Waverly didn’t get to Homicide by forgetting to ask things.”
    “You’re saying he thinks Greg might be, what, a person of interest here?”
    Hardy shrugged.
    “But that’s not possible.” Rebecca’s voice carried an edge of concern. “He was devastated by the whole thing.”
    “Could he have been faking that?”
    “Daddy, Jesus!”
    “No, then?”
    “Not a chance in the world. How can you even think that?”
    “We’re in the criminal law business, Beck. If you don’t think that, you’re not doing your job. And he called you as a lawyer, I gather. Didn’t you say that?”
    “For advice, anyway.”
    “That’s as a lawyer, don’t kid yourself. So what did Homicide want? Did the inspectors get to come by to see him?”
    “I don’t know. He just left me the message, and nobody answered when I called him back. Maybe I should put my cell number on my business card if people need to reach me outside of hours.”
    “Youcould do that if you want, of course, but I believe you’d wind up working every waking minute every day for the rest of your life, not counting when clients woke you up in the middle of the night.”
    She laughed. “I already work all the time.”
    “Yes, but you’d work even more. Maybe better to just write your cell number on your card once you’ve decided the potential client won’t abuse it and call you every fifteen minutes, which some of them will, believe me.”
    “You mean physically write it down in ink?”
    “Ink, pencil, Magic Marker. Whatever.”
    “Daddy, you are so old-fashioned.” Her laugh tinkled again. “Ink? As if.”
    •  •  •
    B ACK IN HER office, Rebecca called Greg’s number again. “I should have said this on my first message,” she said to his voicemail, “but you might want to think about if you really want me there if these inspectors come to interview you again, if they haven’t already. Last night I wasn’t your lawyer. I was just another person you knew from the bar who happened to be an attorney. If I come to be with you, even to hold your hand next time, that’s going to be a more difficult sell.
    “The basic rule is the same: If you’re being questioned about your involvement in a crime, even if you didn’t have any part in it, you generally don’t want to talk to the police without a lawyer in the room. Of course, I’m a lawyer. That’s my perspective, and I would say that. But the plain fact is that the police agenda is almost never going to be the same as yours, and it’s smarter to cover your bases. The foregoing advice,” she added in a lighter tone, “is given gratis and should in no way be construed as an advertisement for my legal services. If you’d like to talk more before you make any decisions, I’m here.”
    Hanging up, she pulled over the hard copy of the motion she was working on, booted up her computer, and was about to get back to her daily work—to be filed today by four o’clock!—when her telephone rang. She gave it a ring, then two, unsure whether she should pick up or let it go to voicemail so she could actually do something billable. God! the pressure! “Shit,” she said matter-of-factly, and grabbed at the receiver. “Rebecca Hardy.”
    “Hey.This is Greg Treadway. Thanks for getting back to me. I’m on my afternoon break at school and just now got your messages.”
    “So did you talk to Waverly again?”
    “No. I told them I was at work. We made an appointment for after school.”
    “At school?”
    “Sure. We’ve got a conference room. It’s private.”
    “Did they say