Free Bodily Harm by Robert Dugoni Page B

Moore looked and sounded surprised to see someone in his office. He spoke in a high-pitched voice from behind a bushy white mustache that extended over his upper lip.
    After confirming the man to be Dayron Moore, Sloane said, “I’d like to speak to you about a potential legal matter.”
    Rather than offer Sloane a chair, Moore asked, “You from around here?”
    “Seattle, actually.”
    Moore ran a hand through a shock of white hair, wisps of which stuck out over his ears. “What brings you down here, Mr. . . . ?”
    “Sloane, David Sloane.” Sloane motioned to a chair. “May I?”
    Moore’s eyes narrowed, but he wobbled back behind his desk, much of which was taken up by an antiquated computer screen that matched the office decor, which had not been upgraded since the 1960s. The desk, credenza, and walls were a cheap wood laminate, and Sloane sat in one of two matching lime green cloth chairs. Two diplomas hung framed on the wall behind Moore, but Sloane did not recognize either school.
    “I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time,” Sloane said. He detected a recently applied coating of very strong aftershave which, along with blotchy red cheeks and a bulbous nose traced by several broken blood vessels, indicated Moore had just drunk most of his lunch and likely did so often.
    “What can I do you for?” Moore asked.
    “I have a client in Seattle who has something in common with one of your former clients,” Sloane said, telling the truth.
    “You’re an attorney?” Moore sounded immediately deflated.
    “Your client was Mateo Gallegos.”
    Moore’s eyebrows inched closer and the suspicion returned to his voice. “What about him?”
    “My client’s son recently died after running a very high fever and suffering flulike symptoms. The family kept the boy home and tried to hydrate him, but by the time they got him to the hospital the kid had a massive infection and died.”
    Moore offered no condolences. “What’d the coroner say?”
    “There wasn’t an autopsy. The boy was older than five so the state didn’t mandate it.”
    “Was the body cremated?”
    “No.”
    Moore sat back, rubbing his mustache but offering nothing further.
    “I just spoke to Mr. and Mrs. Gallegos,” Sloane said, continuing to tell the truth. “I wanted to talk to you about Kendall Toys.”
    Moore flushed beet red. “They weren’t supposed to say anything about that. All of that is confidential.”
    Sloane had played a hunch and Moore’s response confirmed that the lawyer had settled the Gallegos case without ever even filing a lawsuit. Sloane had no idea why Kendall would settle a suit in which a boy had fallen on a rusty nail, but then he had been skeptical of the clerk’s understanding of the case. Recalling something else the clerk had told him, Sloane said, “I’d be willing to put up a retainer if that helps. I just want to see the family taken care of.”
    Moore calmed at the mention of money. “You don’t want to represent them?”
    “It’s not really my area of expertise. Besides, I don’t even know if they have a case; it sounds like you’ve already gone down this road.”
    “Did they get one of the toys?”
    The question caught Sloane momentarily off guard but he recovered to ask, “Metamorphis?”
    “That’s the one.” Moore perked up considerably, retrieved a business card from his desk drawer, and held it across the desk. “Have the family give me a call to set up an appointment. Ordinarily I work strictly contingency, but for this I’ll need a ten-thousand-dollar retainer.”
    Sloane whistled. “That much?”
    “This is a big case.”
    “You think?”
    Moore nodded. “Of course you know that I can’t breach the confidentiality of a settlement agreement.”
    “Of course.”
    “But if this is what I think it is, they’ll get back five times that amount, minimum.”
    Sloane acted impressed. “No kidding?”
    “Let’s just say the defendant will be very motivated to make this go