Free The Brutal Heart by Gail Bowen

it.”
    The elevators opened directly into the firm’s reception area, where hard-polished floors gleamed and walls painted the gentle shade of old silver perfectly complemented two large, eye-catching works: a shimmering metallic drape by Miranda Jones and an intricately painted Ted Godwin tartan.
    At her low glass desk in front of the tartan, Denise Kaiswatum was simultaneously signing for a package, taking a telephone call, and smiling reassuringly at a frightened and unhappy-looking woman. When the courier left, Denise hung up the phone, directed the unhappy woman to the client waiting room, and gave Ed and me an apologetic smile.
    “You just missed Zack,” she said. “He came in to check his messages, then he and his client went back to court.”
    “Is it all right if I give Ed the art tour?”
    Blake Falconer came out of his office. When he spotted us, he came over. At Zack’s party, Blake had looked careworn, but he seemed restored this morning. He was past fifty, and his reddish gold hair was greying, but he kept it scrub-brush short and his skin was ruddily freckled and youthful. He extended his hand to Ed. “Good to see you again,” he said. “I was hoping we’d get a chance to talk last night, but Ginny Monaghan seemed to be enjoying your company, and we try to keep our clients happy.”
    “Very wise,” Ed said. “And luckily, I have no need of a lawyer. I’m just here to see the Falconer Shreve collection.”
    “I can take you around,” Blake said. “I know nothing about art, but I’ve been with land developers all morning, I could use a break.”
    Blake hadn’t exaggerated when he said he didn’t know anything about art, but as he filled us in on Falconer Shreve’s future plans and pointed out the new pieces, he was thorough if not inspired. That changed when he led us into the boardroom to see the Joe Fafard ceramic group portrait of the founding members of Falconer Shreve. “I must have seen this a hundred times since it arrived, but it gets me every time,” he said and his eyes were moist. “Anyway, that’s us – the way we were the year we graduated from the College of Law.”
    I turned to Ed. “They called themselves the Winners’ Circle.”
    “Because we were perfect in every way,” Blake said. “Or so we thought.”
    “Zack told me that when he was invited to join the Winners’ Circle, he was like a drunk discovering Jesus,” I said. “Dazzled. Born again.”
    Ed leaned in to look more closely at the witty figures of the founding five. Fafard had worked from a photograph taken on the day they’d graduated. They were wearing their academic robes: it had been windy and the robes swirled. “My God, Fafard’s good,” Ed said. “You can feel the wind at their backs.” He looked more closely at the young faces. “You can see the hope.”
    Ed gazed at the expensively appointed boardroom. “It appears the Winners’ Circle realized its promise.”
    Blake shrugged. “Appearance is not reality,” he said. “Let’s go look at the big man’s office.”
    “Saving the best till last,” Blake said, but when he tried the door, it was locked. “Shit,” he said. “I should have remembered that Zack has a client who refuses to leave the office until she knows her possessions are safe. I’ll get the key from Norine.”
    Francesca’s backpack with her bears was on one of the client chairs. Everything in Zack’s office had the high sheen of money and attention; Francesca’s bears were refugees from a sadder, crueller world. For a time when she was little, Mieka had collected Care Bears. With their cotton-candy-coloured furry bodies and the cartoon portraits proclaiming their identity and their special caring mission on their tummies, these emissaries from the cloud-land of Care-a-Lot had always struck me as too cute by a half. There was nothing cute about Francesca’s bears. Their fur was mildewed, patchy, and filthy; their faces and feet had been eaten away by rot or