Free Devil in the Dock (A Robin Starling Courtroom Mystery) by Michael Monhollon Page A

sitting across a table from each other, him with a sandwich in front of him, her with a quiche. His back was toward me. Her gaze flicked toward me and away.
    I took a breath and went to the counter to order a salad with spinach and roasted butternut squash. Brooke, I was sure, didn’t know Mike was having lunch with Sarah, and it put me in an awkward position. I paid for my salad and, after a moment’s hesitation, took it to a table by the front window, close enough to Mike and Sarah’s table for me to pick up at least some of their conversation but still out of Mike’s line of sight. I know what you’re thinking, but I was acting for his benefit. Mike was a friend. I owed it to him to learn enough to acquit him of the suspicions Brooke was going to have when she found out about this—to be honest, of the suspicions that I myself had at the sight of him and Sarah leaning across the table toward each other, talking earnestly.
    As soon as I sat down, though, they stopped talking and started working on the food in front of them. Sarah’s fork clinked against her plate. Mike drank his tea and ate his sandwich. I was halfway through my salad before Sarah said, “You’ve been ready a long time. I understand that.”
    She gave him time, but Mike didn’t say anything. He reached for his tea.
    “Like I said, I’m ready now, too,” she said.
    Mike drank. I couldn’t see his face, but his neck seemed flushed where it was visible above his collar.
    Sarah said, “I thought . . . I just wanted you to know. In case it mattered.”
    “It doesn’t,” Mike said. “I’m sorry.”
    “I waited too long then.” She sounded as if she might start crying, but I kept my eyes on my salad, avoiding any possibility of making eye contact. “I’ve let the best thing that ever happened to me just slip away,” she said.
    “Sarah, don’t.”
    “I know. I’m sorry.” She pushed her plate with its half-eaten quiche away from her. Mike pushed the rest of his sandwich into his mouth and stood with his tea, his chair scraping back behind him.
    “I’m sorry,” Sarah said again, getting to her feet. A glance showed me that tears had broken free and were trailing down her cheeks. She was a beautiful woman, even with tear-reddened eyes. She bumped the corner of the table as she went around it, and she strode for the door, her head down and her small purse clutched in one hand.
    Mike turned to watch her go, and his eyes focused on me.
    I chewed my mouthful of salad a few more times and swallowed. “Mike McMillan,” I said, as if in surprise. “Fancy seeing you here.”
    He glanced at the door, and I followed his gaze, but Sarah was gone. Mike took a breath and exhaled. Then he took two steps and pulled out the chair across from me. He dropped into it, leaning back with his legs out. When he didn’t say anything, I put another forkful of salad in my mouth.
    He cleared his throat. “Where’s Paul?”
    I shrugged, chewing.
    “Does Brooke have you following me?”
    I swallowed. “I’ve been in court. Bob Shorter’s preliminary hearing.”
    “Just my luck then. How’d the hearing go?”
    “Judge bound him over.”
    “So you lost.”
    “I didn’t win.”
    One corner of his mouth rose. “Never concede defeat,” he said.
    “‘Never say die.’ It sounds more dramatic, if you’re looking for a motto for me.”
    He sat, mouth pursed, head nodding thoughtfully. I started to take another bite of salad, then put my fork down. “I didn’t hear much,” I said. “You’ve been ready—now she’s ready. I assume the best thing that ever happened to her would be you.”
    His head moved equivocally. “The best and the worst.”
    “And now you’ve slipped away.”
    “I am marrying Brooke.”
    “And you stood by that.”
    “I did.”
    “Where is Brooke anyway?”
    “Fredericksburg, working with a company up there.”
    I nodded.
    “Sarah called me this morning, said she was having a personal crisis and needed to