Free Mistletoe and Murder in Las Vegas by Colleen Collins Page B

antique desk looked pricey, the rug was threadbare and other furniture on the shabby side. Not a stretch to see that Joanne Galvin was starting her law practice on little money and couldn’t afford to work on the cheap.
    Which led him to one conclusion.
    “Dita Randisi doesn’t have the money to hire a criminal lawyer, am I right? Or the kind of money this kind of case requires.”
    Joanne arched an imposing eyebrow. "I’m not going to discuss her case with you, Mr. McGill.”
    At that moment, a scraggly bag of gray sauntered past, its gray tail at a bent angle. Pausing, its copper eyes took them in before it cackled a mew, then continued on its way.
    "I'm not trying to discuss Miss Randisi’s case , Miss Galvin,” he continued. “Just asking why you are no longer representing her.”
    "A federal special agent should know better than to ask that. Does the term attorney-client privilege ring a bell?”
    “No, but maybe if you hum a few bars…” He flashed his best killer smile.
    Those green eyes now looked about as soft as a chunk of concrete. “Not funny.”
    He dropped the smile, feeling like a dumbass. “Sorry. Shall we start over?”
    “Only if you have a subpoena that obligates me to testify in front of a grand jury, which you would have served by now. Good day, Mr. McGill.”
    As she started to close the door, he panicked, pressed his shoulder against it to keep it open. An impulsive move, but he’d spent too many years searching for the Timepiece Arsonist to be cut off from the only source who might be able to tell him something, anything, about Dita Randisi.
    “Talk to me, Joanne. Please.”
    For a long, stretched-out moment they stood there, eye-locked through the foot-wide door opening, so close he could see flecks of gold buried in the depths of those green eyes.
    The seconds slowed…then froze in place.
    Maybe it was the faint scent of coconut that brought back memories of a long-ago trip to Hawaii, or the way a curl of hair lay on her brow, but for a crazy instant he saw Paula. Felt the familiar stab of remorse that he’d turned his back on her when she reached out for help.
    A slight, almost imperceptible, movement underneath his shoulder pulled him back to the present. Gradually it registered that Joanne was trembling against the other side of the door.
    “Go away,” she whispered.
    He stepped back, chastened. He’d frightened her, which shamed him. Technically, he also broke the law by forcing the door open, which she had to be thinking, too.
    “I’m sorry,” he murmured.
    She said nothing. Just stared at him, her hand visibly trembling on the door.
    “I won’t do that again,” he said.
    As if there was any hope for a second meeting. He’d blown it. Nevertheless, he stood there, holding her gaze, wondering how he could fix this mess. A chilly blast of air hit him. Particles of dust spit on his face, stung his arms.
    “Close the door,” he said, hunching against the wind. “You’ll catch cold dressed like that.”
    She closed it, but not all the way. Through a crack in the door, she stared at him. Couldn’t be all that frightened if she didn’t slam shut the door and lock it, right?
    But in his mind’s eye, he could still hear the strain in her voice, the shaking of her hand. Played tough guy when it wasn’t necessary. You’re a federal agent, not some low-life thug .
    He turned and walked away, his body tense, grudgingly accepting that Harley was right when he said Mike had let Paula’s ghost undermine his life.
    If Joanne wanted to make a stink about his behavior, she could file a trespassing charge, a felony, against ATF. Which would confuse its lawyers as there was no Steve McGill, special agent, on their roster. Even if she described the SUV he drove, they’d still be clueless because he had leased it under a bogus ID.
    But if she forwarded a description of him, and it made it to Harley’s desk, well…his boss might stay mum, or be so fed up with Mike’s rogue