Free The Wages of Sin by Nancy Allen Page A

chair. “Can’t you knock?”
    Rising from his seat, Ashlock greeted Elsie with a warm smile. “Elsie and I don’t stand on ceremony, Madeleine. Come on in; take my seat.”
    â€œAsh, no. Thank you. I can stand.”
    â€œI insist.”
    She sat behind his desk, because she knew it would make him uncomfortable if she stood while he sat. He was courtly in some old-­fashioned ways. She was a twenty-­first-­century woman, but couldn’t deny that it was nice to sit down after standing in court all morning.
    Elsie shifted her attention to the newcomer in the room. Flashing a smile, she reached across the desk and offered her hand. “Nice to meet you at last, Mr. Parsons. I’m Elsie Arnold, assistant prosecutor.”
    â€œMy pleasure. Call me Sam.” He took her hand and gave it a brisk shake, squeezing her fingers a shade too tightly. Elsie knew that message: he thought he’d show her who was boss.
    Guess we’ll both get to see what we’re made of by the time this case is done.
    Samuel Parsons leaned back in his chair. “Maybe now we can get down to business. The detective here says he’s got his forensic reports back. But he’s a little coy about what they reveal. You ready to show us what you got, Ashcroft?”
    Though it wasn’t a crime to recall a name incorrectly, Elsie glanced to Ashlock, to see his reaction.
    He smiled, just a little. “The name’s Ashlock.”
    â€œAshlock? Yeah. What’d I say?”
    â€œAshcroft,” Elsie said. “You called him Ashcroft. Like the former attorney general.”
    Parsons laughed, showing his full set of teeth. Elise took a moment to size him up. Parsons cut an impressive figure, with a luxurious head of salt-­and-­pepper hair, brushed straight back into a mane. He wore a pair of eyeglasses with black rectangular frames, perched on a broad nose. The vest of his gray suit had a gold chain from which a fob dangled, catching the sunlight that shone in through the window. Staring at the twinkle, Elsie pondered whether the vest covered a paunch.
    Glancing at Ashlock’s figure as he leaned against the door frame, Elsie reflected that he never wore a vest. Didn’t need to, she thought, looking at his flat stomach. Nothing to hide.
    Ashlock walked over to a gray metal file cabinet in the corner of his office and pulled out a manila file folder. “I made a copy for each of you,” he said, handing off sheets of paper.
    â€œDid you e-­mail this?” asked Madeleine. “I don’t think I saw it.”
    â€œDidn’t send it yet. It’s sensitive. I wanted to discuss it in person first.”
    â€œWhat you got here, Detective?” Parsons asked, adjusting his eyeglasses.
    â€œForensic report on the deceased, Jessie Rose Dent.”
    â€œThe murder victim—­the mother? Madeleine, did you tell me she had AIDS? That what this is about?” Parsons asked.
    Madeleine leaned in toward the Attorney General, confirming their earlier conversation. Elsie scanned the report that Ashlock handed to her. The words on the pages gave her a sinking feeling in her gut. She looked up at Ashlock; their eyes met.
    â€œOh shit,” she said, and he nodded in response.
    â€œElsie!” Madeleine said, but Parsons broke in. Glancing from Elsie to Madeleine, he said, “We got a problem, Elsie? Tell me it’s not a worse PR wrinkle than the pregnant woman with AIDS.” He pulled a tragic face.
    Ashlock said, “Forensic tests showed some surprising facts.”
    â€œLike what? Let’s cut to the chase.” Parsons folded the report in half and focused on Ashlock, looking over the top of his eyeglasses.
    â€œBlood tests show the victim had controlled substances in her system at the time of death.”
    â€œShit,” Parsons said. Madeleine didn’t seem to notice.
    â€œWhat kind of drugs?” Madeleine asked. Setting the