Free Sticks & Stones (A Hollis Morgan Mystery) by R. Franklin James Page A

Mark a pointed look as they shook hands all around. With his full head of wavy white hair, Fields looked to be in his fifties, although Hollis’ research had revealed he was actually seventy-two. Known to be a fanatical swimmer, he had a toned physique and smooth, tanned skin.
    “Well, it took some nerve to face me on my own turf,” Fields said.
    Wade Bartlett pushed the request for continuance across the desk to Fields.
    Fields glanced down. “Despite what your friend said about me, Ms. Morgan and Mr. Haddan, I am not a crook and I have nothing to prove. But you do.”
    Mark gave Hollis an imperceptible wave -off. He wanted to respond. “Mr. Fields, we have just been added to the team defending Ms. Briscoe. We need more time to prepare. We are hoping you will be fair.”
    Hollis could tell from Fields’ amused look he was not moved. She turned to face him directly. “We won’t lie to you ; we think you could be guilty of fraud, fraud on the group of people who can least afford it. But we both know that without Catherine Briscoe’s case paperwork we are at a grave disadvantage. If you are innocent, then we will prove that too.”
    Fields picked up the paper and scribbled his signature. “You’ve got sixty days, Ms. Morgan.”
     
    Hollis almost rang the doorbell to the condo before she remembered Cathy would not be answering. She rustled through her purse and pulled out the keys Evelyn Briscoe had given her. Inside, the sole illumination in the living room was a sliver of sunlight peeking through the drawn drapes. The room smelled of the stuffiness that comes from not having an occupant to circulate the air. Hollis pulled back the curtains, and the harsh glare made the room look even more desolate. She dumped three empty boxes in the living room and took two into the back bedroom, which Cathy had converted into an office.
    The office, disheveled from the police search, had fingerprint powder everywhere. Evelyn called her that morning to say the police had released the apartment and removed the crime scene tape. The thought of what Cathy must have gone through made Hollis shiver. And if she let her mind run with that thought, she could imagine there was a chance Cathy knew her killer.
    Everything had been taken apart and haphazardly put back. Pushing aside her feelings of dismay, Hollis went through the room and quickly filled two boxes.
    Next she went into the master bedroom, where Cathy’s interior design talents were evident. Hollis remembered when, after months of searching, she had purchased her dream comforter and matching bed skirt. The soft, dove gray and ivory contemporary pattern was complemented by a floral mauve area rug. She went through the dresser and began placing Cathy’s clothes and jewelry in packing boxes. She was surprised that it didn’t take long at all.
    A life could be so easily packaged.
    Hollis sat down on the edge of the bed. The police must have been satisfied with rifling through the dresser and closet; the rest of the room was only in mild disarray.
    “Talk to me , Cathy,” Hollis said out loud. She looked around slowly. A picture on the dresser caught her eye. It was all of them: Cathy, Hollis, and Marla at the Marriott Courtyard in San Francisco, drinks in hand, smiles all around. The three of them used to be close. They weren’t constant companions but they were life allies. Hollis felt a rare soft spot for the friendship. That day they swore to always be there for each other, no matter what man was in their lives. That had gotten a laugh, since none of them were in any significant relationships. Two years later, Marla was still single, practicing law in Greece, and Cathy—Cathy was dead.
    Shaking off her dark thoughts, Hollis jumped up and returned to the office. They’d all shared their house keys with each other, except Hollis, who didn’t want her friends’ keys because she didn’t want to give out her own key. She reasoned that her prison time could complicate things.