Sense of Evil - Kay Hooper [10]
It made sense. Rafe nodded and rose to his feet, asking, “What about your partner?”
“She may want to take a look at the scenes later,” Isabel said, getting up as well. “Or maybe not. We tend to come at things from different angles.”
“Probably why your boss teamed you up.”
“Yes,” Isabel said. “Probably.”
Caleb Powell wasn't a happy man. Not only had he lost his efficient paralegal to the killer stalking Hastings, he had also lost a friend. There hadn't been the slightest romantic spark between Tricia and him, particularly since she was almost young enough to be his daughter, but there had been an immediate liking and respect from the day she first began working for him almost two years before.
He missed her. He missed her a lot.
And since the temp he had hired was still trying to figure out Tricia's filing system—and kept coming to him with questions about it—his office wasn't exactly his favorite place to be right now. All of which explained why he was sitting in the downtown coffee shop sipping an iced mocha and staring grimly through the front window at the media-fest still going on across the street at the town hall.
“Vultures,” he muttered.
“They have their jobs to do.”
He looked at the woman seated at the next table, not really surprised she had responded to his comment because people did that in small towns. Especially when there were only two customers in the place at the time. He didn't recognize her, but that didn't surprise him either; Hastings wasn't that small.
“Their jobs stop when they cross the line between informing the public and sensationalizing a tragedy,” he said.
“In a perfect world,” she agreed. “Last time I checked, we didn't live in a perfect world.”
“No, that's true.”
“So we have to cope with less than the ideal.” She smiled faintly. “I've even heard it said that the world would be better off without lawyers, Mr. Powell.”
Just a bit wary now, he said, “You have me at a disadvantage.”
“Sorry. My name is Hollis Templeton. I'm with the FBI.”
That did surprise him. An attractive brunette with a short, no-fuss hairstyle and disconcertingly clear blue eyes, she looked nothing at all like a tough federal cop. Slender almost to the point of thinness, she was wearing a lightweight summer blouse and floral skirt, an outfit eerily like the one Tricia had reportedly worn the day she was killed.
His disbelief must have been obvious; with another faint smile, she drew a small I.D. folder from her purse and handed it across to him.
He had seen a federal I.D. before. This one was genuine. Hollis Templeton was a Special Investigator for the FBI.
He returned the folder to her. “So this isn't a coincidental meeting,” he said.
“Actually, it is.” She shrugged. “It was hot as hell outside, so I came in for iced coffee. And to watch the circus across the street. I recognized you, though. They ran your photo in the local paper Tuesday after Tricia Kane was killed.”
“As you noted, Agent Templeton, I'm a lawyer. I don't really appreciate impromptu interviews with federal officials.”
“But you do want to find out who killed Tricia.”
He noticed that she didn't deny it was an interview. “I also don't appreciate typical law-enforcement tactics and questions designed to encourage me to talk carelessly to a cop.”
“Take all the care you like. If a lawyer doesn't know how much is . . . safe . . . to disclose, nobody does.”
“I think I find that offensive, Agent Templeton.”
“And I think you're awfully touchy for a man with nothing to hide, Mr. Powell. You know the drill better than most. We'll be talking to everyone who knew Tricia Kane. You were her employer and her friend, and that puts you pretty high up on our list.”
“Of suspects?”
“Of people to talk to. Something you know, something you saw or heard, may be the key we'll need to find her killer.”
“Then call me in to the police station for a formal interview or come see me at my office,” he said, getting to