The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [95]
“What . . . what is going on?” Mitz had started stuttering. Perspiration dotted his upper brow and Rainie figured in the last ten seconds, he’d sweat through his tan linen suit. She scooted in a little closer, letting her hand fall to his prized briefcase and stroking the leather almost lovingly.
“You’ve been trying very hard to meet me, Mr. Mitz,” she said.
“Well, yes. I left several messages in Virginia. I didn’t know. . . . When did you get back in town?”
“Make you uncomfortable?”
“Well, yes. But, but, it’s not bad either!” The lawyer perked up. “I mean, I wish you would’ve called first. I would’ve brought the whole file, been better prepared. But you are here now and I have wanted to talk to you.”
“About my past,” Rainie said knowingly.
“Oh, in all honesty, we know all details about your past. Even the, well, ‘incident.’ I assure you, he’s not concerned about that. Doesn’t bother him a bit.”
“What?” Now it was Rainie’s turn to feel confused. She glanced at Luke. He was shaking his head slightly, equally baffled. Shit.
“You’ve spoken to him, correct?” Mitz was saying in a merry rush. “I gave him your number in Virginia and he promised to call. After all, it seemed more appropriate for him to personally give you the news.”
The hang ups, Rainie thought. Two days of hang ups she’d naively assumed were Mitz. Why is it wrong to assume? Because it makes an ass out of u and me.
“What news?” she heard herself ask.
“The estate, Ms. Conner. The will. That’s what I do, you know. Estate planning. I’m his attorney.”
“Whose attorney?”
“Ooooooooh deeeaaaaarrrr.” Mitz drew up short. He blinked behind his glasses. “He didn’t call you, did he? He said he would, but he didn’t. It’s the wild card, you know. Estate planning, it is an intense, personal experience. You never know how your client is going to react.”
“Mr. Mitz, you start explaining now or I swear I’m going to break every bone in your overly educated body.”
Mr. Mitz ducked his head. He blinked again. And he said in a small voice, “I work for Ronald Dawson. Ronnie thinks—we think—that he’s your father. Which would make you, Ms. Conner, his sole surviving heir.”
26
Portland, Oregon
“You have a father?”
“Not bloody likely.”
“You don’t seem very happy about it.”
“Happy about it? Happy about it!” Four hours later, Rainie stood in the middle of the one-bedroom deluxe hotel suite in downtown Portland and whirled on Kimberly Quincy as if the girl didn’t have a brain in her head. Rainie had made the two-hour drive back to the city in one hour and thirty minutes. She’d cut off two semi’s, flashed half a dozen cars, and nearly rear-ended a police cruiser. Only the fact that the state trooper was a personal friend of Luke’s had saved her from a speeding ticket or worse. She should’ve taken a deep breath then. She hadn’t.
Now she started pacing the living room of the suite, where Quincy and his daughter were registered as Larry and Barbara Jones. Quincy was catching a badly needed nap in the bedroom. Kimberly had been staring blindly at some network’s TGIF TV-lineup before Rainie had burst through the door. Far from being wary of Rainie’s mood, the aspiring psych student seemed grateful for the distraction. Rainie now understood how guinea pigs felt. If Kimberly gave her that deep, probing stare one more time, Rainie was going to start pushing brightly colored buttons in return for pellets. Then she was going to bounce said pellets off of Kimberly’s blond head.
Rainie held up her hand. “One,” she ticked off crisply. “Let’s consider the father-to-be. Ronald Dawson, aka Ronnie. He’s a thug. Better yet, a convicted thug. The man has spent the last thirty years incarcerated for aggravated murder. He was only paroled last year because at the age of sixty-eight, he’s too arthritic to be considered a menace to society. In his thirties, however, he gutted two men in a bar fight with