First Kill All the Lawyers by Sarah Shankman Page A

me?”
    “Maybe.”
    His voice dropped. “Do you hate me that much?”
    “Maybe.”
    “They say hate’s just the flip side of love.”
    She put the car in reverse, and he jumped back as it began to move. She called through the rain, “I wouldn’t count on it.”
    She didn’t even want to think about what Beau had said. It was too crazy. It’d make her crazy. She punched in a tape of Linda Ronstadt’s greatest hits, turned up the volume, and sang along at the top of her lungs all the way home through the driving rain.
    When she got there, George was in the study reading his mail with a magnifying glass. “Have you ever noticed that it’s bills that come in the largest print?” he asked.
    Samantha gave him a hug. He hugged her back. They made her feel safe—his hugs.
    “Jehoshaphat, you’re wet! What have you been up to this beautiful morning?”
    George loved gray days. He said they gave him an excuse to do nothing but read.
    Samantha threw herself into a chair facing her uncle and told him about her meeting with Beau, editing out the personal part, sharing with him what she’d learned about Ridley’s death.
    “What do you think he was doing up there in Watkin County, anyway?” she asked. “And I wonder how long he’d been there. How long has he been dead? Did he really go to San Francisco? Why? And why was Queen so funny about the trip? Who would want to kill Forrest Ridley?”
    “Whoa. Wait a minute. Who said someone killed him? How do you know he didn’t tumble over the falls, just like Dodd said?”
    “I didn’t say he didn’t tumble. The words just popped out. But now that I’ve said them, I know that’s it. It was murder, George.”
    He peered sharply at his niece, who had the same sixth sense, the same gift and curse, that he had always possessed. “You feel it?”
    “In my bones.”
    He shifted in his chair. “Well, we’d better get busy.” He chewed on the earpiece of his glasses for a few moments, then said, “You know, Sam, when you got back to the Constitution ’s morgue, you ought to do some looking into land up that way.”
    “Land? What does that have to do with the price of rice?”
    “I don’t know. Just a feeling.”
    They grinned at each other.
    “But there’s lots of money changing hands, big money, as the city pushes its way north,” George continued. “There are some folks who commute from almost as far as Monroeville to work in Atlanta. Land values have gone through the roof up there.”
    “How about drugs? Didn’t you say sometimes one can almost ski in those mountains on the white powder?”
    George shook his head. “Could be. But I don’t think so. I think land’s what you ought to be studying. And I’ll do some asking around.”
    “How do you know Forrest Ridley wasn’t just doing a little fishing and was robbed and killed?”
    “Man didn’t fish.”
    “Camping?”
    “Not the type.”
    “Hiking?” Sam asked. “I know he went for long walks. Their housekeeper said so.”
    “Could be.”
    “But you don’t think so?”
    “No, I don’t.”
    “Then what do you think?”
    “I think the whole thing’s odd, that’s what I think. I think Forrest Ridley was the kind of man who, except for walking his dog, thought of exercise as the reach between his office door and that of a limo or taxi. I think he mostly spent his time working and making money, unless…”
    “Unless what?”
    “Well, Liza told you he wasn’t really happy with Queen.”
    “So?”
    “So cherchez la femme, my dear.”
    “You’re a dirty old man, George.”
    “Never said I wasn’t.”

Seven
    “You’re doing what?”
    “Hoke, you’re shouting. I’m not deaf.” Samantha held the phone away from her ear.
    “No, but you sure as hell must be dumb. What do you mean, you’re working on the Forrest Ridley story? There is no Forrest Ridley story. We have an obit writer, thank you. And a fine job she does, for an old lady who should have retired ten years ago.”
    “I