“Yeah, that’s a great way to have the police knocking on my door to arrest me for possession,” I snorted. “Or I could end up in some basement, kidnapped by a drug cartel that thinks they can get a huge ransom for me, only that when they find out my mom’s buried in debt, they’ll just kill me, and you’d come home to find my decapitated head hanging at the door.”
“You know what, you could write a book with that imagination.”
“No drugs, Gina.”
“Okay. I’ll keep thinking. Maybe I’ll check your horoscope. I’ll let you know if I come up with something.”
I scanned the room, eyes flitting from the open dossier to the car keys and the crumpled bills by the door. Money. Now, I had plenty. I grabbed a stack of notes, maybe ten thousand pounds, and shoved it into the bottom of my bag.
“Wait, Vera.” Gina’s voice cut through my thoughts as I reached for the door. “Are you sure you don’t know who sent this?”
I bit my lip, overwhelmed. Fear, unease, excitement, and anger all tangled together in my head. My brain hadn’t processed the whirlwind of information I’d received in the last 30 minutes just yet.
In hindsight, it’s easier to piece it all together, but at that moment, I only had one thing clear: I had received a falsified document. I, the lawyer of Julian Garros, a document falsifier. And I didn’t believe in coincidences.
“No,” I told Gina, “But I’m going to find out.”
I grabbed the forged papers from my nightstand, stuffed them into my bag, and headed out the door.
* * *
“Wait, Vera,” Officer Alonso says, flipping through his papers.
The woman with the long face stops writing.
“Is there a problem?”
Alonso strokes his chin. André, standing close by, places a reassuring hand on my shoulder, letting out a heavy sigh.
“You skipped a part,” André says, his voice steady.
I frown, trying to grasp what I might have missed. But Alonso looks relieved at André’s intervention.
“That’s right. Let’s rewind a bit, shall we?”
My confusion lasts only a few seconds. Of course. I just mentioned Julian Garros, but I haven’t given them more information about the case. He’s another piece of this puzzle. An important piece. I smile.
“Okay. I’m sorry. Let’s go back to Thursday.”
Alonso returns the smile, pleased with my cooperation.
I know this is what they want me to tell them.
Chapter 4
André claimed he needed my help. At least, that’s what he said when he asked me to come along to the prison with him. His client was Timotheo Larousse. You know how the mega ritch are—they only trust their own. But what I sensed in his tone was that André was doing me a favour. I would get to see how my boss interrogated Larousse, how he extracted information from him. I could learn firsthand what I needed to do with Garros.
“I’ll be there,” I said, barely pausing as I dashed back out the door. Bastian questioned where we were going, butinstead of replying, I stuck my tongue out at him, a childish grin spreading across my face. He sometimes makes me forget I’m supposed to be a professional.
So far, my Thursday was shaping up to be pretty amazing.
I wasn’t ready for the sight that greeted me. The man before me was short, with thinning white hair and a scraggly, greying beard, as if he hadn’t had a decent meal in ages. Larousse didn’t fit the image of rich and powerful I had in my mind.
André and I took our seats beside him.
“Well, Timotheo.” André’s voice shifted to suit the situation, firm, authoritative, yet warm and familiar, like a father guiding his son. “Let’s go over the facts for a moment to help my colleague understand the situation, shall we?”
Larousse relaxed. He stretched out his fingers and placed them on the table.
