Page 27 of Fatal Pattern

“The usual range. Surgical errors, misdiagnoses, pharmaceutical issues,” McCrary said.

Blade listened, though his peripheral vision kept catching the painting’s swirling patterns. Something about the repetitive nature of the brushstrokes made his eyes want to follow them deeper into the canvas.

A sharp pain shot through his shin. He glanced over to find Tori’s eyes boring into him, her foot still pressed against his leg under the table. Right. Focus.

“So no recent cases that might have generated threats or unusual attention?” Blade asked, forcing himself to look away from the wall.

McCrary shook his head. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Most cases never make it to trial. They settle out of court. Don wasn’t the type to make enemies. Which is why this is all so . . . strange. For someone to murder Don so brutally, it doesn’t make sense.”

Blade kept his pen moving. “We’ll need a list of every case Florek was working in the last year. Especially anything still active.”

McCrary’s gaze slid to Yevonne, then back. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Attorney-client privilege.”

Across the table, Yevonne gave a quick nod and tapped something on her iPad.

McCrary leaned back, folding his hands. “Even internally, we’re careful about access. I’m sure you understand.”

Blade didn’t answer. The page in his notebook stayed open, pen hovering.

Yevonne’s head lifted from the screen. “Richard—” She angled the iPad toward him. “They’re asking for you now.”

McCrary frowned at the message but was already pushing back his chair. “I’m sorry. Apparently, I’m needed rather urgently.” He straightened his cuff. “Detective, Doctor—it’s been a pleasure. Drop by anytime.”

Blade stood with him. “We just might.”

McCrary’s smile never touched his eyes. He exited with the same confident gait he’d entered with.

Blade wrote one word in his notebook—stonewalling.

The painting on the far wall caught his attention again, pulling at the edge of his focus until Tori stood, breaking the line of sight.

“If you’ll follow me,” Yevonne said. “I’ll take you to the attorney handling Florek’s case load.”

Yevonne strode ahead, spine straight as a ruler, heels punching out a steady tempo down the corridor. Blade tracked motion through the glass-front offices they passed. One guy racked up steps circling his office with a phone pressed to his ear. Another leaned into his desk, chewing the arm of his glasses, eyes locked on a tower of briefs. Most sat hunched over monitors and files, pens twitching, fingers moving across the keyboards like lizards darting across hot pavement.

They stopped at a corner office whose door was already open. Inside, a massive conference table ran the length of the space, covered in open files, legal pads, and color-coded binders. Three people clustered there, mid-discussion, bright yellow highlighters moving in unison. The wall of glass behind them showcased the downtown skyline all the way to the ocean, blue haze blurring the horizon.

The guy at the head of the table stood, flashing a grin fit for a billboard. Tall, broad across the shoulders, sun-bleached hair swept just messy enough to pass as casual. Blade’s first thought was “Ken doll meets Malibu surfboard,” only this one wore a tailored navy suit instead of board shorts.

“Ryan,” Yevonne said crisply, motioning toward Blade and Tori. “Detective St. James and Dr. Crew are here about Don Florek.”

“Ryan Petersen. Pleasure to meet you, sir.” Ryan’s handshake was firm. “Y’all can call me Ryan,” he said, the easy drawl stretching vowels just enough to give it away. “Always had the utmost respect for law enforcement, Detective. If I hadn’t gone the law school route, I’d probably be doin’ what you do.”

Beside Blade, Tori tilted her head, already pegging it. “That accent. Louisiana?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said without missing a beat. “Born and raised. But I went to law school here in Florida. Fell in love with the beach, and of course, golf. So I never left.”

He took a closer look at Ryan’s face. The black eye wasn’t fresh. Yellow bruising at the edges, deeper purple in the center. A shallow cut marred his cheekbone. Lower down, a fading bruise along his jaw traced in clean lines, like it had come from a single, direct impact.

Blade kept it casual. “Rough weekend?”

Ryan reached up, thumb brushing his jaw with a sheepish grin. “This? That’s what I get for walkin’ too close behind somebody on the driving range. Colleague of mine whacked me good on the backswing.”

Sure he did. The symmetry of those marks looked more like fists than a nine iron. He pressed, just enough to feel for a seam. “What’s your friend’s name?”

“Harris Zirinsky in contracts. He’s probably still mortified about it. Happened Thursday morning.”

Blade scribbled it into his notebook, quick and neat. Plenty for someone at the station to run down later. “Funny,” he said. “My deputies didn’t note those injuries.”