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I walk the block and a half to the courthouse and enter the spacious lobby. Reception is a circular desk in the middle of the room, where, to the left, a hallway leads to courtrooms, and to the right is a waiting area for prospective jurors. It’s small, as we don’t have a lot of jury trials in Snow Creek. The city attorney’s office and the mayor’s office are upstairs.
“Hi, Rory,” the receptionist says to me.
“Hi, Elaine. I’m just going up to see Callie.”
“Is she expecting you?”
“Yep.”
“All right. Go on up.”
I ascend the staircase—it’s a circular staircase, which I always thought was off for such a small town—and walk toward the city attorney’s office.
Callie doesn’t have an office, just a cubicle, so she’s visible as soon as I turn the corner toward the city attorney’s wing. Her brown hair is tied back in her signature low ponytail, and she’s wearing a beige sweater and jeans. Casual. Nice. She’s on the phone and gestures for me to wait.
A few moments later, she ends her call. “All right,” she says to me. “Give me the number.”
I grab my phone out of my purse, pull up recent calls, and show her. “Here you go.”
“Colorado area code,” she says, more to herself than to me. “We can trace the number, but it won’t do us any good.”
“Why not?”
“Because it probably won’t amount to anything. Whoever we’re dealing with is…”
“Is what? This is Pat Lamone. How many numbers do you think he has?”
Callie chews her bottom lip.
“Callie…what are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking I need to talk to Donny. Right now.”
“You will not. You willnotleave me hanging like this. That’s not fair, Cal.”
“It’s just… I feel like our problem is almost converging with the Steels’ problems. Has Brock told you anything about what they’re going through yet?”
“No.”
The thought jars me more than a little. Brock and I aren’t serious. We’ve had all of two dates, maybe four or five if you count all the times we’ve been thrown together. There’s absolutely no reason why I should think he’d confide in me about all his family issues. Still, it irks me. I want to be involved. I want to help him if I can.
I’ve got to get out of that mind-set. I have my own issues to deal with—naked photos of me potentially spread across social media.
“Sorry,” Callie says. “I’ve got to talk to Donny. I’ll only be a minute, Ror.” She rises, leaves her desk, and walks into Donny’s office without knocking.
What now? I plunk my ass down in her chair, which is surprisingly comfortable with good lumbar support. Several manila folders are splayed across her desk, and her computer is open to—
I wrinkle my forehead. The computer is open to the county page. She’s looking up properties. Properties here. In Snow Creek.
The property displayed on her screen? It’s owned by Carmelita Mayer—the same property where Pat Lamone is currently renting a room.
But even that isn’t the most interesting thing about the house.
There’s a lien on the property, held by the Steel family.
Held, specifically, by something called the Steel Trust.
What the heck is she researching?
