Page 65 of Fatal Pattern

Janice slid into the booth beside Tori just as their waiter appeared.

“¡Janice!” the waiter said. “¿Cómo estás, mi amor? ¿Lo de siempre?”

“Sí, Carlos. Y tráeme el queso blanco también.”

Tori jumped in without missing a beat. “Yo también, por favor.”

They chattered with the waiter in Spanish, and Blade caught maybe half the exchange. Something about cheese, definitely. And he was pretty sure he heard the word tequila somewhere in there, which made him nervous about what Tori had just ordered.

When this was all over, he should ask Tori to teach him Spanish. His patrol days had given him enough to handle basic situations, but conversations like this left him feeling like a tourist in his own county.

“Detective St. James.” Janice extended a manicured hand across the table. “You sounded mysterious on the phone.”

“Thanks for meeting us on short notice.”

Blade studied her face as they shook hands. Friendly enough, but he caught the exhaustion lurking behind her professional smile. The skepticism that came with decades of cops sending her clients to jail. This wouldn’t be an easy sell.

He couldn’t lead with the conspiracy theory. Had to build trust first.

“How’s your caseload these days? I know defense attorneys are swamped with the backlog.”

“Brutal. Three trials next month, two appeals pending, and a rich client who thinks calling me at three a.m. constitutes legal strategy.” Janice’s laugh held no humor. “But that’s not why you dragged me to my favorite taco joint.”

Carlos returned with a fishbowl-sized margarita for Janice and bowls of white queso for both women. Blade wondered if he should wait until she finished the drink before making his pitch, but time was working against them.

“Your client Damien Sullivan reached out with information about a cold case. Problem is, he’s in administrative segregation. Warden’s refusing visitors and phone calls.”

“Administrative segregation usually means he ticked someone off.” Janice dipped a chip in the queso. “What kind of information?”

Blade played his next card. “The Crew murders.”

Janice’s chip stopped halfway to her mouth. Her gaze shifted to Tori, and Blade watched recognition dawn in her eyes. The professional mask slipped for just a moment, replaced by something deeper. Empathy. Understanding.

She wasn’t looking at just another cop and consultant anymore. She was looking at the surviving daughter of a case that had made headlines across the state.

“Honey, you might need this drink more than I do.” Janice pushed the margarita toward Tori.

“I’m good, thanks.”

This was his opening. Blade leaned forward, lowering his voice to avoid being overheard.

“Janice, I’m going to tell you something that could end careers. Maybe lives. We believe there was a cover-up. Chief Barclay buried evidence. Damien claims there’s a second murder book with the real investigation. We think he’s the only person who knows what was in it and where it is.”

Janice lifted the margarita and drew out a slow drink, the rim leaving a smear of melted salt on her lip. She lowered the glass with care, squared it against the table’s edge.

“Let me make sure I understand what you’re asking. You want me to go into a maximum-security prison, meet with my client under the protection of attorney-client privilege, and ask him about evidence that may or may not exist in an unsolved case that he was supposedly involved in but that has been sealed six ways to Sunday for a quarter of a century.”

Blade dragged a thumb across his jaw, mouth flattening into something like a grin.

“I might not have been so concise, but you got it.”

Janice scraped the salt from her lip with her tongue, then locked on Tori. She launched into Spanish, fast and seamless, too quick for Blade to grab more than a word here, a phrase there. Tori matched her, steady and sure.

He tracked what mattered. The body language. Janice cocked her brows like a question. Tori answered with a clipped nod. The rhythm between them shifted. Light at first, then heavy, both of their faces sharpening, the easy edges gone.

His lungs stalled. The noise in the restaurant blurred to a low hum. His focus stuck on Tori, on the tug-of-war written across her face. Rule-follower versus justice-chaser. If she gave the wrong answer, their whole case went down with it.

Janice nodded and patted Tori’s shoulder. “I’ll do it. But on my terms. I go in as his legal counsel. Everything stays under privilege. I ask your questions, I bring back his answers. Only if he agrees.”