Rich Blood (Jason Rich #1)(28)

Just the thought of it made him crave a shrimp po’boy and a beer, and he shook off the images. Standing on a wooden dock that jutted out from the hotel parking lot, Jason could see boats on both sides of the Highway 431 overpass.

And in the north and south directions, he could see billboards with his smiling face on them.

IN A WRECK? GET RICH.

Jason cringed, feeling the butterflies in his stomach. He hadn’t seen Jana in three years. His visit to her in the jail might cause a commotion, given the press coverage the case had generated. Izzy had sent an email that morning, saying that the messages from reporters were beginning to pile up. They needed to answer them soon.

Soon, Jason thought, finishing his coffee and trying to calm his beating heart. He hadn’t worked as a lawyer in over ninety days, and it felt weird being in a suit again. He had actually lost some weight in rehab, so his trousers felt baggy and his coat a little big.

The heat wasn’t helping. Jason guessed the temperature was in the midnineties with an index well above a hundred. Sweat beads were beginning to form on his forehead.

While he hadn’t taken to the lake as a kid, Jason had gradually learned his way around. If a person took a boat under the overpass and drove it about a quarter mile past Wyeth Drive and Signal Point, they’d eventually hit the Veterans Memorial Bridge. Hang a right and look to the left, and the boatsman would see Buck Island, where the rich and powerful of Marshall County lived.

And where Braxton Waters was murdered on the Fourth of July.

Jason took a last sip of coffee and flung the empty cup in a trash can. Then he climbed into his Porsche. He’d already packed his briefcase, which looked professional but contained only a couple of blank yellow notebooks. He’d hoped that a cup of coffee and the smell and feel of the lake would relax him, but he’d had no such luck. If anything, he was more on edge.

Jason fired up the sports car. He wished he could say it was good to be home.





21


The Marshall County Sheriff’s Office was housed in a redbrick building on Blount Avenue. After trying and failing to find a parking spot in the lot, Jason parked on a side road and put a dollar in the meter. He then walked the block and a half to the entrance. By the time he trudged through the door, his sweat had started trickling down the small of his back.

He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and walked to the front desk. His heart sped up as he locked eyes with the desk clerk. In his eleven years as an attorney, Jason had never been to visit a client in jail. All his cases had been civil personal injury matters. Nothing criminal.

The clerk was a middle-aged woman with short dark hair and glasses. “You an attorney?” Her voice sounded tired and scratchy.

Jason cleared his throat. “Yes.” It was the truth after all.

“Who’re you here to see?”

“Jana Rich Waters.”

She blinked. “What’s your name?”

“Jason Rich.”

“You related to her?”

“I’m her brother.”

She blinked again and cocked her head. “Jason Rich. As in ‘Call 1-800 GET RICH’?”

He put his finger to his mouth. “Don’t tell anyone, OK?”

“You look different in person than on your billboards.”

Jason didn’t know what to say to that, so he kept his mouth shut.

“I pass three of ’em coming to work. You got Highway 431 covered up.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He smiled, but she didn’t.

“So, are you her attorney, or are you just here for a visit?” the woman asked.

Jason answered on instinct. He didn’t want to have to come back if visiting hours were later in the day. “This is an attorney consultation.”

“All right then,” she said, looking to her right and pushing a couple of buttons on an electronic box on the wall. Seconds later, a buzzer sounded, and a metal door to Jason’s left slid open. The clerk led him down a long hallway and into a tiny room containing only a folding table and two aluminum chairs. “An officer will bring the detainee down in a few minutes.”

“Thank you,” Jason said, his mouth dry, his heart now racing.

“You all right?” the woman asked. “You’re sweating pretty bad.”

“I’m fine,” he managed, running his hand over his damp forehead again. “Just not used . . .” He stopped himself. “Fine,” he repeated.

She shrugged and shut the door behind her.

Jason tried to take a deep breath but found that it was impossible. All he could manage was several short, choppy gasps. Was he about to hyperventilate?

He reached for the table and tried to steady himself. Then he slowly sat down, opened his briefcase, and took out a blank yellow pad and two pens. He set them on the table and placed the case on the linoleum floor.

A cacophony of sounds erupted outside in the hallway. People talking. Someone laughing. Murmurs. A cough. The same buzzer sound he’d heard when he was let in. The jingle of chains. Footsteps.

Jason grabbed his pen and wrote the date and his name on the top of the pad, just like he was in high school about to take a test. He snorted at the ridiculous notion and, for a split second, almost relaxed.

Three hard knuckle raps ended that sensation in an instant. His stomach clenched as the door swung open. A thick-armed officer stepped inside. Behind the man, Jason heard whimpering.