Chapter 16

The doors opened on a plush lobby area. Dashiell and Regina stepped out and turned to the left. There, behind a set of glass doors sat a reception desk. The desk was backed by dark wood paneling. Gold letters spelled out the name of the firm, Scofield and Associates.

Dashiell shook his head. Leave it to the old man to hog all the glory. Most other law firms had at least two partner names on the wall. Crowell and Moring. Powell Goldstein. Wilmer Hale. But William Scofield, the family patriarch, had insisted on top, and only billing. It was a subtle reminder that even though other lawyers might make partner, compared to the Scofields, they were merely associates.

Dashiell stepped forward and held the door for Regina. She walked up to the reception desk and Dashiell stood next to her. “Dashiell Aldridge and Regina Robins to see Peter Scofield,” he said.

“Yes, of course Mr. Aldridge. If you’ll please have a seat, I’ll let Mr. Scofield know you’re here.”

Dashiell looked over in the indicated direction. There was a large slab of white tiled floor, upon which sat several large plush chairs, upholstered in what looked like calf leather. There was a large table, upon which sat a variety of legal publications, as well as copies of the Economist and Foreign Affairs.

“Mr. Scofield will be with you in just a moment,” the receptionist, a young man in his early twenties said. “May I get you something to drink? Water? Soda?”

“No thanks,” Regina said. The young man looked at Dashiell, who shook his head.

Dashiell settled into one of the large chairs as Regina paced around.

Two or three minutes passed. Dashiell was just about to grab the copy of the Economist when movement caught his eye. There was a spiral staircase in the middle of an open area, off to the left of the reception area. A well dressed man was walking down it. He appeared to be dressed in well tailored slacks, an Oxford blue shirt, dark tie and suspenders. He wasn’t wearing a jacket.

When he reached the lobby floor, Dashiell noted expensive-looking black leather shoes, polished to a mirror shine. He coughed lightly, and when Regina looked his way, he thrust his chin toward the man. She turned to look at him as he came up, extending a hand.

“Mr. Aldridge? Detective Robins?” Dashiell nodded an affirmative. “Peter Scofield. I wish I could say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but under the circumstances I think you’ll understand my lack of enthusiasm.”

“Of course, Mr. Scofield,” Regina said, shaking his hand. “We’re sorry for your loss.”

Dashiell levered himself out of the chair and also shook Scofield’s hand. “What was it you wanted to see me about?”

“Right to the point, I like that,” Peter Scofield nodded. “Please, come to my office. What I need to tell you needs to be said in private.” Dashiell nodded and Peter Scofield headed back for the stairs. Dashiell and Regina followed. He led them down a hall on the upper floor to a large set of heavy oak doors. He held them open as they walked in to a large office. The entire far wall was floor-to-ceiling windows, with a view out over the downtown area. Thanks to the height restrictions in the D.C. building code, Dashiell could see the Capitol.

Peter Scofield shut the heavy doors and came around to his desk, leaning against it.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice. I understand that in murder investigations, the first twenty four hours are the most important.”

“Well, Mr. Scofield, you should know,” Regina said, casting a sidelong glance at Dashiell. “We haven’t officially ruled this case a homicide yet.”

Dashiell opened his mouth to protest when Peter Scofield made it unnecessary. “That’s why I called you here, Detective Robins. I wanted to tell you I think I know who killed my mother.”

Dashiell and Regina both froze. They looked at each other for a moment, before turning their eyes back to Peter Scofield. He answered the obvious question.

“I believe it was my sister, Elizabeth.”

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