Spencer Lynch was flicking the edge of a silver business card with a manicured nail. His watch, Mike noticed, was so expensive it was surely one of those that was ‘looked after for the next generation’, rather than owned.
‘You drive a 5-series, am I right?’ Mike strode straight into it, extending a hand for a pumped greeting that suggested a mutual admiration team was about to form.
‘I would be impressed, Detective, but you no doubt have access to the vehicle register.’
Lynch’s voice was like warm chocolate. Mike predicted it would slide down easily with about half the judges in the region; the other half would gag on it. He therefore estimated that Lynch won around half the time. Divorce lawyers were like baseball players – anything above thirty per cent was a good hit rate.
‘Ah, haven’t checked that source, to be honest. I’m Detective Mike Francis. Thank you for coming in at such short notice.’
Lynch took a seat, smoothing down his tie and pinching his trousers to retain the perfect seam. ‘I was told to. In no uncertain terms. By a woman who let me believe she was a detective but turns out to be some kind of, uh, secretary.’
The final word seemed to imply that Lucy’s occupation was somehow catching and wouldn’t respond to antibiotics.
Mike breezed through it. ‘Ah, she’s a force of nature, that girl. When she’s full on, few can resist. Look, I know you’re anxious to get back to something billable, so if you can give me a couple of answers, we’ll get done as fast as possible. Deal, counsellor?’
Lynch gave a smug inclination of the head.
‘So, Megan Cassavette. I’ve only seen photos. Do they do her justice?’
Lynch smirked. Mike reminded himself to keep his composure; easy to flail about and drown in this much oil.
‘She’s a very attractive woman, Detective. Occupational hazard of being a divorce lawyer. You meet the good and bad.’
‘A little like my job, Spencer. Can I call you Spencer? I mean, we both meet people of all sorts, often at the worst moments of their lives, and at their most vulnerable.’
Lynch crossed his legs, inching the chair back as he did so to ensure no part of his bespoke tailoring touched a police table. ‘I’m their lawyer, but often they want a… human touch.’
Mike crossed his arms and gave a level gaze. ‘Must be a tricky balance, Spence, what with your iron-clad code of ethics.’
Lynch tried to control a flicker but he had a slight blink that would lose him a fortune at poker. A little unlucky for a negotiator of divorce spoils, Mike thought.
‘Oh?’ Lynch asked. ‘Is there a point to this line of questioning?’
Mike jabbed at the file with an index finger. ‘Witness: saw your BMW Fiver driving away from Megan Cassavette’s early this morning. It’s been seen near there many times before. The rubbish can on the corner of the lawn – that’s the signal, yeah?’
Lynch’s embarrassment rose from collar to scalp in two seconds.
‘House-to-house, Spence. Apparently mundane and random. Actually, carefully planned and nearly always useful. We’re very diligent about that sort of thing.’
Mike paused. Lynch coughed and glowed red, like a ripe apple.
‘We searched the Cassavette house: used bed sheets in the washing machine. We called on Megan before she could switch it on. Sheets still… moist.’ Mike raised an eyebrow. ‘Care to bet your lucrative career against the DNA lab? My money’s on the lab.’
‘I… we… is that a crime? I suppose no detective ever slept with someone other than his wife?’
If he was hoping to guilt Mike into backing down, he’d misjudged. Mike was squeaky clean in that department; he radiated the confidence of a loyal person with a strong marriage. Not something Lynch was necessarily used to seeing.
‘Isn’t Megan your client, Spence? Aren’t you in a professional business relationship? Duty of care, code of ethics, position of trust, appropriate behaviour – all that stuff?’
Mike saw Lynch hesitate. Presumably he was about to launch into some diatribe about how they were both men of the world, how these things happen, how Megan would be hard for anyone to turn down, how he would ensure it wouldn’t happen again. Then he saw Mike’s face and gave up that option as a very bad idea.
‘Look, Detective…’
‘When did you arrive at Megan’s house?’
‘What? Is this an alibi check? What?’
‘I’ll know if you’re lying, Spence. You have a tell, by the way. Once we’re done here, I’ll explain it to you. For now, it makes lying very foolish. Timescale, counsellor.’
‘Uh, around midnight. Meg made sure Lou was definitely out all night. Then she… well.’
‘Hardly the Bat Signal, is it? For future reference: if a woman puts out the rubbish can on random nights when there’s no collection, and then someone who isn’t her husband turns up late at night? Gets noticed. House-to-house lives for stuff like that: cheery anecdotes, cheesy anecdotes.’ Mike cupped a hand to his ear. ‘If we’re both really quiet, you can probably hear the laughter from the canteen.’
‘Look, I admit it. Me and Meg, we’ve been seeing each other for a few months. We try to, well, be discreet.’
‘Oh, sure. We wouldn’t want her husband to be upset, right?’
‘That’s over in all but name. I should know, Detective. See?’
‘Yeah, I see. I’m trying to work out who’s using who the most, to be honest. I mean, she’s literally getting your services, uh, pro bono.’
Lynch frowned. ‘That’s crude.’
Mike nodded in agreement. ‘It’s crude but in Latin, so it doesn’t count. Spence, have you ever met Lou Cassavette?’
‘No.’
‘Hmm.’ Mike flicked through a couple of pages in the file, ran a finger down a list. ‘That’s strange, because we found your fingerprints in Lou’s store. On a shelf, near the sweeties. One of twenty-odd we’ve already sussed. Care to explain?’
Lynch’s eyes widened.
‘I can’t… there’s no way. I mean, I…’
‘You what? Wore gloves, like a forensically aware legal expert? Took special precautions? What?’
‘How would you even have my prints?’
Mike shrugged. ‘As a lawyer in this state, they’d be on file until you officially retire. In case you accidentally handle evidence, for example. Don’t you recall giving them when you first qualified? That rule came in twenty years ago, Spence.’
‘I, uh.’ Lynch held up his hands. ‘I wasn’t lying, Detective. I’ve never actually met Lou.’
He paused. Lynch had been a defamation lawyer before he started swimming in the infinity pool of divorce. Mike felt Spence would like to be on his feet about now, pacing, before leaning in a folksy way towards one of the jurors – the one his assistant had picked out as the most malleable. Rooted to a chair like this, he was robbed of his sleek body language.
‘Last week – Thursday, actually – I was driving back from a meeting and I went past the place. I was… curious. A piece of me wanted to observe Lou: all I’ve ever had is Meg’s take on him. He doesn’t know me from a hole in the ground. So I thought I could, you know, take a peek.’
Spence shook his head and looked at the ceiling.
‘And then I had a stupid idea that maybe I could talk to him, or whatever. Crazy. I was brave until I got in the store. Then I thought how utterly brainless it was, and what Meg would think of it. I pictured her expression if I told her I’d chatted to Lou and… so I left. Never saw him. Bought some chocolate so they wouldn’t think I was a shoplifter.’
Mike pondered. It was ad lib enough to be genuine. At the very least, it would give him leverage if he talked to Megan, which he was now convinced he needed to do. Dana wanted a second opinion on her anyway; this would be useful as a bombshell if he felt she was holding out.