Read Online Mean Streak by Carolyn Wheat - Free Book Online

room that deliberately said as little as possible about Riordan’s true personality.
    The next room was the one Matt called the parlor. It was decorated in the same deep green and pink-peach tones, but here the effect was welcoming, homey. The green was the background color of a chintz pattern that covered two armchairs, placed at angles for easy conversation. A small drop-leaf table was set between the chairs, and a reading lamp stood behind one of them. It was a cozy nook where two people could engage in the most intimate kind of discussion. It was where Matt routinely accepted the most sacred confidences from his clients.
    The inner sanctum was Matt’s own personal office. The desk was clear and the green leather office chair was shiny and new-looking, but it was a working environment. Piles of transcripts sat on side tables, open law books rested on chairs, and the art on the walls reflected Matt’s personal taste.
    Matt led me to the office, bypassing the parlor area. “I don’t know about you,” I began, trailing him through the rooms, “but I could use a drink.”
    â€œGot just the thing, babe,” he called over his shoulder. Opening the door of a mini-fridge, he took out a chilled bottle of pepper vodka, poured a generous slug into a heavy old-fashioned glass, and handed it to me. The combination of fire and ice was like drinking a melted diamond.
    Matt heaved a sigh and flung himself into his leather chair. He looked tired and old, jaws sagging, eyelids drooping. I glanced at a framed courtroom sketch of him as a fire-eating young trial honcho and the contrast stabbed my heart.
    I decided getting down to business was the only thing that could cheer Matt. “Okay,” I began, “we play the tapes. Since you never gave Jack money for the grand jury minutes, there won’t be anything that can really hurt us. Then we investigate this plea of Jack’s across the river.”
    I stopped and locked eyes with my client. “What I’d like right this minute,” I began, keeping my tone conversational, “is one more assurance that whatever Jack did to get himself indicted in Brooklyn is not going to affect this case.”
    He returned my stare with a steady gaze. “Nothing to do with me,” he said. He lifted his glass to his lips and tossed back the vodka with a practiced movement. “But I’d give a lot to know what the hell Di Blasi’s up to over there. It’s obvious why Lazarus wants to let the Eastern District handle the sentence; they want deniability. They want to be able to say they’re not going easy on Jack. But why is Di Blasi going along? He hates Lazarus—everyone knows that—and word is he was pissed as hell when Singer left the office to take a job with Lazarus. She was his protégée, and her walking out was a hell of a blow to his ego.”
    â€œSo why is he making it easy for them by taking Fat Jack off their hands?” I mused aloud, finishing his thought. “I’ll see what I can find out,” I promised. “Then I’ll use my Brooklyn contacts to find out all I can about Detective Edmund Fitzgerald. We should be able to do a lot of damage on cross.”
    My client had begun shaking his head somewhere in the middle of my recital. “No, babe,” he said in a more-in-sorrow-than-anger tone of voice. “No, that’s not how this game is played. I don’t play not to lose. I play to win.”
    â€œAnd that means—what?” I didn’t bother to conceal the annoyance I was feeling. I had every intention of winning, and if Matt didn’t realize that, then he might as well fire me right now.
    â€œDid you ever hear of Cato the Elder?” Matt asked. I shook my head; the name was vaguely familiar, but I could see Matt had a story he wanted to tell.
    â€œHe was a senator in ancient Rome,” Matt explained. He leaned forward in his chair; the sag had left his