24
I CLOSED THE COVER ON THE CELL PHONE AND WAITED FOR A still, small voice to tell me what to do, but nothing came. I stared out the window. No angel with a drawn sword appeared in the sky over Savannah and called me to battle.
I returned the phone to the young man.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Are you finished?”
“No,” I answered slowly. “I’m just getting started.”
I returned to the archive room and began checking the actual records. There were many files involving Floyd Carpenter and the Braddock law firm. The professional relationship between Lawrence Braddock and Floyd Carpenter spanned many years. As I worked my way through the files, a familiarity appeared in the correspondence that revealed a growing friendship.
One thing became quickly apparent. Floyd Carpenter had considerable problems with the Internal Revenue Service. His written comments to Lawrence Braddock about the federal revenue agents sounded like field reports of a Confederate officer. At one point, massive tax liens were filed against Floyd.
My heart beat faster and my mouth got dry as I scrolled to the next file. The title of the file grabbed my attention: “Floyd Carpenter re Lisa Prescott.” I clicked to the next screen that contained a single typed entry: “The contents of this file were not archived.”
I stared at the screen for several seconds. I pushed the button to advance the page, which revealed an intake sheet for a divorce case between a couple named William and Lynn Mitchell. I checked the index and found the next folder listing Floyd Carpenter in the subject matter.
It was dated a year after Lisa Prescott’s disappearance and confirmed payment of several hundred thousand dollars to satisfy the federal tax liens filed against Floyd Carpenter and several businesses apparently controlled by him. The Braddock firm was paid over fifty thousand dollars for legal services. The next file involved formation of a real estate investment trust four years after Lisa’s disappearance. As I moved through the years, my hope of finding anything relevant faded. One routine business transaction followed another. The last file was the probate of Floyd’s will. Joe Carpenter served as executor.
With a sigh, I leaned back in the chair. I’d stared at the screen so intently that I’d gotten a headache. I looked at my watch. It was midafternoon. I suddenly realized that I’d gone way over the time period allotted for my use of the firm car. I turned off the reader and hurriedly returned all the cassettes to their proper places. Locking the door, I walked rapidly toward the exit. The young man was sitting at the entrance.
“I skipped my lunch break so we could talk,” he said.
“Sorry, but I’m late getting back to the office,” I replied. “Call me at Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter.”
“And your name?”
“Tami Taylor. It’s on the sheet I signed when I checked in.”
“Right.”
I almost never exceeded the speed limit, but during the drive to the office I kept pace with the fastest traffic on the road without looking at the car’s speedometer. I parked next to Zach’s red motorcycle.
“Did I mess up someone’s schedule?” I asked when I returned the keys to the afternoon receptionist.
“Mr. Kettleson’s car is in for service. I think he ended up borrowing a car from one of the other lawyers.”
“Was he upset?”
The woman leaned forward. “I’ve been working here for five years, and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him smile.”
I laid the keys on the counter. It was another nail in the coffin of my legal career. However, if I didn’t get a job offer or even a good recommendation from Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. A legal career in Savannah wasn’t the dream job of a lifetime. I could always return to Powell Station and beg Oscar Callahan to hire me.
Julie wasn’t in the library. Trying to ignore my headache, I began working on the eminent domain memo. Delivering an opinion as soon as possible might soften Bob Kettleson’s reaction to my tardiness in returning the car. The library door opened. It was Zach. He quickly glanced around the room.
“I’m alone,” I said.
“Did you check out the old files?”
I handed him the key. “Would you return this to Ms. Patrick? I have a headache and a complicated memo to research for Bob Kettleson.”
Zach ignored my problems. “Any smoking guns?”
“Smoke but no gun.”
He sat down across the table from me, and I told him about the empty folder, leaving out what I’d learned from Vince about the memo from Mr. Carpenter to Mr. Braddock and his advice that I consider quitting the case. Zach seemed to relax as I talked.