“That’s his girlfriend.” Oscar shrugged. “I knew they were shacking up, but they didn’t cause no trouble so I didn’t sweat it.”
“And Gleason? How long has he been living here?”
“Little over two years. He has a college degree, moved here after graduating from Sac State. Thought he’d get a good job. But I said to him, college degrees are just paper. It’s tough times.”
“Do you know where he works?”
“Let me look it up. It was something he hated, like a secretary or receptionist or something. A law firm? Maybe. I don’t think he works there anymore.”
Sam followed the manager into his office—a stuffy, smoke-filled room with a fan that circulated hot air. Oscar rummaged through some files and pulled out a crumbled paper. “Here. Gleason’s application. But like I said, I don’t think he works there.”
“Why do you think that?”
“He used to leave early in a suit. About three months ago, he started leaving later, in the afternoon, in regular clothes. In fact, he left about an hour ago.”
“Are you certain he’s not unemployed?”
“He pays the rent on time, and I don’t think he’s got rich parents.”
“When was the last time you saw Callie?”
Oscar shrugged. “Friday, I think. But I went up to Lake Tahoe, to bet on the ponies, this weekend.”
Sam scanned the application. “Does Gleason still drive the 2002 Honda Accord?”
Oscar nodded. “Like I said, he left about an hour ago—in that Honda.”
Sam gave him his card—John’s card, with Sam’s cell on the back, since Sam’s cards hadn’t come in yet. “Call me when you see him. Don’t tell him I was asking about him, okay?”
“Sure.”
Sam drove to the law firm listed on Gleason’s rental application. This could be a simple case of domestic violence—they fought, he killed her and dumped the body. It would be nice to have a simple case he could clear quickly, especially for his first case since he’d been back. Except he had that itch in his gut that said there was far more to Callie Wood and Mack Duncan’s murders than what the killers wanted anyone to see. And with a third person in the mix, plus the break-in at Mack’s apartment, Sam wondered exactly what Mack had been involved with. This just didn’t seem clear-cut or easy.
Sam parked near the Wells Fargo Building where the Law Offices of Coresco & Hunt had a suite. He took the elevator up and entered the small, but well-appointed office. Soft chamber music played from the ceiling, and the receptionist typed at her computer, her long fingernails clicking on the keys. How she could type so fast with nails that had to be at least two inches, Sam didn’t know.
She turned and smiled warmly, adjusting her headset. “May I help you?” Her nameplate read Wendy Linn.
He showed his badge. “I’m looking for Joey Gleason. His landlord said he worked here.”
“He no longer works here.”
“Do you have his new employer?”
Wendy’s smile and warmth turned cold. “I am not at liberty to discuss former employees with anyone, Detective.”
“May I talk to his supervisor?”
“Ms. Shepherd is unavailable. I can have her call you.”
“Will you please tell her I’m here?” Sam gave the receptionist one of John’s cards where he’d crossed out John’s name and put his. “I can wait.”
Wendy didn’t want to comply with his request—it was evident in her posture—but she took his card. She pressed a button and said in a quiet voice, “I have a detective with the Sacramento Police Department who insists on speaking with Ms. Shepherd about a former employee.” She waited a moment, then said, “Yes, sir.”
She turned to Sam. “She will be able to see you in a few minutes. I will take you to the conference room.”
Had he been a client, Sam suspected Wendy would have offered him coffee, water, or juice. Possibly wine or Scotch, given the ostentatious surroundings.
The conference room was small and Sam doubted it was the law office’s primary meeting space. There was a table that sat six, bookshelves with law books, and no windows. Nothing personal decorated the walls, no law degrees or pictures or awards. The only decoration, aside from the thick books, was a generic picture of the Tower Bridge that crossed the Sacramento River, less than three blocks from their location.
He spent the time researching the law firm on his phone. Coresco & Hunt was a civil law firm with six full-time lawyers who specialized in non-profit organizations, lobbying, estate planning, and corporate management. They didn’t list their clients on their very uninformative website, and he could only find a few references to the firm in a Google search, all related to a pro bono client—the River City Children’s Fund—which provided funding and services for abused, orphaned, or displaced minors. He sent the firm’s name and website to his sergeant to see if there was someone at the station who knew anything about the firm. Most likely not, considering they weren’t a criminal defense law firm.