Swift Justice Read Online Free Page A

that?” I grabbed a Pepsi from the fridge and took a swallow.
    “I thought I should familiarize myself with our cases,” she said without looking up. “I’m starting with the
A
’s and working my way through the alphabet.”
    Pepsi went down the wrong pipe and I choked. A flame of pure anger burned through me. This was
my
business, damn it, and I’d worked my butt off to get it off the ground, sacrificing a salary the first few years until I built my customer base, putting in eighty hours a week, cultivating a network of sources, honing my skills with classes and professional reading. Where did she get off redecorating the office, rifling through my client files, taking over? Resolve hardened within me. Forget making the best of it. If I couldn’t dissolve the partnership, or force her out, I’d have to make her want to leave.

     
    Taking my half-drunk Pepsi with me, I left the potpourri-scented office to drag in deep breaths of mingled fresh air and exhaust from the rush hour traffic streaming by on Academy Boulevard. Grinding gears, screeching brakes, and the thud of heavy metal music from a low-rider provided welcome relief from the strains of Zamfir or Yanni tinkling in my office. I did several laps around the shopping area at a brisk pace, startling the cats in the alley and a couple of sparrows taking a dust bath on the sidewalk. Caffeinated and calmer, I returned to the office and settled myself cross-legged on the floor to inspect the infant seat and effects Melissa Lloyd had dropped off yesterday. In my haste to meet with my lawyer about keeping Gigi Goldman out of Swift Investigations—for all the good that had done—I hadn’t taken time to look them over.
    Nothing was embroidered with Olivia’s full name, worseluck. The car seat had nothing distinctive about it, although the loden-colored lining and molded black handle were classier than most. PEG PEREGO was stamped on the bottom, but that meant nothing to me. I pulled the Onesie with feet from the plastic grocery bag. Yellow terrycloth with a giraffe appliquéd on the chest, it also told me nothing. I examined the labels, hoping to find initials at least, but no luck. Without much hope, I pulled the blanket from the bag. It was pale pink, woven from something wondrously soft, maybe cashmere, with a two-inch-deep satin binding embroidered with white lambs. I rubbed it against my face.
    “Ooh, a Delicia Furman.”
    Gigi’s voice startled me. I looked up, self-consciously lowering the blanket from my face, to find her staring at it with delight. “A what?”
    “A Delicia Furman. I ordered one for my goddaughter’s baptism present, but there was a two-year waiting list.” She came around her desk and asked, “May I?”
    I handed her the blanket. She inspected the embroidery. “It’s definitely a Delicia. She raises her own cashmere goats, shears them, and spins the yarn herself. I met her once when she donated a blanket to a charity auction I was organizing. She looks more like a goat-herder than an artist, but there’s no mistaking her embroidery. Look how tiny the stitches are, and how the lambs all seem to have different expressions on their faces.” Gigi stroked the blanket reverently.
    “What does a Delicia Furman go for?” I asked. “A hundred, hundred fifty?”
    Gigi laughed. “Oh, honey, you’re not even in the ballpark. Try twelve to fifteen hundred, minimum.”
    Eep. For a baby blanket that was going to get drooled on and peed on? At least this told me that baby Olivia had rich relatives or friends. A thought struck me. “Do you think Delicia’d know who bought this?”
    “I don’t know what kind of records she keeps, but this is definitely a one-of-a-kind, so she might remember. She doesn’t do duplicates or copies of anything, ever.”
    I tucked the giraffe outfit into the plastic bag and folded the Delicia, snorting as I realized I was thinking of it the way one would “a Goya” or “a Rodin.” I placed both inside