Brutality Read Online Free Page B

industrial-looking gray rose directly in front of her. The door to her left was ajar, with a discreet black-lettered sign identifying it as Thatcher Kinney’s digs.
    Fina knocked and pushed the door open to find a small waiting room dominated by a metal desk and a seating area with two chairs. A coffeemaker stood on a trestle table with a mini fridge next to it. There was a fireplace, but rather than crackling flames, a potted plant stood in its hearth. Some people found wood fires messy and too much work, but Fina loved them. There was something sad and bereft about an empty fireplace in the dead of winter.
    An open door gave a view into another office where a man sat behind a large wooden desk. Fina tapped on that door before crossing the threshold.
    “I’m sorry to interrupt, but your secretary seems to be MIA.”
    The man looked up at her, small glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. “Shirley’s at the bank. Is there something I can help you with?”
    “You can if you’re Thatcher Kinney.”
    “I am.”
    “I’m your eleven o’clock appointment. Fina Ludlow.”
    She crossed the worn Oriental carpet and extended her hand. Thatcher rose partway out of his chair to shake and then gestured for her to sit in one of the wooden chairs in front of his desk. The Roger Williams seal was emblazoned on the back of both. Fina appreciated the school spirit, but doubted there were less comfortable chairs in the world.
    “Nice to meet you.”
    Fina glanced around the room. The décor was typical single proprietor fare: framed diplomas, nicely matted prints of ducks and outdoor scenes, venetian blinds made homier with curtains. Thatcher’s desk was tidy, with just a couple of piles of folders at the corners. He had a desktop computer that looked like it dated from the late nineties. It spoke volumes about his technical prowess, but maybe some clients found it reassuring; Thatcher Kinney was old-school and wouldn’t be distracted by any newfangled technology.
    “Can I offer you some coffee?” he asked, rising from his chair.
    “Sure. Cream and sugar, please.”
    Thatcher went to the waiting room and returned a minute later with two mugs, one of which he handed to Fina.
    “Thanks.”
    He took his seat and smoothed down his blue-striped tie before resting his ankle atop the opposite knee. He was wearing khaki pants, a white shirt, and a blue blazer. He looked like he should be attending his private school graduation, not practicing law.
    “How can I help you, Ms. Ludlow?”
    “Call me Fina, first of all.” She smiled at him. “I’m a private investigator, and Bobbi Barone has hired me to investigate the attack on her daughter Liz. I was hoping you could provide some information.”
    “What kind of information?” Thatcher asked. “You must know I’m bound by attorney-client privilege.”
    “Of course. I’m not asking you to violate privilege, but if there is anything you can tell me about your work with Liz that might help my investigation, I would appreciate it.”
    He sipped his coffee and seemed to contemplate her request. Fina’s calculations had been accurate: Thatcher was probably in his midfifties. He had strawberry blond hair that was cut short, with a hint of wave to it. His skin was freckled, and wrinkles were starting to assert themselves on his forehead and around his eyes.
    “Why don’t you tell me what you know,” Thatcher said, “and I’ll fill in the broad strokes where I can.”
    “Sure. Liz has been suffering from MCI, possibly a result of her soccer-playing days at NEU, and she wanted to sue the university. Bobbi wonders if the attack is related to the lawsuit.”
    Thatcher took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. “I wish I had more to add to that, but I don’t.”
    “Because of privilege?”
    “Because there isn’t much to tell.”
    “Well, have you filed a suit yet?” Fina knew the answer to the question already, but she was always interested in hearing