Primary Justice (Ben Kincaid series Book 1) Read Online Free Page B

were older than he had expected, perhaps in their early sixties. Both had pure white hair. The man wore blue jeans and a white shirt with a plastic pencil holder in the front pocket and noticeable yellow-gray stains under each arm. The woman wore a simple green print dress, a plain brown coat, and white costume beads.
    “My name’s Jonathan Adams,” the man said, taking Ben’s hand, “and this is my wife, Bertha.”
    The single sentence had been sufficient to tell Ben a great deal about Mr. Adams’s origins. He had the thick, slow drawl usually found in rural areas in the western part of the state.
    Ben shook his hand, then Bertha’s, and introduced himself.
    “Honestly!” Bertha said, eyeing him with suspicion. “Are you an attorney?”
    Ben tried not to react. People usually thought he looked young for his age. “Yes, I am,” he said amiably. “Promise. I’ve got a diploma and everything. Just haven’t coughed up the money to have it framed yet.”
    “Oh,” she said, looking meaningfully at her husband. “I see.”
    Ben knew exactly what that expression meant. It meant: Jonathan, I thought we were getting a real lawyer.
    She turned her attention slowly back to Ben, eyeing him carefully. Ben knew that expression, too. It meant: This case may not mean much to your firm, but it’s the whole wide world to us, and we’d like to have a real lawyer, not some baby-faced kid who hasn’t lost his training wheels yet. Or something like that.
    “Princess, don’t be standoffish like that,” Bertha said.
    Ben looked up, startled. For a moment, he thought the woman was talking to him. Then he saw a small dark-haired girl standing behind the adults. “Mr. Kincaid, this is our Emily.”
    The girl was beautiful. Her features were simple and smooth; her pale skin was virtually translucent. Her long black hair served to highlight her flawless white complexion. She was a marble sculpture of what a little girl ought to look like, Ben thought, a Botticelli angel. And there was something else about her, he realized, a light, or a glow , that seemed to radiate from her.
    Ben suddenly felt embarrassed. He was romanticizing a little girl. And he was staring, too.
    “Good morning,” he said, smiling.
    Emily gazed at him with a puzzled expression. Her eyes didn’t quite seem to focus on his face. “Good morning, Mr. Kincaid. Have I met you before?”
    Ben blinked. “Uh, no, I don’t believe so.”
    “Oh,” Emily said. She looked around the office. “Have I been here before?”
    Jonathan Adams interrupted. “Good grief, girl. What a lot of questions. Just say hello.”
    Ben smiled. “It’s all right. I like to ask questions myself.” He took the pink woolen sweater she was holding and hung it on a hook behind the door. “How old are you, Emily?”
    “I’m five,” she said, and she held out five fingers.
    Five? Ben was no expert on children, but this girl appeared to be at least eight or nine. He saw Mr. and Mrs. Adams exchange another meaningful glance.
    Ben squatted down to her level. “And what grade are you in?”
    Emily giggled. “Not old enough for school, silly. Mommy dinn’t want me to go to kinnergarnen.”
    Bertha Adams looked out the office window.
    Emily abruptly changed the subject. “Do you play pat-a-cake?” She raised her hands with the palms outstretched and chanted. “Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man, bake me a cake as fast as you can—”
    Ben winked at Mrs. Adams. “I don’t think I know that one.”
    “I know more,” she said. She continued chanting in the same rhythmic pattern. “A bumblebee and reverie. It will do, if bees are few—”
    Mr. Adams interrupted. “Bertha, don’t you have her crayons or something?”
    “Yes.” She reached into her purse and pulled out an oversized book. “Emily, honey, I brought your coloring hook.”
    Emily turned and stared at the book. “What is this?”
    Bertha pressed the book into her hands. “It’s your coloring book, princess.