Read The Old Blue Line: A Joanna Brady Novella (Joanna Brady Mysteries) for Free Online Page B

guest room here, right?”
    “Yes, but . . .”
    “Good. Now your guest room is about to have a guest. He’s another one of Pop’s Sun City chums. His name’s Harold Meeks. Thirty years ago he was the top defense attorney in Phoenix, and now he’s yours—pro bono, by the way. Pop says Harold’s too old to drive or even play golf anymore, but he’s still got all his marbles. When it comes to legal maneuvers, he can’t be beat. He’ll be here as soon as the cab Pop called for him can drop him off. Pop says Harold may need some help getting up and down the stairs, but he’ll be here to set the cops straight when they show up with their search warrant.
    “Oh,” Charles added, “when he gets here, I want you to give him a list of all your employees, both current and former. He’ll need to know everything you know about them—approximate hiring dates, where they live, what you know about their personal lives, where they worked before, etcetera.”
    “Whatever information I have on my employees is on their job applications in the personnel drawer in the filing cabinet.”
    “Are you listening to me?” Charles demanded. “You are not to go near those filing cabinets under any circumstances! Now, are you done copying your files?”
    Properly chastised, I held up a fistful of floppies.
    “I’ll take those for right now,” he said, removing the disks from my fingers and slipping them into his jacket pocket. “Do you know how to reformat that computer?”
    “Yes.”
    “Do it then,” he ordered.
    I was still reformatting the hard drive—another not-so-instantaneous process—when Charles’s cell phone rang. “Okey-dokey,” he said. “We’ll be right down.”
    I glanced at my watch as we headed downstairs. It was after two o’clock in the morning. The Roundhouse was closed up tight. The lights were off, the cleaning crew gone. After disarming the alarm, I unlocked the door and opened it. Standing outside, leaning on a walker, was a tiny, hunched over old man with a shock of white hair that stood on end, as though he’d been awakened from a sound sleep and hadn’t bothered combing his wild hairdo. If the guy was a day under ninety, I’m a monkey’s uncle. Behind him, carrying two old-fashioned suitcases, stood a turban-wearing cab driver.
    “I’m Harold Meeks,” the old guy announced in a squeaky little voice that reminded me of someone hopped up on laughing gas. “You Butch Dixon?”
    I nodded. Harold turned back to the driver. “Okay,” he directed. “This is the guy. Give him the bags.”
    The driver handed them over to me in complete silence, then he retreated to his cab and drove off into the night.
    “It’s cold as crap out here,” Harold griped impatiently. “Are we going inside sometime soon or are we just going to stand here until our tushes freeze off?”
    We went inside. As I carried the two suitcases upstairs it occurred to me that my unexpected company obviously intended to settle in for the duration. Behind me, Harold abandoned his walker in favor of letting Charles help him up the stairs. Once Harold was safely deposited on the nearest dining room chair, Charles went back down and retrieved the walker. In the darkened bar downstairs, Harold hadn’t looked that bad. Now that I saw him in full light, however, I was shocked. How could this tiny, frail old guy, sitting there in a threadbare sweater and a pair of worn moccasins, possibly be my best hope for beating a murder rap? He looked like he was far more ready to show up for a summons to the pearly gates than for duking it out in an earthly court of law.
    “Okay,” Charles said, dusting off his hands in satisfaction. “I’m done here and need to head out. I’ll leave you two to it.”
    When it came to my having a capable someone to lean on, Charles Rickover looked a lot more promising than Harold Meeks.
    “Wait a minute,” I said anxiously. “Where are you going?”
    “Vegas,” Charles said. “One of Pop’s pals