“What’s Martha’s last name?” A.L. asked.

“I’m not sure why that’s important,” Devin said.

“I’m going to want to follow up with Martha. Right now we’re looking at anybody who might have a beef with either Leah or her husband, Troy, and want to take it out on their kid.”

“Martha wouldn’t do that. She was angry, maybe a little hurt, and she said some things she should not have said. Leah didn’t even bring it to my attention. It was overheard by someone else who told their boss who came to me. I addressed it with Martha and it’s over. I want it to be over. I don’t like dissension on my team.”

He was probably a good guy who liked it when everybody played nice. Unfortunately, that wasn’t how the real world worked. “Martha?” A.L. asked again, pen in hand.

“Martha Johnston.”

“Contact information?”

Devin thumbed through his phone. “I’ve only got a phone, no address.”

“I’ll take it.”

He rattled it off and A.L. copied it down.

“Does Leah have any client contact?” A.L. asked.

“Of course. Lots of routine requests go to her and she handles them.”

“Bailey Shepherd does family law, right?”

“That’s correct.”

“Maybe some acrimonious divorces or ugly child-custody cases.”

Devin nodded. “We’ve had some.”

“Any that you can recall where Leah was the point person, that somebody might have construed that she was calling the shots either for or against somebody?”

“When the issues are hot, we don’t expect our paralegals to field those calls. I would handle those.”

A.L. suspected the paralegals handled plenty of dicey issues. But it didn’t look like he was going to get anywhere with these questions. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Raine.”

“Happy to do it. What I want most is for Leah to have her little girl back.”

He used a reverse lookup to find Martha Johnston’s address. She lived in a condo, close enough to Bailey Shepherd that she probably walked to work. He drove to her apartment, hoping that she was there.

The building was old but it had been extensively remodeled with high-end finishes. There were eight condos in the building. He pressed the buzzer next to her name and looked directly into the camera.

“Yes,” she said.

“Detective McKittridge, Baywood Police Department. I’d like to speak with you.”

“Why?”

She wasn’t a lawyer but she definitely had learned something from them. “A few questions about your coworker, Leah Whitman.”

She didn’t say anything but the buzzer sounded and he grabbed for the door. Then he walked up a flight of stairs and knocked on 202.

A woman opened the door. She was early forties, about his age. She wore pajama pants and an Arizona State T-shirt. “Martha Johnston?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.