“So? His work takes him to some pretty sketchy places. Our clients don’t exactly all live in waterfront mansions like your dad’s.”

“I get that, but it kind of unnerved me.”

Drue gingerly returned the Mace to an inside pocket of her purse.

“There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Ben pointed his finger like a gun. “Shoot.”

“Funny. Only not.”

She leaned across the table, her voice lowered. “There’s something that’s been bothering me. About the Jazmin Mayes thing.”

He rolled his eyes. “Not that again.”

“No. Listen. There’s something there, I know there is. And I’m going to get to the bottom of it.”

“Oh shit, Drue. Do you realize how crazy all this sounds? I get that you feel sorry for the girl who was murdered, and her family. I get that you want some kind of justice, but you can’t just go around sticking your nose in an active police investigation. You’re not a cop. You’re not even an investigator. You’re like me. We’re cube rats. We answer the phone and try to get people to hire us to sue somebody. That’s it! We don’t go poking around the scene of a friggin’ murder!”

Drue’s shoulders sagged as she felt her mood deflate. “What if I could prove she wasn’t working?”

“Okay, don’t shoot the messenger, but didn’t the hotel video show Jazmin leaving a room like at one-thirty in the morning? And then entering the laundry room—where her body was found? Maybe she didn’t routinely work that shift. But that night, she did. She was working, Drue! There’s just no way to get around it.”

His freckled face showed a mixture of anger and indignation, and his chest rose and fell beneath the faded fabric of his Eagles “Hell Freezes Over” concert tour tee.

“No,” she said flatly. “Somebody’s lying.” She leaned across the table, both hands clenched around her glass. “That’s what I really wanted to talk to you about. I’m starting to think that Yvonne Howington was right. Maybe there was a cover-up. Maybe somebody at the law firm is in cahoots with Gulf Vista and its insurance carrier.”

Ben removed his glasses, wiped them on the hem of his shirt and replaced them. “Jesus! Are you seriously accusing Brice Campbell, your own father, of taking a payoff?”

“Maybe…?” Her voice trailed off. “I don’t know what to think. That’s why I wanted to talk this out with you. You’ve worked for the firm for how long?”

“Two and a half years. But Brice is your father, for God’s sake. How can you believe he’s capable of something like that?”