He grinned at her. Aifric thought of Judge Hartigan, and of Aidan Murphy’s quiet competence, and her heart sank.

“I’m not sure the judge will be on our side on this one,” she said.

Colin clapped his hands together lightly and stood up. “What will be, will be,” he said. “We can only do what we can. The defendant’s fate is shaped by his own choices. We can steer the ship, of course, but sometimes our course correction comes too late.”

He looked at her, a slight frown on his face. Clearly, her audience was over. She moved quickly to tidy away her papers and put her bag on her shoulder.

“Keep me posted,” Colin said. “Just be careful not to be too overzealous with chasing down witnesses in person, that sort of thing. We owe our client our best defense, certainly, but better not to get too carried away. We aren’t private investigators. And, of course, we need to watch the budget.”

He walked to the door and held it open for Aifric.

“Thank you,” she said.

He smiled at her. “I knew you would understand. What a pleasant meeting this was, Aifric. I’m surprised we haven’t crossed paths before. You’ll be an asset to the courts, no doubt. An asset, and if I may say”—his eyes flicked ever so briefly down her pencil skirt to her legs and back again—”an ornament.”

“Thank you,” Aifric said again, automatically, then wished she could take it back. Jesus. He couldn’t possibly think that was charming, could he? She forced a smile.

Colin went back to his desk, a bounce in his step. “Very good, Miss Aifric. Onward, onward. And remember, there’s always another case.”

Chapter Twelve

Carrie

The salon was busy. The air was thick with the smell of hair spray, and the background music was all but drowned out by the hum of hairdryers working overtime. Heads came up as soon as Carrie and Niall entered the reception area. Two garda uniforms will have that effect.

“Can I help you?” The woman behind the counter was in her midforties, with styled blond hair and a lot of makeup but expertly applied. In her interview Evelyn had spoken at length of her boss. According to her interview, Sheila Carmody was a fifty-something dragon who refused to dress her age. This woman couldn’t have been older than forty-five, and she looked well—her blond hair in a fashionable pageboy cut, her clothes unremarkable—but she had an air of authority about her.

“Mrs. Carmody?” Carrie said.

“Yes, I’m Sheila,” the woman said.

“I’d like to speak with Evelyn Ross. Is she here?”

“She’s working. What’s this about?” Sheila’s eyes went back and forth between Carrie and Niall. She lowered her voice. “What’s she done?”

“Nothing, nothing at all. Evelyn is just helping us with our inquiries,” Carrie said.

The expression on Sheila’s face said she wasn’t convinced. Then, resigned, she nodded toward the sinks, where a very thin young woman was towel-drying someone’s hair.