Page 17 of Crash Course
Her full-time investigator, a retired Charlotte detective, tended to go dark for days. In the beginning, his lacking communication skills had irritated her. Three years later, she’d learned this was simply his way. When embroiled in a case, he didn’t think about checking in. Then he’d show up, hand over a load of case-altering information, and her irritation vanished.
Cilla no longer bothered with anger. Why waste the energy when she knew her crack investigator always came through.
Plus, the man’s contacts at the PD, the coroner, and DA’s offices were outstanding.
"He was here yesterday," Layla said. "He’s working on Kalper."
The murder case. Good. She’d need every morsel of dirt Ed could dig up on that sucker. Right now, they were woefully short of reasonable doubt.
Cilla nodded. "Okay. He’ll update us when he has something."
That damned Kalper case had already worn her out and they were weeks from trial.
Cilla entered her office, sidestepped the three rows of bankers boxes stacked four high, and dumped her briefcase on the desk beside a bunch of folders. Everywhere she looked, neat piles of paper, folders, and boxes created an organized sense of chaos. More space. That’s what she needed for her growing practice.
Maybe then it wouldn’t feel so tight in here.
Shaking off thoughts of massive square footage, she pulled her laptop free. Layla’s files could wait. She’d order dinner in—or maybe pick it up on the way home—and eat while reading.
Done.
Logging in, she retrieved from her cloud the toxicology report photos she’d taken. The farm’s address was at the top of the report, so she plugged it into her browser and studied the street view.
Hold up here. She zoomed out, then clicked to aerial view. The property wasn’t even next to the plant.Click, click, click.
Wait.
What the . . .?
She tapped her mouse, zooming in on the one-story brick building beside the farm, where a jungle gym and various other playground equipment filled the fenced yard.
Back to street view she went and clicked a few times until viewing the front of the building.
Morgan Childcare.
"Oh no." A sick feeling ravaged her, eating away at her insides like acid.
A farm loaded with PFOA next to a daycare. Nightmare scenario. Did the homeowners—not to mention the daycare folks—know about this?
She had to assume not. Had to. The alternative would drive her to madness. All those kids . . .
Don’t go there.
There had to be more. None of it made sense. Why would Dad want to expand a landfill using property that didn’t neighbor the existing one?
Cilla opened another tab and logged into DOC, the software Randolph Industries used to share and house files, all of which she’d been given access to since her father constantly pressured her for legal advice.
What she was looking for, she wasn’t sure. She’d simply plug the farm’s address into the search field and see what popped.
At the login page, she entered her credentials and waited.
Access denied.
Being known to type too fast—how many times had she yelled to Layla that various passwords didn’t work, only to find she’d rushed and missed a digit?—she tried again.
Denied.
Huh.
