Page 79 of Burning Justice

“Excuse me.” She shot him a look so filled with annoyance she could have been sucking a lemon. “Is there a marathon we’re running today? Because I forgot my running shoes.”

He slowed his pace. “Sorry.” Seemed like his favorite word around her.

“Thank you,” she said.

He pushed open one of the massive doors and waited for her to enter first. The Mountain Legal Associates law office was located inside the station, along with an eclectic array of trendy shops, bars, and restaurants.

Voices echoed in the cavernous lobby with its high, arched ceiling and rows of arched, leaded-glass windows. Over their heads hung enormous iron-and-glass chandeliers, and beneath their feet were black-and-beige tile, original to the old station, according to something Brett had once read.

Smells of burgers, fries, and garlic made his stomach rumble. With his body operating on massive adrenaline overload, he’d already burned off his bagel and cream cheese.

Charles Pilcher’s office was located at the far end of the station. Again, Brett held the door for Gemma as they went inside the office. Large paintings of mountain scenery, the nondescript kind hanging in just about every hotel room in Colorado, adorned pristine white walls. A high, shiny black reception desk stood front and center in the lobby, behind which sat a young woman in her thirties. A microphone headset stuck out from her mass of curly blond hair.

“Can I help you?” she asked with a bright smile that faded as she took in the embroidered badge on his shirt and the gun on his belt.

Brett tugged his creds from his back pocket. “I’m Special Agent Tanner with the ATF. We’re here to see Charles Pilcher.”

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked with significantly less enthusiasm.

“No. Tell him it’s important.”

The woman’s lips pressed together. Brett had seen that look before on many a law firm receptionist’s face when confronted by federal agents. She’d been trained with canned responses to any inquiries made by law enforcement. She looked down at something in front of her, flipping the pages. “I see Mr. Pilcher has an extremely busy schedule today.” She handed him a business card. “Perhaps you’d like to call ahead next time for an appointment.”

“Oh boy,” Gemma muttered.

“Perhaps not.” Brett ignored the offered card and rested his forearms on the top of the desk, leaning over it. On the desk was a magazine, not a scheduler or a tablet of any kind. “Perhaps you could tell Mr. Pilcher that federal agents would like to speak with him, that it’s important, and that I’m sure he’d prefer speaking to us in the comfort of his own office rather than across town in front of a federal grand jury.”

The woman bristled, then tapped her earpiece. “Mr. Pilcher, federal agents are here to see you. Would you like me to—” Her brows lowered. “Yes, sir.” With obvious reluctance, Little Miss Sourpuss rounded the desk. “Follow me, please.”

Gemma smirked. “What happened to all that Brett Tanner charm?”

He snorted. “It went out the window when she handed me a line of shit.”

They were led down a short hallway, where Sourpuss rapped twice on a door before opening it. She stepped aside to let them pass. An unexpectedly smiling man, about five-eleven and forty years old, rose from an ornate, high-backed leather chair that reminded Brett of a throne. On the wall over Pilcher’s head were various framed documents, including a diploma.

“Charles Pilcher,” the man said, extending his hand first to Brett, then Gemma. “Please, have a seat,” he said, still smiling, and Brett failed to detect any insincerity. “I always cooperate with law enforcement whenever I can. So what’s this about?”

Gemma unzipped her portfolio and slipped out a pen as she arched a brow at Brett. She, too, understood that Charles Pilcher’s attitude didn’t jibe with that of his frosty receptionist’s.

“Your name came up in an investigation.” Brett let his words sink in, watching Pilcher’s response. The man looked vaguely familiar.

“An investigation?” One side of Pilcher’s mouth lifted, as if Brett’s question were a joke and not a calculated salvo across the man’s lawyerly bow. “You’ll have to be more specific. I’m a personal injury attorney. I get involved in lots of investigations.”

“I’m sure you do.” Brett held the other man’s gaze. “This one concerns arson.”

Slowly, Pilcher’s smile melted away. “I don’t believe I have any arson cases on the books.”

Now it was Brett’s turn to smile. “I didn’t say it was one of your cases. It’s one of mine.”

As pre-planned, Gemma whipped out a stack of documents she’d printed before they’d left her house—realty documents Pilcher had notarized for the twenty-three houses on Gemma’s list. She handed him the pages. “Please look at these, and tell us if that’s your signature and notary stamp.”

Pilcher took the papers, then picked up a pair of gold, wire-framed glasses and put them on. Moments later, he tugged off the glasses and handed back the documents. “Yes, that’s my signature, and that’s my stamp.”

“What’s a personal injury attorney doing notarizing documents for realty transactions?” Brett asked.

The man’s gaze was rock steady. “It’s a quick way to make extremely easy money. Colorado’s cap on the fee a notary can charge is five dollars per signature, but the average real estate transaction requires multiple documents to be notarized. By the time a closing takes place, I can make up to a hundred dollars for a single residential purchase or sale in about five minutes of my time, plus the cost of ink. Commercial transactions are even more fruitful.”

Brett nodded, pretending he didn’t already know that. “So it’s a side hustle.”