“Hampton Cove Memorial,” said the officer. “He said he was fine, but we thought it was probably a good idea to have him checked out anyway. Sometimes the adrenaline will prevent them from feeling that they’ve been hit.”

“It’s almost impossible that he wasn’t hit,” said Chase. “Especially if they fired straight at him. Where was the van?”

“Right here, detective,” said the officer, and showed them how close to the sidewalk the car had been driving. “According to what Mr. Hartshorn told us, the van slowed down as it approached him, the window rolled down and the weapon appeared, then started spitting bullets—that’s how he described it: it was spitting at him. Of course, we now know that it was spitting ammo. It was all over very quickly, then the van sped up again and took off.”

“License plate?”

“Nothing, detective. Though we are actively looking for witnesses. Mr. Hartshorn himself doesn’t remember much. Witnesses we’ve spoken with say it was an ordinary white van. No decal. One witness filmed the whole thing on his phone but there’s no license plate that we can make out, and he didn’t get a good look at whoever was inside the vehicle.”

Chase rubbed his formidable chin. “Sounds like a professional hit. But why? What does he do for a living, this Rogelio Hartshorn?”

“He’s an estate lawyer. Says he was meeting a client, but the client was late, and that’s when this van showed up out of nowhere and the gunman started spraying him with bullets.”

“Did the client arrive?” asked Odelia.

“Not as far as we know,” said the officer.

“We better check to see who this client is,” said Chase. He nodded his thanks to the officer. “We’ll be out of your hair, Randal. Keep up the good work.”

Time to go and pay a visit to Rogelio Hartshorn in the hospital and get his statement.

They drove on in silence, but then Odelia piped up, “You don’t think there’s a connection with the murder of Prince Abdullah, do you?”

“Too soon to tell, babe, but I don’t think so. Seems like two totally unrelated crimes to me.”

“Yeah, I guess so. Weird, though, to have two crimes on the same day. What are the odds?”

“What are the odds that this Hartshorn fellow would survive an attempt on his life?”

It certainly sounded like he’d had a miraculous escape, she thought, and hoped the doctors who were examining him wouldn’t find that he had been hit after all and that now that the adrenaline had worn off he was suffering some kind of collapse.

In due course, they arrived at the Hampton Cove Memorial Hospital, and after Chase parked in front of the impressive building, they entered and asked at reception where they could find Mr. Hartshorn. The man was still in the emergency ward, and when they arrived there, they found him looking pretty hale and hearty for a man who’d just been shot at. After they had introduced themselves and had produced their badges, he became very talkative.

“I really don’t know what happened,” he said. He rubbed his nose. “But the doctor says I’m fine. For a moment there I thought he was going to fill me up with water, you know, like they do in the cartoons? And then the water would all start draining out of me through all these bullet holes?” He laughed at his own joke, and even Odelia managed to produce a smile. He looked a little manic, she thought. But that was probably to be expected after what he had been through. “But nothing! Not a single bullet hole to be found. Not a one. Looks like I escaped with all of my vital organs intact, and the rest also. I still don’t understand what happened, exactly. Why would these people suddenly start shooting at me, do you know?”

“I’m afraid we haven’t been able to get a trace on them yet,” said Chase.

“We were hoping that you could give us some more information about what happened,” said Odelia. “That would greatly help us find the people that did this to you.”

The man scratched his head. He was handsome, Odelia thought, in an understated and bookish sort of way. He was clean-shaven, wore trendy glasses, and kept his hair fashionably long but not too long. He was also wearing a sharp suit that must have cost him a pretty penny.

“So do you have any idea who would want to do this to you, Mr. Hartshorn?” asked Chase.

“Not a clue!” he said, throwing up his hands. “I’m just a small-town lawyer, you know. Estate law. Probably the most boring branch of law possible. All I can think is that it must be a case of mistaken identity. Maybe they thought I was a crime boss or something.”

“You were meeting a client?”

“That’s right. A potential client. She had sent me a message and asked to meet. She didn’t feel comfortable coming down to the office and wanted to meet in town.”

“Was it her idea to meet at Mitzy’s Tea Shoppe?”

“Yes, she suggested the venue. Though it’s a tea shop I’ve frequented plenty of times, since it’s right around the corner from my office, so I thought it was an excellent choice. She asked me to wait for her out front, since she was afraid of walking into the tea shop by herself.”

“That didn’t strike you as odd?” asked Chase.

The man frowned. “Now that you mention it, it did strike me as a little odd. But then the customer is king, you know.” His eyes widened. “Why… do you think this person set me up?”

“It’s possible,” said Chase. “Do you have her contact information?”

“I have her name and phone number. Marjorie Collett.” He took his phone from his jacket pocket and scrolled through his list of messages for a moment, then pulled up the woman’s information. “This is her,” he said, and Chase dutifully took a picture of the contact details.

“You haven’t received any threats lately?” asked Odelia. “Threatening letters, emails, phone calls?”

“Nothing,” said the lawyer, shaking his head. “Like I said, I practice the most boring branch of the law.”

“And the name Marjorie Collett doesn’t ring a bell?”

“Never heard of the woman before,” he said.

“No connection to any of your existing clients?”

“No connection at all.”

“Any of the cases you’re working on right now raise alarm bells?” asked Odelia.

He thought for a moment. “Well, I have been working with a foreign client, which is a little odd, since most of my clients are local.”

“Do you have a name for this client?”

“Prince Abdullah. He’s a member of the ruling family of the kingdom of Abou-Yamen, a small country in the Middle East. One of the ruling king’s sons or grandsons, I believe.”

Odelia and Chase shared a look. The man immediately picked up on their sense of surprise.

“What’s wrong? Did something happen to the prince?”

“I’m sorry to inform you,” said Chase, “that Prince Abdullah was shot dead an hour ago.”

CHAPTER 8

Vesta was cleaning a spot on the kitchen window when she became aware of a strange scene playing out in the backyard. It was her son-in-law Tex, and he seemed to be going through some kind of apoplexy. He was shaking his fist at the lawn and shouting at no one in particular, almost as if he was going through some species of mental breakdown. Which didn’t surprise her in the least. She had often voiced the opinion to her daughter Marge that Tex worked way too hard. Too many patients and too many long hours spent at the doctor’s office he ran in town. If she had said it once she had said it a hundred times that Tex should stop accepting new patients and limit himself to the ones he already had. Most of the doctors they knew had done the same thing since they couldn’t keep expanding indefinitely. Or they had joined a clinic where they collaborated with other doctors and shared the workload. But no, Tex had to be the lone hero who kept seeing all the patients and worked all the hours that God sends.

And now finally the man had snapped and had turned into a basket case.

Behind her, Marge entered the kitchen, humming a pleasant tune that was vaguely reminiscent of a hit song on the radio.

“Marge, will you look at this,” she said. And when her daughter had joined her at the window, she pointed to Tex, who had resorted to jumping up and down now while still shaking his fist at the lawn. “He’s finally gone and lost his marbles, the poor guy.”