Chapter 5 - The Line in the Snow
My hand dropped instantly to my side, my fingers curling into a tight fist. There was no time for hesitation, no time for legal jargon or procedural maneuvering.
Outside the door, the heavy thud of a boot heel hitting the drywall sent a shower of flaking paint cascading down the interior frame.
“Sarah,” I whispered sharply, turning my head back toward the kitchen. “Get Grace into the back bedroom. Now. Lock the door and don't open it for anyone except my voice.”
Sarah didn't argue. The terror in her eyes was replaced by maternal adrenaline. She bolted across the room, scooped Grace up into her arms—along with the pale-blue doll—and disappeared down the hallway, the bedroom door clicking shut a second later with a solid, echoing latch.
I turned back to the front door just as a heavy shoulder slammed against the exterior wood.
CRACK.
The cheap brass deadbolt splintered inside the soft pine frame, the door flying inward a full six inches before catching on the bent security chain.
Through the gap, I saw the face of the man in the black coat—young, sharp-featured, with a scar running along his jawline. His eyes widened in surprise when he saw me standing there instead of Sarah.
“Who the hell are you?” the investigator barked, shoving his shoulder against the door again, trying to snap the remaining chain.
“I’m the attorney of record,” I said, my voice dropping into the cold, commanding register I reserved for hostile hostile witnesses on the stand. “And you are currently committing a felony burglary and breaking and entering into an occupied residence without a judicial warrant. Step away from this door right now, or I will ensure you spend the next ten years of your life sharing a cell with violent offenders.”
The investigator froze for a fraction of a second, thrown off by my tone and the expensive cut of my suit jacket visible in the dim hallway light. But he quickly recovered, flashing a nasty, jagged grin.
“Attorney? Right. Mr. Vance sends his regards,” the man snarled, rearing back to kick the door hinges off completely.
Before his boot could strike the wood, I reached out through the gap, grabbed the lapel of his heavy winter coat with both hands, and yanked him forward with every ounce of strength I had. His head slammed violently into the edge of the doorframe with a sickening thud.
He let out a sharp cry of pain, dropping his clipboard as his knees buckled.
I didn't give him a chance to recover. I drove my foot forward against the edge of the door, smashing it outward into his chest and sending him tumbling backward onto the concrete landing of the stairwell.
“Stay down!” I shouted, stepping out onto the landing, towering over him as he clutched his bleeding nose.
He looked up at me, spitting blood onto the concrete, his eyes wild with shock. He realized very quickly that he wasn't dealing with a frightened mother or a helpless civilian. He reached frantically inside his coat for his pocket, but before his hand could clear his jacket, the sound of heavy boots echoing up the lower stairwell stairs stopped him dead.
“Police! Stay right where you are!”
A flashlight beam cut through the dim stairwell, blinding both of us in a harsh white glare. Two NYPD patrol officers rushed up the final flight of stairs, their hands hovering over their holstered sidearms.
“Hands on your head! Do it now!” the lead officer roared, leveling his gaze between the bleeding investigator and me.
In less than ninety seconds, the landing was a chaotic scene of flashing red and blue squad car lights reflecting off the frosted windows.
The investigator was hauled to his feet in plastic zip-ties, screaming that he was just a courier delivering legal documents, while the second officer checked my identification, his eyebrows rising steadily as he read my bar card and driver’s license.
“Mr. Miller? Senior partner at Miller & Thorne?” The officer looked from my ID to my tailored suit, then back at the battered front door of apartment 3B. “Mind explaining what you’re doing in a building like this at nine-thirty at night, breaking up a home invasion?”
Before I could answer, the bedroom door at the end of the hallway clicked open.
Sarah stepped out, her face pale, her arm wrapped around Grace’s small shoulders to shield her eyes from the flashing lights outside the window.
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When the lead officer turned his flashlight down the hallway and saw a mother and a terrified seven-year-old child standing in the ruined doorway, his expression hardened instantly. He looked back at the handcuffed investigator being led down the stairs, and then back at me.
“Looks like your courier had the wrong address, Officer,” I said smoothly, stepping back inside and sliding my bar card back into my wallet. “Or rather... he had the right address, but the wrong lawyer.”
