to the question of why he continued to steal from the well-protected
wealthy. Perhaps it was only to show that he could.
He looked up once again at his daughter’s apartment. He hadn’t been
there for her, why should she be there for him?
But he could not sever the bond entirely, even if she had. He would be
there for her if she so desired, but he knew that she never would.
Luther moved quickly down the street, finally running to catch a Metro
bus heading toward the subway at Union Station. He had always been the
most independent of people never relying to any significant degree on
anyone else. He was a loner and had liked that. Now, Luther felt very
alone, and the feeling this time was not so comforting.
The rain started and he stared out the back window of the bus as it
meandered its way to the great rail terminus, which had been saved from
extinction by an ambitious railway-shopping mall renovation. The water
bubbled up on the ‘ smooth surface of the window and clouded his view of
where he had just been. He wished he could, but he couldn’t go back
there now.
He turned back in his seat, pulled his hat down tighter, blew into his
handkerchief. He picked up a discarded newspaper, glancing down its old
headlines. He wondered when they would find her. When they did, he would
know about it immediately; everyone in this town would know that
Christine Sullivan was dead. When rich people got themselves killed, it
was front-page news. Poor people and Joe Average were stuck in the Metro
section. Christy Sullivan would most certainly be on page one, front and
center.
He dropped the paper on the floor, hunched down in his seat. He needed
to see a lawyer, and then he would be gone.
The bus droned on, and his eyes finally closed, but he wasn’t sleeping.
He was, for the moment, sitting in his daughter’s living room, and this
time, she was there with him.
CHAPTER SIX
LUTHER SAT AT THE SMALL CONFERENCE ROOM TABLE IN THE very plainly
furnished room. The chairs and table were old and carried a thousand
scrapes. The rug was just as ancient and not very clean. A card holder
was the only thing on the table other than his file. He picked up one of
the cards and thumbed it. “Legal Services, Inc.” These people weren’t
the best in the business; they were far from the halls of power
downtown. Graduates of third-rate law schools with no shot at the
traditional firm practice, they eked out their professional existence
hoping for some luck down the road. But their dreams of big offices, big
clients and, most important, -big money faded a little more with the
passage of each year.
But Luther did not require the best. He only required somebody with a
law degree and the right forms.
“Everything is in order, Mr. Whitney.” The kid looked about twenty-five,
still full of hope and energy. This place was not his final destination.
He still clearly believed that.
The tired, pinched, flabby face of the older man behind him held out no
such hope. “This is Jerry Burns, the managing attorney, he’ll be the
other witness to your will. We have a self-proving affidavit, so we
won’t have to appear in court as to whether or not we witnessed your
will.” A stem-looking, forty-something woman appeared with her pen and
notary seal. “Phyllis here is our notary, Mr. Whitney.” They all sat
down. “Would you like me to read the terms of your will out to you?”
Jerry Burns had been sitting at the table looking bored to death,
staring into space, dreaming of all the other places he would rather be.
Jerry Burns, managing attorney. He looked like he would rather be
shoveling cow manure on some farm in the Midwest. Now he glanced at his
young colleague with disdain.
“I’ve read it,” Luther replied.
“Fine,” said Jerry Burns. “Why don’t we get started?”
Fifteen minutes later Luther emerged from Legal Services, Inc., with two
original copies of his last will and testament tucked in his coat
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