Book 7 of the Michael Gresham Series
Attorney Michael Gresham has a new go-to person. Her name is Annie and she's twelve.
Annie is a savant. She can look at you and, like her idol, Sherlock Holmes, tell you where you're from, whether or not you're happily married, and where you went to school.
But now she must use her skills to discover who murdered her entire family, because it looks like the killer was actually looking for her. Annie must profile the killer before he kills her. It will take all of her brilliance and all of the lawyering skills of Michael Gresham. But will even that be enough?
At the last minute, Annie spins out an entire universe of killers and leads Michael Gresham to their door.
Now the door must be opened.
Read an Excerpt
Gerry’s expiration date was fast approaching when he flew to Chicago to meet with me.
“Michael Gresham!” he called to me as he tramped up the jetway. “Thanks for taking the time to come out to O'Hare, man! Let's get a drink!”
We found the lounge on the main concourse and stepped inside. He ordered a martini; I ordered coffee. Before we were finished with our talk, he had ordered a second. But even with the alcohol onboard his hands shook. His eyes darted all around the lounge and back out into the concourse, looking and watching, always watching.
“I got a letter,” he said under his breath. “It arrived at my office on October third. It's from a bank in the Caymans. According to the letter, the bank says I have an account with just over twelve-million dollars in it.”
He passed me the letter. I studied it and nodded appreciatively.
“Twelve million dollars. Isn't this good news?” I asked.
“It would be except I didn't put the money into the account. I also don't have any Cayman Island bank accounts. But they say I do. I've only been there once in my life, nearly twenty years ago.”
I wasn't sure I heard correctly. “You didn't put the money in the account? And you didn't even open an account there? But it says in this letter you have twelve million in an account in your name?”
“Exactly. That's my correct address, too. Not many people know where I live.”
Now I was perplexed. “Has anyone asked you about the money?”
“Just the bank. They're recommending I move it from a straight checking account into a savings account.”
“No one else has said anything to you about it?”
“Nobody has come asking for their money back if that's what you're driving at. I'm sure it's stolen, and someone's going to turn me in and ruin my political career.”
Gerry was the Climate Party's nominee in the race for President of the United States. In one month the presidential election of 2016 would tally up all the votes, and we'd know who the next president was going to be. Gerry didn't expect to win; green parties never win. But he had intended to make a statement about the climate. Now he feared that some enemy was going to step forth and claim Gerry embezzled the money. His political career—and chance to make a climate statement in the election—would be ruined.
I asked Gerry, “Who would want to harm you in this way?”
He favored me with a patient smile as a professional might do with a novice—which I was, politically.
“Lots of people would want to hurt me. I'm known as a flaming liberal from New York. That's strike one. Strike two is my million enemies in fossil fuel that would love to see me crash and burn.”
“What's strike three?”
He shot a look around the lounge. “That's just it—I don't know what strike three is. That's what's keeping me up nights.”