Double Indemnity, page 1
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Dedication
To those moving from religion to relationship. Enjoy the journey.
Epigraph
“You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.”
Jeremiah 26:13 NIV
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Acknowledgments
Discussion Questions
About the Author
Praise for Robert Whitlow
Also by Robert Whitlow
Copyright
Prologue
Connor Grantham moved silently through the woods. A cold mist hovered near the ground. Wearing olive-green pants and a light brown jacket, he’d slipped on a bright yellow vest to make sure no overeager deer hunters confused him for a white-tailed buck on the move at the height of the yearly rut. An orange cap covered his blond hair and provided additional warning to hunters. Every breath from his mouth released a tiny cloud of vapor that disappeared by the time it reached his blue eyes. Two months away from his thirtieth birthday, Connor was a shade over six feet tall and regularly walked many miles up and down the nearby hills.
A cold snap during the last week of September had brought a hard frost to the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains in north Georgia. Cool weather didn’t keep Connor indoors. Up before dawn, he’d strapped on a headlamp and hiked two miles in the darkness to a familiar hilltop where he watched the sun rise above the tree line to the east. Many leaves had fallen from the trees, and the sun’s appearance highlighted the hardy yellow, red, and gold stragglers that remained. Every season also had its own personality. In fall the trees celebrated a job well done with an explosion of color.
Connor wasn’t a day hiker who reached a summit, took a few selfies on his phone, and quickly moved on. He liked to sit on a rock outcropping and savor each unfolding second that a sunrise brought into view. During the two years since moving to Bryson from Atlanta, Connor had discovered five local summits that he visited on a regular basis at various times and seasons.
When he reached the boundary for the property managed by the Burnt Pine Tree Hunting Lodge, he became extra vigilant. The company that owned the one-thousand-acre game preserve released two or three trophy bucks every year and fed them corn at designated spots in an effort to keep them on the property until they could breed with local does or be hunted by clients. Photos of this year’s big bucks had been posted on the Burnt Pine Tree website the previous week. The magnificent specimens were imported from a much larger hunting preserve located in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Since he’d started hiking in the area, Connor had never seen one of the animals in the woods. Because they were targeted so heavily by hunters, the life expectancy of the bucks was usually days or weeks. Earlier he’d heard gunshots in the distance. It might have been a hunter bagging one of the trophy bucks, but the most likely target was one of the local white-tailed deer that were as plentiful as squirrels in a city park.
A graduate of the divinity school at Princeton, Connor obeyed the law, except when trespassing across private property during his hikes. Nailed to a nearby tree was a large white rectangular metal sign that warned: “Property of Burnt Pine Tree Hunting Lodge—No Trespassing—Hunting Prohibited Except by Registered Guests—Violators Will Be Prosecuted.” One of the board of directors for Burnt Pine Tree attended the church where Connor served as minister. Reg Bullock had been one of Connor’s strongest supporters at the church. If an employee of the preserve reported Connor to the sheriff’s department as a trespasser, a quick phone call from Reg would take care of any problem.
The final quarter mile of the hike crossed the northwest corner of the hunting lodge’s property. Beyond that was a short path to the dirt road where Connor had parked his vehicle. He heard a rustling in the leaves and out the corner of his eye caught sight of something brown moving through the woods. He froze and waited. Two large does, strolling toward the boundary line of the preserve, came into view. Connor positioned himself behind a large oak tree, pulled out his phone from the front pocket of his shirt, and took several photos. Female deer this large weren’t common. He heard a loud snort. A few seconds later he caught sight of a massive buck with an enormous set of antlers trotting after the does. It had to be one of the recently released trophy animals. The male deer stepped down into a shallow gully about twenty-five yards from where Connor hid behind the oak tree. The buck paused to sniff the air. Puffs of vapor from the deer’s nostrils floated up into the chilly air. Connor counted twelve antler points on the “atypical” rack. Muscles bulged in the buck’s neck. Connor’s heart was pounding. He shifted to video mode and started filming. After a few seconds, the majestic animal let out another loud snort and trotted off after the does with his nose in the air. Connor kept filming. If the deer continued in the same direction, he would soon leave the Burnt Pine Tree property.
A few seconds later, Connor heard an even louder commotion. Suspecting it was another buck chasing the does, he swung his phone in the direction of the sound and kept recording. To capture both bucks on video in the same day would be incredible. A flash of orange ended Connor’s excitement. It was a hunter running through the woods. Generally, the only reason for a hunter to move that rapidly in this location would be to trail a wounded animal. The man was wearing an orange hunting jacket and a black toboggan hat. He stumbled into the gully and fell. Regaining his feet, the man brushed himself off. Connor stopped recording and lowered his phone as the man picked up his rifle.
“Are you okay?” Connor called out.
The man spun around toward Connor. The black toboggan almost covered his entire face.
“Yeah, I stepped in a hole.”
The hunter sounded like he was from England, not north Georgia.
“No wounded deer came this way,” Connor said. “But I just saw a big buck chasing two does. They may be off the Burnt Pine Tree property by now.”
“Which way is the road, mate?”
“Northwest,” Connor answered as he pointed. “I’m going there myself if you want me to show you.”
Without replying, the hunter turned his back on Connor and started jogging again. He quickly disappeared in the trees. Connor leaned against the oak tree and rewatched the video of the big buck. It was definitely something he would have to show Reg after church the following day.
Ten minutes later Connor reached the dirt access road. There were no fresh tire tracks near his vehicle. The man he’d seen in the woods must have parked someplace else. Before starting his Jeep, Connor glanced down at his phone as a call came through. It was Michelle Cantrell, the church secretary.
“Did you hear about Matt Thompson?” she asked.
“No.”
“He’s been shot in a hunting accident.”
Chapter 1
Three weeks earlier
The phone on Elizabeth Acosta’s desk buzzed.
“Liz, come to the big conference room,” barked Harold Pollard, the senior partner in the law firm. “Mr. and Mrs. Rodriguez are here. And bring your laptop.”
Twenty-six years old with straight black hair that fell below her shoulders, Liz grabbed her laptop and left the small office she occupied next to the break room. Five feet two inches tall, the young lawyer had piercing dark eyes passed down from her father. She walked briskly down the hallway and into the reception area. With five attorneys, Pollard and Associates was the largest firm in Bryson.
The main conference room was an impressive space. Harold believed it was important to send a message to both clients and opposing counsel that the law firm was successful and prosperous. The mahogany table was surrounded by twelve chairs and rested on an oversized oriental carpet on top of a shiny wooden floor. A built-in wooden cabinet concealed a media center. There were four pieces of original artwork on the walls and a sculpture incorporating local birdlife in one corner. Harold always sat at the head of the table. Liz entered through double doors.
Her fifty-eight-year-old boss was a short, slightly built man with thinning brown hair. To his right was a Latino man and woman. The ma n was wearing a neck brace. Harold slid an accident report across the table to Liz.
“Mr. and Mrs. Rodriguez were referred to us by Angel Santiago, the man we represented last year shortly after you came to work for the firm,” Harold said. “Tell them you’re going to obtain their information so we can help them.”
Liz relayed this information in Spanish with an accent influenced by her paternal grandmother, who’d escaped from Cuba in a small boat to Miami. Liz had a large vocabulary. Mr. Rodriguez responded in a soft voice that revealed roots in rural Mexico.
“Explain that if they hire our firm, you’ll be available to keep them up-to-date,” Harold said. “I’ll be back in fifteen or twenty minutes.”
Liz knew the drill. Using her laptop, she opened the client intake template and obtained the facts from Luis and Maria Rodriguez. According to the accident report, their vehicle had been struck on the driver’s side by a pickup truck that ran a stop sign and T-boned them. Maria only suffered cuts and bruises, but Luis’s left wrist was shattered, a devastating injury for a carpenter. As Luis described his injuries, Maria started crying. Liz handed her a tissue from a box in the middle of the table.
“We don’t want money,” Maria said through her sniffles. “I want my husband to be healthy and strong for me and our children.”
“How many children do you have?”
“Three,” Maria answered. “Two boys and a girl.”
“What are their names and ages?”
These types of personal questions weren’t part of the standard intake process, but Liz liked to learn about a client’s family. It helped keep clients from becoming just another file number. Liz provided Maria with the phone number for a local food bank that could assist them while Luis was out of work.
Harold returned to the conference room. “Almost finished?” he asked.
“Not much more,” Liz replied.
“Have you gone over our fee agreement?”
“No.”
Harold looked at his watch. “I have to leave in ten minutes for a motion hearing in front of Judge Godwin. Are they going to hire us? Mr. Santiago said they’d been talking to one of the big outfits that advertise on TV.”
“Let me find out,” Liz replied.
She asked Luis if he wanted them to represent him.
“Yes,” Maria answered, then looked at her husband, who nodded his head.
“I understood that much,” Harold said. “Sign them up. Standard contingency contract and medical release forms. Give everything to Jessica so she can send out our rep paperwork to the insurance company for the other driver.”
“Based on what Mr. Rodriguez tells me about his injuries, this may be a policy limits case,” Liz said.
“That’s what we like to hear,” Harold replied.
Smiling, he leaned over and shook Luis’s hand.
“Gracias,” the lawyer said.
The simple word represented twenty-five percent of Harold Pollard’s Spanish vocabulary and was the reason he’d hired Liz as an associate attorney. Since her arrival, the number of the firm’s Spanish-speaking clients had increased significantly, mirroring the growing Latino population of north Georgia. More and more workers employed by local manufacturers came from Mexico or one of the Central American countries. Whether they were hurt on the job, charged with a crime, or injured in an auto accident like Luis Rodriguez, they needed legal representation, and Harold Pollard was an excellent trial lawyer. The first time Liz sat with her boss in the courtroom and watched him cross-examine a witness, she knew why he’d earned the reputation locally as the best trial lawyer in town. The seasoned attorney’s ability to deftly obtain what he needed from a witness was impressive.
After graduating in the lower half of her class at Ave Maria School of Law in Naples, Liz received no job offers in Florida. She hoped that after two to three years of experience in north Georgia, she might be able to return home and land an entry-level job with a Florida firm. For now, Liz’s role at the Pollard firm remained pedestrian. Often, she felt more like a Spanish language translator than a lawyer.
After ushering Mr. and Mrs. Rodriguez to the reception area, Liz handed the accident report to Jessica Thorpe, one of the firm’s legal assistants. A year older than Liz, Jessica came to work for the law firm shortly after high school. Married with two elementary-school-age children, she and Liz quickly became friends.
“I’ll forward my intake sheet,” Liz said.
“I’m on it,” Jessica replied in a twangy north Georgia drawl.
As soon as Liz was back in her office the phone buzzed.
“It’s Raphael,” the firm receptionist said.
Liz’s boyfriend was scheduled to fly from Miami to Atlanta the following day. Their on-again, off-again relationship was close to its third anniversary. The time between visits had grown longer, and Liz had considered cutting the tie. But dating options were scarce in Bryson, and Raphael provided a link to home and the lifestyle Liz eventually wanted.
“I’ll take it,” she said.
* * *
With a row of windows that offered a panoramic view of the foothills to the west, Connor’s office was a wonderful place to meditate. But the outward beauty couldn’t soften the ugly words bouncing off the walls during the contentious marital counseling session. Elena Thompson took a third tissue from her expensive purse and wiped her eyes. The thirty-two-year-old woman from Richmond, Virginia, with hazel eyes and an athletically trim figure, had started attending Rock Community Church six months earlier. Unlike most visitors, she sat toward the front of the sanctuary and always let Connor know how much she enjoyed the sermon. Matt, her husband, had only attended the church two times. They’d moved to Bryson upon the recommendation of Reg Bullock, who served on the board of directors for Matt’s company, Daughbert Technology.
“I don’t feel married,” Elena said and sniffled. “The reason we came here was to get away from the rat race of Atlanta and be together.”
“We spend all day together,” her husband retorted.
“Matt, be honest,” Elena shot back. “We may be under the same roof, but you’re in your office on the phone and your computer at the opposite end of the house from six thirty in the morning until six thirty at night and then back again after supper.”
Connor had visited the couple’s custom-designed home that sprawled across a prime hilltop. The marriage was the first for Elena and the second for Matt, who was ten years older. Although they’d not admitted it to Connor in their previous counseling session, he suspected Matt and Elena’s relationship was the cause for Matt’s divorce from Anne, his first wife. Anne had primary custody of their two girls.
“You wanted me working from home so you’d know where I was all day,” Matt replied in frustration. “This is a critical time for the company. We’re trying to go global, and whether that succeeds or fails is on me. I have to be available when our overseas partners can talk. Everything is coming to a head. This is a make-or-break time for the business.”
“I’m glad you brought that up. Tell Connor what you told me last night,” Elena replied.
“Which part?” Matt said. “You didn’t let me say anything for half an hour.”
Connor winced. Elena swiped her eyes again with her tissue.
Matt turned to Connor. “First, I appreciate you listening to us spill our guts,” he said. “This is hard, but Elena and I agree that we need help.”
“Get to what you said last night,” Elena said.
“Okay, okay. I have an apartment in downtown Atlanta that I use when I have to spend the night in the city for meetings. I’ve only spent the night there a few times over the past twelve months, but that’s going to change when people fly in for extended sessions with management and our technical staff. It doesn’t make sense for me to stay in Bryson, fight rush-hour traffic, risk being late, and keep people waiting.”
“How long will this last?” Connor asked.
“No idea!” Elena interjected, throwing up her hands.
“It’s hard to predict,” Matt added. “I don’t want to make a promise to Elena that I can’t keep.”
“I hate being alone, and he knows it.”
Given the couple’s history, Connor was confident that trust was a huge issue between them. But instead of identifying the problem, he decided to suggest a practical solution.
