By John Lescroart
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CHAPTER TWO A long week later - party day - and it was going to rain. Dooher had noticed the clouds piling up on themselves out over the ocean as he drove to his home in St Francis Wood. He considered his neighborhood the best of all worlds. It was both the city and a suburb, but without the blight of either. He had civilized neighbors. An elegant, gracious canopy of old boughs shaded the streets by day, enclosing them with what felt like a protective security by night. Stands of eucalyptus perfumed the air in the fall, magnolias in the summer.
It was then he discovered that things had changed, and he'd arranged this meeting with Flaherty. The Archbishop's face did not exactly go pale, but he was rocked. He lifted his eyes from the folder. ' The lawyer nodded. 'Trang's got nothing else to do, Jim. ' Flaherty was trying to read and listen at the same time. ' 'Veronica, now nineteen. That's Trang's story. To say nothing of several other immigrants whose names he didn't provide. ' Flaherty closed the folder abruptly. 'I know Slocum. It's possible Trang's not bluffing.
She laughed. ' The town was nestled in a valley behind Ventura, and many times the setting sun would break through the fog that hovered near the ocean and seem to paint the red rock walls of the valley a deep pink. The locals set great store by it. Dooher nodded. ' Her eyes glistened, enjoying the moment, sipping champagne. 'School. USF' She hesitated a moment. ' Dooher backed up, his hand to his heart. ' She made a face. ' She smiled over her glass. 'Oops. I'm saying too much. Champagne talk.
Guilt by John Lescroart