Watch Me by James Carol

acres of nothing.’ Then he turned on his heel and headed back the way we’d come, out of the park and across the street towards Sam Galloway’s office. His stride was much longer than mine and he pulled further away with every step.
    I caught up with him in the shade of the entrance porch. Galloway & Galloway Attorneys-At-Law was engraved on a bronze plaque that had been screwed into the wall. The plaque was decades old. Despite regular cleaning the letters had a shadow of dirt ground into them, and there were faint streaks of green on the bronze caused by oxidisation.
    Who had put the plaque up? My money was on Sam’s grandfather. It looked old enough. When Barbara Galloway had talked about her eldest son taking over the family business, for a beat her grief had been replaced with the sort of pride that had its roots buried deep into history.
    We’d been outside for five minutes, long enough to smoke the whole cigarette down to the butt. The humidity was more brutal than ever and my Hendrix T-shirt was sticking to me. Taylor’s shirt was sticking to him too. I wondered if he owned any white T-shirts, and if he did, why the hell wasn’t he wearing one?
    Taylor pushed the heavy wooden door open and we went inside. I removed my sunglasses and hooked them onto the neck of my T-shirt. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the change in light. The interior of the building was at least thirty degrees cooler, but it still felt warm. The heat didn’t bother me. Give me sunshine over Siberia any day. I’d spent my first eleven years in northern California and the summers there could get pretty vicious. I’d also spent a summer in Arizona, where it got even hotter. In some ways that had been easier to handle since it was a dry heat.
    A wide stairway led to the reception area on the second floor. The receptionist who greeted us had a sad smile that struggled to get past her lips. It was a gesture born out of conditioned politeness rather than one that carried any sort of honest emotion. In that respect she reminded me a lot of Barbara Galloway. In every other way, though, they were polar opposites. Looks, status, the fact that she had worked a day in her life.
    The receptionist was well into her fifties. Grey hair, and an appropriate amount of make-up given her age and position. She was dressed conservatively in a plain white blouse and a navy skirt. She had an efficient desk. A computer keyboard and screen directly in front of her, the phone positioned off to her right within easy reach.
    Taylor held up his badge. ‘I’m Officer Taylor and this is Jefferson Winter. He’s helping us out with the investigation into Sam Galloway’s murder. Thank you for waiting. We appreciate it.’
    The receptionist’s face seemed to collapse in on itself. She looked on the verge of tears. ‘I can’t believe Mr Galloway’s gone.’
    ‘What’s your name?’ I asked her.
    ‘Mary. Mary Sanders.’
    ‘Have you worked here long, Mary?’
    ‘Since I left high school. Mr Galloway’s father hired me.’ She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t seem real. Every time I hear someone come in, I keep expecting to see Mr Galloway.’
    I nodded that I understood, but I was thinking about how we could get information from her. If anybody knew the details of Sam’s extra-curricular activities, Mary would. The problem was that she would be fiercely loyal to her former employer. Particularly right now when the wounds were so raw.
    ‘Who else is here?’
    ‘Josh Landry. He deals mainly with property issues. Judy Dufrene is here as well. She’s our legal secretary.’
    ‘I take it you have a conference room?’
    Mary nodded.
    ‘We’d like to talk to Judy and Josh, please.’
    ‘Certainly.’
    Mary got up and led the way through to a large wood-panelled room with a high ceiling and a twenty-seat oak conference table. I tried to think of a single situation that would merit a table this big in a place as small as Eagle Creek. All that sprung