Durwood checked into a motel with two levels of rooms. Flat roof and skinny balconies. He parked the van where he could see it out the room's front window.

He needed a computer. The only one he owned was back in West Virginia, a desktop purchased at a Wal-Mart Black Friday sale. Now he hunted near the lobby for a public machine. Motel wasn't going to have a full-blown "business center," but they might have someplace to print letters or check into a flight.

Not this one.

He called Carol Bridges.

"I've got a computer, sure," she said. "In my office. What'll we be using it for?"

Removed from the lawyers' and bankers' smooth talk, Durwood had dismissed his doubts about the mayor. Mostly.

He told her what he'd learned at Boone's Chophouse, and that he wanted to take a closer look at Raines Financial and Sybil Fitzgerald's law firm.

"Wait one minute—Raines is buying the company?" Carol Bridges said. "But they've been consulting for Jay and Chester for the last three years. Isn't that a massive conflict of interest?"

Durwood stood at the wall AC unit with his phone, the woman's outrage bright in his ear.

"I'm not qualified to judge."

"You said the lawyers were there, Sybil Fitzgerald? She knows about conflict of interest—she should've raised hell. Why wasn't she raising hell?"

From his years married to Maybelle, Durwood knew women didn't always want their questions answered.

He said he didn't know.

"Something's off," Carol Bridges declared. "Something stinks. They've been paying these two firms exorbitant fees, letting them leech money out of Hogan's bottom line for years. Now they come up with this—a salvage sale?"

"Looks so," Durwood said.

They met back at her office to use the computer. Deputy Gomez and the security guard had gone, leaving just the two of them in the building.

Carol Bridges' dark red hair looked looser than before. Pulling it up in a knot, she made space at the keyboard. "Do you want to type or should I?"

Durwood turned his hands over. "You go ahead."

They searched online for information, first on the law firm—Fitzgerald, Combs, and Doucey—then on Raines Financial, and finally on Hogan Consolidated itself.

Neither Durwood nor Carol Bridges was good with the internet. They crinkled their brows at nonsense results. They struggled navigating the companies' confusing websites, Durwood pointing hesitantly around the screen, the mayor's finger slow on the mouse.

They muddled forward.

The first breakthrough came when they put "Hogan Consolidated" and "Fitzgerald, Combs, and Doucey" together in a search. The top result was a document dated five years ago from the United States Court of Appeals, Fifth Circuit in New Orleans.

Carol Bridges opened it. They read shoulder to shoulder. Several of Hogan's corporate customers had joined a price-fixing suit, claiming the company had used its market position to keep prices high. The legalese zoomed straight over Durwood's head, but the line at the very top—printed double the size of the rest—was clear enough.

CASE DISMISSED.

"Look it." Durwood pointed to a name in the text. "The defendant's lawyers aren't Fitzgerald, Combs, and Doucey."

Carol Bridges followed his eyes to the name, a law firm based in South Texas. "They had different counsel. So why did this document come back in our search?"

Durwood didn't know.

In another minute, Carol Bridges figured how to scan the page for the word "Fitzgerald" and they found it clear a the bottom, in a section called Supplemental legal representatives for the plaintiffs.

"For the plaintiffs?" she said. "That can't be right. Who was the primary plaintiff's attorney?"

Another Texas firm was listed as the acting attorneys for the party accusing price-fixing. Fitzgerald, Combs, and Doucey had been riding shotgun.

Durwood looked at the name of that East Coast law firm, hiding at the bottom of the page like a gator in pond grass.

He said, "Who do you figure was calling the shots? Them or that podunk firm up the road?"

Carol Bridges frowned.

They found three more federal filings against Hogan. A second price-fixing case, an antitrust suit involving its decades-old purchase of an ore supplier in Wyoming, and a false advertising claim about some billboard in El Paso.

All three had been dismissed. In all three, Fitzgerald, Combs, and Doucey appeared as Supplemental legal representatives for the plaintiffs.

"They've been gunning for Hogan for years. In secret." Carol Bridges rubbed the corners of her eyes. They'd been after it a solid hour. "They couldn't make anything stick."

Durwood's own eyes felt brittle. They both sought relief from the screen, twisting away. Their legs touched. Shins mixed in with knees. Durwood didn't flinch. Neither did she. Their contact was more than a brush, less than a lean.

They spoke at the same time: "Until now."

He took up the keyboard and searched for the defective hinge and flange cases. He found nine listing Hogan, split between state and federal jurisdictions. Durwood tried drilling in as Carol Bridges had but found only preliminary filings. These named the primary attorneys, not the secondary ones.

No Fitzgerald, Combs, and Doucey.

"Dang it," Durwood said.

"Too recent," Carol Bridges said. "They haven't archived the full court proceedings yet. I wonder if we..."

Her fingers nudged Durwood's off the keys—firmly but not unpleasantly. She clicked ahead to the courts' official websites. Many were unhelpful and had no information about getting public records.

The last gave a phone number.

For details pertaining to the current docket, please telephone the court clerk.

"Telephone," Durwood said. "How quaint."

They decided she should call, a female voice less threatening and Carol Bridges a better talker besides.

Durwood watched her dial. As she concentrated, her tongue flicked over her upper lip. Their legs weren't touching now, but warmth remained in Durwood's bluejeans.

Carol Bridges opened her mouth to speak into the phone, then closed it.

She reported, "Straight to voicemail."

No surprise there. Government office near ten o'clock.

Durwood thought some, then said, "Do Jay Hogan and Chester Lyles know their current lawyers had it out for 'em?"

"I don't see how they couldn't," the mayor said. "Unless they're completely incompetent."

Durwood made a squirting noise with his cheek. "Talk about conflict of interest."

Carol Bridges chuckled. "Let's call again in the morning. If we can get hard confirmation her firm's playing both sides on these injury lawsuits? That's big. That changes everything."

"Except she knows we're on her trail. Might've started covering her tracks. I'd rather get it tonight."

Carol Bridges wheezed. "Sure, me too. But the place is closed." She gestured light-heartedly to his face, a mishmash of cuts, bruises, and dog-tiredness. "And Durwood, look, you need the sleep. If you don't mind me saying."

The ex-Marine smiled. It was true. He hadn't been in Chickasaw a full day, after all. Maybelle used to nag him to get more sleep.

He was about to disagree when a crash sounded from the hall.

—

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