“Of course, officer,” Amber repeated as she hefted her leather business bag off the table and followed the man as he led her through the double doors and to a set of elevators. The man immediately grabbed for his throat, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water as he pushed away from the table. “Gwen Bartlet here to see Phillip Castor as his defense attorney.”
The man picked up a tablet and skimmed through it. “Not at all, Mr. I’ll probably be charged with something, too.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, Mr. They looked exactly like the ones she was wearing. “If you would, just place your bag on the belt. Place any keys, phone, rings… all that goes in one of those trays.”
“Of course,” Amber said, complying. “However, in your case, the legality of your agreement with the late Colin Gerrard is… tenuous at best. “Not at all, Mr. Before the officer could reply, the doors slid open, and the pair left the elevator, took a right, and headed down a corridor well-lit in a warm, incandescent glow. “I’m good.”
“Nonsense,” Amber said. “You’re not asking for much.”
“It’s the payment Brantwood requires for their… generous offer,” Amber said.
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