Rett
“Richard Michelson is waiting for you downstairs,” Ian said as I closed the door to Emma’s suite behind me.
My eyebrows came together in confusion as I reached for my phone. There wasn’t a message. “Why wasn’t I informed? How long has he been here?”
“You said not to disturb you.”
I shook my head. I had said that; however, there were certain exceptions. One of those would include a visit from one of the top prosecutors in Louisiana. “How long has he been here?”
“An hour. He’s in your front office.”
Fuck.
An hour.
I wouldn’t wait an hour for anyone. The fact that Michelson had waited for me spoke to a few things: he was determined to see me and there must be a good reason. As a prosecutor, he could be a thorn in my side, but we had history that kept us allies. Nevertheless, finding a prosecutor in your home doesn’t fill one with warm feelings.
Had someone tipped him off about Ingalls?
Had one of my men been spotted before the scene could be cleaned?