Constance discreetly looked around, wondering if anyone in the rarefied Founders’ Club dining room had heard that wizened pronouncement. Most patrons were elderly, and most appeared hunched over their meals or their drinks. Conversation had turned into a low, basso hum. No one paid them any mind, which suited Constance perfectly. Her presence there had become somewhat of a regular thing, which is how she’d planned it over the last few months. As far as anyone was concerned, Constance Wellington dutifully visited one of her late father’s friends, as a socially conscious woman of breeding would do. Judge Clarence Coldwell was one of her father’s oldest cronies—and one of the few left alive. He still presided over the tenth district court and still held a hell of a lot of power in his hands. She wouldn’t be wasting her time with him, otherwise. “You are so right, Your Honor.” Constance gave him what she hoped was an admiring smile and then reached for her Perrier. She’d rather the glass in her hand held scotch, but that wouldn’t go with the image she’d been projecting these last several weeks.
