“He has a blog, but hasn’t updated anything since his dad disappeared. I don’t know. In the blog, he seems... sweet, I guess.”
“Well, I’m glad you’ve used your internet detective skills to determine that Davis is sweet.
Holmesy, I love you, but find some info on the case.”
So I did. The Indianapolis Star wrote about Russell Pickett a lot because his company was one of Indiana’s biggest employers,
but also because he was constantly getting sued. He had some huge real estate deal downtown that devolved into multiple lawsuits;
his former executive assistant and Pickett Engineering’s chief marketing officer had both sued him for sexual harassment;
he’d been sued by a gardener on his estate for violating the Americans with Disabilities Act; the list went on and on.
In all those articles, the same lawyer was quoted—Simon Morris.
Morris’s website described his company as “a boutique law firm focusing on the comprehensive needs of high-net-worth individuals.”
“Can I get a charge off your computer BTW?” She actually said the letters B-T-W,
which I wanted to point out required more syllables than just saying “by the way,” but she was clearly locked into something.
Without ever taking her eyes from her phone, Daisy reached into her purse, pulled out a USB cable, and handed it to me.
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