A Lasting Impression

deal of work and long hours. That’s why I’m offering to bring you in. I need your youth and stamina, your tenacity.”
    “What’s the case about, sir?”
    Holbrook held up a hand. “If we were to win this case, Mr. Monroe, your name would be on the front page of every newspaper in the country and at the top of every law firm’s hire list. Your financial future would be set.”
    “What is the case about . . . counselor?” Sutton repeated again, his interest having edged up several notches due to that last comment alone.
    Holbrook chuckled. “The usual—theft, greed, and deceit. Qualities that make humanity such a fascinating—and tragic—study.” Holbrook leaned closer. “A long-standing client of the firm purchased an original Raphael from a gallery in New York, only to discover upon having the painting insured . . . that while it was indeed an original, the painting’s certificate of authenticity had been forged, for some reason. Which then led our client to question the validity of another original he’d purchased from the same gallery two years earlier. That painting, as it turns out, was a forgery. The gallery denies having known that, though evidence indicates otherwise. But in preparing to go to trial, we’ve uncovered yet another layer to this sordid affair.”
    “And what layer would that be, sir?”
    Zeal punctuated Holbrook’s expression. “Our client has what you might call a rather sizeable investment in art, as do his peers. He’s hired investigators, and their reports indicate that these dealings could be more widespread than originally thought. Our client wants to sue this gallery for financial damages, of course. But he also wants whoever is at the top to answer for this as well. And he’s willing to pay us, quite handsomely, to work with the investigators to ensure that happens.”
    Sutton nodded, his appetite more than a little whetted.
    When first considering studying the law, the choice to become an attorney had been the means to an end for him—to what he really wanted to do with his life. But over time, and influenced by Bartholomew Holbrook’s mentoring, the law had come alive and instilled within him a passion for its truth. But as much as he loved the law, he loved something else equally well, if not more.
    He fingered Truxton’s reins, remembering how many years he’d saved to buy this thoroughbred, as well as the others the North had confiscated during the war. His childhood dream had about as much chance of coming to fruition now as he did of receiving a fair rendering from the review board.
    Mr. Holbrook knew about his other aspiration, and Sutton wondered if offering a part in this case was the old man’s way of helping him pick up the pieces of that dream the war had shattered.
    “Consider my offer, Sutton, and when you’ve made your decision, let me know. One stipulation . . . Under no circumstances—whether you accept my proposal or not—can you inform anyone that the firm is working on this case. If news of our client’s investigation were to get out, I fear the evidence we’re seeking, and that we need, would be buried before it sees the light of day.”
    “I understand, sir. And I appreciate your trust.” Sutton reached for Holbrook’s hand and appreciated the man’s still-firm grip. “I’ll have an answer for you within the week.”
    “And when I get word of the board’s decision,” Holbrook continued, “I’ll inform you straight away.”
    Sutton nodded. “Thank you, sir. For . . . everything.”
    Holbrook made to go, then paused. A memory-laden smile eased the tracks of time and loss etched in his face. “Sometimes, Sutton . . . when I look at you, I can still see him. He loved you, you know. Like a brother.”
    Sutton felt a wash of yesteryear move through him. “I loved him too, sir, and carry him with me every day.”
    Seconds passed unhindered, and finally, Holbrook adjusted the brim of his hat. “Well—” He inhaled sharply. “Wish me luck. I’m off to meet with an investigator. I haven’t done this in years. Makes me feel like a first-year attorney again. Never mind that I’ll be reaching for my rheumatism medicine by noon.”
    They parted ways, and Sutton rode on through town. When he reached his turnoff, he headed south, urging Truxton to a canter. He knew Holbrook didn’t agree with his petitioning the military board to review the case surrounding his father’s death. The man didn’t consider it wrong—just