Keeping Council Part 13

"Cut it out, George. It's a stupid game and I have better things to do." Woodrow's poker face cracked enough for the other man to know he'd guessed right.

"Tara Limey's going to defend this creep? Miss Upstanding Citizen herself?"

George read people well, but sometimes he misinterpreted the message because of the medium.

Woodrow's chin nuzzled near his tie as he arranged his coat collar.

Woodrow ignored him.

"It doesn't matter who's got him. I'm not going to do anything with him. I'd never get it through the grand jury much less a pretrial hearing and you know it better than anyone. There's no case."

"Give me a warm body, Woodrow, I'll get everything you need. Let me pick him up and talk real nice to him. I promise, Woodrow, I'll give you something you can use."

Woodrow turned a jaded eye George's way.

"George, I don't even know if he's in the state, much less the city. All I have are the few details I gave you. I understand that this is an emotional thing with you, but it's not with anyone else. I want to make that perfectly clear." Woodrow hoisted his briefcase. The eyes behind his gla.s.ses were hard.

"His attorney's got an agenda for him that works for me, too. There are laws and we will work within them. Whether we like it or not, those suspected of a crime have rights too. If I agree with this attorney's proposal, we may eventually get the guy up on charges. If I don't follow that game plan, we might get him into court and watch our case fly out the window because we haven't done the proper psychological screening." Woodrow sighed.

"Now, don't fly at me like that again, George. There's a difference between personal and pa.s.sionate. I'm pa.s.sionate about my job, but I also know the limitations of the law. I work within it like most attorneys. I've had enough trouble lately.

I'm not going to take on something I can't win.

If the guy wanted to confess, he would have done it. He didn't. You making an arrest just means a headline. It doesn't make a case."

"Who gives a s.h.i.+t what he wants, Woodrow?"

Woodrow stepped back, fearing for a moment George was going to rush him. Instead the bigger man slid onto the desk, half sitting, and looked hard at Woodrow Weber before he smiled.

"I'm not questioning your commitment to the law, Woodrow. But you've got other things to think about too. A big trial would do more for you right now than winning all of the piddly little ones you've been working on.

Half the women in this city*probably the state-would be rooting for you to be governor if you did finger this guy. You're running on a tough-on-crime ticket like everyone else. Here's your chance to milk this."

"There's nothing to milk. We're not going to discuss it further," Woodrow wailed.

"I haven't got a case, and I want you to be very clear: you haven't got a suspect."

"I'll get you one, Woodrow. I promise you."

"Then make sure you do it right. Bring me a name, solid evidence, an eyewitness, and I'll prosecute.

Without that, I'm going to do what is legal, ethical, moral, and expedient." Woodrow raised a hand in warning. George shut his mouth.

"And I am concerned personally about this, but not in the way you think. Tara Limey is responsible for a great deal of political goodwill, and she's an old friend. I'd be committing political suicide if I screwed up on all fronts. End of story. I've got to go. Four reverends, their wives, and two monsignors are coming for dinner tonight."

George shrugged, not quite finished.

"Fine, Woodrow. It isn't my campaign. But maybe Tara knows something we don't, and that's why she's pus.h.i.+ng to commit her man."

"Like what?" Woodrow's hand was on the k.n.o.b but he had a minute more for George.

"Maybe we're close to finding something, and we don't know it yet. Maybe there is a witness. Maybe her man did another job and we're going to be able to tie him to this one. Anything's possible." George talked faster, outlining his scenario.

"She holds out the carrot, says "Woodrow, do your const.i.tuents a favor and get this guy into a hospital and off the streets." You agree, then all h.e.l.l breaks loose. The perp can't be prosecuted because you've got him in the hospital, certified." Woodrow glared at George.

The chief backed off.

"Okay. She's a friend. Probably wouldn't do something like that. But she's a lawyer, too, and the law swings a lot of different ways. She knows how to use it as well as you do. Just my opinion."

"I appreciate your input." The door was half open when he looked back.

"I'd love to hang this guy if he's really the one. I'm not unfeeling, but I have to be prudent where everyone is concerned.

Everyone, George. Even Tara's client."

"Sure, Woodrow." George was dismissing him, already settled in his chair and looking at paperwork.

"Just keep me apprised and let me know if you need anything on this."

George looked up as if surprised to see Woodrow still there.

"Have a good dinner. Maybe those reverends will say a prayer for all those people you're concerned about and one extra for your campaign."

"Maybe they will," Woodrow said and he was gone.

"You're going to need it, you wimp," George muttered to the closed door.

Eight.

Tara waved as she got out of the car and tried to remember the name of the boy who was crossing her land. He was coming from the stable headed toward the cottonwood tree, walking that insolent amble young men affect at a certain time in their lives. He seemed without purpose until he turned toward the pump.

"Tara," she chided herself, "how condescending."

Closing the car door she walked out to meet him, her breath turning into a cloud as she called, "h.e.l.lo." They met halfway across the yard.

"I put the horse down for the night *cause I didn't know if you were going to be late." He looked surly, and anxious to get out of her way as soon as possible.

"Thanks. I appreciate it. I'll check him later," she said.

"I did it right." He glared at her from under thick, dark brows that almost came together over the ridge of his nose. Tara tried not to smile. She'd seen tough and she'd seen odd. Tough and odd were embodied in Bill Hamilton. This boy didn't come close to being either.

"I'm sure you did, Joseph." Finally, the name had come to her. He twisted his shoulders in what Tara a.s.sumed was an expression of embarra.s.sment.

"Yeah. I did," he mumbled.

"So do you need anything else?"

"No. Just wanted to say h.e.l.lo," Tara said, her eyes darting toward the guest house.

"Carlos is a good teacher. I'm sure everything is fine. Was there anything around here today that bothered you? Anything that I need to attend to?" Eyes to the guest house again.

"I mean, I have guests. I thought that they might have gotten in the way."

Leading the witness.

"Nope." Joseph shook all the way down to his shoulders and stuffed his free hand into the pocket of his worn down jacket. He waited a minute longer, a.s.sumed he was dismissed, and turned away, forgetting the water he had come for. Tara called after him.

"Payday is every Friday. I'll leave it on the front porch in an envelope."

He raised a hand above his head and Tara knew he was smiling. She pa.s.sed Donna's car, hitched her briefcase, and shuddered. Memories of their wild nocturnal ride were still fresh in her mind.

So where were they now? Inside? The light from the bedroom s.h.i.+ned golden and low. Lovemaking light. Tara shuddered at the image.

Were they waiting, perhaps watching from a window in the small house? Bill whispering things to Donna. Telling her his stories while they watched Tara walk toward the main house? Donna believing them. Donna wanting him so bad she'd believe-or do*anything for him.

Tara frowned. There was something she hadn't considered. Donna not as victim but partner. Certainly not in murder. Donna could never con science such horror. But she could be drawn in and partnered to Bill's madness. She'd have to find a way to talk to Donna about Bill, naturally skirting the issue of his homicidal resume.

Preferably, Donna would have already tired of him and he'd be gone.

That would be lovely.

Tara pushed open the gate. The hinge was almost off. She walked slowly over the pavers.

Perhaps Bill was gone, Donna left behind and something of value missing. Tara could notify the cops. She would suggest they look a little closer at the thief. She would suggest they ask him about places he'd been. Perhaps ask him about the Fourth of July. She'd be a bug in their ear. Her record would be clean*a suggestion was hardly a broken confidence. Someone else could figure out exactly what they had in him and Donna would be safe. Fat chance. Daydreams.

Mail was in the basket. She flipped through it as she pushed the front door open with her hip then stopped cold. The house smelled. Garlic and oregano and onions. The scent wafted on a wave of heat from the kitchen and washed over the front room, tainting everything in its path. Tara followed the smell, briefcase and mail still in hand, coat still b.u.t.toned up to the chin. She hung back before quietly stepping into the kitchen doorway.

Bill Hamilton, ap.r.o.n-clad and wielding a wooden spoon, grinned at her, greeting her as jovially as a bridegroom awaiting his bride.

"Well, there you are. d.a.m.nation, I'd almost given up on you, girl!"

Tara didn't smile. This man didn't belong in her life, much less in her home taking liberties with her kitchen. Things had changed.

Tara stood quietly, her expression unreadable.

Bill Hamilton seemed to thrive on reaction and the last thing she wanted him to do was flourish.

Cautiously she moved into the kitchen, circled, and stood opposite him, the table between them. She unb.u.t.toned her coat slowly and stashed her briefcase on the closest chair. The mail went onto the table.

"Where's Donna?" she asked carefully.

Bill gave the pot a little stir, dipped his head, and slid his eyes toward her. He leaned over from the waist, his eyes darker in this light, but still bright. The steam from the pot he tended curled around his head forming a h.e.l.lish halo, his smile curled as lazily as the mist.

"In the closet with a knife through her heart," he whispered, then laughed, letting it wither into a chuckle. Upright a moment later, he ignored Tara's pallor and the pain that was raw, swift, and deep in her blue eyes.

"Hope you like spaghetti.

Thought I'd do you a little favor and cook tonight.

Long hard day for the lady lawyer." He laughed hard once, then twice, then gave her a wink.

"You should be thankin' me. Donna told me you were feeling out of sorts. Give me a hearty handshake, Tara, *cause I'm changin' your life."

His good humor tortured her. Tara fought for her voice, found it, and lay her hands on the back of the kitchen chair for support.

"Where's Donna?"

Bill's eyes snapped her way. He was peeved, unhappy that she didn't find his little game fan. He stirred the contents of the pot precisely. Still pleasant, he was no longer good-humored.

"In the guest house. You know her. Gotta dress just right even if it's just family at the table."

Tara s.h.i.+vered, so relieved she felt ill. But he was watching her and she wouldn't give him the pleasure of seeing her so.

"You're not family, Bill."

"Oh, I know that," he said and held up a handful of noodles.

"What do you think? The whole pound?" Without waiting for her answer, he cracked the pasta in half and dumped it in the water that boiled on the back burner.

"Don't worry. I haven't been steppin' where I don't belong. Really.

Just an expression. That's all. Words are funny things.

Donna likes to talk about words. They mean a lot to her. They mean a lot to doctors, lawyers, merchants, chiefs. d.a.m.n, I'd like to be a chief. You're a chief. Donna said, and I can see it now. Little town, big lady. Real cla.s.sy the way you handle it."

"What about you, Bill? Are words important to you?" Cautiously, Tara slipped out of her coat. Her jacket seemed tight. She'd give anything to change her clothes but not when Bill Hamilton was in the house. Not when they were alone. She wouldn't take her eyes off him for a minute "Do you want to change any of those words you used today? You want to tell me a different story?"

"Nope," he answered.

"Hand me the oil, will you?"

Tara looked, spotted the olive oil, and walked around the table to retrieve it. She went close, handed it to him, and looked him in the eyes. He needed to understand she wasn't afraid of him.

She wished she wasn't.

"Okay. If that's the way you want it. Soon it's going to be too late, though. If this is a joke, I want to know now."

"Why?"

Those eyes were moving her way again as if they had a life of their own. Tara moved two, three feet back, out of the circle of his influence. Bill Hamilton s.h.i.+mmered with a bizarre ascendancy. Under his sway, other people would do unpleasant things without question because those things felt good, felt mean and nasty and free. This was what Donna found irresistible. Words, important though they may have been to her, were nothing compared to a hard, willing body, the gift of youth and abandon Bill Hamilton offered.

"I need to know if you want to change your mind.