by Chris Rogers
Dixie’s efforts to lift the prosecutor’s spirits had struck out. Time for some ass-kicking.
“How many open cases are stacked on your desk right now?” she asked.
“Fifteen. Maybe twenty.”
“How many more assault charges you figure were filed today?”
“What’s this, Monday? Forty or so, mostly family violence. It’ll be over a hundred before midnight.” Brenda’s fingernail scraped a long tear through the Corona label.
“And how many of those will land on your desk?”
“What’s your point, Dixie? We both know there’s no shortage of work to be done.”
“Precisely. Yet here you sit moaning in your Corona after losing a single case.”
Lifting her chin, Brenda swept a somber gaze around the crowded room. Dixie recognized many of the men and women from courtrooms and plea-bargaining tables.
The prosecutor’s gaze rested for a beat on a lone man at the bar, fortyish, attractive, and nearly bald. When he raised his glass, Brenda nodded curtly, an odd wistfulness softening her coarse features. An instant later the effect was gone, and Brenda’s gaze hurried past.
“Look at them.” she said. “How many men do you think will go home later and beat up their wives? Or discipline their children? Or pick up a prostitute and knock her around awhile before kicking her out of the car? Or stop at the liquor store going home, decide hell, why not have some fun with the owner’s granddaughter—”
“If you’re talking about the Ramirez case—”
“The two SOBs who raped that child are going to walk.”
“Maybe not. Mr. Ramirez gave a good description before he died.”
“Not good enough. And the girl’s too terrified to ID them. The dickhead cop who was first at the scene made sure of it.”
Dixie sighed. “Is that the game we’re playing now? Male bashing?”
“You think I’m wrong?”
“I think your viewpoint is skewed. As my sainted adoptive mother would say, ‘Even men and barbed wire have their good points.’”
Brenda grimaced and took another swallow of her beer.
“There are plenty of good men in the world,” Dixie persisted. “Only, you won’t find them in the case folders stacked on your desk—”
“Hell, Dixie, it’s not just men. I had a woman in my office last week left her month-old baby in a shopping mall storage room while she went to work. Said she didn’t have money for a sitter. Two months ago we found a seven-year-old girl chained in a bathroom. Dirty, starved, scared. Sores all over. Never been to school a day—could barely talk. Three other kids in the family, all going to school, playing with friends. Father and mother both had good jobs. A normal American household. Except nobody in the neighborhood, nobody, knew about that fourth kid, chained in a bathroom, fed table scraps, treated worse than you’d treat a dog. An entire family, Dixie, in collusion against one poor child.” Brenda pushed her beer aside. “How does such a thing happen?”
Dixie had seen worse during her ten years as a prosecutor, before she quit trying to understand.
“You need some balance to your perspective,” she replied. “Get away for a few weeks. Spend a month in the sunshine. Find a brown-skinned island gigolo and get gloriously laid.”
“Ha!” Brenda’s sudden smile flickered to the balding man at the bar. Her spontaneous hoot turned to a chuckle, then to roaring laughter.
Dixie couldn’t help grinning. Brenda had an infectious laugh, deep-throated and tobacco gruff.
But Dixie’s comment hadn’t been funny enough to elicit the convulsive gales that followed. Brenda pounded the table, tears streaming down her cheeks. People turned to stare, sparking more laughter. Hysterical laughter. Brenda’s hair pulled out of its braid. Her skin flushed. With the Beach Boys singing “I Get Around” on the Wurlitzer, Dixie glared at the gawkers until they turned hastily back to their drinks.
Finally, Brenda mopped her face with a wad of napkins, and her laughter subsided.
“Maybe you’re right,” she gasped. “Maybe the world is sane and it’s only my viewpoint that’s skewed.”
“That’s not exactly what I said,” Dixie argued.
Brenda popped the lime wedge into her mouth and sucked, then took a long pull on the Corona. Finally, she seemed composed.
“Cases pile up faster than we can clear them,” she grumbled. “No matter how many hours I grind away, the stack never gets smaller. The world isn’t going to change. As you say, I may as well put blinders on and save my own sanity.”
A waitress plucked their empty beer bottles off the table. Brenda twirled her finger to signal another round. Glancing at her watch, Dixie was about to protest when a voice carried from across the room.
“There she is! I knew that was her laugh.” Clarissa Thomas, the pale, determined witness from the Coombs trial, started weaving her way through the crowd, accompanied by Regan Salles and Julie Colby, the witness coordinator who’d comforted Regan in the courtroom.
“A hairdresser, a DA liaison, and a socialite housewife,” Dixie mused. “What’s that old saying? ‘Adversity breeds strange bedfellows’?”
Brenda peered at Dixie curiously. “I don’t find it so surprising they’d strike up a friendship. When men are the enemy, women have to stick together.”
“A man is the enemy,” Dixie amended. “Lawrence Coombs is only one man.” She refused to lump all the males in the world into one big bad villain, and she had no desire to get into a pity party with these women over the verdict. Besides, it was time to call Belle Richards about the bodyguard job. Parker would be grumpy, hearing she was working again, but a deal was a deal. She’d lost the bet, including the coveted vacation at Belle’s Caribbean condo, which after the past weeks didn’t sound half as inviting as it usually did. She needed the job just to be busy at something useful.
“Same time next Monday?” she asked Brenda, dropping bills on the table for the beer tab. “I reserved a court.”
Brenda’s amber eyes showed a trace of sparkle. “By then, I’ll be over my anger, knee-deep in another case, your foot will be stronger, and you’ll beat my socks off.”
“Yep. That’s what I’m counting on. I can carry my weight in class this week, too.” She and Brenda taught a self-defense class together, women on Saturdays, Ryan’s private school on Thursdays. In the past month, Dixie’s foot fracture had kept her from participating.
As she stood to leave, the three women approached. Something in their attitude made Dixie linger. She was sure they hadn’t been in the bar when she and Brenda entered.
“You said we’d put him away,” Clarissa challenged.
She and Regan were both drinking wine, Julie a draft beer.
“In prison for a very long time.” Regan’s voice carried a hint of panic. “A very long time, you said. But he walked right out of that court, free to come after us—”
“Just as you told us the restraining order would keep him in line while he was out on bail,” Clarissa spat. “It didn’t!”
“Sit down,” Dixie said firmly, offering her own chair and pulling up another one for Regan. They didn’t appear drunk, merely angry.
Clarissa glared at her, but sat. Regan plopped down beside her. Looking uncomfortable, Julie set her beer mug on the table, tapped a thin cigarette from a package of ultralight Capri, and took a seat slightly behind the pair. Apparently, the task of calming the two witnesses after the jury’s verdict had not gone well.
“My husband practically lost his job,” Clarissa said, “coming home all hours to check on me. Worried out of his mind. He begged me to go to my mother’s in Boston—”
“Not a bad idea,” Brenda told her, maintaining the calm but forceful voice Dixie’d heard her use with distraught victims in the courtroom. “Maybe you should go away for a while. Regan, maybe you should, too.”
Regan blanched. “You really think—you think Lawrence will come after us?”
“Frankly, I think he’ll be … looking for fre
sh game,” Brenda hedged. “But I can have patrol cars watching him—”
“That’s what you said before!” Clarissa snapped.
And before, when Coombs was charged with a crime, HPD had cause to watch him, Dixie added mentally. He was a free man now.
Clarissa slapped her glass down on the table, spilling a few drops.
“Hey, ladies!” Julie placed her hands on Clarissa’s shoulders and began kneading the rigid muscles. “Let’s all take a deep breath and start over.”
Brenda shot her assistant a look of gratitude.
But Clarissa shrugged off Julie’s hand. “You saw his smug smile when that jury gave the verdict.” Her face had flushed almost to the color of her wine. “How could they do that? Those women jurors—”
“Maybe he got close to one of them,” Julie murmured. “You said he could be enchanting, Regan.”
“Like a snake charmer, sweetie. Charm a cobra right out of its basket.”
Brenda shook her head emphatically. “There was no indication of jury tampering,” Her voice remained even and firm. “Now, listen, we all need to calm down and put this behind us. A bar is no place to discuss it—I know a coffee shop down the street that makes the most decadent desserts you ever put in your mouth. Well talk about getting you both some protection—until we’re certain Coombs has lost interest.”
“My husband says we should buy a gun,” Clarissa announced, glaring from Brenda to Julie.
“Maybe he’s right. Maybe we should all carry guns.” Regan’s voice rose to a screech. “It’s legal now, isn’t it?”
Brenda shook her head and began herding them toward the door. “Let’s talk first.” Glancing back at Dixie, she paused, allowing Julie to continue ushering the women ahead of her. “Want to join us?”
“Thanks, but I really need to call Belle, and Parker’s probably got supper waiting.”
Brenda smiled. “Dixie, I think you scooped up the last good catch in Houston.”
Probably, though she wasn’t sure Parker could be caught. “Or maybe there’s one more terrific guy out there, just waiting for you to poke your head up long enough to notice.” Dixie allowed her gaze to flicker toward the balding man at the bar.
But Brenda didn’t follow the lead.
“Unfortunately,” she muttered, “the only men I meet these days have numbers stenciled under their photographs.”
As Brenda turned to go, Dixie realized she was holding the black pebble instead of her car keys. Rolling it between her thumb and forefinger, she watched her friend buck up in the aftermath of failure, frazzled yellow hair swinging above strong, determined shoulders.
Chapter Nine
Lawrence Riley Coombs slipped his hand under the woman’s elbow and steered her toward the car, shielding her from the rain with an oversized umbrella. Fat raindrops plopped onto the taut fabric. The night was warm for early February, but a cold front was due to blow in and push the thunderclouds across the state line to Louisiana.
“Watch the puddle, darlin’. Don’t get mud on those beautiful toes.” She did have nice feet, set off by strappy high-heeled sandals. Nice legs, too.
She giggled softly. “I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you sitting there at the bar all by your lonesome. You’re even more handsome in person than you were on TV today.”
“Dottie, you say the nicest things, and my bruised ego soaks up every word.” They’d reached the Chevy. He handed her the umbrella. The rain had almost stopped. “Give me your keys and I’ll get that door for you.”
“I never believed for a minute all those hateful things the newspapers said about you, Larry. Those two women must have been crazy. Why, anyone could just look at you and know you wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“It’s Lawrence, darlin’, and I don’t want you thinking too harshly of those ladies. You’ve heard about unrequited love.” He opened the car door and brushed off the seat. “I should’ve been more sensitive, should’ve let them down easier.”
“Now don’t you go blaming yourself! You’ve been through too much misery already, with that awful trial. You need someone to make you forget all that.”
Reclaiming the umbrella, he draped a casual arm around her shoulders.
“Dottie, you could make a man forget just about anything.” He tweaked her chin playfully, then handed her into the car. “If you really mean what you say…”
“Of course I mean it! Why, one weekend at my house on Padre Island, you’ll be a brand-new man.”
“Sounds mighty temptin’, darlin’.” He stroked the back of her neck, feeling the fragile bones beneath his palm. Right now he had other plans, plans for a certain golden-haired Assistant District Attorney who didn’t know when to back off. “I hope you’ll give me a rain check.”
“You’ll call me, won’t you? Tomorrow?” She handed him a folded square of pink paper that smelled of honeysuckle.
“Tomorrow, and that’s a promise.” He slid the paper into his pocket. But Dottie was entirely too eager. The woman needed a cooling-off period. “I may not be able to get away this week. You know how it is, work piled up on my desk during the trial.”
“Surely the work will keep another day or two.”
“It’d keep, but I’d be distracted, pretty lady, and I want to give you all the attention you deserve.” He brushed a light kiss on her yielding lips.
“Mmmmmm …” She clutched his lapel, deepening the kiss.
Randy bitch. He loosened her fingers.
“I’ll call you tomorrow, darlin’. We’ll have dinner next week.”
He kissed her fingertips, shut the door firmly, and winked at her through the rain-streaked window. Easy screw. He’d bet six-to-one she was ready to come in her seat.
Sliding behind the wheel of his Jaguar, he watched the Chevy’s taillights disappear down the street. He’d wait until late tomorrow to phone her. Maybe even wait until next week. She’d be pissed, but flowers would perk her right up. Women were so predictable.
He found the bottle he had tucked between the seats, Johnnie Walker Black, a man’s drink. A silky fire, like burying himself in a fiery pussy. He’d bet that ADA’s pussy was plenty fiery.
Turning the Jaguar toward Bellaire, he drove to the red brick bungalow with its single gaslight, the swinging name-plate announcing the Benson residence, home of ADA Brenda Benson and her young sister, Gail. Pretty brown-eyed Gail, almost as sweet as her amber-eyed sis. Maybe he should do them both, let Brenda watch while he did the sister.
He coasted to a stop as he neared the driveway. Listening to the rain pelt the Jaguar’s metal roof, he took another nip from the bottle.
Lights were on in the front of the house. No car in the driveway, but with a two-car garage, that didn’t mean anything. On Monday nights Brenda spent an hour or two at the health club, then stopped at a local newsstand to buy a Houston Business Journal before joining her sister at home.
He tilted his watch toward the light. By this time the pair would be tucked up dry and cozy, reading the business news, maybe sipping a cup of hot chocolate. It would be so easy to knock on the door right now, muscle his way in, and do the both of them.
His dick hardened, thinking about it. He shifted on the seat, dropping a hand to his crotch, and eased his pants seam over enough to relieve the tightness. The rain had picked up again, pounding the hell out of the Jaguar’s roof. He liked the sound. Rain always made him horny.
Chapter Ten
The dark house gave Dixie a start. The kitchen windows should be lighted, at least, Parker creating something scrumptious at the stove. He’d told her once that he never spent more than three years in any town. Before they met, before he moved in “temporarily” with Dixie, he’d already lived in Houston nearly three years. Every day she half expected to find a note saying he’d moved on. Was this the night he chose to drift away?
When they parted that morning in Galveston, she was certain they’d agreed to sleep at her place tonight. The rented summer cabin was only theirs for a month,
and the month was up. Parker’s own house on the island wouldn’t be finished for several more days.
She didn’t look forward to telling him about Belle’s bodyguard job. But as Barney’d often said, “If you have to swallow a bullfrog, it’s a good idea not to look at it too long.” She wanted to get the telling part over with. The work she did was part of her life, part of who she was, what she believed in. While Mud had been in doggie paradise these past weeks—running on the beach, chasing waves, worrying sand crabs out of their holes—and Parker had driven off to sell boats every day, Dixie’d been bored witless. Even chauffeuring a teenager around town was beginning to sound exciting.
Driving toward the garage, she looked for smoke wisping skyward from the chimney. Parker liked sitting by the fire after dinner. Maybe he’d eaten early, as he sometimes did when she worked late. But tonight there was no smoke in the night sky.
She parked her taxicab in the old barn that now served as a four-car garage, housing a variety of vehicles she used from time to time. The taxicab made a fine surveillance car, and was the only one of her recycled vehicles that boasted an automatic transmission. Until her clutch foot was operational again, the van, tow truck, and Mustang, a retired DPS unit, were about as useful as a trunk of Confederate money.
At the kitchen door, the tick-tick-tick of Mud’s toenails said at least someone was eagerly awaiting her arrival.
“Hey, boy.” She patted his great ugly face. “Bet you thought we forgot you.” She stooped to Mud’s height, using the crutch for support. Mud nosed her ear, his warm breath a small measure of comfort.
Parker was merely working late, she reasoned. Maybe he’d hit some heavy traffic in the fifty-mile drive from Clear Lake, where he sold boats. Or maybe he’d stopped off at one of the gourmet supermarkets he enjoyed shopping at in Houston. Or maybe he’d driven back to Galveston to check progress again on his new place.
