by Kylie Brant
“I heard we’ll be facing off with Paquin.” A flash of resentment shone in the man’s dark eyes and then was gone. “There will be a lot of publicity on this one. He’ll make sure of that.”
Kicking her pumps off under her desk, she rubbed the arch of one foot. “I’m familiar with Paquin’s tactics.”
“That’s right, you’ve argued against him, haven’t you? Tough case.”
“Which I won.”
He went on as if he hadn’t heard her reminder. “I can’t help but think Beardmore should have used someone fresh on this one, someone Paquin hasn’t gone up against.”
A.J.’s brows raised at the obvious reference to himself. “Are you afraid his familiarity with your style will give him an advantage?”
A wry smile twisted her lips. He was so slick and concerned, one would barely suspect that each statement was uttered with an intention to shred confidence, undermine determination. Fortunately she had an ample supply of both. “Actually, I think that my familiarity with his style might work to my advantage.”
Mark pursed his lips. “You may be right.” The words were shaded with just enough doubt to render his agreement meaningless. He slapped the closed file folder against his palm. “What strategy have you settled on? Have you talked to any of the primaries yet?”
“Last night.” She switched her attention to her other foot. “Detective Connally updated me on the events leading up to Delgado’s arrest.”
“You didn’t talk to the victim first?”
“No, Mark,” she said with exaggerated patience. “I talked to the arresting officer.”
“His involvement with the victim could be a problem, you know.” Drumming his fingers against the folder, Mark surveyed her solemnly. “Defense is going to try and cast his testimony as emotional rather than objective.”
“He’ll try. But Connally’s no rookie, he’s not going to get shaken on the stand. And he wasn’t working alone, at any rate.” Growing weary of the man’s game she decided to cut the meeting short. “I’ll have Song make a copy of everything I’ve got so far so you can start your own file.”
He nodded and rose, leaning to drop the folder on her desk. “I’ll focus on the investigation end, shall I? It won’t take me long to come up with a list of things we need from the CPD. And as you interview witnesses, of course you can add to that list.”
His arrogance shouldn’t have surprised her. Did he really expect her to hand over the most crucial part of the case to him while she spent her time on paperwork and briefs? “That won’t be necessary,” she said evenly. When his dark eyes narrowed in annoyance, she felt a flicker of satisfaction. “As primary I prefer to work closely with the investigator. I’ll assign you duties as more information comes in.”
The tic working under the man’s eye was a more sincere response than his words. “Of course. Just let me know what you need.”
Turning, he strode from the office, his tall form rigid.
She watched him go, knowing she’d just made a bad situation worse, and found herself unable to care. There was a fine line between diplomacy and submissiveness, one A.J. found difficult to balance. Submissiveness meant weakness, and where one was weak one was vulnerable. She, better than anyone, knew how vulnerabilities could be exploited.
Her gaze dropped to the folder Mark had left on her desk. Despite the man’s opinion, she hadn’t been standing still on this case. Song was even now lining up appointments with the witnesses. And she intended to fill the time before her first meeting by familiarizing herself with the media accounts of the Delgado case. It would be like Paquin to start screaming for a change of venue if there had been more than a paragraph written about his client in the press.
She turned to the computer beside her desk and accessed the Internet, intent on bringing up recent newspaper articles dealing with the case. Making a face, she went to the Register’s site first. It sounded as if McKay had been in the thick of this investigation for some time. She didn’t doubt that the most thorough coverage was going to carry his byline.
“This is bull, Creighton!” Dare speared his fingers through his hair to keep them from twining around the editor’s neck. “This story is page one all the way. Below the fold, that’s fine, but it’s news. Why can’t you see that?”
“Page eight, and cut it to one hundred words,” Creighton Reetz replied. “Justice investigation or not, the story lacks any real connection for our readers. Sure, Golden Enterprises is a local corporation, but no one really knows who the owners are. The way those corporate blinds work, it could take years for Justice to untangle the people involved, much less prove wrongdoing on their part.”
Dare placed his fists on the man’s desk and leaned forward. “I know who one of the owners is.”
“You think you know. An important distinction in our line of work.” Creighton met Dare’s furious gaze calmly. At five foot five inches, the editor was a full nine inches shorter than the man before him, but this confrontation wouldn’t be decided by size, but by position. “When you have more than supposition linking Victor Mannen to Golden Enterprises, the story might have a chance of page one. But right now you really don’t have jack, so it stays page eight.”
“This article could help flush out the owners, did you ever think of that?” Driven to move, Dare circled the man’s desk. “Justice breathing down their necks, public attention to the whole thing…”
“You know what I think?”
Dare was all too aware of what Creighton thought. The man saw fit to tell him often enough.
“You’re getting obsessed with the guy. You see him behind every crime, every underhanded scheme in the city. You have to question your objectivity, McKay. When it gets personal, it slants the news. You have to start wondering whether you’re reporting it or creating it.”
“Are you saying my work has suffered, Creighton?” Dare’s voice was soft, deceptively so. “Is that it? Just say the word. My resignation can be on your desk in five minutes.”
Reetz heaved a heavy sigh and cast his eyes upward. “See, you’re getting touchy, too. Did I say I was dissatisfied with your work? All I’m trying to say is that maybe you could use a little distance from this story. Hell, maybe you could use some distance, period. When’s the last time you took a vacation?”
Dare considered for a moment. “In 1998. I was off for two weeks.”
“You were in the hospital, for God sakes.”
“Yeah, and I missed covering the midcity fire.” The memory still rankled. Watching the biggest story of the year run in the Register with someone else’s byline beneath it had been an frustrating ordeal, one he hadn’t forgotten. He stopped in midstride, a thought striking him. “You know, Creighton, you may just be right.”
With little difficulty the editor followed Dare’s line of thought back to the present. “I am?”
“We’ll bury this. It’s better if the bastard thinks no one’s paying attention. And then while Mannen and his cronies are focused on getting the government off their backs, I’ll be establishing their link to Golden Enterprises.” And, he thought grimly, proving the connection between Mannen and Delgado. He whirled, heading to the door.
“What about that vacation?” Creighton called after him.
“Try Cancun. I hear it’s great this time of year.”
A.J. checked the notes she’d made, running her finger down the page until she came to the last of the dates she’d jotted down. Then she replaced the newspaper she’d finished with and located the next one she needed. She went back to spread it out on the table where she’d been working and quickly flipped through the pages. McKay’s name seemed to leap out from beneath the article she was searching for. Besides his twice-weekly column, he covered much of the major city news. And he’d written about the Patterson kidnapping extensively.
She would never admit aloud that she found his writing compelling. Not unlike the man himself, it was brutally frank at times and laced with wit. As one of the city’s most respected
journalists, he wielded his own kind of power. She’d seen for herself Dennis’s reaction when Dare had been in her office. No doubt most politicians found it to their advantage to stay on congenial terms with the man. She doubted it did them any good. When it came to reporting the news, McKay wouldn’t show favoritism. The story would be his only concern. Experience had taught her that.
“You know some people don’t like coming down to the newspaper’s archive room. Claim it’s cold and sorta spooky. But damned if I don’t always find the best surprises when I drop in.”
At the first word her spine began to stiffen, one vertebra at a time. It still took more effort than it should have to force herself to turn and meet Dare’s smile. “McKay. Somehow it’s not surprising to find you where it’s dark and damp.”
His smile settled in his eyes. “You came clear across town to read my work?” Of course he would notice the page she had the newspaper turned to. “I can die happy now.”
“That can be arranged.” She turned back to fold up the paper and return it to its spot on the shelves.
He took a step back and propped himself against the wall. Folding his arms across his chest, he took a few moments to watch Addie tidy up the workspace she’d been using. It was no hardship. She moved with a quick lithe grace that elicited a healthy jolt of lust. He tucked it away with the ease of long familiarity.
“You know, the Register’s archives can be accessed on the Internet.”
“Accessed, but not read,” A.J. corrected him. “At least not past the headline and first paragraph. Anything more than that has to be paid for. Billing the office to skim a few paltry articles seems unreasonable.”
He let the adjective pass without objection. “Nice to know at least one public servant who’s frugal with the taxpayers’ money.” She tossed the legal pad she’d been writing on into her briefcase and closed the lid, securing it. “Doing a little catch-up reading on the Delgado case? Did you find anything of interest in those ‘paltry’ articles?”
She faced him, both hands clutching the handle of the briefcase, holding it in front of her. “As a matter of fact, one thing did interest me. It appears you were on the spot almost immediately when the arrest was made. How do you explain that?”
He gave a shrug and struggled for an expression of modesty. “Just lucky, I guess.”
She pinned him with what he thought of as her prosecutor’s stare, sharp and shrewd. “You mentioned something about passing some details on to Connally before Delgado’s arrest.”
His voice was mild. “You wouldn’t find those details in the news articles.” As Creighton had reminded him, he didn’t have all the facts he needed to lay it out for the public. Yet. “If you had questions about those details, Addie, wouldn’t it have been a lot easier to just call and ask me?”
Her next words sounded as though they physically pained her. “I’m asking now.”
He considered her for a moment. “I’m done for the day. Why don’t we discuss this over dinner?”
“Forget it.” She started forward, brushing by him. “I can talk to Connally next week and save myself the aggravation.”
“Okay, okay.” His agreement was hasty. The woman had a fast trigger, at least with him. “Connally was chasing down a suspect in a money-laundering scheme. Delgado was seen with that suspect.”
She shifted her weight impatiently. “I know that.”
He went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “The sink for the laundering operation was a big video chain. The chain is one of numerous holdings in a huge conglomerate called Golden Enterprises.” He had her interest now. At least she was listening.
“I think Golden Enterprises is a blind—a dummy corporation. I was able to discover that local-sleazeball-businessman Victor Mannen sold a full half dozen companies a few years ago to none other than Golden Enterprises.” He waited, but her expression didn’t change. “I shared that information with Connally and his partner. They started asking Mannen some questions shortly before Meghan was snatched.”
“You realize there’s nothing tying Mannen to this case?” She eased back, set her briefcase on the floor.
“Absolutely nothing,” he acknowledged cheerfully.
“Do you have anything concrete linking him to Golden Enterprises?”
“Not yet.”
She stared at him a moment longer, then shook her head. “You have a gift for muddying the clearest of waters, McKay. I’ve got a kidnapper, a live victim and three other witnesses. I don’t need conspiracy theories to win this case. Juries deal better with straightforward facts.”
“You’ll get your facts.”
It took her a moment to grasp his meaning. When she did, her reaction was predictable. “Oh, no. You have nothing to do with this case. And don’t even think about printing any of that speculation. All I need is for Paquin to start screaming about bias in the press.”
Resentment rose, was ruthlessly banked. “I know how to do my job, Counselor.”
“So do I.” She reached down for her case again and straightened. “Let’s agree to that, shall we? You let Connally do his job, let me do mine, and you continue what you’ve always found most important—trampling people in pursuit of a story. Just make sure that this time the story doesn’t concern a case of mine.”
He was at her side in two quick steps, his temper on the rise. “For someone always spouting off about facts, you never listened worth a damn to them two years ago.”
“Of course I did.” Her chin angled with challenge, and her voice were brittle. “Let’s see, it was just coincidence that you released some critical information about the murder case I was trying just days after being in my apartment. Sheer coincidence that the information could have been found there in my briefcase.”
His words were precise, old fury barely reined in. “Sleeping with you had nothing to do with that damn story.” At her mocking smile the leash on his control slipped a little. “Do you honestly believe I could have put that story together in the few days following our weekend together?”
“The whole thing? No. But the details you found by going through my briefcase sure rounded your article out nicely, didn’t they?” With that she moved past him and started up the stairs.
Before he could curb the impulse, he reached out, took her elbow and pulled her around. His face shoved close to hers, he gritted out, “For the record, Addie, I don’t need to sleep with women to get information. And you’ve obviously got a gift for revisionist history. You gave me my walking papers before that article ever ran.” His own smile was brutal. “After only two intoxicating nights, as I recall. So go ahead and believe what you want about my ethics. But don’t try to pretend to yourself or to me that you kicked me out of your life over a story.”
“In hindsight, it appears that my instinct was fortuitous.” She yanked her elbow free, the abrupt movement making her teeter on the stairs. Stumbling backward a step, she caught herself, but not before the awkward motion had snapped the heel cleanly off her left pump. Her eyes closed and she ground her teeth. “You’d better not be smiling.”
He’d always had a well-developed sense of the ridiculous. The absurdity of the situation defused some of his anger. “I wouldn’t think of it. C’mon. I’ll give you a lift back to your office.”
Those beautiful brown eyes opened, shot daggers. “I’ll take my chances outrunning muggers.”
He felt obliged to point out the obvious. “There’s no way you’re going to be able to walk like that, unless you fancy hobbling back to your car with one leg shorter than the other.”
With quick, furious movements, she slipped off the other shoe and flung both, hitting him squarely in the chest. Her accompanying suggestion was neither ladylike nor anatomically possible. Then she wheeled around and stalked up the stairs.
Because it seemed a shame to waste the opportunity, he watched her retreating figure until it was out of sight, before returning his gaze to the shoes she’d hurled at him. His lips twitched. The analogy was obvious
, but he’d be willing to bet that Prince Charming had never had to go through this.
A.J.’s first hot meal in two days went a ways toward soothing nerves that had been left edgy and raw from her encounter with McKay. She’d walked the block-and-a-half distance from her office to a cozy Italian restaurant in a new pair of taupe sandals. Being forced to buy shoes after she’d left the reporter was one more thing he had to answer for. She’d rather be beaten with a blunt instrument than shop, however briefly.
But there was nothing like carbohydrates, she mused, taking another bite of her fettuccine, to lower stress levels. She reached for her wineglass and sipped with genuine enjoyment.
“A.J. It’s been too long.”
Her newfound feeling of contentment abruptly dissipated. She pasted a polite smile on her face as the newcomer stopped beside her table. “Hello, Joel.”
Some people shimmered wealth. Joel Paquin oozed it. From the tips of his thousand-dollar Italian leather shoes, to the cuffs of his Saville Row suit, there wasn’t an inch of the man’s stocky figure that wasn’t tailored, buffed and polished. The sheen of gentility didn’t extend to his personality. Beneath the surface lurked the instincts of a street brawler.
As if realizing an invitation wouldn’t be extended, he pulled out the chair next to hers and sat. “You look incredible, as usual. When are you going to quit wasting your talents on your dreary little job and come work for me? I’ve got an office with your name on it.”
“I’ll bet that’s discouraging for its occupant.”
He smiled, a generous baring of perfect, capped teeth, but his eyes were intent. “You know I’m serious. You’re throwing your life away on the system, A.J. What does it give back to you?”
“A sense of satisfaction. Dignity. Self-respect.” She met his gaze coolly. “All qualities I fear I’d miss if I joined your firm.”
He reached for a breadstick, snapped it in half. “The last time I checked, none of those qualities paid the bills.”
