White Hot

by Sandra Brown

  After he left, Chris went to sit on the end of his father’s hospital bed. “You know Beck. He’s the prophet of fucking doom. Don’t let his pessimism get you down.”

  “He takes his job seriously. He’s looking out after our interests.” Huff poked his thigh. “And your inheritance, Son. Don’t forget that.”

  “All right, all right. The man’s a gem. Don’t send your blood pressure up again.”

  “I’ve never heard you get testy with Beck before. What was that about?”

  “Since when is it in his job description to shut down a faulty machine?”

  “Would you have rather it chew off somebody else’s arm first?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then he did the right thing, didn’t he?”

  “I didn’t say it wasn’t right. I suggested it myself. It’s just—Oh, hell, can we drop this? The stress has got to me, that’s all. We’re all under a lot of pressure these days.”

  “Speaking of pressure, heard any more from Red’s office?”

  “Not a word.”

  “I didn’t think you would,” Huff said with a negligent wave of his hand. “Red should send out Deputy Scott to round up milk cows that get out of their fences. Shit like that. Not have him fiddle-farting around with you over some minor detail like a goddamn matchbook. What’s the news from Mexico?”

  “With Mary Beth? I haven’t had time to even think about Mary Beth.”

  “But you’ve had time to ball that sly little gal George is married to. As recently as last night.”

  Chris wasn’t embarrassed that his father knew, but he was awed and amused. “Your network of informers is amazing, Huff. How do you manage it? Even from a bed in the ICU.”

  Huff laughed softly. “I’ll tell you something amazing. Did you know that your sister and Beck were out at the fish shack last night? Then Beck took Sayre to the motel, got her checked in, walked her to her door, and went inside.”

  Chris remembered the lethal expression on Beck’s face when Slap Watkins had made the vulgar reference to Sayre. But Beck was from the old school and thought of all women as ladies before proven otherwise. He dismissed Huff’s insinuation with a derisive snort. “Surely you’re not suggesting anything romantic between Beck and Sayre? She despised him on sight because he’s one of us.”

  “Then why isn’t she back in San Francisco?”

  “Because she thought you were going to die.”

  “Hm. Maybe.” Stacking his hands behind his head, he said, “It would be interesting, though, wouldn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “If Beck and Sayre were to link up.”

  “I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you. Beck likes women who’re soft, sweet, and low maintenance. That hardly describes Sayre.”

  “I won’t go so far as to hold my breath,” Huff said, “but I’ve got to start considering alternative solutions to my problem.”

  “Which problem is that?”

  “Seeing a third-generation Hoyle born before the killer heart attack gets me. If you’re going to sire my grandbaby, you’d better get busy on that divorce from Mary Beth. No sense in barking up that tree if she’s sterile. Have you got another woman picked out? Lila?”

  “Lila? Hell, no.”

  “Then you’d be smart not to waste your time—and mine, I might add—on her. Just a thought.” Huff depressed the button to recline his bed. When he was settled, he closed his eyes.

  Chris could take a hint. He left the ICU, and the hospital, but he took with him everything Huff had said, knowing from experience that nothing coming from his father’s mouth was random or trivial.

  chapter 17

  The house was situated well off the road. A narrow lane of crushed oyster shells led straight to the front steps. The roof was steeply pitched and extended over the deep gallery to provide shade. The front door was directly in the center of the facade, with two tall windows on each side of it. The exterior walls were white, the shutters and front door were dark green.

  Sayre turned into the lane and brought the car to a stop at the bottom of the front steps, which were flanked by beds of caladiums and white geraniums. After a day of unrelenting heat, the plants were drooping.

  Beck was sitting in a teakwood glider on the gallery, a bottle of beer in one hand, the fingers of the other buried in Frito’s thick pelt.

  When she opened the car door, the dog growled low in his throat. But as she alighted he must have recognized her because he bolted down the steps to greet her. She became trapped against the car by ninety pounds of exuberance.

  Beck whistled sharply, and Frito subsided, but only marginally. He stayed right at her feet, causing her to stumble over him several times as she made her way up the steps.

  His owner didn’t stand, didn’t say anything, just sat there, looking remarkably imposing for a man wearing only a pair of olive khaki shorts. His expression revealed nothing—whether he was surprised, or angry, or completely indifferent to her showing up on his turf and interrupting his cocktail hour.

  When she reached the top step, she paused. Frito planted himself beneath her hand and nosed her palm until she rubbed the top of his head. But she never broke eye contact with Beck. Finally she said, “I doubt you know how difficult it was for me to come here and face you.”

  He took a sip from his bottle of beer but didn’t say anything.

  “I didn’t want to come, and wouldn’t be here at all, except that I think there’s something we should talk about.”

  “You want to talk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Talk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’re not here to pick up where you left off last night?”

  Her cheeks grew hot with embarrassment, as well as anger. “You’re not going to be one whit gallant about that, are you?”

  “You want gallantry after threatening to kill me if I touched you again? You don’t ask for much, do you?”

  “That’s fair, I suppose.”

  “You’re damn right it is.”

  She had assumed that whenever she faced him again she would be subjected to his ridicule and had bolstered herself for it. While she wanted to rush back to her car and drive away, blushing cheeks and all, she endured his stare and held her ground.

  Finally he snuffled a bitter laugh and scooted over to make room for her on the glider. “Have a seat. Would you like a beer?”

  “No thank you.” She sat down next to him.

  He glanced at the red convertible in which she’d arrived. “Snazzy automobile.”

  “It was all the rental company had available on short notice.”

  “They drove it out to you from New Orleans?”

  “This morning.”

  He looked her over, taking in the linen slacks and coordinating silk T-shirt. “More new clothes?”

  “I didn’t bring much from San Francisco. I needed supplemental wardrobe.”

  “So you’re still planning to stay?”

  “Did you think that what happened last night would scare me off? Was it intended to send me packing? Is that why you did it?”

  The bottle-green eyes connected with hers, and it was like getting socked lightly in the gut . . . or lower. “Why did you?”

  Being this close to him would have been uncomfortable had he been fully clothed. But in his half-dressed state, his nearness was discomfiting. It was vexing that he was the one partially undressed, yet she felt exposed.

  She looked away from him and turned toward the cypress trees that lined the banks of Bayou Bosquet, which cut across this lot as well as Huff’s property. “This was the original house,” she said. “Did you know that?”

  “I’ve heard it mentioned.”

  “Huff lived here while he was building the big house.”

  “Before he married your mother.”

  “Yes. Huff didn’t want it to fall into ruin, so Old Mitchell was responsible for the upkeep of this place, too. Sometimes when he’d come here to do his chore
s, he would let me tag along. While he worked outside, I’d play house in the empty rooms. This was the first house I ever decorated. In my imagination, of course.”

  “I doubt my decor would meet your standards.”

  She laughed. “Don’t be so sure. As I recall I envisioned a crystal chandelier suspended from the living room ceiling on a tasseled cord, Oriental rugs, and walls hung with bright silk drapes. My motif was a cross between a sultan’s tent and a French palace.”

  “Or brothel.”

  “I didn’t know what that was, but that’s sort of the look I had in mind.” She smiled at him before returning her gaze to the stand of cypresses and the channel of water beyond. “One time, Old Mitchell and I came here via the bayou. He poled us here in a pirogue and warned me to sit still or we’d capsize and the gators would get us. He told me he knew of gators lurking in those very waters that could swallow me whole and not even burp. I sat as still as a mouse and held on for dear life. That was quite an adventure.” She smiled in reminiscence. “I didn’t know until today that you lived in this house.”

  “Does my being here sully your fond memories of the place? Like my sitting in the swing Old Mitchell made for you?”

  “My fond memories of childhood were sullied long before I met you.”

  He let that pass without comment, saying instead, “Huff offered me the use of the house at the same time he offered me the job. It was supposed to be a temporary arrangement, only until I could find my own place. But one day he asked me why I would want to pay rent to somebody else when I could live here for free. I asked myself the same question, arrived at the obvious answer, and have been here ever since.”

  “They truly own you, don’t they?”

  That struck a chord. He finished his beer and set the empty bottle on the side table with a decisive thunk. “Why did you come here?”

  “I heard about the accident at the plant last night. That’s all anyone is talking about.”

  “What’s being said?”

  “That it was bad, and that Hoyle Enterprises is largely responsible.”

  “That’s what I would expect them to say.”

  “Is it true?”

  “The man’s arm couldn’t be saved. They amputated it this afternoon. I’d call that bad.”

  He didn’t address whether or not the fault lay with Hoyle Enterprises, and she doubted that his failure to was an oversight. “I heard you went to the hospital after he was brought in.”

  “You’ve got reliable sources.”

  “And that the injured man’s wife rejected your offer of help.”

  “Stop tiptoeing around it, Sayre. You heard that she spat in my face. Is that why you’re here? You came to gloat?”

  “No.”

  “Or to remind me of the hazardous working conditions in the foundry?”

  “You shouldn’t need reminding, should you?”

  “The conveyor that injured Billy Paulik has been shut down.”

  “On your orders. I heard about that, too.”

  He gave a negligent shrug.

  “Why not George Robson?”

  “Because he—”

  “Because he’s a puppet who doesn’t do anything before clearing it with Huff.”

  “Who was in the hospital recovering from a heart attack, or have you forgotten about that?”

  “How did he and Chris react upon hearing what you’d done?”

  “They endorsed my decision.”

  “Don’t defend them, Beck. Do you think it’s a fluke that George Robson is in charge of safety? Huff doesn’t want anyone with a conscience or even common sense in that position. George Robson is nothing more than a title to pacify OSHA. Does he even have a staff?”

  “A small one.”

  “A secretary. That’s it. He doesn’t have trained personnel making routine checks, and he certainly doesn’t do it himself. Does he have a budget? No. Authority? Zero.”

  “He implemented the lockout-tagout policy.”

  Sayre knew the term. It meant that a piece of malfunctioning machinery could be locked down and could not be restarted, either accidentally or intentionally, unless a supervisor with a key deemed it functional and safe for operation. “He implemented it only to avoid a stiff fine. Is it enforced?”

  He merely looked back at her.

  “I didn’t think so. Hoyle Enterprises’ so-called safety director, Robson, takes up space, and that’s all he does.”

  “You ought to sign up with Charles Nielson.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind.” He gave the glider a hard push with his bare foot. “So you came to talk about the accident?”

  “No. I came to ask you about something that’s been bothering me.”

  “On my stomach.”

  “What?”

  “You once asked me how I sleep at night. I never got around to answering you. Generally I sleep on my stomach. And by the way, the invitation still stands if you ever want to find out for yourself.”

  She was out of the glider like a shot. When she reached the porch railing, she turned to face him. “I think Chris may have murdered Danny. Now make a joke out of that.”

  He left his seat and crossed the porch in two long strides. “That would make you happy, wouldn’t it? It would validate your hatred of Chris and Huff, and you’d have your vengeance on them.”

  “It’s not vengeance I want.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Then what, Sayre?”

  “Justice,” she said heatedly. “And as an officer of the court, I would think—hope—that you’d want that, too. Of course, you live rent free in their house.”

  He made a sound of aggravation. “Which is totally irrelevant. In any case, I can’t talk to you about this. I’m their attorney.”

  “You’re not a criminal lawyer.”

  “Chris doesn’t need one.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Their gazes locked and held. He was the first to back down. He ran his hand through his hair and motioned her back into the glider. She remained where she was, but he returned to it and sat down. “Okay, Sayre, let’s talk. I don’t promise to say anything, but I’m willing to listen.”

  She wanted an answer to a question that had been plaguing her, but he was bound by attorney-client privilege, and she by her promise not to betray Jessica DeBlance. She took a moment to arrange her thoughts, then asked, “Lately, had Danny and Chris been quarreling about something?”

  “About ‘something’? You have been away for a long time. They quarreled about everything. From the hourly wage we pay a new employee through the LSU football team to the virtues of Coke over Pepsi.”

  “I’m not talking about a squabble. This would have been a recurring argument over something consequential.”

  “Danny’s religion,” he said without hesitation. “He and Chris quarreled about it at the country club the day before Danny died. Huff had asked Chris to speak to Danny about it, to see if he could straighten him out. Chris was irreverent. Danny took offense. I’m not violating confidentiality, because several people at the country club witnessed the quarrel and told Deputy Scott about it.”

  “Did any of these witnesses overhear what they said, specifically?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Did Chris tell you what was said? Strike that,” she said with a shake of her head. “I know you couldn’t tell me that.”

  “No, I couldn’t. But in fact, he didn’t tell me what was said. He admitted that they argued over Danny’s newfound faith and that he’d made some remarks which upset Danny. That’s as specific as he got.”

  Frito ambled over to nudge her thigh with his large head. She reached down and stroked his back.

  “I’m jealous,” Beck said.

  “He does seem to like me.”

  “I’m not jealous of you. I’m jealous of Frito.” His voice was as stirring as the way he was looking at her. “How is it that I can be so mad at you one minute, a
nd the next I want to be—”

  “Don’t.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t say whatever you were going to say. Don’t flirt with me. It won’t distract me from what we’re talking about. And, frankly, it’s disappointing that you would think I’m that frivolous.”

  “Frivolous? Sayre, you’re about as frivolous as a train wreck.”

  “That’s not very complimentary either.”

  “I can’t win for losing. When I try to compliment you, you accuse me of flirting to distract you. So let’s stop this verbal sparring. Why don’t you just level with me and tell me what you’re thinking?”

  “Because I don’t trust you.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Well, you could hardly get more straightforward than that.”

  “You could take anything I say and use it for your own purpose.”

  “What is my purpose? Tell me.”

  “To let Chris get away with murder,” she said huskily. “Again.”

  He held her gaze for a moment, then said, “The state failed to prove that Chris killed Gene Iverson.”

  “And the defense failed to disprove it. I know from somebody close to Danny—”

  “Who?”

  “I can’t tell you that. But someone who knew him well told me that Danny was wrestling with a personal dilemma. And this individual feels that it was a moral dilemma, a matter of conscience.”

  “Danny was walking the straight and narrow. Tithing, attending church every time the doors were open. He hadn’t even drunk a beer since he joined the congregation. What could he have a guilty conscience about?”

  “According to this person, Danny was conflicted about something more serious than drinking a beer. Perhaps it involved something going on at the foundry. Something illegal. Whatever it was, it was eating him alive. I think he wanted to get it off his chest, come clean. Chris was afraid that he would, so he killed him.”

  Beck stared at her for a moment, then got up and came to stand at the railing. Leaning forward, he braced his arms against the top rail and gazed into the distance. Sayre saw what he did—a pale nimbus above the treetops, formed by the lights of the foundry that came on automatically with the dusk.