White Hot

by Sandra Brown

  Technically, he was right. It would have been a breach of professional ethics if he had failed to argue on his client’s behalf. But his being right didn’t prevent her from being mad as hell.

  “Let go of the door.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Anywhere I damn well please.” She tugged hard on the door, but to no avail.

  “Listen to me, Sayre. Forget that you’re angry at me and focus on Watkins. You must pay attention to his threats. He’s not that bright, but that only makes him more dangerous. Maybe he didn’t intend to hurt you this morning, but now that you’ve delivered his message to Red, you’ve served your purpose. Maybe he’ll come back and make an example of you. Watkins hates the Hoyles. You’re a Hoyle, Sayre, like it or not, and . . .” His eyes moved over her. “You’re conspicuous.”

  “Good. Then I’ll be easy to spot on the picket line.”

  • • •

  For the second time that day, Beck wheeled his pickup into a parking slot in front of the sheriff’s office, pulling in next to Chris’s Porsche. They had agreed to meet there after Chris went home to have lunch with Huff.

  He left the windows of his truck down when he got out, although that wouldn’t help much to prevent the cab from becoming suffocating during the time he was inside. There was no relief from the stifling heat. Even the air-conditioned sheriff’s office felt dank and close.

  “Hoyle’s in the last room on the right,” he was informed by the deputy manning the desk, Pat something.

  “Thanks.”

  Beck knocked once, then opened the door to the room, which was barely large enough to accommodate a table and two formed fiberglass chairs. Chris was seated in one of them. “Hi.”

  “Hi. Have you seen Red?” Beck asked.

  “No. Only that Neanderthal at the desk. He showed me in here. Told me Red and Scott were still at lunch and to make myself at home.”

  Beck instantly sensed a change in his friend’s demeanor. Notably absent was Chris’s sarcastic derision, which was part of his character. Beck sat down across from him. “Want to tell me what’s the matter?”

  Chris smiled but not with humor. “If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.”

  Beck’s heart did a flip-flop.

  Chris’s wry grin widened. “No, I’m not about to confess. At least not to murdering my brother.”

  “Then what?”

  Leaning forward, he placed his elbows on the table and massaged his forehead with the fingers of both hands. “I’m scared. There. That’s my big confession, Beck. This room feels an awful lot like a jail cell, and it scares me shitless.”

  The tightness in Beck’s chest relaxed. “That’s to be expected. That’s what interrogation rooms are designed to do, Chris. To rattle you. Make you begin to doubt your own innocence.

  “When I worked in the DA’s office, I spent a lot of time in rooms like this with real badasses. Gang-bangers, rapists, killers, thieves. But no matter what their rap sheet looked like, you got them in an interrogation room, and left them long enough, and they started wanting their mamas.”

  Chris reacted with a smile, but it was short-lived. “I’m beginning to fear they might just pin this thing on me.”

  “All they’ve got is conjecture and circumstantial evidence. Nothing hard. I doubt a DA would even present what they’ve got to a grand jury. Especially not in this parish.”

  “Yeah, but all this circumstantial evidence is stacking up. What’s the legal term I’m searching for?”

  “Preponderance?”

  “Right. A preponderance of evidence is sometimes enough. Slap Watkins and his Bible story,” he said scornfully. “It’s probably the only one he knows. Hell, even nonbelievers like me have heard of Cain and Abel. Danny was a murder victim. He was my brother. Suddenly that adds up to my being the one who killed him.”

  He got up and made a slow circle around the small table. “Why would my own sister buy into the lunacy of a crazed career criminal, and then share it with this hotshot deputy who’s looking for anything to use against me?”

  Beck didn’t tell him about the secret engagement that only he and Sayre were aware of, or about Danny’s telephone calls to her. Either might have been extremely relevant. But in the likelihood that they were totally irrelevant points, he would keep them to himself.

  “Sayre wasn’t exactly jumping up and down with glee the last time I saw her, Chris.” Thoughtfully, he added, “God knows what that sleazy bastard said and did to her that she didn’t tell us.”

  “I know she must’ve been frightened, but why didn’t she report the theft of her earrings and leave it at that? Why give any credence at all to Watkins’s red herring?”

  Beck frowned. “I can’t explain anything Sayre does.”

  Chris stopped and looked down at him. “So it’s true then?”

  “You heard?”

  “Somebody called the house while we were having lunch and told Huff. He went ballistic. She’s really on the picket line?”

  “Leading the parade.”

  Chris returned to his chair and looked at Beck expectantly.

  “She showed up about eleven-thirty with burgers from Dairy Queen and ice chests of cold drinks,” he told Chris. “As soon as she saw to it that everyone was fed, she picked up a sign and started marching with them. She was still there just now when I came through the gate.”

  Chris hung his head, shaking it in disbelief. “I never thought I’d live to see the day when a member of Huff’s family would stand against the others. Of course some believe that I shot my brother in the mouth with a shotgun.” Back to massaging his forehead, he said, “Who would think I could do that?”

  “That’s just it, Chris. They’ve yet to establish a motive. Unless you’re holding something back.”

  His head came up. “Like what?”

  “Have you told me everything about your argument with Danny?”

  “About a hundred times.”

  “Was Danny keeping any secrets from us?”

  “Secrets?”

  “I just thought maybe there was something he had shared with you that the rest of us didn’t know about.”

  “No. Nothing.”

  Beck peered into Chris’s eyes, searching for even a flicker of a giveaway, but Chris’s gaze was steady and guileless. “Just a thought. Never mind. What about Lila?”

  “I went to her house yesterday when I knew George was out. She wouldn’t even open the door.”

  “A hostile alibi. Terrific.” Beck got up and moved to the window. There were iron bars across it, he noticed. He looked out at a sky that was so hot all the blue had been leached from it. The only thing whiter than the sky was the drifting smoke from the foundry. “I won’t bullshit you, Chris. We’ve got to come up with some kind of solid defense.”

  “I did not kill my brother.”

  Beck turned around. “Something in addition to your denial.”

  Chris looked at him for a long moment, then said quietly, “Beck, this is one of the toughest things I’ve ever had to do. I’m firing you.”

  He laughed shortly. “Firing me?”

  “This is no reflection on your ability or legal acumen. They’re not at issue. You’ve wrangled Hoyle Enterprises out of scrapes that could have cost us plenty, and not just financially. Huff and I need you on the job there, running interference for us with the federal agencies and now, thanks to Nielson, our own employees.” He smiled crookedly. “And I need a criminal lawyer.”

  Beck returned to the table and sat down. “Actually, I’m relieved.”

  “You’re not angry?”

  “Chris, criminal law isn’t my field. I was the first to suggest that you retain a criminal lawyer. I wanted to insist on it, but I was afraid you’d think I was bailing out on you. I wasn’t sure how Huff would react, either.”

  “He won’t like it. He wrote the book on keeping things in the family, but I’m hoping you’ll help me persuade him that it’s the right decision.”

>   “I’ll talk to him. Who’d you get?”

  Chris told him, but Beck wasn’t familiar with the name. “He’s from Baton Rouge and comes highly recommended.”

  “Good luck with him.”

  “You swear you’re not angry?”

  “I swear. So where is this legal whiz? You need him here now.”

  “That’s the thing. He’s not free until Monday. What should we do about this interrogation?”

  “I’ll see if Red will postpone it until your new lawyer arrives.”

  “Do you think they’ll put me in jail over the weekend?”

  “If it’s even suggested, I’ll raise a hue and cry. This is flimsy bullshit anyway. I think Red only wanted to question you to pacify his deputy. He doesn’t believe in Bible stories any more than you do.”

  They shook hands, but when Beck tried to withdraw his, Chris gripped it tighter. “I don’t want to take the fall for something I didn’t do, Beck. And I did not kill Danny.”

  Beck returned the pressure to Chris’s hand. “I believe you.”

  chapter 29

  When Sayre got back to her motel room that night, she opened the door with the key belonging to the new lock, which had been swapped for the one Slap Watkins had picked.

  She stood at the threshold and surveyed the room. All traces of his stench had been eliminated. Not trusting the motel housekeeper to clean as thoroughly as she wanted, she had donned rubber gloves and given the room a sanitizing cleaning herself before she left for the foundry. She had insisted that the motel manager bring in another chair to replace the one in which Watkins had sat. The bedspread had also been changed.

  Satisfied that all remnants of him were gone, she locked herself in, making certain also to secure the chain. Wearily she moved to the dresser and looked at herself in the mirror. Her skin was scorched from sun exposure, while at the same time so sweaty that her clothes stuck to it. She eased off her sneakers and inspected a crop of painful, angry-looking blisters that detracted from her Beige Marilyn pedicure.

  She was almost too tired to eat the grilled cheese sandwich she’d picked up at the diner, but she was also ravenously hungry. After the first bite, she devoured the rest of it.

  She stayed a long time in the shower, her second of the day. She had scoured herself that morning, trying to rid herself even of the memory of Watkins’s touch.

  Now she let the spray pound the achiness from her muscles. When she stepped from the tub, she felt almost human again. Too tired to bother with a blow-dryer, she rubbed her hair with a towel and let it go at that. Her only nod toward a beauty regimen was to apply moisturizer to her sunburned nose. The spot on her cheek had scabbed over. In a day or two it would be unnoticeable.

  She put on a pair of panties and the short cotton nightie she had bought to replace the one she’d slept in last night. It had gone out with the trash that morning. She would never have worn it again no matter how many times it was washed.

  She told herself to forget the incident. Nothing terrible had happened. She was vesting that imbecile with way too much influence over her.

  Even so, as she pulled back the bedcovers, she decided to leave the bathroom light on, on the outside chance that she would wake up in total darkness again and have to relive those horrifying moments when she had discovered him in the room.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by knocking on her door. “Sayre? Open up.”

  It was Beck. He had tapped lightly so as not to frighten her, but his voice was stern.

  “What do you want, Beck?”

  “I want you to open the door.”

  She unlocked it and opened it only as far as the brass chain would allow, looking at him through the crack. “I’m not dressed.”

  “Let me in.”

  “Why?”

  His fractious mood was apparent in his expression. He didn’t even deign to answer, just stared at her. She relented, mostly because she didn’t want their conversation to have spectators. The bowling leagues must have been at the lanes, because The Lodge’s parking lot was full and she had neighbors in the next room.

  She unlatched the chain, and he came in, closing the door soundly behind him. His eyes dropped immediately to the hem of the short nightgown and her bare legs and feet. She crossed her arms over her middle, and the self-protective gesture caused him to look away.

  “In light of what happened this morning . . . Put some clothes on if it’ll make you feel more comfortable.”

  “You won’t be here that long. What do you want?”

  “Clark Daly is in the hospital.”

  “What?”

  “He’s in the emergency room.”

  Her hand went to her throat. “Another accident at the plant?”

  “Hardly. He was beaten.”

  “Beaten?”

  “To a pulp. His condition is serious. Whether or not it’s critical remains to be seen. He’s got visible injuries. Loose teeth, a split lip, black eyes, torn eyelid, a gash on his scalp. Beyond that, he may have a skull fracture. Broken ribs, they’re nearly certain. Possible internal bleeding. He’s being X-rayed and such to determine all that.”

  Covering her mouth, she released a slow breath and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Wh . . . who?”

  “Names haven’t been named, but yours has been circulated as the person responsible.” His eyes speared into hers.

  She swallowed the gorge that filled her throat. “What happened?”

  “I was staying at the plant tonight. In case any real trouble broke out, I wanted to be there.”

  Soon after the graveyard shift had reported for work, he’d sensed that something was amiss. “You work there long enough, you begin to pick up vibes,” he said. “You feel it when something isn’t right. I went down to the floor and started asking what was wrong. No one wanted to talk to me. Particularly in the climate we’ve got there now.”

  “You’re Huff’s main man.”

  His jaw clenched with anger, but he didn’t address the remark. “Finally I wormed it out of a guy that Clark hadn’t reported for work. One of his friends called his wife, who freaked out. She said he’d left in plenty of time to get there. This alarmed his buddies, who wanted to leave right then to look for him. I ordered them to stay on the job, but I picked a couple of them and we went looking for him. We spotted his car on the side of the road no more than two blocks from his house. Clark was lying facedown in the ditch, unconscious. He’s in a bad way.”

  Sayre stood up and stumbled toward the bureau. “I’m going.” She took a pair of jeans from a drawer, only to have Beck snatch them out of her hand and toss them aside. “Mrs. Daly wouldn’t like that, Sayre.”

  “I don’t care what—”

  “Listen!” He took her by the shoulders. “When Luce Daly got to the hospital, she saw me and bared her claws. She let me know in no uncertain terms that I was persona non grata and yelled at me to keep away from her husband.

  “I would have expected that from her if Clark had been hurt on the job. Like Alicia Paulik. But I was shocked, considering that I was the one who had found him and rushed him to the ER.

  “It soon came out, however, that he wasn’t the victim of a random mugging. Nothing like that. Clark had the crap beat out of him because you recruited him to finger Huff’s spies and start rousing the men to strike.”

  He was breathing hard, barely keeping his voice at a moderate volume, and holding on to his temper by a thread. As though realizing how tightly he was gripping her shoulders, he released her suddenly. He turned away, ran his fingers through his hair, then came back around. “Tell me that Mrs. Daly was wrong, Sayre. Tell me that this isn’t true.”

  She raised her chin defiantly. “You’re the one who called this a war.”

  “It’s not your war. Why are you fighting it?”

  “Because somebody has to. Because what has been standard operating procedure in that foundry is wrong. Somebody has to set things right.”

  “Do you honestly think that you
r participation is going to help matters? Do you think it’s beneficial to anybody that you’re marching in that picket line?”

  “I think it might be.”

  “Well, you’re wrong. Dead wrong.”

  “I’m making a statement to the employees.”

  “You don’t even speak their language,” he shouted. “That was demonstrated to you the other day when you came to the plant. Carrying a picket sign does not put you in league with people who could eat for a month on what you pay for a pair of shoes.

  “Your heart may be in the right place, Sayre, but your thinking is skewed. You haven’t won the trust of the workers and their families. Not yet. Until you do, you’re incendiary. Thanks to you, Clark Daly nearly got his brains knocked out tonight, and you’re goddamn lucky it wasn’t you we found in a ditch.”

  Stung by his accusation, but more so by its merit, she turned away from him, her shoulders slumping with the weight of her blame. “The last thing I wanted to do was cause more trouble for Clark.”

  “Then you should’ve stayed away from him. And that’s the message I was sent to deliver.”

  She raised her head and looked at him in the mirror above the dresser. “From whom?”

  “Luce Daly. Pretty smart lady. She nailed it. She predicted that you’d want to make a mad dash to the hospital, rush to Clark’s bedside. Well, sorry. His wife doesn’t want you anywhere near him. She told me about your visits with him and sent me to tell you to go back where you came from and to leave her husband alone.”

  “She’s thinking like a jealous wife. I have no romantic designs on Clark. I was only trying to help him.”

  “Big help you were. His wife said you were like a sickness he had caught a long time ago and could never shake.”

  From Luce Daly’s perspective, she probably did represent a sickness with which Clark had been afflicted for a long time. It was an unflattering analogy, and hurtful. She wanted to defend herself, but pride prevented her.

  Instead she put Beck on the defensive. “Do you know who did it?”