by Kara Lennox
“What? No. I told you, I believe his story. The guy doesn’t deserve the needle for being a cheater. I just want you to promise me one thing.”
“What?” she asked warily.
“If we get Eldon out of jail, you’ll have nothing to do with him. Ever.”
“But if he gets out, he’ll need—”
“Ever. Promise me, Robyn.”
Why did Ford care? “I could promise anything. How do you even know I would keep my word? I’m a liar, remember? I lied about stealing those art supplies.”
Oh, hell, why had she brought that up again? It was so many years ago, and revisiting that time only served to put her and Ford against each other. But the memory had never completely lost its kick. Whether falsely accused of a murder or a minor theft, it felt awful.
“So you admit you were lying?” His tone was conversational, curious.
“Of course not. I didn’t steal the damn art supplies.”
“Look, whatever I believed about you then is immaterial. If you make me a promise today, I’ll trust you.”
“I promise I won’t ever become involved, romantically, with Eldon Jasperson. But if he should be freed from prison, I wouldn’t turn my back on him. I told him he wasn’t alone, and I meant it. Deal with it.”
“In high school, you never would have stuck your neck out for someone else.”
“You think you knew me in high school. Had me all figured out, huh? After one conversation?” Her face heated as she remembered how rudely she’d rebuffed him. But what had he expected? She’d had no reason to trust him or his motives.
“I knew more about you than you might guess.” Ford actually smiled. His gaze was faraway, but something about the past tickled him. It was the first time she’d seen him even crack a smile since she’d walked up to him at that seedy bar. The brief show of humor lit up his face and changed his whole countenance.
“What?”
“Just that I had a crush on you as big as a football field.”
“No way.”
He quickly sobered. “I don’t blame you for doubting me. But why else do you think I came up to you in the cafeteria?”
“How should I know? Maybe it was a bet. Or…or you wanted to make fun of me somehow. Everyone else did. I made an A or two, turned in a few homework assignments, and people looked at me like I’d grown horns and a tail.”
“That’s not how I looked at you.” His voice had gone rough, and Robyn’s skin prickled as a tiny kernel deep inside her grew hot.
His meaning was clear. He’d wanted her. Her body was reacting to a boy’s passing fancy he felt twelve years ago. Ridiculous. Nothing could have possibly happened between them then, and it sure as hell couldn’t now.
To this day, Ford thought she’d stolen a closetful of art supplies. Despite the fact she’d lived an exemplary life. She was done allowing anyone to judge her in any way, especially an ex-cop who apparently judged himself the most harshly.
“I’VE GOT SOME GOOD NEWS for you,” Beth McClelland, Project Justice’s forensics expert, told Ford. Another refugee from the Houston P.D., recruited by Ford himself, Beth coordinated the analysis of physical evidence. She could do some things in Project Justice’s own small lab. But for more specialized work, Beth had at her disposal a slew of experts all over the country who did everything from paint and glass analysis to blood spatter. And they did it in a hurry.
Ford looked up from his computer screen and rubbed his eyes. “I could use some good news.”His attempts to locate the mysterious witness, “Roy,” had met with utter defeat. The pizza restaurant had gone out of business, the former owner had disappeared, the other employees were flung far and wide.
So he’d focused on Heather Boone, trying to find someone who had an idea of her whereabouts. She had no family left in Green Prairie. She wasn’t “missing,” in the sense that no one had reported her to the police. She had simply vanished.
It had been three days since he and Robyn had been to the prison, and he hadn’t made much progress in the investigation. His discussion with the District Attorney who had prosecuted Eldon had been like talking to a brick wall.
He’d had better luck with the Green Prairie police. His high school buddy Bryan Pizak had again been helpful. When Ford had shown up with the court order, Pizak had quickly and willingly supplied a copy of the case file and the boxes of evidence.
Ford had expected to find cartons and cartons of evidence. A high-profile case like that, usually police went overboard collecting everything.
He’d been surprised when the clerk at the warehouse where they kept old evidence had brought him only two cardboard boxes. In them, he’d found very little of use—except for that lone wig fiber Robyn had mentioned.
He’d turned the fiber over to Beth, carefully maintaining a chain of evidence, and he guessed her news was related to that.
Beth settled into a wingback chair across from Ford’s desk, looking more like a secretary with a juicy piece of gossip than a hard-nosed scientist. In her late thirties, she had a headful of chocolate brown corkscrew curls and big, innocent blue eyes. Though she claimed to be a “science nerd,” she always appeared stylish, favoring bright colors and bold jewelry.
She never wore a lab coat unless she was actually in the laboratory with her test tubes and chemicals.
“So, what do you have for me?”
“You’re lucky. That wig fiber is quite unusual, at least around here. It’s manufactured in Germany, and there’s only one brand of wig sold in this country that uses it. It’s made by a company called Brandenburg. Their highest-end wigs are in the Allure line. The color is wheat.”
Once again, Ford was amazed at the speed with which Beth came up with her detailed information. “How did you learn all that?”
“I just analyzed the fiber, but I know a guy in Oklahoma who has a huge database of fiber compositions for anything synthetic. Wigs, carpet, any kind of fabric.”
“You have once again earned your keep.”
“Tell Daniel to give me a raise.”
Ford knew she was kidding. Daniel paid her and everyone else on his staff far more than they could earn in the public sector, let alone if they got a corporate job. He only hired the best and he did his best to keep them.
“There’s more. The Allure line was only manufactured for a couple of years, right around the time of the murder. I emailed you a report.”
Ford still didn’t have a lot of hope he could track down the wig or who was wearing it. But he had to follow every lead, and this was one he could turn over to his helpers. Robyn had been itching to make herself useful. Calling every place that sold wigs in the greater Houston area wasn’t glamorous, but it didn’t require much skill, either. He would rather save Project Justice’s skilled investigators for more challenging tasks.
“Thanks, Beth.”
She smiled, and reached across the desk to squeeze his hand. “My pleasure. And, for the record, I’m glad you changed your mind about leaving.”
“I didn’t. When I’m done with this case—”
“It wasn’t your fault!”
Any number of people had told him that. But plenty had told him just the opposite. Katherine Hannigan didn’t blame him, but her family sure did.
Ford didn’t want to argue with Beth. “Thank you,” he mumbled, then pointedly returned his attention to his computer screen.
And suddenly, there she was. Heather Boone. One of her old classmates had responded to an email Ford had sent, requesting any information. Heather was now Heather Brinks, married to a minister and living in Ardmore, Louisiana.
A few more clicks on the computer, and he had her address.
He picked up the phone and dialed Robyn’s cell number. She had made herself available to him 24/7, assuring him he could call anytime he needed her help, and she would drop what she was doing.
As it rang, he was amazed at the anticipation he felt waiting to hear her voice. He’d spent at least as much time thinking about Roby
n as he had about the case. She was even more attractive now than in high school, and she’d been a schoolboy’s fantasy back then.
Maturity had softened her. She’d put on a few sorely needed pounds in the past twelve years, though she was still slender as a blade of grass. Her face was softer, too. But he could still drown in those huge blue eyes, and he could still imagine kissing those full lips.
Not that it would ever happen. He felt a certain chemistry with her, but whenever she remembered their thorny history, she looked at him like he was something she’d scraped off her shoe. Sadly, there was no way to change that. She couldn’t undo the fact that she’d been a juvenile delinquent, and he couldn’t undo the fact that he’d judged her.
He knew she’d turned her life around. He might be able to dismiss her past, but she obviously couldn’t put it behind them. He was serving a purpose in her life right now, nothing more.
ROBYN SET THE LAST POT into the kiln and closed it.
“So is this like my oven at home?” Arnie had been hovering at her elbow, watching her every move. Earlier, he had applied glaze to his squat vase with an intensity born of passion. The other kids in the class—she had twelve in all—had seemed to enjoy the process. Some had globbed on every color they could get their hands on, others had inscribed names or words or even gang symbols into their pots.Some had taken their time and some had just gotten it over with as quickly as possible so they could mess around. Robyn didn’t hammer on discipline too much, since this was supposed to be a fun class even if they did get school credit.
Arnie, however, had approached his vase with the sober intensity of a budding artist. He had a good eye but, having never picked up a pencil or paintbrush, he lacked skills. Robyn could provide him with those skills, and he absorbed techniques as fast as she could teach them. She was watching his artistic talent come alive before her eyes, and it was one of the most rewarding experiences of her career.
“Unfortunately,” she said, “you can’t fire this kind of pot in your oven at home. It doesn’t get hot enough. This oven gets up to eighteen hundred degrees.”
“Damn.”
“But they do make clay you can fire in a regular oven. It comes in different colors. Rather than glazing it, you combine the colors in an interesting way.”
“You got any of this clay?”
“Not here. It’s kind of pricey.”
“How pricey?” he asked warily.
“I’ll find out. Maybe I can get the craft store to donate some for the class.”
“But I want to do this at home. The art class is gonna be over in a couple of weeks. And those wheels—how much do those cost?”
Robyn smiled. She’d created a monster. “Pottery wheels are quite expensive. But I found my wheel at a garage sale. If you keep your eyes open, you might be able to find a good used one for—” she winced slightly as she said it “—two hundred dollars.”
Arnie deflated. “I ain’t got two hundred dollars. I ain’t got twenty dollars.”
That was probably a good thing. Although he’d never been charged, the police suspected Arnie had been dealing drugs. If he was broke, it probably meant he was keeping his nose clean.
“Arnie, I promise you. If you really want to make more pots, I’ll find a way to make it happen.” Even if she had to give up her free time to hang out here so he could use the school facilities. She would pay for the materials out of her own pocket if she had to.
“That’s cool.” He pointed to the kiln. “How long before these pots are baked?”
“Fired. Not until tomorrow.”
“Oh. Can I come see tomorrow?”
“I’ll have them all ready for class on Thursday. For the next few weeks I’m going to be pretty busy, but then we’ll talk about getting you some more hours in the studio, okay?”
“Cool.” He didn’t seem to be worried today that his friends would see him sucking up to the teacher. He was riding an artistic high. She knew how that felt. She remembered her first pot. It now sat on her kitchen windowsill, growing oregano. It was far uglier than Arnie’s would turn out.
Robyn felt a prickling at the nape of her neck. She looked toward the door and took a sharp breath. Ford was standing there, watching her through the window.
How long had he been there?
She couldn’t wait to hear his news. He wouldn’t tell her on the phone. All she knew was that he wanted her to go with him on a long drive someplace.
Thank God she’d brought a change of clothes with her today. She was covered with clay and glaze and coffee she’d spilled in her car this morning.
She waved to Ford, letting him know she’d seen him.
“Has everybody cleaned their brushes and put them away?” she asked the kids. “Britney, is that your mess on that table? Kelly, will you put those jars of glaze back in the cabinet, please?”
They all knew she wouldn’t let them leave until the room was put back in order, so they didn’t argue.
She walked to the door and opened it. God, he looked good. He had on a crisp linen shirt, black jeans and black cowboy boots. For some reason, cops in this part of the world wore cowboy boots, whether dressing up or dressing down. They even wore them with their suits and to testify in court. Didn’t matter if they’d ever laid eyes on a horse.
Seemed to be part of the uniform.
Ford might not be a cop anymore, but he sure looked the part, especially with his short, neat haircut and clean-shaven face.
“You could have come in,” she said. “Instead of lurking outside, spying on us.”
“I didn’t want to interrupt. Besides, I wanted to observe you in your natural environment.”
“What?” That surprised her. Why would he care about her art class? “You make me sound like a zoo specimen.”
“I like to know who I’m working with,” he said unapologetically.
Arnie, who moments ago had been friendly as a puppy, now stared at Ford with undisguised animosity. “This your squeeze?”
“Uh, no.” Robyn laughed nervously. “Ford, this is Arnie Coombs. Arnie, Ford Hyatt. We’re working on a project together.”
Arnie ignored Ford’s extended hand. “Huh. Dude looks like a cop to me.”
Robyn hid her smile. It wouldn’t do to show any kind of approval for Arnie’s rudeness. But hadn’t she just been thinking the same thing?
“Good instincts,” Ford said. “I used to be a cop.”
“Why’re you not now?” Arnie wanted to know. Still hostile. Tense. Ready to spring.
“Arnie,” Robyn interrupted. “If you’re going to question the man, the least you could do is shake his hand.”
He backed up. “Ain’t shakin’ hands with no cop.”
Oh, boy. “Okay, kids, you can go. I’ll see you on Thursday for the great unveiling of your finished pieces.”
They didn’t waste time making a break for freedom. All but Arnie, who continued to stare malevolently at Ford.
“You better not be bothering Ms. Jasperson,” he said. Then his friend grabbed him by his oversize shirt and dragged him toward the door, muttering something about teacher’s pet.
“Charming student you got there,” Ford said dryly. “Are they all that polite?”
Robyn winced. “Around cops? Yeah. Arnie’s never seen a cop’s good side in his life.” She knew just how he felt, too. Cops didn’t exactly leave her warm and fuzzy.
“He’s got a gang tattoo,” Ford said. “Some of those other kids were wearing colors. I thought gang colors were banned at most schools.”
“They are, and during the regular school year they’d be sent home. But I don’t make a big deal out of it in the summer. As long as they aren’t killing each other in my classroom, they can wear what they want.”
She straightened a few things on her desk, locked up her grade book and some other papers.
“Are you the only one here? The only adult, I mean.”
“Usually. Well, there’s the security guy. Why?” She picked up the tot
e bag that contained her change of clothes.
“I didn’t see any guard. In fact, I walked right into the school unchallenged. I could be an ax murderer.”
Robyn sighed. “You sound like my ex-mother-in-law. She never approved of me teaching at a public school. ‘You take your life in your hands every day you associate with those people.’” She stuck her nose in the air and sniffed.
“It’s not a matter of snobbery,” he said firmly. “It’s a safety issue. I’ve seen the violence gang members—”
“These kids aren’t going to hurt me. You treat them like wild animals, they’ll behave that way. If you treat them like human beings—”
Robyn looked up at his implacable face and realized she was preaching to a closed door. It wasn’t the first time she’d faced this attitude. During her high school kangaroo court, he’d been just as determined to believe he already knew the truth about everything.
“Never mind,” she said as she walked toward the door. She turned off the lights. Ford was there to open the door for her, an oddly gallant gesture given they were having an argument. But he’d always had nice manners. She remembered that about him.
“You said you’ve got some new information?” she asked as she locked the door. The jangle of her keys echoed in the empty hallway.
“I located Heather.”
“You did?” she asked excitedly, their argument forgotten. “Where is she? Have you talked to her? Will she back up Eldon’s story? Will she testify? Oh, my gosh, this is great!”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I know where she lives. But she might refuse to talk to us. She might deny everything.”
“Even if she knows a man’s life is at stake?”
Ford looked uncomfortable. “I’ve seen people say and do some pretty heartless things to protect their own self-interest. It seems Heather has gone to considerable trouble to divorce herself from her life in Green Prairie. She might not appreciate that past coming back to haunt her.”
Robyn stuck her keys in her purse. “Then we’ll just have to convince her. Where is she? Is that where we’re going?”
Ford nodded as they headed for the exit. Calvin, the elderly security guard, was walking down the hall toward them. He nodded and tipped an imaginary hat toward Robyn. “You take care now, Ms. Jasperson. It’s hot out there.”