Bench Trial in the Backwoods

by Maggie Wells

  “Every woman is a leopard-print type, under the right circumstances.” she asserted with more confidence than she felt. Frankly, she was embarrassed to be caught in the slippers. For some reason, she was afraid he’d find them frivolous, perhaps think less of her as a cop because her choices in footwear weren’t always tactical. “But these were an impulse buy. They were on sale, so I grabbed them off the rack.”

  Lie. She’d seen them online and ordered them specifically because she wanted something pretty.

  There were times when being a woman in a male-dominated world wore on her. Times when she wanted to let down her guard and indulge in something simply because it was pretty or fun. These were the sorts of things she had to keep to herself. She indulged by purchasing things no one else would ever see. Of course, she hadn’t been living in someone else’s house at the time.

  Anxious to change the subject, she wrinkled her nose. “Are you actually offering me oatmeal?”

  He shrugged. “I can’t offer you a brandy or coffee, not that the latter would do anything to make you sleepy.” He stretched to reach up onto the top shelf and pull down the familiar round container of oats. “I always found the notion of warm milk kind of gross. Like you’re drinking it straight out of the cow, you know?” When she nodded, he gestured to the container. “My mom used to make me oatmeal when I couldn’t sleep. It’s surprisingly effective. It’s warm, filling and, with a splash of milk and a sprinkle of brown sugar, pretty comforting.”

  Alicia stepped over to the counter. “Okay, you’ve convinced me.”

  He smiled. “Good. If you would—”

  Alicia didn’t know what he was going to ask her to do. It probably wasn’t kiss him. But kiss him she did. When he turned toward her, his smile brightening his too serious features, and his hair sticking up in all directions, there wasn’t much else she could do.

  If it came right down to it, she could blame it on the adrenaline. Somebody had tried to kill them tonight. Somebody had been taking shots at him. There, in his semidark kitchen, Alicia hadn’t been able to stand the thought of going another minute without kissing him again.

  In case.

  His lips were warm and soft, parted in surprise. It took only a heartbeat, but he quickly caught on. Their lips clung when she pulled back. She hated to end the kiss, but she wanted to be clear whether the movement of his mouth against hers had been one of acquiescence or objection. She needed to get a tighter rein on herself until she knew whether he even wanted to be kissed.

  “Sorry,” she whispered. “Kinda like the slippers—poor impulse control.”

  Lips still parted, he gave his head a slight shake. “You have to try another excuse because I’m never going to buy impulse control.”

  “We almost died tonight.”

  “I’m not sure I’m going to go with near death either,” he said. “People been taking shots at us for a while now. You haven’t felt compelled to kiss me after any of them.”

  “How do you know?” she shot back. “Maybe I did, and I held back.”

  “Completely blowing your story about the poor impulse control,” he said, bringing the argument full circle. “Admit you wanted to kiss me.”

  They stood toe to toe, their eyes locked on one another. “I wanted to kiss you.”

  “I’m glad. I’ve been wanting to kiss you since you first showed up on my doorstep.”

  “Liar,” she said with a sly smile. “You never would’ve called me if I hadn’t shown up on your doorstep.”

  “Never is a pretty firm stance to take,” he said. “If I’d had any indication you would’ve been receptive to a call, I would have, but all markers pointed to you wanting to make a clean escape.”

  A laugh bubbled out of her, and she patted her stomach. “So much for my plan.”

  He reached down and covered her hand with his. “I’m glad it didn’t work out.”

  His fingers splayed over hers. She was carrying their child. It seemed absurd to get butterflies in her stomach when she’d already been with this man. Would be connected to this man for the rest of her life. But still, she felt as edgy and excited as she’d been the night he’d driven her home from Simon Wingate’s party back in the fall.

  But she had to be clear. If they were going to blur the line, she had to know they were on the same page.

  “So, you want to kiss me?”

  “Yes,” he answered simply.

  She smiled, loving how he instinctively knew he needed to take the most direct routes with her. “Okay, so kissing is on the table,” she said, speaking slowly.

  When she didn’t go on, he quirked an eyebrow. “On the table? Doesn’t sound sanitary.”

  She laughed again and reached up to smooth his hair into place. “I like you, Harry. I’ve always liked you,” she said with a helpless shrug. “If I didn’t like you, I never would’ve slept with you.”

  “I like you too,” he said, his face settling back into its usual sober expression. “And I like kissing you.”

  She nodded. “Okay. Good. But things are pretty complicated right now, so maybe we should leave it for tonight.”

  “Makes sense. For the record, I hate making sense right now,” he clarified.

  She knew in that moment there was no way she was leaving for Atlanta the following morning. Bronson could reprimand her if he wanted, but she was sticking. For now. Maybe for a while. She’d have to see.

  Aware she was getting way ahead of herself, needing a diversion, she nudged him with her elbow and nodded to the container of oats in front of him. “Are we going to stand here talking all night, or are you gonna make me some mush?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  They passed Sunday in the haze of exhaustion and hyperawareness. Alicia hadn’t kissed him again, and he hadn’t made a move in her direction either. It didn’t feel right. Not because he wasn’t attracted to her, but because there was too much going on for him to open up another line of worry.

  His reasoning was lame, and he knew it.

  She was already in his life. Would be for at least the next nineteen years, if not for a lifetime. And though he hadn’t completely wrapped his mind around the thought of being a father, he found himself thinking about being with Alicia way too often. Which called up the question of motivation. He didn’t want her to be with him because of the baby, and he didn’t want to not be with her because of the baby.

  Harry heaved a sigh and flipped on the buzzing overhead lights, trudging toward his office. It was only six thirty in the morning, and barely light outside, but after a day of dancing around her in his house, Harry needed an escape. Work seemed the perfect place to go.

  He tossed his briefcase on the chair inside his office and made his way to the break room. The broken window had a piece of plywood covering the hole. As far as Harry could see, there had been no additional damage over the weekend. He pulled a bottle of water from the fridge and an orange from the bowl of fruit on the counter. He’d need to make a run to the Piggly Wiggly this week to restock it. He dug his thumbnail into the rind and made his way back to his office.

  Yesterday, Alicia had remarked on his eating habits, asking if he was some kind of a monk or if self-deprivation was his particular brand of kink. He frowned at the orange in his hand. He tried to explain he wasn’t a foodie. He saw food as fuel, and if he was going to put fuel in his tank, he tried to go for the premium. But he was no health nut. He loved pizza and pasta and a giant plate of tamales as much as the next guy.

  She’d laughed at him, and the throaty sound of it made him want to kiss her again. Despite her skill in teasing, she was not a woman who laughed often. He liked the surprise of it. He wasn’t anyone’s idea of a class cutup either. But he didn’t care if he was the butt of the joke or not; he was happy to be the guy who made her laugh. Dropping into his chair, he pulled his trash can out from under the desk and quickly and effic
iently peeled the orange. The scent of citrus filled the air while he broke segments from the fruit and bit into its juicy pulp.

  Between her morning, noon and night sickness, and his naturally not-voracious appetite, they’d managed to make it through a day with a container of soup and a couple of sandwiches. After she had disappeared into her room the night before, he’d made up for her lack of supper by hoovering an entire bag of tortilla chips.

  Now his stomach was growling, demanding more fuel before he could start his day. He tipped the bottle of water to his mouth and chugged three-quarters of it down in long gulps. Being in the office was a relief. The quiet closed around him like a warm blanket. He’d become accustomed to a solitary life, and while Alicia was anything but intrusive, she was definitely distracting.

  He rocked back in his chair, methodically working his way through the orange. Allowing his mind to drift. She’d seemed edgy the previous day. Like something was weighing on her. But she didn’t offer any reason, and he didn’t ask. Truthfully, he was scared she regretted kissing him.

  So he stuck to chatting about Simon’s party, explaining the backstory behind some of the tales she’d heard. When the conversation turned to the person who’d tried to run them down, Alicia had insisted on lining out a timeline detailing every single threat or bit of damage done to his property or places associated with him. Seeing it all laid out, one sheet of printer paper per incident, nearly blanketed the dining table he rarely used. She’d made a list of all the names she’d noted from the previous evening and pressed him for more. When they finished, she’d nodded decisively and said something about narrowing down some of the searches she was doing in internet chat rooms.

  Harry hadn’t been surprised to discover she was working the case from her own angles. While he’d never been one for social media or general internet browsing, he appreciated how much data people either willingly or unwittingly gave away.

  His own digital footprint was small, but not nonexistent. He had a business profile, and his photo was on the county website. He’d never given it much thought. He was of the opinion the most useful thing the web provided was instant access to sports scores. Any research related to the cases he was working was usually performed by either Danielle or Layla, and the pertinent information sent to him in an email if it needed his immediate attention or added to the client’s folder.

  Either way, he’d never ventured onto any kind of forum or chat room. The opinions of strangers didn’t mean much to him. Truthfully, he found opinions in general worthless. He was a man who dealt in facts. Evidence. Sworn testimony. Anything posted online could be easily fabricated, so he didn’t bother with it much. If the rest of the world wanted to get their facts from user-curated sources, he wasn’t going to stop them, nor was he going to put his faith in them.

  But he knew someone who did.

  Drawing his phone from his jacket pocket, he chewed another segment of orange and scrolled through his contacts. One of his roommates in college had been heavy into computers. Mostly, it seemed he liked the mischief he could make with them, but eventually they gave him a degree, and the degree coupled with his superprocessor brain led him into some high-clearance work in both the public and private sectors.

  Randy was the most unlikely computer whiz Harry had ever encountered. Rather than the antisocial hermit holed up in a dark room pecking code into a keyboard, Randy had been a young man determined to live up to his name. He happened to have a skill set that lent itself well to poking around in places where he didn’t necessarily belong. Harry suspected this was how the guy ended up on the dean’s list every semester even though Harry had hardly ever witnessed Randy hitting the books. A guy with a computer brain probably didn’t need to study as hard as mere mortals.

  He smirked and tapped the screen to call up his old friend’s number, but realized it was still probably too early to call. Switching to a text message, he typed with one thumb.

  Hey. Been a long time, but I need to talk to you. Will you call when you get a minute?

  Satisfied, Harry set the phone on his desk and turned his attention to finishing his fruit. A few seconds later the screen lit up, and his ringtone echoed through the empty offices. Harry shot forward in his seat and, seeing Randy’s name on the screen, quickly swiped to accept the call.

  “Hey, man, I know it’s early. I didn’t mean for you to have to call me right away,” Harry said by way of greeting.

  “I’m up. There I was, mountain biking in the Andes, and my old friend Harry calls. Bam! Out of the blue,” Randy replied jovially. “Isn’t modern technology fantastic?”

  “You’re where?”

  Randy chuckled. “I’m in my apartment in DC, but on a virtual trail ride.”

  His friend did sound winded. “I don’t want to interrupt your virtual whatever.”

  “It’s cool. You should try it.”

  Harry snorted. “You know me. Probably never gonna happen.”

  The other man laughed, as well. “I do know you, and you’re right. You’re probably calling me asking me how you can reset your email password.”

  “I’m not that bad,” he demurred. “I’ve got the basic tasks covered, and I don’t need much else.”

  “You remember Cindy? The girl you dated sophomore year? She’s married and has three kids, and she’s still too pretty for you,” Randy informed him.

  “Good old Cindy,” Harry replied.

  “Aren’t you the least bit curious as to what people are doing?” Randy asked.

  “Not curious enough to get on whatever platform you’re pushing.” Harry picked up the water bottle and drained the rest of its contents. “Besides, Cindy sends me a Christmas card every year with one of those newsletters keeping the world up to date on what all the kids are doing.”

  “Still rocking it old-school.” Randy snickered. “It’s cool. Of course, I think it’s funny you send Christmas cards to your exes, but you won’t even get on PicturSpam. Even my grandma had a PicturSpam account.”

  “I don’t send her Christmas cards—she sends Christmas cards to me,” Harry corrected.

  “Oh, my mistake, Mr. Cool,” Randy teased. “What can I do for you bright and early this Monday morning? Are you calling to tell me I’m not getting a Christmas card from you either?”

  He sighed. For a guy who could follow the logic of code, Randy remained bafflingly lost when it came to the logic of people. “If I don’t send any Christmas cards to anyone, you can assume you are also on my list of non-Christmas-card recipients.”

  “Cold,” Randy replied good-naturedly.

  Enjoying the chitchat, but needing to get down to the business of the call, Harry launched himself from his chair and carried his empty water bottle back into the break room. He sandwiched the phone between his ear and a shoulder and held the bottle under the watercooler spigot to refill it. He didn’t want another one of Layla’s lectures on landfills and the evils of single-use containers.

  “Listen, I need to talk to you about how I find one of those forums where people spout off about all sorts of stuff.”

  This time Randy’s laugh was more of a guffaw. “Could you be more specific, dude?”

  “You know, like if I had a case and some nutjobs were going to spew a bunch of nonsense on a forum about it, where would they go?”

  “Only about a bazillion different places,” Randy shot back. “Man, you really have no clue about the internet, do you?”

  “I know what I want to know about it,” Harry retorted.

  “Apparently not, or you wouldn’t be calling me asking me how to find, and I quote, ‘one of those forums.’ Unquote.” He added the last word as punctuation.

  After carrying his water back to his desk, Harry sat down with a heavy sigh. “Listen, Rand, someone’s been making some threats, okay? They’re related to a case I’m involved in. I want to see what’s being said in hopes of fi
guring out who’s doing these things.”

  His friend sobered instantly. “Wait. Doing things or saying things? What kind of things?”

  Harry didn’t want to give him the nitty-gritty on the more serious stuff, so he dismissed the destruction of his business and personal property with a shrug. “Malicious mischief type stuff. Tire slashing, broken windows, a couple of threatening notes.”

  “So it’s somebody there. Somebody local,” Randy answered, suddenly keying in on the people logic.

  “The general consensus,” Harry said cautiously. “But we think there may be something bigger behind it. Someone fueling some of the fires around here. Prosecutors aren’t always the most popular people in town. I want to see what’s being said online.”

  Randy let out a low whistle. “No better place to fan the fires,” he commented, all traces of humor gone. “The problem is, most people use screen names or aliases online. You’d have to key in on an IP address and...” He paused as if remembering Harry was still on the call. “You’ll never be able to do this. Give me the particulars on the case and who it involves. I’m going to run some searches. I’ll get back to you.”

  “I appreciate you, man,” he said gruffly. “The case involves a guy named Samuel Coulter. He’s a day trader turned exotic-snake enthusiast.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Randy asked, chuckling.

  “I wish. He was arrested two months ago in a DEA bust involving the trafficking of heroin.”

  “Whoa,” Randy breathed. “No kidding.”

  This time, Harry smiled. “Nope. Not kidding.” He might be naive when it came to the cyberworld, but he had no illusions about what happened right here in real life. “I’m going to give you another name. He’s a local guy, and I’m wondering if we can find some kind of connection between the two of them.”

  “Fire away,” Randy prompted.

  “The name is Matthew Rinker. Spelled R-I-N-K-E-R,” he said, wondering if his friend was taking this information down. He figured if he spelled it out, the information may embed itself in Randy’s steel trap of a memory. Still... “Are you writing this down?”