His eyes met hers for a moment and he felt the chemistry again, a reaction fierce enough to shatter glass. His gut tightened and his hands itched to cup those cold cheeks of hers and guide her lips to his, and then to slide down her back and lift her legs around his waist, and…
Damn. Forget chemistry, he ordered himself. Today’s subject is criminology.
The clerk recognized Alana. “Hey, you heard?” she said.
Alana unzipped her parka as she walked to the counter. She cast Jeff a sidelong glance and he could have sworn her cheeks grew a shade or two darker. It pleased him to think she hadn’t quite put their kiss out of her mind, either. She inched away from him and addressed the clerk. “Yes, I heard. Is Jason around? I need to talk to him.”
“He’s in his office. I’ll let him know you’re here.” The clerk reached for her phone.
Jeff cleared his throat. “First you’d better take me to Robert Willis. Unless you want me to search for him myself.”
The clerk and Alana exchanged a glance. “He was here before me,” Alana said, not quite graciously.
Nodding, the clerk emerged from behind the counter and said, “Follow me.” She led him down a hall to a door and pushed it open.
Uncle Bob sat at a scratched oak table in the center of the small room. He wore a V-neck sweater over an oxford shirt, and a pair of twill slacks. His thinning hair was mussed, as if he’d been raking his fingers through it. But his expression brightened at the sight of Jeff. “Thank God you’re here!” he cried, pushing to his feet.
Jeff touched his index finger to lips to silence Bob. Even a greeting was more than the guy should say in front of a police department employee. He thanked the clerk tersely, glared at her until she left the room, and shut the door behind her. “Have you said anything to anyone here? Officers, the police chief, that clerk, anyone?”
“Of course I said hello,” Bob told him. “I know these people, Jeff. I live with them.”
“As long as it wasn’t more than a hello.” Jeff gestured toward the chair Bob had occupied, and Bob resumed his seat. Jeff settled into the chair across the table from his uncle. He removed a small leather-bound notebook from a pocket of his coat and pictured Alana wielding a similar pocket-size notebook, filling it with quotes from the police chief for her next article on the missing school funds. “All right,” he said. “I’m not your nephew now. I’m your lawyer. Anything you tell me is strictly confidential. You understand?”
Bob nodded gravely.
“Aunt Marge told me they haven’t charged you with anything yet.”
“That’s right.”
“But here you are.” Jeff gazed around him at the faded green walls and the dingy window, which was covered with chain-link mesh. The wall across from him held a mirror—one-way, he knew. Cops could watch him interview his client. But Bob had his back to the mirror, so they couldn’t see his face—which was good. “You have to tell me the truth, Uncle Bob. What do they have on you?”
Bob buried his face in his hands for a moment, and Jeff prayed he wouldn’t start crying. “I took it,” he finally whispered. “But it—”
“Damn.” Jeff kept his voice down, but anger strained it. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was hoping…” Bob sighed. “I didn’t want Marge to drag you into this. I was figuring I could work it out quietly and avoid all this. Everyone knows me in town, Jeff. They know I’m an honorable man.”
“An honorable man who stole money from the school budget?”
“I didn’t steal it,” Bob argued. “I took it, but I planned to return it.”
“All right—we’ll deal with what you planned to do later. First, tell me what happened. Everything. The whole truth and nothing but.”
“I think…” Bob sighed again, his words slightly muffled by his hands. “I think Eleanor must have told them.”
“Who’s Eleanor?”
“My secretary. Eleanor Chase. I did it for her, Jeff. It wasn’t for me—it was for her.”
Oh, hell. What a cliché—the middle-aged boss and his secretary. Jeff suffered a pang of sympathy for Aunt Marge. Did she know about Eleanor, or was she about to have her simple small-town life torn apart by her philandering and thieving husband?
“You stole the money for your secretary,” he reiterated, just to make sure he hadn’t misunderstood.
“Not stole. Borrowed. We’re going to replace it, I swear. Every dollar.”
“When are you planning to do that? After you and Eleanor fly off to some secret hideaway? Some romantic escape? The Caribbean is nice this time of year.”
“What?” Bob let his hands fall. He looked shocked and angry. “You think I’d run off with Eleanor? What are you, crazy?”
“You just told me you stole the money for her.”
“Took it, not stole it. For her daughter.”
Great. Now there were two “other women” in the picture: Eleanor and her daughter. “You were going to run off with the daughter?”
“Katie isn’t even two years old. And I’m not going to run off with either of them. I’m a married man!” Bob said indignantly.
As if married men never ran off with one—or sometimes even two—women. “Okay. Eleanor’s daughter Katie is a toddler.”
“She’s got a cleft palate.” He rubbed his upper lip in sympathy. “She was born with it. She needs surgery to repair it, so she can grow up with a normal-looking face. But Eleanor’s health insurance—I swear, the town gives us such sub-standard coverage. I’ve fought with them about getting all the school employees a better health plan, but the school board can be so shortsighted—”
“Let’s try to stay focused,” Jeff urged him. “Eleanor’s daughter needs surgery.”
Bob nodded. “The insurance company said this procedure Katie needed was elective cosmetic surgery, and they refused to cover it. The child is still in diapers, Jeff. It would break your heart to see her little malformed mouth.”
Maybe it would. But he was here to help Bob, not Eleanor’s daughter.
“The surgery costs about seventy-five grand,” Bob continued. “Eleanor’s good-for-nothing husband walked out a year ago, because of their daughter. He called Katie defective and he disappeared. Eleanor can’t even serve him with divorce papers, because she doesn’t know where he is. But in the meantime, she’s still married, and she’s employed, so she doesn’t qualify for Medicaid. Which would probably consider the repair elective cosmetic surgery, too, so they wouldn’t cover it.” Bob shook his head before returning it to rest in his hands. “That baby deserves better, Jeff. She deserves to look normal. And the longer you wait on surgery like this, the longer the healing time. Plus the psychological damage. I don’t know if you can imagine what that little girl must feel like.”
“Stay focused, Uncle Bob.”
Bob drew in a deep breath. “I didn’t have the money to lend Eleanor—with Bobby in dental school and Emily in college, things are tight. So we took some money from the school budget. Not enough to affect any of our programs—just a little here, a little there. Some from the janitor’s budget—I figured Eleanor and I could pitch in and do a little sweeping and mopping after hours. A few bucks from the maintenance budget. So we won’t repaint the bathrooms this year—the walls will survive. A little from the office expenses budget, because we never come close to running through the full amount. We can use the same math textbooks another year. And Eleanor intends to pay it all back. She figures ten, fifteen dollars a week…”
Jeff didn’t bother to calculate how many years it would take Eleanor Chase to pay back seventy-five thousand dollars at that rate.
“Jeff, try to understand. Eleanor’s daughter is her whole life. Katie has reached the age where she’s becoming aware of the stares she gets. She’s learning to talk, but she has trouble pronouncing words. She needs to have this surgery. Eleanor wanted it to be a Christmas gift, a way to start the new year. The surgery’s scheduled for the second week in January. It’ll give that precious litt
le girl a chance at a good life. Every child deserves that.”
“No argument, Uncle Bob—but come on. You couldn’t think of any other way to raise money for the kid’s surgery?”
“Sure, I thought of other ways. Eleanor didn’t qualify for any loans. She rents her house so she couldn’t borrow against that. And I’m tapped out with the loans we took for Bobby’s and Emily’s tuition. Last summer, St. Elizabeth’s Church sponsored a carnival. By the time all the accounts were settled, they’d raised a grand total of not quite six hundred dollars for Katie. A lot of teachers made donations. That brought in another two hundred or so. I contacted every state agency I could think of, and they all said it was cosmetic surgery. They might have provided assistance if she’d had something life-threatening, but not for this.” He let his head sink back into his hands. “To Eleanor—and to me—Katie’s condition was life-threatening. That kind of birth defect can destroy a child’s life.”
Jeff skimmed the notes he’d been jotting. “You said the surgery’s scheduled for January, right?”
“January tenth.”
“Then Eleanor must still have the money.”
“I would assume so,” Bob agreed. “You don’t prepay for surgery.”
“Which means the money can be returned.”
Bob looked appalled. “But then Katie can’t have the surgery.”
Jeff leaned across the table until his face was just inches from his uncle’s. “Listen to me. The money was stolen. The law doesn’t care about what it was stolen for. All it cares about was that it was stolen, which is illegal. If you and Eleanor give the money back now, we might be able to straighten this thing out without criminal charges being brought. It’s your best shot, Uncle Bob. And it would be the right thing to do. You can’t just steal money, even if you’ve got a good reason to.”
“But what about Katie?”
What about her? Jeff’s problem wasn’t saving little Katie Chase’s mouth; it was saving his uncle’s butt.
“If you and Eleanor return the money and I can get the local D.A. not to press charges, you might even hang on to your job. I can’t promise that, of course. That’ll be up to the school board. They might be so moved by the plight of Eleanor’s daughter that they’ll spare your job. Who knows, maybe they’ll contribute toward the cost of the kid’s surgery. But if you don’t return the money, losing your job will be the least of your troubles. You could wind up spending years behind bars.”
Bob swallowed hard.
“This is a small town where everyone knows everyone else. If you and your secretary could make immediate restitution, maybe your neighbors would forgive you.”
“What if Eleanor doesn’t give back the money. It’s her daughter. She promised her this surgery.”
“If Eleanor doesn’t return the money, then Eleanor will wind up in prison. How does that help her daughter?” He shoved his chair away from the table. “Let me talk to the police chief and see where you stand with him. While I’m gone, you are not to speak to anyone. Not a word. Do you understand? If you have to go to the bathroom, pantomime the request.”
“I don’t have to go,” Bob said, his voice tremulous. With relief or anguish, Jeff couldn’t tell.
He stood, patted his uncle’s hunched shoulder and left the room. Was Eleanor Chase behind another closed door on this hall? Had she already given everything up? Did she have a decent lawyer to walk her through this?
And what about her daughter?
Jeff wasn’t a father, but he knew his own father would have robbed to save his children’s lives. His mother would have killed for them. It was the way parents were. And Uncle Bob, being a parent himself, had empathized with Eleanor—perhaps a bit too strongly, but Jeff couldn’t blame him for his compassion.
Through an open door he heard Alana’s voice. He slowed to a halt and listened. “So, you’re okay if this runs tomorrow?”
“You can print anything I told you on the record. You know the drill.”
“Thanks, Jason,” she said. “You’re a sweetheart.” For some crazy reason, hearing her call the police chief a sweetheart irked Jeff.
He heard footsteps approaching the doorway, and he quickly resumed his stroll down the hall so Alana wouldn’t emerge from the office to find him hovering outside the office, eavesdropping. She swung through the doorway and nearly collided with him.
His gaze met hers and he felt his gut tighten again. She’d had her hair tied back while they’d been in her kitchen, but now it fell loose, spilling past her shoulders in gold-tinged brown waves. He wanted to plunge his fingers through it, to feel it brush against his cheeks, his chin, his body.
He also wanted to find out what would appear under her byline tomorrow. A damaging story? Or one that emphasized Eleanor Chase’s maternal angst and Uncle Bob’s kindness?
“Hi,” she said, her voice slightly breathless. From her chat with Farrar, Jeff guessed. The police chief must have told her some exciting stuff.
He took her elbow and steered her down the hall. “We have to talk,” he murmured, searching for an empty room. He found an unoccupied lavatory, guided her inside, followed her in and locked the door behind them.
It was a one-seater, small and crowded. She eyed the toilet and arched an eyebrow. “I hope all you’ve got in mind is washing your hands,” she said. “More than that I don’t want to see.”
In spite of himself, he laughed. The room was so tiny that with their bulky coats on, they seemed to take up every cubic inch of space. The paper-towel dispenser jutted out of the wall and into his spine. His face and hers were reflected in profile in the mirror above the sink. Her mouth was much too close to his, those sweet full lips just a breath away, tempting him.
He leaned back into the towel dispenser. “You’ve got to hold your story,” he said.
She watched him, skepticism mixing with curiosity in her eyes. “And why do I have to do that?”
“It’s a lot more complicated than you think.”
“How do you know what I think?”
He sighed. Was this intractable journalist the same woman who not too long ago had been, for a few heavenly minutes in her kitchen, so pliant in his arms, so soft and receptive? “What did the police chief tell you?”
“Read tomorrow’s Chronicle and you’ll find out.”
“Don’t do this, Alana. You could ruin the lives of a couple of decent people.”
“People who stole money? I’m not sure I’d call them decent.”
“Did Farrar fill you in on the little girl and the surgery she needs?”
Alana frowned. “What little girl?”
Jeff hesitated. If he told her about the girl, he’d have to tell her his uncle had admitted to taking the money. If he confided in her off the record, then she wouldn’t be able to write about Eleanor’s daughter. She could investigate further, though, maybe go back and press Farrar about Katie Chase. If Farrar was even aware of the kid.
Farrar trusted Alana to publish only things he’d told her on the record. Did Jeff trust her?
Just like her, he was in a profession where ethics and trust didn’t always overlap. Professional ethics for her meant telling a story in the most readable way to inform and entertain her readers. Professional ethics for him meant aggressively advocating for his client, protecting him and winning him the best possible outcome. The best possible outcome for Uncle Bob would be Alana’s holding her story. Jeff was sure she wouldn’t do that.
“There’s a little girl who needs surgery,” he said, then yanked open the bathroom door and stormed out of the cramped room before Alana’s beautiful eyes lured another word from him.
WHAT LITTLE GIRL?
She stared after Jeff as he stalked down the hall to one of the interview rooms and vanished inside. That must be where Robert Willis was being held.
Jason hadn’t said anything about a little girl needing surgery. But apparently, Robert Willis had mentioned this girl to Jeff. Which meant Willis knew about the theft. Which implicate
d him in it, since he hadn’t gone to the authorities with his knowledge. If someone else had been embezzling school funds and Willis found out, he should have reported the theft. But he hadn’t. Clearly, he was in on it.
So who the hell was this little girl?
Alana wandered back to Jason’s office. He stepped through the door just as she reached it. “Sorry,” he said with a smile, then motioned with his head toward the door Jeff had vanished through. “This part isn’t open to the press.”
“I understand—but can you tell me if some sick little girl is involved in this?”
“A sick little girl?” Jason looked genuinely perplexed.
“You don’t know anything about it?”
“Nope.”
“Okay.” She forced a smile and backed off. “Thanks for everything you gave me. If you pick up anything more—”
“With his nephew in the room, I doubt I’m going to get much out of Willis,” Jason said. “But if I learn anything you can use, I’ll give you a call.”
“Thanks. I’ll be at the Chronicle building for a while, if you want to reach me,” she told him. “You have my cell number too, right?”
“Go write your story,” Jason said, before turning and heading down the hall.
Writing her story was exactly what she would do. But first she needed to be sure she had the story. If a sick little girl was part of the story, then she didn’t have it, not yet.
Jason had told her Willis’s secretary, Eleanor Chase, had admitted that she and Willis could explain about the missing money. According to Jason, that was all she’d admitted before bursting into tears and demanding her lawyer—who’d gone to Smuggler’s Notch for a weekend of skiing. With Eleanor refusing to say another word until her lawyer dusted the snow off his skis and returned to Crescent Cove, Jason planned to see what he could get out of Willis.
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