The Lawman

by Martha Shields

  “My methods have worked until now.”

  She leaned back, shaking her head. “Where do they get you guys? Some tin-star factory that cranks out the same model each year? Or do you have to work at it? Do they have mandatory insensitivity training classes for cops?”

  He leaned stiff arms on the front of her desk. “Why do you hate cops so much? What did we ever do to you?”

  Tabitha felt her face tighten. “It doesn’t matter now.”

  “Obviously, it does.”

  She glared at him. He glared back.

  She was the first to look away. “Suffice it to say, this is as close to a cop as I ever want to get.”

  Four

  What a waste of time.

  Jake leaned against Tabitha’s heavy oak desk as he listened to Deena Hines’s whining monologue about the travails of being the wife of a convict. She should have been a country-western songwriter.

  No. Country-western singer. This woman was too vain to do anything that wasn’t in some spotlight.

  Except maybe help her husband escape.

  Jake didn’t believe a word of her story, though it wasn’t because of her appearance. Even at thirty, she looked as if she hadn’t quite grown up yet. She was only five-three, and thin with an underdeveloped figure. At least for his tastes. Her big blue eyes looked out from a pale, elfin face that could almost convince the hardest cop she’d never done anything worse in her life than ride her bike on the wrong side of the street.

  His disbelief didn’t come from inconsistencies, either. He’d questioned her as harshly as he’d questioned any of the witnesses, but Mrs. Hines was sticking to her original alibi like a tick to a dog. And since they couldn’t place her at the scene, they couldn’t arrest her…although Jake wanted to, just to shut her up.

  No, the skepticism Jake felt wasn’t something he could put his finger on. It came from his gut. There was something crafty about this chirping, childlike woman with a thick Texas drawl. Something just didn’t fit.

  As she droned on, Jake glanced at the officers on the red couch. Lieutenant Edwards, the older one, rolled his eyes. He’d stopped taking notes fifteen minutes ago. Lieutenant Jamieson just shook his head.

  Jake looked over his shoulder at Tabitha, who sat behind her desk. She, on the other hand, was listening intently to Deena Hines, and the woman had fixed her attention on Tabitha’s sympathetic ear. Was she really buying the horse manure this woman was shoveling at them?

  As if feeling his eyes on her, Tabitha glanced up at him. With the tiniest of movements, she flicked her eyes toward the door.

  She wanted him to leave her alone with this woman? Why? He hadn’t been able to get any information out of Deena Hines, and he was a highly trained interrogator.

  With a quick look, Jake ascertained that neither Mrs. Hines nor his men had noticed Tabitha’s gesture.

  He glanced back at her with a quirked brow. Did she think she could do better than him?

  Tabitha, however, had already returned her attention to Mrs. Hines.

  What the hell. He sure wasn’t getting anything useful from the woman. Might as well let Tabitha try. They had nothing to lose.

  Jake straightened away from the desk.

  Deena stopped in midsentence. “What?”

  “Please wait here, Mrs. Hines. My men and I need to talk.” He looked at the officers on the couch. “Edwards, Jamieson. Conference.”

  “What did I say?” Deena asked Tabitha as he ushered his men out. “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Don’t worry about them,” Tabitha said. “Men are all the same.”

  “Oh, isn’t that the truth.”

  Pausing at the door, Jake glanced back into the room. Tabitha had moved around her desk to sit in the chair next to Deena. Jake couldn’t hear what they were saying and couldn’t even watch their faces, since they were facing the desk with their backs toward the door.

  So he closed it and turned to find his men watching him expectantly. “Quiet, everyone.”

  “Should I cut off the tape recorder?” Dan Hammel asked.

  Jake shook his head. “In fact, can you turn the speakers on? Softly.”

  Dan hung the earphones around his neck, then unplugged them. With another flip of a switch on the reel-to-reel tape recorder, the speakers blared into the room.

  “Are you married?” Deena shouted through them.

  Dan quickly turned the volume down. “Sorry.”

  “Jeez, Hammel,” Jamieson whispered loudly, knocking a hand against the tech’s head. “You got wax in your ears or something?”

  “The headphones aren’t working right. I had to turn the volume up to hear anything.”

  “What was that?” Deena asked over the speakers.

  “Who knows?” Tabitha said without apparent concern. “Chief White is probably yelling at his men for something. He does that a lot.”

  The officers in the room grinned at Jake at this blatant misinformation. He just shook his head. At least Tabitha hadn’t said anything about being recorded. That would shut Mrs. Hines up entirely.

  Tabitha resumed their conversation. “No, Deena,” she responded to the woman’s question. “I’m not married. But my mother died when I was born, and I grew up having to take care of my father.”

  Jake perked up without being obvious. Is that why she hated cops? Had Al Monroe been too demanding? This could be better than any report from Hackleman.

  He plopped down in the secretary’s chair, which his men had left vacant for him, it being the closest to Tabitha’s door.

  Marie’s husband had called just before Mrs. Hines had arrived, back from his fishing trip at the Falcon Reservoir. They were having a family get-together that evening, so Tabitha had insisted her secretary go home.

  “My daddy…” Deena’s voice lowered. “Daddy used to beat me.”

  “Oh, Deena, I’m sorry,” Tabitha said. “Did you tell anyone?”

  “Nobody cared back then. We were from the wrong side of the tracks, you see. My father was drunk half the time and out of work. We lived on what my mother made as a waitress at the Saddlebag.”

  “We didn’t have much money, either.”

  “Did your daddy beat you?”

  Tabitha didn’t say yes or no, just launched into a story about how her father made her cook supper for him every night. It had to be meat, a vegetable and some kind of potato, plus dessert and had to be on the table by the time he was ready to go to work. He worked the night shift.

  Then Deena told Tabitha about Branson’s sexual demands.

  The two women exchanged men-are-the-scum-of-the-earth stories for another ten minutes.

  Jake kept looking at his watch. Where was Tabitha going with this? She hadn’t gotten one useful tidbit out of Mrs. Hines, and the press conference was scheduled to start in twenty minutes.

  At a quarter till seven, he stood. It was time to go back in. Deena Hines was a tough nut to crack. It happened. Probably had sociopathic tendencies, which allowed her to believe the lies she spouted. If they were lies. There was always the remote possibility she was telling the truth.

  He’d taken two steps toward the door when over the speaker, Deena said, “One time—that time he killed that ugly little whore—he made me bring him cooked meals every day. He said if the cops found him, they’d send me to jail, too, ’cause he’d tell them I helped him. It wasn’t easy, not getting caught, I tell ya, driving out to that old abandoned shack every day.”

  Every man in the room froze.

  “Get her to tell you about it,” Edwards said under his breath.

  “I’ll bet the police were watching you, weren’t they?” Tabitha asked.

  “You bet your sweet tooth they were.”

  “Jeez. How far did you have to drive?”

  “Twelve miles one way,” Deena complained. “Out that old washed-out dirt road toward Oilton. Blew out two tires that I had to change myself.”

  “Yes!” Jamieson cried softly.

  “Get on it,�
� Jake told his men. “Maybe we’ll have something to announce by the end of the press conference.”

  The outer office suddenly buzzed with activity.

  “But quietly,” he said. “In fact, take your radios down a couple of floors. I’m about to break this up, and I don’t want Mrs. Hines to know she said anything.”

  Jamieson nodded at several officers and headed for the outside door.

  “Find an empty room,” Jake told him. “I don’t want anyone overhearing. Some overzealous reporter might make it there before we do and ruin everything.”

  Jamieson acknowledged the order with an abbreviated salute and left with the men carrying radio equipment.

  Jake turned to the more experienced Lieutenant Edwards. “I’ll let you escort Mrs. Hines to her car since I’ve got to get Miss Monroe down to the press conference.”

  “Right.”

  Jake made a noisy entrance into Tabitha’s office with Edwards following. “Sorry we took so long.”

  The two women stood and faced them.

  He nodded to Deena Hines. “Thank you, Mrs. Hines, for your time. We’re finished for now, but please don’t leave town.”

  “Where am I gonna go?” she asked.

  Jake nodded toward the door. “Lieutenant Edwards will see you to your car.”

  Tabitha gave Deena a brief hug. “Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

  Deena hugged her back. “All right.”

  When Edwards had closed the door behind them, Jake beamed at Tabitha.

  “What?” she asked.

  He walked over and gave her a bear hug. “You’re brilliant.”

  “Thank you.” She quickly extracted herself and retreated behind her desk. “I told you I was good at getting information out of people.”

  “I have to admit I had my doubts when you were taking so long. But you lulled her into spilling something she never would have told me.”

  She seemed pleased by his praise, hiding a small smile by looking down at her desk. “I told you that you can catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”

  “You sure did. I’ll have to try it.” Although he couldn’t imagine himself doing what she’d done. Sweet and nice just wasn’t his style. “One of these days.”

  She sat down. “You really should, you know.”

  He studied her beautiful, sexy face until she demanded, “What is it now?”

  He sat then, too. “That kind of instinct can’t be learned.”

  She lost her smile and a faraway expression stole across her face. “Yes, it can.”

  “Not from a mere job.”

  She took a moment to study him, then. Finally she said, although the words seemed to be pried out of her, “I had to learn, early in life, how to read people.”

  When she didn’t elaborate, he asked, “Why?”

  “My, you’re full of curiosity.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “I’d like to know.”

  Her gaze dropped to the ferocious red frog on the corner of her desk opposite the dragon.

  “You said I needed to try buttering people up. Well, if it can be learned, I need to know how.”

  She glanced up, then down again. “My father.”

  “Your father taught you?”

  “In a way.”

  Why was she being so closemouthed about this? She spouted enough of it when they were talking about him. “What way?”

  “He…” She grabbed a pencil and began tapping it on the desk. “He was a cop.”

  He already knew that, of course, but he wanted to see how much more she would tell him. “A cop. Really? Here?”

  She shook her head. “I’m from Dallas.”

  “So he was an officer in the Dallas Police Department?”

  She nodded, still tapping.

  God, they were so much alike. A few more personal questions, and he’d bet real money she’d be pacing. Though she was clearly uncomfortable, he couldn’t stop. Something inside him needed to know. “He knew how to read people well, and he taught you?”

  Suddenly she shoved back her chair and stood. “Don’t we have a press conference to get to?”

  “They won’t start without us.”

  “Well, I need a few minutes to make myself presentable.” She turned stiffly and headed for the private bathroom attached to her office.

  “Vanity?” he called softly.

  “I’m sure the hospital board would appreciate it if I looked my best.” She pulled the door open and threw a glare over her shoulder. “You’ll be in the spotlight, too, you know. You could stand to shave.”

  He rubbed the stubble on his chin. Because he’d been on vacation when all hell had broken loose—a vacation Burl had forced on him—he hadn’t touched a razor in two days. “You offering to shave me?”

  “Hmm.” She gave him a considering once-over. “Placing a nice, sharp blade against your throat. Now there’s a thought.”

  Somehow, he didn’t feel threatened. “In the mood for a little blood, kitten?”

  “Kitten?” She stiffened as her eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed. “I have never been—and never will be—anyone’s kitten.”

  With that, she slammed the door behind her.

  Jake was as surprised as Tabitha at the nickname that had popped out of his mouth. He’d never called any woman “kitten.”

  But he knew where the pet name came from, and it wasn’t Father Knows Best. How many times had he read the phrase “sex kitten” with regard to Marilyn Monroe?

  “Get a grip, White. She doesn’t look that much like Marilyn.” He shoved a hand through his hair. Fantasies were one thing, but this was not the time nor the place nor the woman. He had a job to do, damn it. He should go do it.

  Tabitha walked into her office, alone for once. Jake had stopped to talk with several of his men in the hallway.

  Sinking into her chair, she closed her eyes and sighed. Blissful quiet.

  She’d held press conferences before, but never ones drawing national attention. Not ones with so many reporters from all over the country. Aggressive men and women who shouted questions at her from the minute she walked into the room until Jake escorted her out. The only times they were quiet were during her statement and while she and Jake answered questions.

  “You done good.”

  Starting, she opened her eyes to find Jake in the doorway. Maybe getting her squeaky door fixed last week wasn’t a good idea. “I was convincing enough?”

  He moved into the room. “Cool and calm, yet sincere. Great job.”

  She couldn’t help her smile. His praise was flattering, though, she reminded herself, his opinion mattered only because of his experience in these situations. “Thank you. I just wish we’d had some good news to tell them.”

  “Yeah. Wouldn’t you know that shack Mrs. Hines told us about would turn up empty.” He sat in one of the chairs facing her desk. “Tired?”

  “It’s been a long day.”

  “Yes, it has.”

  “So what happens now?” she asked.

  “Unfortunately, that depends on Hines.”

  She groaned. “We wait.”

  “You hate it, don’t you?”

  “What?”

  “Not being in control.”

  “Control of what?”

  “Of anything—the situation, him… me.”

  She sat up straight. “I have absolutely no desire to control you.”

  “No?” he asked in pointedly disbelieving tones.

  “No,” she said firmly.

  He smiled smugly, as if giving in to humor her. “The situation, then.”

  She hated being patronized. “Analyzing your opponent, Mr. Cop?”

  “Opponent.” He steepled his fingertips together. “An interesting choice of words.”

  “You’ve been nothing but adversarial since you walked into the press conference this morning.”

  “Adversaries don’t kiss each other.”

  “Depends on how ruthless they are about gathering inform
ation, doesn’t it?”

  “Was your father ruthless?”

  She leaned back stiffly, resting her hands on the arms of the chair. She tried taking a deep breath, but the satisfying whoosh of air deep in her lungs wouldn’t come. He was just trying to push her buttons. “My father has nothing to do with this.”

  “No?”

  “Why are you doing this? Are you trying to make me angry?”

  He studied her for a minute, then asked, “Is it working?”

  She blinked. “Is what working?”

  He relaxed. “I was trying to take your mind off the stress.”

  “By giving me more?”

  He chuckled. “You thrive on stress.”

  “What? Why would you say such a thing? You don’t know me. We just met this morning.”

  He considered his answer a long minute before saying, “I do know you, because you’re just like me.”

  “Just like you?” She waved her hands around the office. “Are you blind? Look around. What do you see?”

  He made no attempt to look. “Whitewash.”

  “Whitewash? What does that mean?”

  “We’re both type A personalities. You just cover yours with a thin veneer of feng shui.” He shifted his gaze around her desk. “No, make that a heavy coat of feng shui.”

  “We may both have type A personalities, but there’s one huge difference between us. You’re a workaholic. I’m a recovering workaholic. Have you made any attempt whatsoever to modify your type A lifestyle? Not that I can tell. But I have. What you see here is a conscious effort to change.”

  His gaze dropped to her hands, and he grinned.

  She glanced down to find her fingers drumming on the leather chair arms. She grabbed the arms to stop her fingers.

  “You hate that, too, don’t you?”

  She rolled her eyes. “What?”

  “When you prove my point.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  He crossed his hands behind his head, as if relaxed. But she knew he wasn’t. “Besides, who said I want to change? Maybe I’m happy just the way I am.”

  “Then you’ll be dead by the time you’re fifty.”

  “Okay by me. Old cops are stuck behind a desk, anyway. I’d be dead inside, might as well be dead outside.”