* * *
“Jessie?” Diana, wrapped in her green plush robe, purred into the phone. A warm shower had calmed her nerves, and Tigger now snuggled on the bed beside her.
“What’s up?” came Jess’s reply.
“How’d your case go? Any sign of the missing girl?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I did find a potential witness … hey, since when do you call about my cases? What’s really on your mind?”
“I was wondering what you’re doing for Christmas. You and Winston usually go out of town … but I guess not this year.”
“Oh, that’s thoughtful of you.” Jess sounded genuinely touched. “I guess I didn’t mention it, but we’re having a kind-of Christmas family reunion in L.A. To celebrate Linc’s new movie.”
Diana knew Linc Edwards, Jess’s older brother, was a Hollywood celebrity. In an industry that had been slow to open the door to African-Americans, Linc’s success as a producer/director was still something of an anomaly.
Take me with you. I can’t stay here. Diana plucked nervously at the sash of her robe.
“What? What?” Jess seemed to catch Diana’s thought waves. Or maybe she just wondered why the gaping silence, punctuated by stifled sniffles.
“I need an out, okay?”
“I love you, too.” Jess’s outrage sounded only half-fake.
“My parents are coming for Christmas. I can’t be here when they arrive.”
“Jesus!”
Diana thought she heard Jess giggle. “Not funny!”
“Well, I guess if you’re that desperate we can fit you in at the Edwards Christmas table. You are telling your folks about your other plans, aren’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“What else aren’t you telling me?” asked Jess.
“Flannigan was parked in front of my house when I got home. Before that, I think he was following me. But I’m sure I lost him. You didn’t—”
“Tell him where you live? Of course not! What a weird night. My witness got into a truck registered to the missing girl’s dad. Go figure that one.”
“Maybe the girl killed her dad and stole his truck. Or maybe he gave it to her.”
“I don’t think so. It was a man at the wheel, and my client doesn’t answer his cell.”
“What happened to Dare?”
“Go pack your bags. I’ll tell you about it on the plane.”
“How do you know I can get a reservation this late?”
“Linc booked two tickets. I haven’t told him about breaking up with Winston yet.”
Diana frowned. “I can’t use a ticket with somebody else’s name on it.”
“Trust me. Linc can fix it. Call you back with a time.”
Chapter 18
The interlude furnished by the Christmas getaway with Jess had a calming effect on Diana. A Hollywood Christmas was not exactly a high point on her fantasy list, but the experience had been a pleasant surprise.
Linc Edwards lived in Benedict Canyon—low-key by Hollywood standards. Diana found the area woodsy-charming until Jess reminded her that the house in which Charles Manson and his followers had murdered Sharon Tate and friends was just down the road. Although the infamous murders had taken place before Diana was born, she’d seen pictures of Manson and wondered how the short, bushy-haired psycho had amassed an adoring female entourage. Maybe the idea of Joe Flannigan seducing teen-aged girls wasn’t so far fetched after all.
The warmth that Jess’s family exuded surprised her, considering Jess’s tendency to keep people at arm’s length. The parents, a distinguished-looking white-haired dentist and a plump, sweet-faced housewife who bore no resemblance to Jess, were an original couple, still together after forty-some years. And apparently loving it. What was with Jess’s limbo dance with commitment?
Although Linc and his long-time companion, super-model Kendra Blair, weren’t married, they acted more like a couple than Jess and Winston ever had.
The Edwards clan had talked Diana into staying through New Years. Fortunately, she’d been able to enlist Tamara to look in on Tigger, who was still mad about having his cat door closed for a week.
Now, sitting in her office on the Monday following New Years, Diana felt a let-down settle upon her. She’d had the mercy to deflect her parents’ trip to Denver before they’d gotten on the plane in Chicago.
In her haste to put the trip together and head her folks off at the pass, Diana had forgotten to ask Jess about the missing Strickland girl. Now she remembered, recalling also that Jess hadn’t kept her promise about telling her on the plane why Dare was now the client. In fact, Jess hadn’t made one reference to Darren Rogart during the entire holiday. Just as well.
One lonely call light blinked on her answering machine. Diana had avoided pressing play, in no mood for another of her mother’s lectures. She pressed caller ID and was relieved to see Winston’s name. When she played his message, his rich baritone voice warmed her. “Happy New Year, Diana. Just thought I’d touch base. Don’t be a stranger.”
Outside her window the sun’s brightness belied the day’s frigid temperature. Diana basked for a moment in the warmth of Winston’s voice. It was good to have friends. Sometimes friends are all you’ve got.
Stop that! When would the tears stop coming when she least expected them? She shook her head vehemently to dislodge the wave of depression. The doctor had warned her about moods she might experience. She’d opted to start HRT, but with the bio-identical hormones she’d read about. Fortunately, Dr. Hovac wasn’t offended when his patients became proactive in their health care decisions.
Her intercom buzzed, a dull, purring sound. “Darren Rogart on line one.” Tamara’s voice was all business as usual.
Diana frowned at the slight tremble she felt in her hand as she lifted the instrument.
“Diana Martin here.” Cold. Stuffy. Stop that, Diana.
“Diana,” he drew out her name with a familiarity he didn’t own, “it’s Darren.”
A pause.
“I know who you are, Mr. Rogart.” But she didn’t, and this new anger seemed a bit over-the-top, even to her.
If he found her tone offensive, he gave no sign of it. “I called to thank you.”
“For what?”
She heard him sigh. “I have my children back,” he said.
“That has nothing to do with me.” Why did the phone instrument feel unnaturally warm?
“You’re being too modest. I think it does.”
She didn’t answer him. Her throat was dry, and she swallowed repeatedly, alarmed at the sound it made in her own ears. He can’t possibly hear…
“The fact that a reputable attorney turned down his case has done a lot to take the wind out of my father-in-law’s sails.”
Diana heard a smile in Rogart’s voice as he continued, “I thought I’d be spending Christmas alone. Instead I had my kids. You won’t acknowledge it, but that gift was yours, intended or not.”
“I had nothing to do with what happened with your children.” Alarm set in. She hoped Flannigan didn’t hear about Rogart’s misplaced gratitude. Or maybe he already had and that had been what prompted his unwelcome visit to her house just before Christmas.
Diana heard Rogart sigh again. Silence. She didn’t help him out. Instead, she held her breath, hoping he’d hang up.
“Come on, humor me,” he wheedled. Diana exhaled softly under the cover of his voice. “Let me take you to lunch. My way of saying thanks for your unintended gift.”
Lunch? Reality kicked in, bringing her up short. This penniless man without means of support was proposing lunch? McDonald’s? An unexpected giggle rattled her throat.
“Did I actually get a smile out of you?” continued Rogart.
“I’m not smiling, Mr. Rogart.” But she was. If he says “Call me Dare,” I’m hanging up.
“Ever been to the Buckhorn?” he asked.
Diana knew the nineteenth century Denver landmark, established by Buffalo Bill’s sidekick “Shorty S
cout” Zietz when the whole town was part of the Wild West. She knew the place to be filled with trophy animal heads and therefore not her idea of a backdrop for a relaxing meal.
“I know it by reputation,” replied Diana. “It’s not a place I frequent.” Stiffy-stuffy again. Damn it!
“Well, I’d like to change that. Give you a glimpse of how the other half lives. We hunters are not a bunch of drooling cavemen.” He paused.
She kept her silence. Why doesn’t he just hang up?
“Gimme a break, Diana. Just one lunch, then I’m out of your life.” Pleading, with a smile in his voice, did hold a certain charm. She pictured his handsome face, then censored the rest of the picture.
“Hey, I know the owners. I’ll bet I can get them to whip up something vegetarian for the occasion.” She had the feeling he was making fun of her. “You afraid you might develop a taste for rare meat?”
Too far. She felt the blood rush to her face.
“Wait, don’t hang up.” It was as if he could see her reaction. “I know your year’s been a bummer, and the new one’s not starting out that good.”
Thanks a bunch, Jessie.
“I just wanted to lighten things up. Don’t look back, look ahead. Do something you’ve never done before. Then write me off as a grateful nut case, who loves his kids to distraction.”
He sounded so happy, as if the gloom she’d observed that night in her office had lifted, and Diana was envious of his ability to do that when his own year must have been pretty crappy, too.
“You don’t have to take me to an expensive restaurant. I realize your situation is … strained right now.”
“No, I do. I made three sales over the holidays. Collected on a big moose head this morning. It’ll be my pleasure.”
She had to wonder at his smoothness, his assumption that Jess had filled her in on his taxidermy practice. Then another thought impinged, changing the picture.
“Will Jess be joining us?”
“Who?” asked Rogart, after a short silence.
“Jess Edwards,” she replied, enunciating clearly.
“Oh, your detective friend,” he replied in a puzzled voice. “Why would she be joining us?”
Ooh-kay. “I thought,” she ventured, “you two were … friends.” Now, there’s a euphemism.
“Jess is certainly friendly. I’ll give her that. I’d forgotten you two were close.”
How could he forget something like that? “Best friends. That’s not a problem?”
“Why would it be? How’s noon today? Is that too short notice?” He sounded boyish in his eagerness.
Diana felt a twinge in her heart. Melt-down.
Chapter 19
A relic out of Denver’s past, the Buckhorn Exchange sat at the corner of Tenth Avenue and Osage, a brown, rectangular two-story wedge of a building built in 1893. Just south of Colfax and west of the Convention Center, the Buckhorn exuded the flavor of its colorful past, spilling its aura out across the surrounding area. Diana felt it as she parked her car in the rapidly filling lot. Glancing around her, she wondered which vehicle was Rogart’s, or if he’d even arrived yet.
She wore a black blazer over a soft cashmere turtleneck and gray wool slacks with matching leather boots. The slacks rode easily on her slender hips these days, the swelling from her surgery reduced to a memory.
The mid-day sun played hide and seek among billowy white clouds, but so far the sky was friendly.
She locked her car and walked briskly to the entrance of the weathered building, noting the long, narrow windows that lined the second story. She’d heard that the new owners had added a roof garden, but doubted that it would be open before spring arrived.
The heavy wooden door took her concentrated effort to open. She was encouraged by the fact that there was almost no pull from the area of her surgery. Inside, the odor of roasting meat hit her olfactory senses full-on. It took a moment longer for her eyes to become accustomed to the somber interior. Booths upholstered in dark brown leather ran down one side of the main floor.
“One for lunch, Ma’am?” The bearded maitre d’ wore black jeans, cowboy boots, and a fringed western shirt.
“I’m meeting someone.” She took a better look around her. Game heads crowded the walls, their glassy eyes taking on a knowing gaze in the dim light. Pheasants, grouse and all manner of game bird seemed ready to rise up from the oak-paneled bar.
Diana took a step backward and felt a hand on her elbow. She turned slightly in the close quarters as the restaurant began to fill with the lunch crowd.
“Diana.”
As Rogart’s eyes hit hers, she felt as if she’d been skewered. Even in the dim light. The image of a butterfly impaled on a pin flashed briefly across her consciousness, only to be swallowed up in the sensory potpourri around her.
“We have a reservation upstairs,” she heard Rogart tell the host.
Then she allowed him to pilot her up a staircase to the second floor. Quick, backward glances at his thighs moving under tight jeans sent Diana’s pulse racing. He smelled of leather and musk. At the top of the stairs, a magnificent white oak bar dominated the room. The booths were oak, upholstered in blood-red leather. The effect was numbing. A full-bodied wolf mount looked so alive that she found herself wanting to reach out and pat it. Not a healthy idea.
A pretty hostess in western attire led them to a table by one of the long, narrow windows. Diana watched a smile of familiarity light the woman’s face as she greeted Rogart. As he held out Diana’s chair, she wished she could see his face. Diana was certain that she caught a wink from the hostess. Had Rogart initiated or returned the gesture?
When they had settled into their chairs, Diana let her eyes wander up from the menu, toward Rogart. Again, it was like being in somebody’s high-beams.
“Would you care for something to drink?” he invited. “A glass of wine?”
She suddenly longed for a glass of white wine. Zinfandel, maybe. “You?” she asked, not wanting to look like a lush.
Rogart shook his head. “I don’t drink alcohol.”
“Uh, I see. I’ll have some herbal tea.”
His lips curved up in a crooked smile that was quite charming, but she found herself squirming again under his intense hazel gaze. “I’m not an alcoholic, Diana. I just don’t enjoy the effects of alcohol.” Somehow, his eyes didn’t match his smile.
She watched his expression soften as he continued. “Alcohol played a part in the abuse of my wife. I don’t fault people for enjoying a drink, but it just doesn’t have a place in my life.” As he spoke, he spread his hands before him on the table, a gesture that called her attention to his long, strong-looking fingers. He wore a wide turquoise and silver band on the third finger of his left hand. She wondered if it was a wedding ring.
As she turned her attention back to the menu, Diana was distracted by the candle light that danced across the table. She tried to focus on a food choice. Perhaps chicken salad. She wasn’t a vegetarian in the strict sense of the word.
When her attention bounced back to Rogart, she found him grinning broadly. But not at her. A lovely Asian waitress had presented herself to take their orders. The girl’s reflection, mirrored in the window glass behind Rogart, revealed an open flirtation in progress.
“I’ll have the chicken Caesar salad,” Diana interrupted, amusement creeping into her voice. If you don’t mind, Miss Hottie.
The waitress moved into view, glanced briefly in Diana’s direction, then jotted something on her order pad—hopefully, Diana’s order. Then the girl moved closer to Rogart. “I recommend the elk medallions,” said the waitress, but she pronounced it “airk medarions.”
Diana took a sip of water, suppressed an embarrassed giggle as Rogart responded, “I’ll try the airk medarions.” The absence of expression on his face would have shamed a poker champion.
When the young woman had left, Diana stared Rogart down. “You realize how rude that was,” she chided, “how politically incorrect?”
“I doubt her mind was on politics,” he countered.
Diana felt a wicked smile coming on. “You weren’t exactly fending her off, you know.”
He shrugged. “I’m not made of stone.”
Diana nearly choked on her water. “I won’t touch that one.”
They both laughed heartily.
Diana was warmed by the transformation in Rogart’s face. “I don’t think I’ve heard you laugh before,” she said spontaneously.
“It’s been awhile,” he replied.
She watched his face regain composure, the sharpness she found disturbing settling back into his eyes. “I doubt that,” she blurted, then was relieved when he ignored her double entendre.
As they waited for their lunches to arrive, she asked, “How did your children happen to be living with their grandparents in the first place?”
He looked back at her, his glance unwavering, long enough for her to regret asking the question. “As you can imagine,” he finally said, “things were pretty strained between my in-laws and myself, following my … incarceration.”
She nodded. He knew that she knew about it. No need to probe that wound.
“While I was … away, Brandi and the kids stayed with her folks, not at our place.”
Diana tried not to frown. But it seemed incongruous that Brandi Rogart would run back to her abuser. Then she recalled more than a few instances in her crusade against domestic violence when her own clients had done just that.
“I’m sure it was Joe’s idea,” continued Rogart. “Brandi wouldn’t have had the strength to oppose him once he’d laid down the law.” He lowered his head and shook it slightly. “I felt so helpless. I couldn’t protect her.” She wished she could see his eyes.
“But you got out of prison. And you continued to socialize with your in-laws.”
“Is this an interrogation?” he asked, his eyes hardening as he looked up at her.
Diana felt herself blush. It must have sounded like that to him. “Sorry, but it just seems like you would have wanted to get your family as far away as possible. Moved to another state even.”
The Trophy Hunter Page 8