by Tami Hoag
Her confrontation with the Sci-Fi Cowboys came most vividly to mind. “Hey, you that bitch lawyer . . .” Bitch lawyer . . . BITCH. She could see Tyrell's angry face, eyes seething with hate.
She didn't want to blame the Cowboys out of hand. The whole point of the program was to show that these young men had the potential to be productive citizens. But she had worked in the system and knew too well the destruction and violence these kids were capable of. She had seen too many with no conscience and no respect for anyone or anything.
“The program has sure got a lot of press,” Qualey said.
Dietz sniffed and spit a gob into the snow. “I don't care what anyone says. They're a bunch of city punks. Did you see them out here today with that damn rap music cranked up? We don't need their kind of trouble. If I want to fear for my life walking around town, I'll go up to Minneapolis and take a stroll down Lake Street after dark.”
“We'll check it out, Ms. North,” Noga said. “See what we can come up with on any of those people.”
He crouched down and snapped a couple of Polaroids of the damage, slipping the undeveloped photographs inside his parka.
Ellen stared at the word gouged on her car door. An angry scrawl written with a blade deadly enough to kill. The knife handle thrusting up from the tire was like a misplaced exclamation point. She shivered at the thought of what might have happened had she come out of the building alone and surprised the vandal at work.
“You'll have to have someone take care of that tire,” Dietz said. “Won't happen tonight. You want a ride home?”
“I'll take her, officer.”
Ellen jerked around at the sound of the voice. Brooks stood behind her, his shoulders hunched, coat collar pulled up high. He squinted against the wind and the cold and her scrutiny.
“What are you doing here?”
The annoyance in her tone didn't stop Jay from asking himself the same question. He had notes to go over and sort, and phone calls to make to pry into the past lives of Garrett Wright and his disciple Todd Childs, and he sure as hell would rather have been in his rented house making use of the fireplace tools he had picked up that afternoon than standing out in a snowstorm. But here he was.
“I heard the call on the scanner,” he said. And a chill had gone through him. He tried to tell himself it was adrenaline, the excitement of a new lead, a fresh angle. Then he tried to put it off to the fact that he hadn't got warm since he'd stepped off the plane into the great white North. Then he thought of Ellen, fighting a battle because she believed in the cause, standing up beneath the burden of it with grace and courage. Ellen, alone, victimized for doing her job.
Not that she wanted him there.
She looked at him askance. “And you didn't have anything better to do than check out a simple vandalism?”
He cast a pointed look at the knife handle jutting up from her tire. “Doesn't look so simple to me, counselor.”
Her pique couldn't quite hide the glimmer of fear in her eyes as her glance stayed on the knife. Her lack of a snappy comeback told the rest of the truth. She was scared, plain and simple. She could more than hold her own in a verbal sword fight, but when the hardware was the real deal, that was a whole different ball game.
Noga looked from Ellen to Jay and back. “Ms. North?”
Ellen's knees had gone wobbly as she stared at the knife. “The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers. . . .” Dennis Enberg's body, his head shattered like a rotten melon . . . “The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers. . . .” Garrett Wright walking free . . . Dustin Holloman's little boot left to taunt them . . . BITCH . . . BITCH . . . “The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers. . . .”
“Come on,” Brooks said, stepping close enough to slide an arm around her shoulders buddy-style. “Let's go get some hot coffee in you.”
“That sounds good,” Ellen heard herself say, the professional still attempting to function, still pretending she could handle all of this madness at once.
“We'll finish up here, Ms. North,” Noga said. “We'll call you as soon as we have anything.” He turned to Jay with a shy smile and stuck out his hand. “It's a pleasure, Mr. Brooks. I really enjoy your work.”
“Well, thank you, Officer Noga. I'll tell you what, it's always gratifying to hear that from people in law enforcement.”
What Ellen thought of as his public face beamed with a big old country-boy grin. She imagined she could actually feel the level of energy in and around him increase by a thousand volts. It was a wonder the snow didn't melt beneath his feet. Amazing.
Dietz jumped in, thrusting out his report notebook. “Would you mind an autograph? Twist of Fate was my favorite.”
“Thank you. Hear that, Ellen?” he said as he scribbled his name across the paper. “These gentlemen actually enjoy what I do.”
“There's no accounting for tastes,” she grumbled.
“Come along, Ms. North,” Brooks said, resting a big gloved hand on her shoulder. “I know just the place to warm you up.” He gave her a roguish look as they waded through the snow toward his Cherokee. “Note what a gentleman I'm being. I could have said I'm just the man for the job.”
“You just did.”
“And, true as it might be, I am much too well brought up to take advantage of a vulnerable woman.”
“Yeah, right.” Ellen stiffened against another attack of shakes. She needed to focus. She focused on Brooks, tried to stir up irritation to warm her and center her thoughts. “I'd bet my last dime you would take advantage of your own mother if it meant getting the story you want.”
“That wounds me, Ellen. Here I am, rescuing you in your hour of need and you impugn my motives.”
“You've made your motives very clear,” she said as he handed her up into the passenger side of the truck. “And I quote, ‘I'm here for a story. I go after what I want and I get it.' ”
“Excellent memory. People must have hated you in law school.” He stamped back around the hood of the truck and climbed in on the driver's side. “You know, where I come from, folks at least pretend gratitude, even if they are truly unappreciative.”
“I didn't need rescuing,” Ellen said. “I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“Oh, you fend off knife-wielding maniacs every day, do you?”
“I didn't have to fend off anyone.”
“Yeah, well, the night is young,” he growled.
He put the Cherokee in gear and did a slow U-turn to get out of the lot. The truck's heater was on full blast. The wipers beat furiously at the snow hurtling down. The street was a broad ribbon of white corrugated with tire tracks.
A nice night to curl up by the fire with a good book and a cup of hot chocolate, Ellen thought as she looked out the window, wishing she could do just that, knowing that she would have been doing just that if not for Garrett Wright and his faceless partner. Instead, she would have another night of preparation for the battle with Costello. Another night of trying to piece together the facts to come up with some kind of theory as to why a man like Garrett Wright would steal a child and hold a community in the grip of fear. Another night of sifting through the growing haystack of information, searching for a clue as to who Wright's accomplice might be . . . as to who her tormentor might be.
Were they one and the same? Had they killed Denny Enberg? Would they try to kill her?
BITCH.
“The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers.”
She felt as if she were fighting battles on all fronts at once, as if she were surrounded. She put her back to the door and faced her unlikely rescuer.
“Where are we going?”
“Someplace quiet, out of the way, homey. Your place, actually.” He glanced at her, studying her in the gloom of the instrument panel. “I'd take you to my place, but guests tend to be put off by a total lack of furniture.”
“Where are you staying?”
“I rented a house out on Ryan's Bay.”
“Ryan's Bay? That's where Josh's jacket was found.”
“A macabre coincidence,” he assured her. “Honest.”
“I'm sure you're probably guilty of many things, Mr. Brooks. But I think we're safe in eliminating you from the list of possible accomplices.”
“You have a list?”
“Figure of speech.”
“Mmmm. You have theories,” he murmured. “I have a couple of my own.”
He gunned the engine, plowing up the incline of her driveway.
“Thank you for the ride,” Ellen said politely, her gaze fixed on the dark house, fear swelling inside her at the thought of going in alone. But she let herself out of the truck before Brooks made it around the hood.
“I'm not helpless,” she insisted as he pulled her keys out of her hand. She twisted away from him when he would have taken her briefcase from her.
“No, you're not helpless. You're a damn target,” he grumbled, stomping through the snow to the front door. “Your buddy Enberg is lying on a slab tonight, shorter by a head; somebody uses your car for an Etch-A-Sketch and leaves you a switchblade. If you think I'm letting you walk into this house alone, you are dead wrong—pardon the expression.”
“And who appointed you to the role of guardian?” Ellen demanded, walking into the foyer and toeing off her boots.
“Nobody. I do as I please.”
“Well, it doesn't please me.”
“Nothing much about this case pleases me.” He stepped out of his boots and took off his parka.
Ellen stood off to the side, watching as he turned on lights and lit the fireplace.
“Lucky you,” she said, “you can walk away from it. It's just another story. The world's full of them, I'm sad to say.”
“I'm not going anywhere.”
“Why not?”
“Because what doesn't please me personally makes for a hell of a book.”
“Why this case of all cases?”
He stared into the fire, his face an inscrutable mask, no hint of the engaging rascal who charmed his way past barriers with a wink and a grin.
“I have my reasons,” he said darkly.
“Which are—?”
“None of your business.”
“Oh, fine. You can butt into other people's lives, novelize their suffering, sell it for a profit, but your life is off-limits?”
“That's right,” he said, coming toward her. “Though I may indeed be guilty of many things, none of them is criminal. Therefore, my private life remains just that—private.”
“What a convenient double standard.”
He ignored the gibe and curled a hand around her arm. “Come over here by the fire. You need to warm up. Christ, you're shaking like a hairless dog in a meat freezer.”
He led her across the room, hooked a footstool with one stockinged foot, and dragged it into place in front of the fire.
“Sit.” He pressed her down with a hand on her shoulder. “Do you have any liquor?”
“In the hutch in the dining room. I'll get it.”
“You'll sit,” he barked, his expression promising dire consequences.
Ellen shrugged off his hand. “You know, I really don't need you barging into my house, bossing me around, Brooks. This day has been rotten enough as it is. I didn't ask to have you—”
The telephone on the table behind her rang. She wheeled around to stare at it, and what little bravado she had left vaporized, leaving cold, hard fear behind. She hated it. The sanctity of her home had been violated, by such a simple act as a phone call.
“Reach out and touch someone.”
“The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers. . . .”
“Ellen?” Jay stepped into her line of vision, bending down a little to look into her eyes. “Ellen,” he asked gently, “aren't you going to get that?”
The machine clicked on before she could answer. A woman's voice, pleasant but concerned.
“Ellen, honey, it's Mom. We just wanted to see how you're doing. We heard about the reduced bail. Daddy says not to take it too hard; the game isn't over yet. Call when you get in, sweetheart. We want to get together with you for your birthday.”
Her parents wanted to know how she was. She was tired and heartbroken and too damn scared to answer her own phone.
“It's s-so wrong!” she whispered. She closed her eyes and fought against tears. She couldn't afford to cry. The game wasn't over.
He said it was a game.
A game—with lives and minds and futures and careers at stake. A game with no rules and no boundaries, faceless players and hidden agendas.
Jay watched her struggle. She cared too much, fought too hard, took it all to heart. While he had stopped believing in anything, walked away from fights, let nothing touch his heart . . . except the sight of this woman crying.
If you had any sense, you'd walk away from this, Brooks.
Instead, he reached for her, gathered her close, guided her head to his shoulder. She resisted each movement, holding herself as stiff as a board. He dropped his head down, let his cheek brush her temple.
“It's okay,” he whispered. “Any port in a storm, counselor. You just go on and cry. I promise, it's off the record.”
The tears came in a hard torrent, soaking into his shirt. She curled her fists against his chest but didn't try to push him away. Jay wrapped his arms around her slender shoulders, feeling for the first time in forever an urge to protect, as ironic as that was. He wanted to protect her while she was doing her best to protect herself from him. She didn't trust him, had every reason not to trust him.
You're a damn fool, Brooks.
He was an observer, just passing through her life. That was how he liked it—sliding like a shadow from one vignette to another, watching, absorbing, interpreting, moving on, never letting it touch him too deeply, never letting his heart get involved. That was smartest, safest, easiest. That was why he shied away from live cases, preferring to trail in after the physical and emotional firestorms had passed. Like a scavenger.
Yet here he was, with his arms around the prosecuting attorney, a part of his mind gravitating down the hall where there had to be a bedroom.
A fool and a scoundrel.
But the recriminations didn't make him let go. They didn't stop him from breathing in the soft scent of her or turning his head and touching the tender skin of her temple with his lips. The warmth that swelled within, the hunger for this contact, were only partly sexual, making him wonder dimly who was finding more comfort in the embrace. He felt as if he'd been starved of human contact and knew that the abstinence was an act of both self-denial and self-preservation.
Ah, what a sorry soul you are, Brooks. . . .
Sorry and alone.
The need overtook the inner voice. He kissed her cheek, damp with tears. He kissed her mouth, soft and trembling. His lips moved slowly, sensuously, over hers. Gentle, hesitant, needing more than he dared take. Needing the fresh taste of her like air, like water. Her mouth opened beneath his and he caught her breath and gave it back. Slowly he skimmed the soft inner swell of her lower lip with the tip of his tongue, then ventured deeper into the satin warmth of her mouth. With one hand he cradled her head, his fingers threading through the silk of her hair. He framed her face with the other, fingertips skimming the line of her cheek, the pad of his thumb probing the very corner of her mouth. A soft sound of desire escaped her and the need leaped inside him like a flame.
Need. Hot, bright need. It took Ellen by surprise, but she grabbed it with desperation and hung on. The alternative was fear and weakness. This was a surging sense of life; vital, fragile and strong at once. She felt as if she were absorbing everything about the moment—the feel of his mouth, full against hers, hot and wet; the taste of him dark and erotic; the feel of his tongue against hers, searching, stroking, imitating the rhythm of sex. He pulled her close, closer, his hand sliding down the small of her back, pressing her hips forward into his, letting her feel his arousal, his heat, his n
eed.
The insanity of what she was doing struck her and she turned her face away.
“I can't do this,” she said, breathless. “I can't get involved with you. My God . . .” She shook her head, stunned that she had let him kiss her, touch her. Stunned at what the kiss had made her feel. “This is a really bad idea. I think—”
“That's your problem, sugar,” he said in a low, dangerous tone. “You think too damn much.”
Cupping her chin in his hand, he turned her back toward him and lowered his mouth to hers again. But the moment was gone, the kiss still and passionless. He opened his eyes and found Ellen's wary gray ones staring up at him.
Her breath caught in her throat at the emotion in his face. Just a fleeting glimpse, there and gone. Pain and longing. Every time she thought she had him pegged, he turned colors on her. It was easiest and best to think of him as a mercenary, but he had layers and shadows, dimensions that tempted her to look deeper. She couldn't afford to get pulled into something. She was already up to her neck in one mire.
“I'll get us that drink,” he muttered, his voice lower, rougher than it had been.
He turned away, walked up the steps to the dining room, and pulled a full bottle of Glenlivet from the liquor cabinet. She watched his movements, studied the dark look on his face, wondering what it was about, what he was about. Which Jay Butler Brooks was the real man? The charmer? The mercenary? The man with the haunted face?
Don't go down that road, Ellen. . . .
The warning came as she mounted the steps. He splashed the Scotch into a pair of short, thick tumblers.
“I—I have to check on Harry,” she said awkwardly, stepping past him.
She hurried through the kitchen to the laundry room, where she was greeted enthusiastically by the big retriever. She let him out into the fenced backyard where he spent most of his days and stood for a moment in the open doorway, breathing in the crisp night air to clear her head. The snow was still coming down.
Harry did his business, then made a mad dash around the yard, excited by the fresh powder. Ellen left him to play, knowing they would both regret it later when he came in wet and aromatic and would have to be banished from his usual spot on the bed.