For the Defense

by Maggie Wells

  “I’ll buy if you fly,” he offered.

  “Done.” She pushed back from the desk, thankful to have an excuse to go for a walk. The Daisy Drive-In was only a few blocks away. Maybe a short walk and a tall shake were exactly what she needed.

  Outside the stagnant office, the day was warm, though the calendar claimed it was still September. In South Georgia, autumn didn’t come around until late October. Tipping her chin up, she tugged at the front of her uniform shirt in hopes of wafting cool air over her superheated skin. She took two deep breaths and reminded herself it was okay to feel shaken, as long as she didn’t let setbacks knock her down. Or so a therapist had once told her.

  Unclenching her fists, she set off for the drive-in, but no matter how fast she walked, she couldn’t outpace her frustration. She couldn’t believe they would let Coulter go without a reprimand. It galled her to think of the slime bag luring young women to his “refuge,” tormenting them into thinking he was doing them a favor by letting them stay there.

  As if she’d summoned the devil by thinking of him, an engine roared and a sports car shot past her. She caught sight of Coulter’s tanned skin and dark, wind-tousled hair. Of course he drives a Viper, she thought with a sneer. What a cliché. Reflective sunglasses glinted in the sunlight, and her stomach flipped when he lifted a hand in a mocking wave and punched the gas.

  He sped out of town at about thirty over the posted speed limit.

  She pressed the button on the mic she wore clipped to her shoulder and tipped her head to the side, watching the car shrink into a pinprick in the distance. “Mike? What’s your twenty?”

  There was a crackle of static. Then the deputy on patrol answered. “I’m on Sawtooth Lake Road near the county line. Over.”

  Scowling, she peered at the strip of highway leading from the center of Pine Bluff toward the eastern half of Masters County. Mike was somewhere in the northwest quadrant. There’d be no catching Coulter today.

  “Didja need me?” Mike asked, breaking into her thoughts.

  She shook her head and keyed the mic. “Nope. False alarm. Carry on.”

  “Ten-four,” Mike responded. “See you back at base.”

  They’d catch up to Coulter one day. They’d figure out exactly what he had going on and they’d stop it. They had to. Something bad was happening out there. She felt it in her bones.

  Lori straightened her shoulders and refocused on the sight of the Daisy Drive-In in the distance. Today might not have been the day, but it was coming. Soon. She only hoped it would be soon enough to help the next young woman they found wandering the side of a rural highway in the dead of night.

  Chapter Two

  Simon Wingate kept the smile he wore plastered to his face until the client he’d waved off was nothing but a distant roar heading down the highway leading out of town. As he spun toward the converted Victorian that housed his grandfather’s—now his—law offices, a shudder ran through him. If his grandfather were here, he’d have been able to get the old man’s opinion on his new client. But his grandfather spent most of his time in Valdosta these days, having decided to run for a seat on the circuit court bench.

  And Simon was here in Pine Bluff—also known as purgatory.

  He missed Atlanta. What he wouldn’t give for an evening spent talking strategy with his clients in restaurants with cloth napkins or sampling single malts with his fellow lobbyists at a whiskey bar. He never thought he’d come to appreciate what he’d once considered froufrou food, but when the only dining options in town were a bakery, a diner and a drive-in specializing in burgers and onion rings, even a man’s man started dreaming of non-deep-fried food.

  His stomach growled as he stared at the front door of the stately old home his grandfather had converted into law offices. He wasn’t ready to go back in there. He wasn’t in the mood to answer his secretary’s questions or entertain her commentary on how his grandfather would have handled things. He was all too aware this was his grandfather’s town. And Simon couldn’t shake the niggling suspicion he’d never be able to fill Wendell Wingate’s shoes.

  Pivoting on the heel of his cap-toe oxford, he walked away from the office. He’d go to the drive-in and get something to eat. Then he’d come back and listen to Dora’s litany of all he’d done wrong that morning.

  He hadn’t gone more than a half block before he felt his shirt adhere to his back. An hour earlier, the charcoal suit with the windowpane pattern seemed the perfect choice to represent a client at the DA’s office. Now he was sorry he’d wasted the fine tailoring on a man who believed flip-flops were acceptable footwear anywhere not covered in sand.

  He paused at the corner of Red Pine and Loblolly and looked back. The old courthouse planted in the center of the town square gleamed white in the late-morning sun. It had long ago been converted into a museum and home to the historical society, but a part of him wished they heard cases in the gracious old building rather than in the bland municipal complex.

  He hooked a right on Pond Street, and the canopies of the Daisy Drive-In came into view. His steps faltered, but his stomach growled again. He pressed a hand to his abdomen to quell the uprising. He’d eaten at the dairy bar far too many times since he’d come back to town. So many times, in fact, that he’d started jogging. Outdoors. In the South Georgia heat. Because there were no gyms in this godforsaken—

  “Morning, Simon,” a cheerful voice called.

  Jolted from his snit-fit, he whipped his head around to see Reverend Mitchell coming down the walkway in front of a small brick home. “Good morning, Reverend,” he said, mustering his smile once more. Thankfully, he didn’t feel the need to woo the clergyman the way he would a client, so he didn’t amp up the wattage. Nodding toward the brick house, he asked, “Is this your place?”

  The older man chuckled. “My lawn is not particularly well-kept. This is Maisy Tillenger’s house. She’s been under the weather, so Luellen and I have been checking in on her. Since we had company this morning, Luellen sent me.”

  Simon was aware the sheriff’s department had taken the young woman who accused Coulter of mistreating her to the pastor’s house. He let the comment about company slide by without remark. “Kind of you.”

  Good thing the reverend was a discreet man himself. “All part of the service,” he replied jovially. He pointed to a shiny Buick parked at the curb. “You headin’ for the Daisy? I could give you a lift.”

  Simon hesitated. Though he enjoyed the same easy country manners employed by his grandfather, he couldn’t help being suspicious of the small-town bonhomie exhibited by so many of Pine Bluff’s residents. He was a city guy. The son of a politician to boot. He firmly believed the world was fueled by quid pro quo. Perhaps the preacher wanted to score some free legal advice? Man of the cloth or not, he’d hardly be the first person who tried to wriggle around paying billable hours by engaging in some friendly conversation.

  “I appreciate the offer, but if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll walk. I’ve got some stuff I’m thinking through.”

  Reverend Mitchell didn’t seem fazed by the refusal. “I understand.” Rather than moving toward his car, the man stepped directly into Simon’s path. “If you need a sounding board for anything you’re noodling, you can always come to me. Again, all part of the service.”

  He smiled, and Simon was struck by the other man’s innate ease and warmth. Regret twisted in his chest. He hated being so jaded. He didn’t want to believe he was the kind of man who read something into everything. Then again, he’d learned at the foot of the master. A lifelong politician, his own father was the king of wheeling and dealing. From birth, Simon had been groomed to enter the arena.

  “Thank you, sir,” Simon said evenly. “Enjoy your day.”

  “You too, son,” the reverend replied, clapping him on the shoulder. “Might I suggest you ask Miss Darlene to add extra cherries to your co-cola? There�
�s no better pick-me-up for a bad day.”

  Simon’s jaw slackened when the older man slid behind the wheel, slick as an eel. “How do you—”

  The ka-thunk of the car door cut off the question. Reverend Mitchell cranked the engine and lifted two fingers from the wheel in farewell and pulled away from the curb.

  “Friggin’ fishbowl,” he muttered. Stepping over a hump where a tree root had broken through the sidewalk, he resisted the urge to kick the loose pebbles skidding beneath the soles of his shoes because rocks and fine Italian leather rarely mixed well.

  In a concession to the warmth of the day, he unbuttoned his suit jacket and loosened the silk tie enough to open his collar button. A fine coating of perspiration slicked his forehead and made the thin white cotton of his undershirt cling. Undaunted, he pressed on.

  The grumble and pop of a souped-up engine brought him up short when he reached the cracked asphalt of the Daisy Drive-In’s parking lot. A dinged-up subcompact with a ridiculous-looking spoiler rolled right past him, not bothering to yield to his right of way. Simon glared at the driver. The kid’s arms were covered in mixture of amateur and professional tattoos. He was wearing a dirty ribbed undershirt and a trucker’s cap with the bill turned to the side. Like he was some kind of backwoods hip-hop star. The worst of it was he had the gall to sneer when he gave Simon the once-over as he crept past.

  The engine popped and roared, drawing the attention of nearly everyone waiting in line. The rear end fishtailed when the kid punched the accelerator and zipped toward the highway. Customers shook their heads as they stood in line at the order window. Simon approached, winding his way through the clumps of people chatting as they waited for their orders. No one greeted him, though he was sure they knew who he was. Or rather, who his grandfather was.

  He nodded to a couple of men about his age. He hadn’t been back in town long enough to renew the few acquaintances he’d made when his parents used to insist he spend his summers at his grandparents’ house. Of course, he’d revisited here and there. Mainly quick swings through town when his father, a state assemblyman, was up for reelection.

  He’d been studying abroad when his grandmother passed nearly ten years earlier. Both his father and grandfather insisted the trip home from Tokyo would require too much time off from his program. The people of Grandpa Wendell’s beloved town hadn’t understood or cared about their reasoning. Unlike the shameless flirts and meddling matchmakers he ran into in Atlanta, the over-sixty set in Pine Bluff had little use for him. He could swear he’d seen one or two of them steer their precious granddaughters away from him if they happened to pass in the Piggly Wiggly. Most settled for giving him the hairy eyeball.

  Simon jerked to a stop two feet behind the last person in line. A woman turned to glare at him, but he tried not to take it personally. Brushing the sides of his suit coat back to allow some air to flow around his heated body, he lifted his gaze to meet hers and she quickly looked away. The woman turned away and he realized there was something familiar about her. She was young. And obviously not a fan.

  Simon searched his memory, sure he’d have remembered her if they’d been introduced. Shifting from one foot to the other, he tried to get a better look. She wore her rich, dark hair pulled ruthlessly back from her face and coiled into a massive bun at the nape of her neck. The effect should have been severe, but for some reason, it intrigued him. He wanted to pull the pins from the knot and let the heavy locks down. He wanted to see how far down her back they flowed.

  The line moved forward, and when they settled into their new formation, he saw the woman stepping up to the window. She wore a tan-and-brown uniform with a patch sewed onto the shirtsleeve that declared the wearer to be a member of the Masters County Sheriff’s Department. Simon grimaced when he realized this was probably the deputy who’d taken the statement given against his client. Simon wasn’t dumb enough to think he’d be high on the sheriff’s office’s list of favorite people after helping Samuel Coulter wriggle off the hook. Judging by the scornful look in her eyes, he wasn’t wrong.

  Simon stood frozen in place, watching her bend low to speak through the screen window. She must have a standing order, because with a minimum of words exchanged, the woman walked away clutching the tiny white slip with her order number printed on it.

  Simon wanted to step out of line and directly into her path as she moved to join the people milling and lounging near the pickup window. Explain that he’d only been doing the job he’d been hired to do, and that truthfully, Coulter gave him the creeps too. She wouldn’t believe him even if he told her. Her glare made her disdain clear.

  When his grandfather had droned on and on about how providing defense from the law was truly one of the most honorable things a man could do, Simon had only listened with half an ear. He’d been surrounded by and immersed in politics for too long to truly believe most people were innocent until proved guilty. In his experience, most people were guilty as sin when it came to being self-serving. Including himself. Look where that had landed him...in Pine Bluff.

  Coulter certainly had his own best interests at heart. When Dora Houseman, the secretary he’d inherited along with his grandfather’s firm, informed him the man’s nickname was Cottonmouth, Simon had assumed it was because he was in the business of importing, breeding and selling exotic snakes at the multiacre refuge he’d set up on the other side of the county. In meeting him, Simon had to admit Coulter had likely earned his nickname based on his slithery personality. And his weird eyes.

  The man’s left pupil bled down to the bottom of his iris. The anomaly alone wasn’t what made his stare so disturbing. A flat ruthlessness shone from his gold-green gaze. Simon himself had avoided looking directly at Coulter for any protracted amount of time.

  Shaking off his discomfiture, Simon stepped to the order window when the woman ahead of him moved aside.

  “Heya, Mr. Simon,” the gum-smacking older woman called Darlene greeted him, her grin bordering on a leer. “Cherry Coke?”

  Her presumptive friendliness rankled, but he refused to let it show. Any misstep he made in this town would be reported to his grandfather within hours, no doubt. “Yes, please,” he confirmed with the distant smile he’d perfected when he was a child trotted out at campaign events. “And today I’ll try the club sandwich.”

  Darlene whooped and scrawled the order on her pad. “Mr. Simon Wingate is finally ready to join the mile-high club,” she crowed. She ripped the claim check from the bottom of the order slip and slid it across the counter. She tapped it twice with the pointed tip of one bloodred acrylic nail. “I’m the woman to make it happen for ya, sugar.”

  The woman working the grill cackled. The young lady working the milkshake station ducked her head and murmured a mortified “Mama!”

  Darlene smiled up at him, unrepentant. “I’ll give a shout when it’s ready, darlin’.”

  Simon could feel the heat in his cheeks and ears, and hoped anyone looking might attribute his blush to the temperature and layers of clothing. He moved from the window, hoping to find a shady spot along the side of the building far away from Darlene to wait, but found himself face-to-face with the woman with the tightly coiled hair. Lourdes Cabrera. She of the soulful eyes and Masters County Sheriff’s Department uniform. He didn’t have to check her name tag to be sure. The hostility in her stance said it all.

  “Deputy,” he said, giving her a polite nod.

  “Snake handler,” she replied, keeping her voice even, though her eyes glowed with banked fury.

  He chuckled, mentally tallying up a point in her favor. “Just doin’ my job, ma’am,” he answered, giving her a tip of an invisible hat.

  Peeking around the corner of the building, he spotted a sliver of shade he might claim for himself. He was about to wind his way through the waiting customers when he heard her mutter, “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

  “I sleep the sleep
of the innocent, Deputy Cabrera,” he said, meeting her gaze. “Every night I indulge in the peaceful, unfettered rest of a man with a clear conscience.”

  “You’re certainly no Wendell Wingate,” she retorted, not backing down an inch.

  He shook his head. “Ah, I hate to tell you this, but you’re wrong.”

  “Oh?” she asked archly.

  “Since we have yet to be formally introduced, you can’t be expected to know my full name.” He extended a hand to shake. “I’m Wendell Simon Wingate III.”

  “Are you serious?” She snorted a laugh, a sound he usually found distasteful. For some reason, when this woman did it, he wanted to crack a smile. Her hand flew up to cover her nose and mouth, and two spots of bright red appeared on her high cheekbones.

  “I am always serious about meeting a pretty woman.” He hit her with his best smile. “I’m new to town, and I appreciate you making me feel so welcome.”

  When she lowered her hand, a sheepish smile curved lush, full lips. Simon’s gaze dropped to them, and he found he had a hard time tearing it away. “You are welcome here,” she relented. “And I’m sorry. I’m—”

  “Miffed?” he supplied.

  She laughed again, and this time it rang clear and true. “Not the word I would have chosen.”

  “It was nothing personal, Deputy,” he assured her in a low voice. “He retained me to be his counsel. You didn’t have much of a case.”

  She opened her mouth to say something, but Darlene called for her. “Lori, honey? Your shakes are ready.”

  She stood her ground, her defiant glare locked on him. Simon found he didn’t mind this particular woman’s boldness. “You didn’t have to take him on.”

  “You may not have noticed, but lawyers aren’t thick on the ground here. At least, not defense attorneys.”

  She tipped her pointed chin up a notch. “He could have gone elsewhere for representation.”

  He leaned in and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Big-money clients are few and far between in these parts. I promised my granddad I wouldn’t run the place into the ground in the first six months,” he added with a wink. Simon winced inside. His mother would have tanned him for making such a tawdry move. “He’s already handed all the Timber Masters business over to their new in-house counsel, so I’ve been tasked with keeping the place afloat.”