Lawful Engagement. Linda O. Johnston
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Just like I’d go to a rattlesnake for first aid.
“Yeah.” Hurley sneered again. “I’ll help you, Steele.”
Mitch gave a quick, purposely inexpert salute. “I’d better get back to work, then.”
As he exited the room, he saw that Cara had not yet left. She leaned over the reception desk, an alluring smile on her face as she spoke in undertones to the young deputy seated there. He was clearly in over his head. His face, bright red, wore a stupid grin. The phone was ringing, but he made no move to answer.
Cara obviously wanted something from the deputy. Since she was in the information business, Mitch could guess what it was.
“Going to answer that?” Mitch drawled. The deputy’s eyes widened at being caught flirting. He grabbed for the phone.
Cara’s charming smile melted as she looked at Mitch. “I thought you’d leave as fast as you could,” he said.
“So did I.” Cara headed toward the exit at last. Mitch walked beside her. “So are you still in charge of the case?”
“How—” He blinked. Could she have heard his conversation while standing out here flirting? Or was this just a diversion so he wouldn’t try to extract what the deputy had disclosed to her?
“How did I guess you might not be?” She gave an enticing little laugh. “Research. Intuition. A combination. But you took charge at the crime scene, and my initial checking on the Sheriff’s Department shows you’ve never been put at the head of any investigation more exciting than a bungled burglary. You’ve cracked major cases when someone else was in charge, though. My suspicion is it’s not lack of skill that keeps you from getting the responsibility.”
“Could be.” Mitch was amazed at her perceptiveness, though realized he shouldn’t have been. This was one smart woman. As he’d already figured, he’d have to watch himself.
“So,” she said as they stood on the concrete landing right outside the door. “Are you still in charge?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”
“Good. I’ll be at the coffee shop of the Lone Star Lodge at noon today for lunch.” The Lone Star Lodge was a seedy motel on the outskirts of town with a greasy spoon eatery attached. Not a place anyone who cared about respectability would head for. That meant it was a good place to go and not be seen.
“I’ve a proposal for you,” she continued. “Care to listen?”
Her smile was so wily and irresistible that he had an unexpected urge to run his fingers through the curly red hair that gave her the contradictory appearance of imp and angel all at once. Kiss those beguilingly clever lips.
She was daring him. He knew it. But he also knew she might have information he needed. And so he’d play along—so smoothly that she’d imagine she was in control.
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll meet you there.”
BEFORE CARA HEADED for the Lone Star Lodge and her meeting with Mitch Steele, she had work to do.
Though the idea of going to a lodge with that delicious hunk of a deputy, a place with rooms for overnight or hourly stays, a place with beds…well, it certainly made her think of more than cooperating with him on a news story.
Her legendary idol Shotgun Sally, star investigative reporter of her time, was reputed to have had a lawman lover….
You’ve a murder case to look into, she reminded herself brusquely. You might be the reason Nancy died. That notion punished her for her incorrigible ideas. So did sliding into her car, which was stiflingly hot from sitting under the summer Texas sun.
She’d flirted with the desk deputy at the sheriff’s station but learned nothing. Maybe she was foolish in using everything at her disposal, including feminine wiles, to get what she wanted.
Maybe not.
After all, Shotgun Sally always said, “Folks’ll talk a lot plainer to a female who acts dumb and keeps her ears open while she yammers than one who looks too smart and keeps quiet.”
Cara had a lot to say to Deputy Mitchell Steele. It might even involve telling him what he wanted to know. But only if he would reciprocate.
For now, though, she headed for the offices of the Mustang Gazette, in a big, old building on Main Street.
Though she dreaded it, first thing she did was visit her boss’s office. Beauford Jennings was, unfortunately, in. His nose was buried in the front page of their latest edition. Other Texas papers were stacked on his desk.
“Hi, Beau.” Cara slung her purse over the arm of a chair and sat down across from him. “I’ve some stuff to tell you.”
“Anything new on the Wilks story?” Beau put down the paper and regarded Cara as if she were a sheet of newsprint he was trying to read. He squinted beneath glasses perched on the end of his pink-tipped nose.
Beauford Jennings, sixty-two years old, had inherited the Gazette when he was in his forties. He prided himself on being an old-time newspaper man, complete with wrinkled white shirt, suspenders and an honest-to-goodness antique manual typewriter buried under the mounds of paperwork always heaped on his desk.
He kept in close touch with his nephew, Jerry. Followed Jerry’s career as he climbed each rung of his ladder to success on the Dallas News. And undoubtedly, despite all Beau had promised Cara, hoped that someday Jerry would return to run the Mustang Gazette.
“I’m working on it,” she replied to his question.
“Handle this one carefully. In fact I may just take over. You did a good job reporting on those other murders, but you weren’t as close to the victims then.” She didn’t bother to remind him that she once had been close to Andrew. “I think I’ll—”
No way! “You’ve heard from our esteemed sheriff?” Cara interrupted. This one was hers. It wasn’t just a story. As in the killings of Andrew McGovern and Jeb Rawlins, it could involve deep-down-and-dirty investigative reporting. This time she was in the thick of it, since she had found Nancy’s body. She could handle the story. She would handle it.
“You bet I’ve heard from Sheriff Wilson.” Beau removed his glasses and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “He’s awful touchy about this. Said he’d sue the pants off me if I dared to criticize his department’s handling of the case. He said you and he have already had words, too. Maybe someone else with more objectivity would be better on this one.”
“I’m damned objective, Beau, and you can’t say otherwise.” Cara picked up the Gazette from where he’d laid it and pointed to her article. “There’s not a thing wrong with this.”
The story she’d e-mailed soon after leaving Nancy’s last night appeared on the front page: a straightforward report on the murder, interviews with neighbors that she’d obtained after the techs took samples from her, and who to contact at the Mustang County Sheriff’s Department with information that could lead to the killer. Vanilla stuff. No controversy. A damn fine job of reporting.
“No, it’s a good story, Cara. But—”
“Promise you’ll let me stay on it, Beau.”
“Only if you—”
“And promise that this will be the one. If I can break the story about who killed Nancy, and tie it to the other Mustang Valley murders—”
“What do you mean?” Beau stood behind his desk. Concern and confusion etched wrinkles on a high forehead that was already well pleated.
“The Andrew McGovern and Jebediah Rawlins killings both had something to do with the law firm Lambert & Church.”
“You’re stretching things, Cara. Just because the first victim worked there and the murderer in the second case was a partner—”
“The third