"Pat? No way. When things get touchy, our D.A.'s a real
chickenshit."
Alex caught her forehead in her hand. "This is a nightmare."
He hadn't waited for her to decline or accept his offer of
coffee. He was filling a cup similar to his. "Cream, sugar?"
"This isn't a social call, Mr. Lambert."
He set the cup of black coffee on the edge of the desk in
front of her and returned to his chair. Wood and ancient
springs creaked in protest as he sat down. "You're getting
us off to a bad start."
"Have you forgotten why I'm here?"
"Not for a minute, but do your duties prohibit you from
drinking coffee, or is it a religious abstinence?"
Exasperated, Alex set her purse on the desk, went to the
table, and spooned powdered cream into her mug.
The coffee was strong and hot--much like the stare the
sheriff was giving her--and far better than the tepid brew
she'd drunk in the coffee shop of the Westerner Motel earlier.
If he had brewed it, he knew how to do it right. But then,
he looked like a very capable man. Reared back in his chair,
he did not look at all concerned that he'd been implicated in
a murder case.
"How do you like Purcell, Miss Gaither?"
"I haven't been here long enough to form an opinion."
"Aw, come on. I'll bet your mind was made up not to
like it before you ever got here."
"Why do you say that?"
"It would stand to reason, wouldn't it? Your mother died
here."
His casual reference to her mother's death rankled. "She
didn't just die. She was murdered. Brutally."
"I remember," he said grimly.
"That's right. You discovered her body, didn't you?"
He lowered his eyes to the contents of his coffee mug and
stared into it for a long time before taking a drink. He tossed
it back, draining the mug as though it were a shot of whiskey.
"Did you kill my mother, Mr. Lambert?"
Since she hadn't been able to accurately gauge his reaction
the day before, she wanted to see it now.
His head snapped up. "No." Leaning forward, he braced
his elbows on the desk and gave her a level stare. "Let's cut
through the bullshit, okay? Understand this right now, and
it'll save us both a lot of time. If you want to interrogate me,
Counselor, you'll have to subpoena me to appear before the
grand jury."
"You're refusing to cooperate with my investigation?"
"I didn't say that. This office will be at your disposal per
Pat's instructions. I'll personally help you any way I can."
"Out of the goodness of your heart?" she asked sweetly.
"No, because I want it over and done with, finished. You
understand? So you can go back to Austin where you belong,
and leave the past in the past where it belongs." He got up
to refill his coffee mug. Over his shoulder he asked, "Why'd
you come here?"
"Because Bud Hicks did not murder my mother."
"How the hell do you know? Or did you just ask him?"
"I couldn't. He's dead."
She could tell by his reaction that he hadn't known. He
moved to the window and stared out, sipping his coffee reflectively.
"Well, I'll be damned. Gooney Bud is dead."
"Gooney Bud?"
"That's what everybody called him. I don't think anybody
knew his last name until after Celina died and the newspapers
printed the story."
"He was retarded, I'm told."
The man at the window nodded. "Yeah, and he had a
speech impediment. You could barely understand him."
"Did he live with his parents?"
"His mother. She was half batty herself. She died years
ago, not too long after he was sent away."
He continued to stare through the open slats of the
blinds with his back to her. His silhouette was trim, broad-shouldered,
narrow-hipped. His jeans fit a little too well.
Alex berated herself for noticing.
"Gooney Bud pedaled all over town on one of those large
tricycles," he was saying. "You could hear him coming
blocks away. That thing clattered and clanged like a peddler's
wagon. It was covered with junk. He was a scavenger. Little
girls were warned to stay away from him. We boys made
fun of him, played pranks, things like that." He shook his
head sadly. "Shame."
"He died in a state mental institution, incarcerated for a
crime he didn't commit."
Her comment brought him around. "You've got nothing
to prove that he didn't."
"I'll find the proof."
"None exists."
"Are you so sure? Did you destroy the incriminating evidence
the morning you ostensibly found Celina's body?"
A deep crease formed between his heavy eyebrows.
"Haven't you got anything better to do? Don't you already
have a heavy enough caseload? Why did you start investigating
this in the first place?"
She gave him the same catchall reason she had given Greg
Harper. "Justice was not served. Buddy Hicks was innocent.
He took the blame for somebody else's crime."
"Me, Junior, or Angus?"
"Yes, one of the three of you."
"Who told you that?"
' 'Grandma Graham.''
"Ah, now we're getting somewhere." He hooked one
thumb into a belt loop, his tanned fingers curling negligently
over his fly. "While she was telling you all this, did she
mention how jealous she was?"
"Grandma? Of whom?"
"Of us. Junior and me."
"She told me the two of you and Celina were like the three
musketeers."
"And she resented it. Did she tell you how she doted on
Celina?"
She hadn't had to. The modest house Alex had grown up
in had been a veritable shrine to her late mother. Noting her