frown, the sheriff answered his own question. "No, I can
see that Mrs. Graham failed to mention all that."
"You think I'm here on a personal vendetta."
"Yeah, I do."
"Well, I'm not," Alex said defensively. "I believe there
are enough holes in this case to warrant reinvestigation. So
does District Attorney Harper."
"That egomaniac?" he snorted contemptuously. "He'd
indict his own mother for selling it on street corners if it
would move him any closer to the attorney general's office."
Alex knew his comment was partially true. She tried another
tack. "When Mr. Chastain is better acquainted with the facts, he'll agree that there's been a gross miscarriage of
justice."
"Pat had never even heard of Celina until yesterday.
He's got his hands full chasing down wetbacks and drug
dealers."
"Do you blame me for wanting justice? If your mother
had been stabbed to death in a horse barn, wouldn't you do
everything possible to see that her killer was punished?"
"I don't know. My old lady split before I was old enough
to remember her."
Alex felt a pang of empathy for him that she knew she
couldn't afford. No wonder the pictures she'd seen of Reede
had been of a very intense lad with eyes much older than his
years. She'd never thought to ask her grandmother why he
looked so serious.
"This is an untenable situation, Mr. Lambert. You are a
suspect." She stood up and retrieved her purse. "Thank you
for the coffee. I'm sorry to have bothered you so early in the
morning. From now on, I'll have to rely on the local police
department for assistance."
"Wait a minute."
Alex, already making her way toward the door, stopped
and turned. "What?"
"There is no police department."
Dismayed by that piece of information, she watched as he
reached for his hat and coat. He stepped around her, pulled
open the door for her, then followed her out.
"Hey, Sam, I'm leaving. I'll be across the street." The
deputy nodded. "This way," Reede said, taking Alex's elbow
and guiding her toward a small, square elevator at the
end of the hall.
They got into it together. The door creaked when he pulled
it closed. The sound of grinding gears wasn't very reassuring.
Alex hoped it would make the trip.
She tried to help it along by concentrating hard on their
ascent. All the same, she was fully aware of Reede Lambert
standing so close to her that their clothing touched. He was
studying her.
He said, "You resemble Celina."
"Yes, I know."
"Your size, your mannerisms. Your hair's darker, though,
and it has more red in it. Her eyes were brown, not blue like
yours." His gaze moved over her face. "But there's a striking
resemblance."
"Thank you. I think my mother was beautiful."
"Everybody thought so."
"Including you?"
"Especially me."
The elevator jerked to an abrupt stop. Alex lost her balance
and fell against him. Reede caught her arm and supported
her long enough for her to regain her balance, which might
have taken a little too long, because when they separated,
Alex felt light-headed and breathless.
They were on the first floor. He shrugged into his jacket
as he guided her toward a rear exit. "My car's parked out
front," she told him as they left the building. "Should I put
more money in the meter?"
"Forget it. If you get a ticket, you've got friends in high
places."
His smile wasn't as orthodontist perfect as Junior Minton's,
but it was just as effective. It elicited a tickle in the pit of
her stomach that was strange and wonderful and scary.
His quick grin emphasized the lines on his face. He looked
every day of his forty-three years, but the weathered markings
fit well on his strong, masculine bone structure. He had dark
blond hair that had never known a stylist's touch. He pulled
on his black felt cowboy hat and situated the brim close to
his eyebrows, which were a shade or two darker than his
hair.
His eyes were green. Alex had noticed that the moment
she had walked into his office. She had reacted as any woman
would to so attractive a man. He had no paunch, no middle-aged
softness. Physically, he looked two decades younger
than he actually was.
Alex had to keep reminding herself that she was a prosecutor
for the sovereign state of Texas, and that she should
be looking at Reede Lambert through the eyes of a litigator,
not a woman. Besides, he was a generation older than she.
"Were you out of clean uniforms this morning?" she asked
as they crossed the street.
He wore plain denim Levi's--old, faded, and tight--like
the jeans rodeo cowboys wore. His jacket was brown leather,
and fitted at the waist like a bomber jacket. The fur lining,
which folded out to form a wide collar, was probably coyote.
As soon as they'd stepped into the sunlight, he'd slid on
aviator glasses. The lenses were so dark that she could no
longer see his eyes.
"I used to dread the sight of a uniform, so when I became
sheriff, I made it clear that they'd never get me in one of
those things."
"Why did you always dread the sight of one?"
He smiled wryly. "I was usually trying to outrun it, or at
least avoid it."
"You were a crook?"
"Hell-raiser."
"You had run-ins with the law?"
"Brushes."
"So what turned you around, a religious experience? A
scare? A night or two in jail? Reform school?"