trip had been a waste of taxpayers' money, and almost a week
of Greg's deadline had elapsed.
For the time being, she decided to let the question of
opportunity wait. She had to establish motives. All she had
learned so far was that the three men had adored Celina.
Adoration was hardly motivation for murder.
She had nothing--no evidence, not even a viable suspect.
She was certain that Buddy Hicks hadn't killed her mother,
yet she was no closer to discovering who had.
After spending time alone with Angus, Junior, and Reede,
Alex was convinced that getting a confession would be tantamount
to a miracle. Contrition and repentance didn't fit
their personality profiles. Nor would one testify against the
other. The loyalties were solidly forged, though it was obvious their friendship wasn't what it had once been, which
in itself was a clue. Had Celina's death splintered their clique,
yet kept them bound to one another?
She still hoped that the person who had called a few nights before was an actual eyewitness. She had waited for days for
another call, one that hadn't come, which was a strong indication
that it had been a prank.
Apparently, the only people near the stable that night had
been Gooney Bud, the killer, and Celina. Gooney Bud was
dead. The killer wasn't talking. And Celina--
Alex was suddenly inspired. Her mother couldn't talk--
at least, not in the literal sense--but she might have something
valuable to tell.
The idea made Alex sick to her stomach. She propped her
forehead on the palms of her hands and closed her eyes. Did
she have the fortitude to do it?
She groped for alternatives, but came up empty-handed.
She needed evidence, and she could think of only one place
to look for it.
Before she could change her mind, she switched off the heater and left the office. Avoiding the unreliable elevator,
she jogged up the stairs, hoping that she would catch Judge
Joe Wallace before he left for the day.
She anxiously checked her wristwatch. It was almost five
o'clock. She didn't want to put this off until tomorrow. Now
that her mind was made up, she wanted to act on her decision
before she had the time and opportunity to back out.
The corridors on the second floor were deserted. Jurors
had been dismissed for the day. Trials were in recess until
tomorrow. Her footsteps echoed loudly as she made her way
toward the judge's chambers adjacent to the empty courtroom.
His secretary was still in the anteroom, and none too pleased
to see her.
"I need to speak with the judge immediately." Alex was
out of breath after quickly climbing two flights of stairs, and
her voice was tinged with desperation.
"He's fixin' to leave for the day," she was told with a
lack of apology. "I can make an appoint--"
"This is vitally important, or I wouldn't bother him at this
time of day."
Alex wasn't intimidated by Mrs. Lipscomb's censorious
stare or the retiring sigh she emitted as she left her desk and
moved to the connecting door. She knocked discreetly, then
went inside, closing the door behind her. Alex paced impatiently
until she returned.
"He's agreed to see you. Briefly."
"Thank you." Alex rushed past her and into the chambers.
"Well, what is it this time, Miss Gaither?" Judge Wallace
barked at her the instant she crossed the threshold. He was
pulling on his overcoat. "You seem to have a nasty habit of
showing up without an appointment. As you can see, I'm
leaving. My daughter Stacey doesn't like to hold dinner, and
it would be rude of me to expect her to."
"I apologize to both of you, Judge. As I told your secretary,
it's urgent that I talk to you this afternoon."
"Well?" he demanded cantankerously.
"Could we sit down?"
"I can talk standing up. What do you want?"
"I want you to issue a court order to have my mother's
body exhumed."
The judge sat down then. Or rather, he dropped down into
the chair in front of which he was standing. He stared up at
Alex with undisguised dismay.
"I beg your pardon?" he wheezed.
"I believe you heard me, Judge Wallace, although if it's
necessary to repeat my request, I will."
He waved his hand. "No. Good Lord, no. Hearing it once
was bad enough." He cupped each knee with a hand and
continued to stare up at her, apparently thinking she was
certifiable. "Why would you want to do such a ghastly thing
as that?"
"I don't want to. I wouldn't ask for a court order if I didn't
think exhumation was absolutely necessary."
Having recovered some of his aplomb, he ungraciously
indicated a chair. "You might as well sit. Explain your reasons."
"A crime was committed, but I can find no incriminating
evidence."
"I told you you wouldn't," he exclaimed. "You didn't
listen. You came charging in here, slinging unfounded accusations,
bent on getting vengeance."
"That's not true," she denied evenly.
"That's how I read it. What does Pat Chastain have to say
about this?"
"The D.A. is unavailable. It seems he's spontaneously
taken a few days' vacation and gone hunting."
The judge harrumphed. "Sounds like a damn good idea to
me."
It sounded cowardly to Alex, and she'd been ready to chew
nails when the aloof Mrs. Chastain had informed her of it.
"Will you permit me to look for evidence, Judge?"
"There is no evidence," he stressed.
"My mother's remains might provide some."
"She was autopsied when she was killed. That was twenty-five
years ago, for crissake."
"With all due respect to the coroner at that time, he might
not have been looking for clues when the cause of death was
so readily apparent. I know an excellent forensic specialist
in Dallas. We use him frequently. If there is anything to be
found, he'll find it."
"I can guarantee you that he won't."
"It's worth a try, isn't it?"
He gnawed at the corner of his lip. "I'll take your request
under advisement."
Alex recognized a brush-off when she saw one. "I'd appreciate
an answer tonight."
"Sorry, Miss Gaither. The best I can do is think about it
overnight and give you an answer in the morning. Between
now and then, I hope you'll change your mind and withdraw
the request."
"I won't."
He stood up. "I'm tired, hungry, and damned perturbed
that you've put me in this awkward position." He aimed an
accusatory index finger at her. "I don't like messes."
"Neither do I. I wish this weren't necessary."
"It isn't."
"I believe it is," she countered stubbornly.
"In the long run, you'll be sorry you ever asked me for
this. Now, you've taken up enough of my time. Stacey will
be worried. Good night."
He marched from the room. A few seconds later, Mrs.
Lipscomb appeared in the doorway. Her eyelids were fluttering
with indignation. "Imogene told me you'd mean trouble
around here."
Alex swept past her and returned to her temporary office,
only long enough to retrieve her belongings. The drive out
to the Westerner took longer than usual because she got caught
up in Purcell's rush hour. To further complicate the snarled
traffic, it began to sleet.
Knowing she wouldn't want to go out again, she picked
up a box of carryout fried chicken. By the time she spread
the meal on the round table near the windows of her room,
the food was cold and tasted like cardboard. She promised
herself that she would buy some fruit and healthy snack food
to supplement her unbalanced diet, and maybe a bouquet of
flesh flowers to brighten the dismal room. She debated taking
down the lurid painting of the bullfighter that dominated one
wall. The swirling red cape and slavering bull were real
eyesores.
Loath to review her notes again, she decided to switch on
the TV. The HBO movie she watched was a comedy she
didn't have to think about. She was feeling better by the time
it was over, and decided to take a shower.
She had just dried off and wrapped her wet hair in a towel
when someone knocked on her door. Pulling on her long,
white terry cloth robe and knotting the tie at her waist, she
peered through the peephole.
She opened the door as far as the chain lock would allow.
"What are you, the Welcome Wagon?"
"Open the door," Sheriff Lambert said.
"What for?"
"I need to talk to you."
"About what?"
"I'll tell you when I get inside." Alex didn't move. "Are
you going to open the door, or what?"
"I can talk to you from here."
"Open the friggin' door," he shouted. "I'm freezing my
balls off."
Alex slid the chain out of its mooring, then pulled the door
open and stood aside. Reede stamped his feet and brushed
off the ice pellets that were clinging to the fur collar of his
coat.
He looked her up and down. "Expecting someone?"
Alex crossed her arms over her middle, a gesture meant
to convey her annoyance. "If this is a social call--"
"It isn't." He caught his finger between his teeth and
pulled off one leather glove, then the other. He slapped the
felt cowboy hat against his thigh to shake off the sleet, then
ran a hand through his hair.
He tossed the gloves into the crown of his hat, set the hat
down on the table and lowered himself into a chair. He eyed
the remains of her supper, then took a bite out of an untouched
drumstick. Munching, he asked, "You don't like our fried
chicken?''
He was slouched in the chair, looking like he had settled
in for the night. Alex remained standing. She felt absurdly
exposed in the robe, even though it covered her from jaw to
ankles. Having a motel towel wrapped around her head didn't
help boost her self-confidence.
She tried to appear indifferent to him and her own dishabille.
"No, I didn't like the fried chicken, but it was convenient.
I didn't want to go out to eat."
"Smart decision on a night like this. The roads are getting
treacherous."
"You could have told me that over the phone."
Ignoring that, he leaned far to one side and looked past
her at the television screen, where an unclothed couple were
carnally involved. The camera moved in for a close-up of the
man's lips against the woman's breast.
"No wonder you're mad that I interrupted."
She smacked the power button with her palm. The screen
went blank. "I wasn't watching."
When she turned back around, he was looking up at her,
smiling. "Do you always open your door to any man who
knocks on it?"
"I didn't open my door until you swore at me."
"Is that all a man has to do, talk dirty?"
"You're the highest-ranking law enforcement officer in
this county. If I can't trust you, who can I trust?" She was
thinking she would trust a used car salesman in a green polyester
suit before she would trust Reede Lambert. "And was
it really necessary to strap that on when you came calling?"
He followed the direction of her gaze down to the holster
riding just below his belt. He stretched his booted feet far
out in front of him and crossed them at the ankles. Templing
his fingers, he peered at her over their tips. "I never know
when I might have to use it."
"Is it always loaded?"