Best Kept Secrets

Tears instantly formed in her eyes. One moment they

 

weren't there, the next they were heavily pushing against her

 

eyelids. She aimed a shaking index finger at his chest.

 

"Don't, Reede. I didn't know that--"

 

"That when you backed Joe Wallace into a corner he'd

 

blow his brains out. Well, that's what happened, baby.

 

They're dripping over the edge of his desk."

 

"Shut up."

 

' 'We found clumps of hair and tissue on the opposite wall."

 

She covered her mouth, swallowing a scream behind her

 

hands. Turning her back on him, she shuddered uncontrollably.

 

When he touched her, she flinched, but his hands were

 

firm on her shoulders as he turned her around and pulled her

 

against his chest.

 

"Hush now, it's done." His chest expanded against her

 

cheek as he drew in a deep breath. "Forget it."

 

She shoved herself away. "Forget it? A man is dead. It's

 

my fault."

 

"Did you pull the trigger?"

 

"No."

 

"Then, it's not your fault."

 

There was a knock at the door. "Who is it?" Reede asked

 

crossly. When the deputy identified himself, Reede told him

 

to come in. He signaled Alex into a chair while the deputy

 

rolled a sheet of paper into the typewriter. She looked at

 

Reede in bewilderment.

 

"We have to take your statement," he said.

 

"Now?"

 

"Best to get it over with. Ready?" he asked the deputy

 

and got a nod. "Okay, Alex, what happened?"

 

She dabbed her face with a tissue before she began. As

 

briefly as possible, she told what had transpired in the judge's

 

chambers, being careful not to mention any names or issues

 

that had been discussed.

 

"I left his office and got as far as the elevator." She stared

 

down at the soggy Kleenex that she'd been mutilating between

 

her hands. "Then, I heard the shot."

 

 

 

"You ran back in?"

 

"Yes. He was slumped over. His head was lying on his

 

desk. I saw blood and . . . and knew what he'd done."

 

"Did you see the pistol?" She shook her head. Reede said

 

to the deputy, "Make a note that she answered no and that

 

she couldn't have seen it because it had fallen from the victim's

 

right hand to the floor. That's all for now." The deputy

 

discreetly withdrew. Reede waited several moments. His foot

 

swung to and fro from the corner of the desk where he was

 

seated. "What did you and the judge talk about?"

 

"Celina's murder. I accused him of tampering with evidence

 

and accepting a bribe."

 

"Serious allegations. How did he respond?"

 

"He admitted it."

 

He took something out of his shirt pocket and tossed it

 

onto his desk. The sterling-silver scalpel landed with a dull,

 

metallic sound. It had oxidized, but was otherwise clean.

 

Alex recoiled from the sight of it.' 'Where'd you get that?''

 

"From the judge's left hand."

 

They exchanged a long stare. Finally, Reede said, "It was

 

his instrument of self-abuse, kept in his desk drawer, a constant

 

reminder that he was corruptible. Knowing how proud

 

he was of his years on the bench, it's no wonder he cashed

 

in. He'd rather blow off the side of his head than watch his

 

career be ruined."

 

"Is that all you can say?"

 

"What do you expect me to say?"

 

"I expect you to ask me who bribed him? With what?

 

Why?" Her tearful eyes dried instantly. "You already know,

 

don't you?"

 

He eased himself off the desk and stood up. "I wasn't

 

born yesterday, Alex."

 

"So, you know that Angus got Judge Wallace to lock

 

Gooney Bud away, presumably as Celina's murderer, in exchange

 

for Junior marrying Stacey."

 

"Where does that leave you?" Planting his hands on his

 

hips, he loomed above her. "It's speculation. You can't prove

 

 

 

it. Neither of them would have been stupid enough to record

 

a conversation to that effect, if one did take place. Nobody

 

wrote anything down. There's enough reasonable doubt there

 

for downtown Dallas to fit into. A man's dead, his reputation

 

as a fine judge has been shot to hell, and you've still got

 

nothing to base a murder rap on."

 

He tapped his chest, his fingertips making angry stabs at

 

his shirt. "I had to drive to the judge's house and notify

 

Stacey that her old man had emptied his head onto his desk

 

because of your loosely based charges that would probably

 

have been no-billed by the grand jury."

 

He stopped and regained control of his temper. "Before I

 

get really pissed off at you, I suggest we get out of here and

 

go someplace where it's safe."

 

"Safe? For whom?"

 

"For you, dammit. Haven't the repercussions of this sunk

 

in yet? Pat Chastain's near cardiac arrest. Greg Harper has

 

already called three times today, wanting to know if you could

 

possibly have had anything to do with this prominent and

 

respected judge's suicide. Stacey is incoherent with grief, but

 

in her lucid moments, she's cursing you to perdition.

 

"We've got Plummet and his army of crazies out there on

 

the courthouse steps, carrying pickets that say this is just the

 

beginning of the end. All this chaos is because of you and

 

your half-baked murder case, Counselor."

 

Alex felt as though her chest was going to cave in, but she

 

fought back. "Was I supposed to let Wallace go free just

 

because he was a really nice guy?"

 

"There are more subtle ways to handle delicate situations

 

like that, Alex."

 

"But, no one handled it at all!" she cried. "Is that your

 

philosophy of the law, Sheriff Lambert? Some rules don't

 

apply to some people? When a friend of yours crosses over,

 

do you conveniently look the other way? Apparently so. Case

 

in point--Nora Gail Burton and her whorehouse. Does that

 

same exclusion from justice apply to you, as well?"

 

He didn't answer. Instead, he went to the door and opened

 

it, saying curtly, "Let's go."

 

 

 

She stepped into the hallway with him; he steered her

 

toward the rear elevator. "Pat loaned me his wife's car,"

 

she told him. "It's parked out front."

 

"I know. There's a swarm of reporters camped right beside

 

it, all of them eager to know the gory details of the judge's

 

suicide. I'm sneaking you out the back door."

 

They left the building unseen. It was completely dark outside,

 

and Alex wondered what time it was.

 

They were halfway between the building and the parking

 

lot when a form disengaged itself from the shadows and

 

blocked their path.

 

"Stacey." Reede exclaimed softly. Subconsciously, his

 

hand closed around the butt of his pistol, although he didn't

 

remove it from the holster.

 

"I thought I'd catch you trying to hide."

 

Stacey's eyes were fixed on Alex. The hatred in them made

 

Alex want to cower against Reede for protection, but she

 

maintained her proud stance. "Before you say anything, Stacey,

 

I want you to know that I'm terribly sorry about your

 

father."

 

"Are you?"

 

"Very sorry."

 

Stacey shivered, whether with cold or revulsion, Alex

 

couldn't tell. "You came here to ruin him. Instead of being

 

sorry, you should feel very proud of yourself."

 

"I had nothing to do with your father's past mistakes."

 

"You're the reason for the whole mess! Why couldn't you

 

just leave him alone?" Stacey cried, her voice cracking.

 

"What happened twenty-five years ago wasn't important to

 

anybody but you. He was old. He planned to retire in a few

 

months anyway. What harm was he doing you?"

 

Alex remembered the judge's last words to her. Stacey

 

hadn't known about the shady deal he had struck on her

 

behalf. Alex could spare her that pain, at least until she'd

 

had time to absorb the shock of her father's death. "I can't

 

discuss the case with you. I'm sorry."

 

' 'Case? Case? This was never about a case. This was about

 

your trashy mother, who used and manipulated people--

 

 

 

men--until someone got tired of it and killed her." Her eyes

 

narrowed threateningly and she took a malevolent step closer.

 

"You're just like her, stirring up trouble, a user of people

 

and a whore!"

 

She launched herself at Alex, but Reede stepped between

 

them, catching Stacey against his chest and holding her there

 

until her rage was spent and she was clinging to him weakly,

 

sobbing.

 

He stroked her back and murmured words of comfort.

 

Behind her back, he passed Alex the keys to his Blazer. She

 

took them and let herself in, locking the door behind her.

 

Watching through the windshield, she saw him lead Stacey

 

around the corner of the building and out of sight. Several

 

minutes later, he came jogging back. She unlocked the door

 

for him and he climbed in.

 

"Will she be all right?" Alex asked.

 

"Yeah. I turned her over to some friends. They'll see that

 

she gets home. Someone will stay with her tonight." His lips

 

narrowed into a bitter line. "Of course, the man she wants

 

isn't there for her."

 

"Her father?"

 

He shook his head. "Junior."

 

Because it was all so pitifully sad, Alex began to cry again.

 

 

 

Forty-two

 

 

 

She didn't raise her head until the Blazer jounced over a

 

chuckhole. She tried to get her bearings by looking through

 

the windshield, but it was a dark night, and the road had no

 

markings. "Where are we going?"

 

 

 

 

 

"My place." No sooner had he said it than his headlights

 

picked up the house.

 

"Why?"

 

He cut the truck's engine. "Because I'm afraid to let you

 

out of my sight. People turn up dead or wounded when I

 

do."

 

He left her sitting in the truck while he went to unlock the

 

front door. She thought about driving off, but he'd taken the

 

keys. In some ways, Alex was relieved she'd been robbed

 

of taking the initiative. She wanted to defy him, but didn't

 

have the physical or mental energy. Tiredly, she pushed open

 

the Blazer's door and got out.

 

The house looked different at night. Like a woman's face,

 

it fared better under soft lighting that helped camouflage its

 

flaws. Reede had gone in ahead of her and turned on a lamp.

 

He was crouched in front of the fireplace, putting a long

 

match to the kindling beneath the stacked logs.

 

When the dry wood started crackling, he stood up and

 

asked her, "Are you hungry?"

 

"Hungry?'' She repeated the word like someone unfamiliar

 

with the language.

 

"When did you eat last? Lunch?"

 

"Junior brought a hamburger to my room last night."

 

He made a grumpy, grunting sound and headed for the

 

kitchen.' 'I don't promise anything as fancy as a hamburger.''

 

Thanks to Lupe's niece, the pantry had been recently

 

stocked with more than peanut butter and crackers. After

 

taking a quick inventory, he recited their choices. "Canned

 

soup, canned spaghetti, frozen tamales, bacon and eggs."

 

"Bacon and eggs."

 

They worked in companionable silence. Reede did most

 

of the actual cooking. He had little regard for tidiness and

 

none for culinary finesse. Alex enjoyed watching him. When

 

he slid a plate in front of her and dropped into the chair across

 

the small table, she smiled at him pensively. He noticed her

 

expression and did a double take as he lifted the first forkful

 

to his mouth.