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Her smile was spontaneous. She could have shot herself for not holding it back, for as soon as Boone saw her grin, his solemn blue eyes took on that twinkle she remembered all too well. Peachy.
“I like making you smile,” he told her.
“Well, don’t like it too much.”
Instead of being irritated, he just grinned. She pretended not to melt a little, but it was hard. Diversion needed.
“This is where the ‘something happened’ part comes in,” she continued. “Before I came here, I was headed to the Last Stop Cemetery, where Laurie Detry is buried, and I stopped for coffee. When I came out to my car, I found a nasty little death threat under my windshield wiper. It warned me to forget what I think I know about the murder or I’m dead.”
Boone muttered a curse and his face darkened, surprising Angie. She’d never seen him look this angry. Sure, he had a heart for the underdog, and in this particular situation, she was the one barking. But he always hid his emotions from clients. Surely he didn’t see her as anything more than that? He understood it was over between them, didn’t he?
Not wanting to get into that—ever—she regrouped. “I could try to handle finding the evidence on my own, but if the missing evidence is buried there, I thought it might be smart to have someone watch my back while I’m busy digging.”
“Really smart,” Boone agreed.
“So will you help?”
“Of course.”
His instant response was a good sign. She was happy he was so willing to play bodyguard, but niggling little doubts immediately started to chomp away at that happiness. What if he really did have the wrong idea about a future for them?
“No strings attached,” she warned.
“Wasn’t even thinking in that direction,” Boone replied easily.
Too easily. Angie’s eyes narrowed. “Neither was I.” Really. “I only came to you because it’s possible someone at the department might have helped Cliff hide the weapon, and covered up for him. I don’t know that anyone did, but I can’t take the chance. If I hand in the evidence there, it might disappear again.”
“That seems possible,” he agreed. “I know the county sheriff’s chief deputy personally. Once we find it, we can bring the evidence to him.”
That would work. Angie nodded slowly. “I am sorry if I’m taking you away from important work—”
“Angie.” Boone held up his palm. “Please, don’t be nervous where I’m concerned. I can take the time for you. And I understand where things stand between us and am not reading anything into your asking me for backup.”
Good. Because she was over him—over men and the idea of a husband bringing her any kind of peace and security at all. Boone had been strike two. From where she stood, she now expected that if God wanted her to be married, He’d find her a husband, and she would have no doubts about the rightness of His choice. Boone could absolutely, positively, not be the right man, because she had a whole boatload of doubts about him.
Even if he was staring at her with eyes she could dive into.
“You do realize,” Boone said suddenly, “that you should get a search warrant to dig on private property?”
“The judge isn’t going to give me one on total speculation, which is all my theory is. Besides, I had my fill of looking like a fool at the trial, thank you.”
His eyes took on an apologetic look, which she ignored. The possibility a judge might laugh at her theory left her cold inside, and she had Boone to thank for robbing her of not only her reputation, but also her confidence in her ability as a cop. As a Christian, she had tried several times during the last half year to make the leap into forgiveness, but she couldn’t, not when Boone wasn’t the least bit sorry. Too much hurt lingered. And fear that if she stuck around Boone for too long, he could betray her all over again.
“You’ve got something else planned?” he asked.
“Instead of a warrant, I’m stopping in at the cemetery caretaker’s office, telling him important evidence might be buried there, and asking for permission to search.” Begging for permission, if need be.
“That should work, too.” Boone nodded. “Since you don’t want to go to a judge, I take it you don’t want my friend from the sheriff’s department coming as a witness, either, just in case the gun isn’t buried there?”
“You’re finally understanding me,” she told him.
“Only six months too late,” he said. The thought lingered in the air between them as Boone reached for a set of keys on the glass-topped surface near his phone, unlocked a desk drawer, and pulled out a Glock she knew he kept within arm’s reach on purpose. He had a wide reputation for being the best criminal-defense attorney in the county, and sometimes, he’d once told her, desperate people who were guilty came to ask him for help. He never knew how well they would take his refusal to defend them. He’d only drawn it twice, but he would shoot if he had to.
She believed him. He always told her the truth, like when he’d said he’d do anything to keep his client from prison. She just hadn’t thought that “anything” would include ruining her.
She swallowed. She had to stop the self-pity and focus. There was a life riding on it.
She watched Boone stand, pull open his black, designer suit jacket and place his weapon in a leather shoulder holster. Broad-shouldered and tall, he had a way of making her feel safe when in his presence, even when he wasn’t carrying.
Not that she was worried or anything. But if she got shot from behind, who would see justice done? Leaning over, she patted her own backup weapon, a Beretta, that was lodged in an ankle holster under her jeans. “Will I be keeping you from any appointments or court appearances?”
“Not unless we get murdered.”
She couldn’t resist rolling her eyes at him. “Like you would let the opposition get the best of you with a little old gun. You’d probably debate him to death first.”
He chuckled, but when he rounded his desk and joined her, his dark blue eyes were serious again. Angie didn’t like that look on him—it meant trouble for her.
“You realize if we find this evidence, it will more than likely be inadmissible in any court, right? The chain of custody can’t be proved. And since Detry’s wife owned the gun to begin with, Detry’s prints showing up on it won’t be a shocker, unless there are blood smears with his prints on them. The only usefulness it’ll have is if someone else’s prints are on the grip.”
“I actually hadn’t thought beyond that dumping it on your desk and the ‘I told you so’ you mentioned earlier,” Angie told him, standing. “But let’s leave it up to a judge to decide if Detry’s prints are usable.” She stressed his name to make sure Boone knew she didn’t doubt the outcome, even if he did. “I know he can’t be retried because of double jeopardy, but maybe they can get him for perjury.”
“Detry didn’t lie.”
What was with this one-upmanship thing? Had they always done it, but she’d been too in love with him to notice? Angie guessed it didn’t matter. She was getting what she wanted, so she flattened her lips together and refused to push his buttons further.
Boone, however, wasn’t as polite. “Your friend’s hiding crucial evidence and lying about its existence needs to be investigated.”
“If you’re suggesting Cliff would murder a woman in cold blood and then hide the weapon, stop. He wouldn’t. Wouldn’t have,” she corrected, glaring at Boone. A word formed on his lips, but she interrupted him with a wave of her hand. “If you say one more word in that direction, I think I’ll leave alone and risk getting shot.”
“Wouldn’t want that to happen. You ready?”
He’d caved in awfully fast. Angie frowned as she grabbed her handbag and walked out of the office ahead of him. He was making an effort to be helpful—she had to give him that much—but she knew better than to let her guard down around him. At least she wouldn’t have to see him again past today—if all went well, that was. She didn’t want to think about the alternatives. Sometimes, like when she was around Boone, it was better not to think too much.
Five minutes later they had retrieved a shovel for digging and a metal detector—both brand-spanking-new from Wal-Mart—from her trunk and got into Boone’s charcoal-gray sedan with tinted windows so dark she was sure they were illegal.
“I always thought this car had a sinister aura,” she said, pulling her seat belt around her. Sinister or not, she had to admit the inside smelled good. Like real leather and citrus. Then she realized the lime scent came from Boone, and butterflies fluttered in her stomach.
“I realize it’s low profile for you.” He turned the key, and the powerful motor came to life. “What exactly is that shade of orange you drive around in?”
“It’s called candy orange, and it’s not that bright.”
“Okay, vivid.”
“At least if anyone runs into me, they can’t claim they didn’t notice me coming. You, however, blend into the highway in a rearview mirror.”
“And you make a nice bull’s-eye if they want to murder you,” he pointed out.
“That’s why we took your car.” She smiled smugly.
“See? I’m already doing my job protecting you.”
He sent her the same impish grin that used to warm her heart. Turned out it still did. They were connecting again, like old times—there was no other way of putting it.
He put the car in gear and turned his attention to driving out of the small parking garage next to his office building, but she watched his profile, unable to tear her eyes away, feeling more alive than at any time in the last six months…
What was she thinking? How easily she’d fallen back into the electric, fun banter they’d once had, as if everything was normal between them. His agreeing to help her, a little verbal football, and a whiff or two of his cologne—was that all she needed to get wrapped up again in her emotions and feelings for him? Stupid. In about an hour, maybe two, Boone was going to drop her off at her candy-orange car and they would never see each other again, unless she had an occasion to arrest someone he was defending and have to testify. And she already knew how going up against him in court worked out. No, thank you. She did not need Boone Walker–type grief.
Lord, help me to let him go. Because at this point, she wasn’t sure what would be more dangerous—running into a murderous Warren Detry…or losing her heart again to Boone.
TWO
“I know you still believe Detry is guilty,” Boone said after they’d pulled out onto the busy, uptown street, “so tell me. Why do you think Cliff Haggis, a cop, would hide a gun to protect a guilty man from a murder rap?”
Her warm and fuzzy feelings toward Boone fled, and her nerve endings went on red alert. That had to be the quickest answer to a prayer she’d ever had. She hadn’t wanted to feel a connection to Boone again, but she also hadn’t wanted this irritation at him washing through her. She’d rather not be feeling anything for him at all.
“You’re trying to argue again,” she pointed out.
“I’m a lawyer,” he said with a charming smile. “Arguing is what I do.”
She sighed. “Can’t you just be my bodyguard and let me take care of the business end?”
“If I have to shoot somebody, that is the business end. The more knowledge I have about what’s going on, the better chance I’ll have of not picking off an innocent man.”
True. She took a deep breath. “I don’t know why Cliff hid the evidence. Maybe he knew Detry from someplace and owed him a big favor. Or maybe Detry offered a bribe to hide it and Cliff desperately needed money.”
“Or maybe Cliff hid the weapon because he killed Detry’s wife himself.”
She was wrong. Warm and fuzzy was preferable to wanting to box Boone’s ears in. “Get real,” she denied flatly. “I told you already, Cliff couldn’t commit cold-blooded murder.”
“Anyone could, given the right circumstances. Like right now, you look like you want to kill me.”
“That would be justifiable homicide, not murder.”
The boyish grin, so out of sync with his rugged, dark features, returned. She couldn’t help herself, she slowly grinned back. They both knew she didn’t mean it, about wanting him dead. And smiling at Boone didn’t mean she was any less irritated with him.
Did it?
“Cliff’s wife said they didn’t know the victim, and I believe her,” she said, preferring the arguing to examining how she was honestly feeling. “Detry killed his wife with the missing weapon, and I believe what we find is going to prove it. And the new evidence might just stand up in court, because no way a cop is planting Detry’s fingerprints on it to frame him, but then burying the weapon. That doesn’t make sense.”
“Look, Angie, they found no other evidence against Detry anywhere. So why are you so sure you’re going to find usable prints?”
“I just am.”
Boone shook his head, but Angie let the argument go, gazing out the window at the large city park they were passing, with its trees and walking trails. She actually had a lot of reasons for thinking Detry had murdered his wife, and they were all good.
The first reason stemmed from something that had occurred at the scene of the crime. She’d arrived soon after Cliff that afernoon at the Detry mansion in response to the 911 call reporting a murder. She’d checked the victim’s cold body and spotted what she presumed was the murder weapon several feet away. She had to help Cliff secure the huge place, so she didn’t remain there. In the next room, she’d found Detry, sitting with his face in his hands. The early middle-aged man, a total stranger, had looked at her, and his expression had changed from grief to surprise—and then to a coldness that had left a permanent chill in her. Before they could exchange words, Cliff had found them and given her rooms to search. Later, Detry metamorphosed back into the grieving husband, but Angie had walked away that day convinced he was guilty.
Another reason for still doubting Detry’s innocence was the e-mail she’d gotten a week after his acquittal that said, simply, “I will not forgive you.” She’d had it traced by the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation’s computer division to a nearby library, but they’d never located the person who’d sent it.
And finally, there was Angie’s sister. Detry had gotten involved with a church’s Reach Out to Prisoners program while incarcerated to await trial and claimed to have found God. What he’d also found was her sister, Chloe, who was involved in the ministry. If that had been their only connection, it would have been a coincidence, sure. But not a month after Detry had been found not guilty, he’d tracked down and begun dating Chloe. Out of the blue, Chloe had called Angie up to forgive her for a past wrong and to try to reconcile—because Warren Detry had asked her to.
Angie shivered. She figured Detry was dating Chloe for revenge on her, since she’d refused to back down in court about having seen the presumed murder weapon. The man was evil, and she was not waiting around until he decided he would get his ultimate revenge on her—killing her sister. She was fighting him now with all she had in her.
Gut instinct, that’s how she knew the prints would point to Detry. But Boone didn’t trust instinct or feelings. He dealt in hard evidence. That was fine. She had a fact for him.
“I’ll give you one reason I’m sure about Detry’s guilt,” she told him finally, when they’d come to the outskirts of Copper City and were riding down a highway studded with ranch homes. “The insurance policy on his wife was for half a mil. That always screams husband.”
Boone shook his head. “Not this time.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The insurance broker said the wife was the one who took out the policy, not Detry. He even remembered her saying her husband wasn’t going to like it, but she wanted him to have money to keep up the house if she died.”
“A house he promptly sold after he was acquitted. You don’t think he influenced her at all?” she asked skeptically.
His look said “you know what I think already.”
How exasperating could one man get? “I can’t wait till we get a print match.”
“Me, neither.” He grinned like that would make him the happiest man on earth.
Since she was afraid she would say something that would get Boone talking about the relationship they didn’t have, she concentrated on watching the highway behind them for signs they were being followed. Boone also kept silent, for which she was grateful.
A few minutes later, they passed under the gateway arch at the cemetery and parked in front of a small building toward the front that resembled a homey cottage more than a place of business. Tiny flowers in various shades of pink and red growing in window boxes brightened the front, and a sign that read “Last Stop” in flowing script hung over the door.
Boone and Angie got out and scanned the area around them.
“No cars, no one lurking around the trees,” she observed. “No one followed us, either. We’ve been lucky.”
“It’s too quiet,” Boone said. “Dead quiet.”
“I am not walking down that pun trail,” she told him, swinging her shoulder bag from her side to her hands to dig for her badge and ID.
“I wasn’t trying to be funny. Somebody threatened you with death if you don’t forget about the Detry murder, which remains unsolved, with a murderer still out there—”
She opened her mouth to protest, but Boone narrowed his eyes, and she gave up, preferring to pick her battles.
“But there’s not so much as a hint of anything out of place on the trip over, or here.” He shook his head. “Something’s not right.”
“We took your car so no one would spot us. Maybe we’re just doing everything right.”
“Or maybe the danger isn’t who or what you think it is.”
“Boone, please go back to doing funny. I like you better that way.” She found what she needed to prove she was a cop to the caretaker and zipped her bag closed.
“Right. We can joke. Just don’t discuss anything serious, right?”
“You’re not talking about Detry now, are you?” She met him eye to eye and knew she was correct. His grim look was back. That warning, knowing stare that convinced jurors he was right and won court cases—but wouldn’t win her.
