Consequence (19 page)

Robert inclined his head. He wouldn’t keep a
woman against her will, but he was disappointed he couldn’t keep
her for a little while longer. “You’re welcome to stay, but not if
it makes you uncomfortable.”

She laughed and threw caution to the wind.
“Robert, if I were to stay here, I think I’d become a bit too
comfortable. You have a lovely home and I appreciate you allowing
me the use of your guest room. But, I’m used to being on my
own.”

“Well, at least stay for breakfast. I make a
killer bowl of cereal.”

Two hours later, Diara opened her eyes and
focused on the muscled forearm around her waist. Her gaze traveled
from the curved hand with neatly manicured nails up the length of
the arm. She turned her head slightly, saw Robert’s chest rise and
fall as he breathed deeply. He was asleep. They must have dozed
after reading through the hundreds of documents in her
grandmother’s file.

He convinced her to stay for breakfast after
all, and mentioned the paperwork while they scooped up spoonfuls of
shredded wheat. She asked if she could see it, and he agreed
readily. He was, after all, a private attorney called in at the
last minute at the request of Judge Johnson. If anyone deserved to
know the charges and plan for the proceedings, it was Ethel and
Diara.

At first, she read with avidity. Then the
words began to run together and she yawned, rubbing her eyes. She
remembered leaning back against the soft sofa cushions and telling
Robert about Ethel’s confession. He didn’t ask many questions; just
listened with attentiveness.

It was the last thing she recalled.

She must have fallen asleep and he’d been too
kind to wake her. That he was asleep also meant he must have stayed
by her side, letting her snuggle into the comfort of his embrace.
She warned him, she could become too comfortable. She giggled at
the thought and his arm tightened. Was he waking up? Would he be
embarrassed? Thinking about him and his arm beneath her breasts
sent a thrill zinging through her stomach and her nipples
hardened.

Robert was awake and his eyes flicked from
her pert breasts to her face. Diara blinked and when she opened her
eyes, she stared at his mouth. She shifted, turning her body
towards his in invitation. His arm dropped to cradle her hip, while
his other hand cupped her chin. His lips brushed hers. Warm, soft
and sleepy, one of the sweetest kinds of kisses. She sighed into
his mouth and lifted her palms to his chest, stroking him through
the silky fabric of his T-shirt. He reached for her hair and slowly
tugged the band out. Long, twisted ringlets flooded her
shoulders.

“You are beautiful,” he murmured, lifting a
lock of her hair and rubbing it between his fingers. “So
enchanting. A precious gift.”

She was humbled by the awe and reverence she
saw in his face.

Then, the front door slammed and footsteps
headed up the stairs.

Diara froze, retracting her arms and crossing
them in front of herself. Her worried green eyes flitted to
his.

“It’s okay; it’s my sister,” he whispered,
rubbing his stubbly face against her soft cheek. The rasp tickled
her and she giggled.

They heard the pipes groan as a shower turned
on somewhere in the house. “She’s not going to disturb us,” he
promised.

Diara pressed her cheek against his, snuggled
into his embrace and sighed.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Bridget spent a sleepless night. Boone
crawled into bed long after midnight and fell immediately asleep.
She tossed and turned, shame battling with anger. She gave up and
went downstairs to the kitchen. She slammed the door on the
microwave and punched buttons to heat up the cup of tea. Glancing
at the clock, she snorted in disgust. It read three
thirty-three.

The dogs followed her into the den where she
curled up in Boone’s recliner. She sat in the dark, sipping the hot
chamomile and listening to the silence. Nothing moved outside in
the frigid January night except for the occasional car traveling
Last Chance Road.

She couldn’t stop thinking about Cherry
Jefferson, the little girl in the school photograph. She wondered
if she had accompanied her mother back to Eaton and, if so, where
she was staying. Did her family come with her? What were they going
to do? Poor Ethel Jefferson. What did she look like? Was she
afraid? Was she in pain?

She felt wretched and filled with guilt. The
Jeffersons were suffering thanks to her ego trip. She had to do it;
she had to show everyone how smart she was, how she could find
anything and anyone. She’d let her idiot pride blind her to the
truth, that everything she did had a consequence. Someone always
paid the price and this time, it was an 82-year-old woman.

She’d been warned by Frankie. She knew that
Ethel Jefferson was a victim and anything she did to get away from
Roy Gaumer was probably well deserved. Cherry Jefferson’s sad, dark
eyes haunted her. Children didn’t look like that without a reason.
Roy Gaumer beat his wife and his daughter. Who wouldn’t fight back?
Who wouldn’t protect their child?

Bridget rocked back and forth in the big
chair, tears rolling down her face. Tears for the lost child and
the desperate mother. Most of her tears were from shame, regret and
worry.

More than anything, she wished she could turn
back time, not only to save the Jeffersons, but to save her and
Boone. She didn’t know if they could survive this event. She
couldn’t look into his eyes without wondering how he could be
unfeeling. She couldn’t look into his eyes period, she was ashamed
of her part in the hunt.

Boone awoke to an empty bed and stared at the
ceiling before tossing the covers aside. He found Bridget asleep in
the recliner and draped a blanket over her. The dogs scrambled to
their feet and joined him in the kitchen where he proceeded through
the morning ritual. He didn’t want to wake Bridget. She needed her
sleep and he wanted to avoid another angry confrontation. He closed
the kitchen door while the coffee machine ground beans.

A few minutes later, he took his cup of
coffee upstairs to drink while he finished showering and shaving.
He was ready, ahead of his usual schedule, so he went back
downstairs to check on Bridget. She still slept, surrounded by her
furry entourage. He kissed her on the cheek, then left the house
for his shift at the Chance Police Department.

He called the answering service to pick up
any messages from the night before, which was his second mistake of
the day. He’d hear about his first when he returned home.

Gladys Neece tsked tsked. “You’re at work
mighty early today, Boone.” He heard her cover the telephone
receiver and whisper to someone else. “In the dog house?”

He heard her cackling laughter and the
giggles of Ava Smith in the background.

“Are there any messages?” he repeated.

“Mmmmm hmmm, someone woke up on the wrong
side of the bed this morning,” she said. “What did you do, you bad
boy?”

He couldn’t get the messages late since the
answering service ladies would deride him for staying in bed, and
now he couldn’t get them early because they assumed he’d been
kicked out of it. He couldn’t win.

“Nothing, Gladys, everything’s fine. I have a
lot to do today, so if you don’t mind, please give me the call
log.”

The high-pitched cackle pierced his skull and
he closed his eyes, praying for patience.

“Just one from Judge Johnson’s office,”
Gladys said. “The arraignment is tomorrow at noon. He’ll see you in
his chambers before then. What arraignment is that, Boone?”

He refused to gossip with her, though,
thanking her and hanging up the phone. As he did, he could hear Ava
in the background pleading, “Aww, come on Boone. You can tell
us.”

An hour later, the jailhouse door opened and
a blast of Arctic wind blew the papers off his desk. Boone looked
up to see Katrina Hall pulling the door closed behind her. She wore
an off-white cashmere wool coat and high-heeled brown boots.

Boone watched as she unwound her plaid scarf
then removed the matching beret from her head. Her black hair
tumbled in luxurious waves. Katrina tucked the hat into her coat
pocket, and after unbuttoning it, hung it and the scarf on the coat
rack by the door.

“I hope you have a pot of coffee,” she
said.

Boone nodded once toward the side of the room
where an old credenza served as a beverage station. “What can I do
for you today, Katrina?”

She took her time, swaggering to the credenza
and pouring herself a cup. She spooned sugar into the ceramic mug
and added the brew. Inhaling, she said, “You make the best coffee
in town, Boone.”

She walked carefully to the desk, balancing
the overfilled cup in one hand, while she dug into her pants pocket
for her reporter’s notepad. She placed the cup on the edge of his
desk, slid an ink pen from behind her ear and pulled up a chair.
She clicked the pen, scribbled a couple of swirls on the page to
make sure the ink ran, and then waited.

Katrina always made a dramatic entrance, and
this morning was no exception. Despite the freezing wind and the
early hour, she was impeccably dressed. Her makeup was flawless,
not a hair out of place. With creamy skin, ruby lips and kohl-edged
eyes framed with sooty, long lashes, she could have walked off the
page of a Victoria Secret’s catalog.

“You know what I want,” she said, without a
trace of emotion in her voice. She blinked once. “Tell me about
Ethel Fontenelle, the woman you extradited for murder.”

Boone was a seasoned law enforcement officer,
but even he squirmed when Katrina Hall cornered him. “Why don’t you
ask your brother?” he hedged.

“Because I’m asking you. It’s public
information.” She lifted the coffee cup and sipped.

Boone tapped a thick folder. “Tell you what;
I need to run over to the McIntyre place. Why don’t you sit here,
make yourself comfortable and read the file. It’s pretty much all
there. I’ll be back in twenty, and if you have any questions, you
can ask me then.”

He stood up, placed his Stetson on his head
and picked up his jacket. “Don’t answer the phones; the service
connects after six rings. Don’t leave the place unlocked, either,
if you decide to leave before I get back. Push the button on your
way out. You know the drill.”

Katrina thumbed through the folder, glancing
through the paperwork. “Don’t worry, I’ll be here,” she said. “And
yes, I know the drill.”

Katrina worked part time at the Chance Police
Department while in high school and college. Her experience behind
the scenes gave her added insight when reporting on crime. Boone
wasn’t concerned about leaving her in charge; as a teen, she was in
trenches a long time until her interests took her in a different
direction.

Boone recalled his old boss, the former
police chief of Chance, Shane O’Brien, saying she was the “sharpest
tool in the box.”

O’Brien encouraged Katrina to attend the
academy, which she did alongside Boone, but she decided to become a
journalist instead of a police officer. O’Brien was disappointed,
but he supported her choice. When he retired, he made a present of
his nine-millimeter handgun to Katrina. Boone wondered if she still
had it and, if she carried it, if she had a permit.

Engrossed with the file’s contents, Katrina
didn’t notice Boone leaving the building. She hadn’t read any
reports as thorough and well organized, and wondered how Boone had
amassed all the information. Then she saw the Internet URL links at
the bottom of many pages and the occasional username “Cormac”
scattered throughout the web addresses and folder links.

“Ahhh, Bridget Cormac’s been working on the
case too,” she said to no one. She took the file to the
department’s old photocopy machine and fed it through, page by
page. As soon as she had a complete copy, she collated the pages
chronologically, and “borrowed” an empty folder from Boone’s supply
closet. She looked through the telephone directory for the Cormac
residence. The number was listed, but the address was a rural route
somewhere on Last Chance Road. “How many places can there be?”
Katrina speculated. She punched the number into her cell phone and
waited for it to ring. Impatiently, she glared at her watch. It was
after nine o’clock, she should be up. After six rings, the phone
went to voice mail.

“Hi Bridget, Katrina Hall here,” she spoke
rapidly. “I’d like to talk to you about your research on the Ethel
Fontenelle case. Could you please give me a call back?” Katrina
rattled off her mobile number and hung up, then returned to the
folder’s contents. She was still reading when Boone returned.

“No calls,” she said, without looking up.

Boone was relieved. He didn’t want to talk to
Gladys or Ava again today. He hung up his jacket and hat, then
pulled his rolling chair from the desk. He saw the second folder at
Katrina’s elbow. “See you made yourself a copy.”

“Yes, thanks,” she said distractedly.

Boone waited patiently, leaning back in his
chair, his hands crossed over his abdomen. Katrina finished reading
and lifted a couple pages from the pile. “Bridget did all of this?”
she asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Most. The forensic report is from the Philly
M.E.’s office. We needed outside help with the bones,” he said.

She nodded and shuffled more pages. “This is
a wild story, Boone. It’s a great story. I can’t wait to start
writing it. Where can I find Mrs. Fontenelle?”

Boone explained the judge had sequestered the
prisoner at the local nursing home. “But I thought you’d have heard
all this from Robert,” he said. “Last time I saw him, he was
escorting Mrs. Fontenlle’s granddaughter to his house. I thought
you two shared a place.”

Katrina’s face shuttered. What he didn’t know
was she’d spent the night with Jack DeSoto. Again. When she’d
arrived home, she barely had time to take a shower before dashing
to work. At the newspaper, she’d scanned the police log for
anything of interest, then headed for the Chance Police
Department.