One Last Look Read online

  He should have known better.

  “I think I like you, Clare Westbrook,” the doctor told me, before shifting her attention back to Micki. “You need stitches, and that means a trip to my office. Can you stand on your own, or should the chief here carry you to my car?”

  “I can get myself to the car,” Micki said, looking askance at Sonterra. She clearly didn’t want to be man-handled, and after what she’d been through, I could empathize.

  “Maybe your lawyer ought to come along,” Holliday said.

  I nodded. Together, she and I hoisted Micki out of the chair and headed for the exit. Sonterra followed with the doctor’s medical bag. I knew he wanted me either to go home or stay where he could keep an eye on me. He’d already figured out that he wasn’t going to get his way, though. I could tell that by the grim set of his jaw.

  Outside, Doc Holliday helped Micki into a red Volvo, and I climbed into the backseat, waving to Sonterra as we sped out of the parking lot.

  The doctor practiced out of an old house on a side street called Cottonwood Drive. There wasn’t a cottonwood in sight, of course, since they were all in Sonterra’s yard.

  “Do you live here?” I asked when we went inside. The living room had been converted to a waiting area, with the requisite uncomfortable chairs and outdated magazines, but there was no receptionist to make appointments and file insurance claims. I didn’t even see a telephone.

  Holliday led the way into an adjoining examining room. “No,” she said, and left it at that. She didn’t seem unfriendly, just focused on the task at hand, which was attending to her patient.

  Micki climbed resolutely onto the table. Her body language seemed to offer an apology for taking up space. “You missed a bunch of patch-up work last night,” she told the doctor gamely. “There was one hell of a fight at Bubba’s Place.”

  Holliday rummaged for disinfectant, gauze, and other tools of her trade. “Thank God for small favors,” she replied. Then, apparently for my benefit, she added, “I just got in from Iowa this morning. My sister got married.”

  “Bet you wish you were still in Iowa,” Micki said. She sounded ashamed, and that saddened me. Bobby Ray Lombard was the one who should have been ashamed, not her.

  “Wish in one hand,” Judy said, and left it at that.

  She was ready with a hypodermic when Micki’s shock gave way to pain, and made short, efficient work of cleaning her up and stitching the gashes on her lower lip and along the top of her forehead.

  I watched in silence, trying not to wince.

  Presently, Doc started the conversation rolling again, though tentatively. “There are good shelters in Tucson—” she began.

  Micki interrupted with a quick shake of her head and said, “I’m not leaving my trailer. It’s all we’ve got, Suzie and me. I make the payments—me, not Bobby Ray, that no-good son of a bitch—from my tips at the Doozy Diner.” She gave me another sheepish look. “Suzie’s my little girl.”

  Dr. Holliday sighed. She and I both knew Micki had been all too right, back at the station, when she said Bobby Ray would be out of jail right away. We’d be lucky if his fingerprints dried on the booking forms before he was free again; guys like him always had a sister, or a buddy, or some other well-meaning idiot, to post bond. “Then at least get a restraining order.”

  Micki looked fearful. “How much does that cost?”

  How well I understood her position—I’d been a waitress once myself, after all. I’d fought like a scalded cat to keep the lights on, gas in my old beater of a car, and the rent paid. “For you, nothing,” I said. I would cover the filing fee myself, and do the small amount of work pro bono.

  “In the meantime,” Doc Holliday said, “let’s see if there’s any other damage.”

  I borrowed a pen and a piece of paper and took down the pertinent information. When I got home, I would call the appropriate judge and get the legal ball rolling. Maybe I was running on adrenaline, but by then I felt strong enough to take on Bobby Ray Lombard and all his inbred cousins.

  I wrote out my name and cell number on another sheet of paper, handed it to Micki. “If you have a problem with Bobby Ray, call the police first and me second.”

  Micki stared at the paper. “And I’m not going to get a bill for this?” she asked carefully.

  I laid a hand lightly on her shoulder. “I used to work at a place called Nipples, in Tucson, serving drinks. A real dive. Every month, when the first rolled around, I prayed I’d be able to keep a roof over my niece’s head and my own. I’m on the level, Micki. I said this would be free, and I meant it.”

  “Thanks,” she whispered.

  I moved closer, so I could look straight into her bruised, fist-ravaged face. “Bobby Ray’s likely to have a whole slew of sob stories ready, once his sister springs him. All about how he didn’t mean to hurt you, but you just pissed him off so bad, he couldn’t help himself, and he’ll never, ever do it again. He’ll try to make it your fault. Don’t you believe it, Micki. You let that snake back into your life, and one of these days, he’ll kill you. So if you won’t keep him out for yourself, do it for Suzie. Worst case, he’ll hurt her, just the way he hurt you. Best case, she’ll grow up believing it’s okay to live with a man who hits her.”

  Micki blinked. “I don’t want her thinking that.”

  “Of course you don’t,” I said, and over her head, Doc Holliday and I exchanged glances. I figured the doctor was probably thinking the same thing I was—that Micki had taken Bobby Ray back before, and there was a good chance she’d do it again.

  It was time I went home. “Nice meeting you,” I said to Judy Holliday, putting out my hand.

  We shook. “Same here. Don’t be a stranger.”

  I walked the six blocks back to Cemetery Lane, and when I got there, Sonterra’s SUV was parked in the driveway, and there were two identical vehicles at the curb—plain black sedans with government plates. The federal version of subtlety.

  I went around the side of the house and entered by the back door, not wanting to interrupt anything top secret.

  Not much, anyway.

  Waldo and Bernice greeted me in a frenzy of noisy joy.

  I petted them, let them out into the yard to do all the things dogs do in backyards. I grabbed my DayTimer off the kitchen counter, dug my cell phone out of my purse, and went to gaze over the fence at the cemetery while Waldo and Bernice took care of business.

  I called a judge I knew in Tucson. While I was in my last year of law school at the University of Arizona, before Fred Tucker’s appointment to the bench, I’d clerked in his Tucson office for six months. We’d never been buddies, but we got along well enough. Not something I can say about everybody I’ve ever worked with.

  I told Judge Tucker about Micki’s case.

  “You have a fax machine handy?” he asked.

  I gave him the number of Sonterra’s fax, in the den. I’d get the documents signed and file them in the morning.

  “What are you doing in Dry Creek, anyway?” Tucker wanted to know.

  I explained briefly, leaving out a few details, like my pregnancy and the attack that had put me in the hospital.

  “So you’re on hiatus from your practice up in Phoenix?”

  “I’m telecommuting.” No point in mentioning that it was pretty much a one-way deal. Hell of a thing when you can’t even give legal advice away.

  “Pima County could use somebody like you, Clare,” Tucker said smoothly. “Why don’t you talk to the prosecutor about a job? I could put in a good word.”

  I considered Bobby Ray, and all the scum like him, and I was tempted. Oh, indeed, I was tempted. Once, I’d delighted in the argument that the accused deserves a good defense, but lately, that was changing. If I’d been called upon to represent the men who’d beat Eddie senseless, for example, I couldn’t have done it. Ditto for the fiends who’d shot Jimmy Ruiz and his companions down like so many rabid dogs.

  Sonterra’s nail-the-bastards attitude was rubbing off on
me.

  “I’ll think it over,” I said.

  We chatted for a few minutes after that, then I went inside and started building a sandwich. Between Loretta’s departure for New York and the episode with Micki, I’d forgotten all about lunch.

  Sonterra popped his head through the inside doorway just as I was about to take the first bite.

  “Lombard’s booked and behind bars,” he said. “Guess who his sister is?”

  I took a wild stab. “Danielle Bickerhelm,” I threw out, talking with my mouth full.

  “Damn,” Sonterra retorted, “you’re a regular Mrs. Kravinsky. Next, you’ll be out there secret shopping.”

  I laughed, and almost choked on a mouthful of white bread, mayo, and bologna. “Process of elimination, Sonterra. I don’t know any other woman in town by name, except for Madge Rathburn, so it had to be her.”

  A Tommy Lee Jones type appeared behind him. The kind of guy you want on a plane with you if somebody suddenly jumps up and starts brandishing a box cutter.

  “Any more of those sandwiches?” the newcomer asked.

  Sonterra stepped aside to let him into the kitchen. “Special Agent Timmons, my fiancée, Clare Westbrook. Help yourself to whatever you find in the refrigerator.”

  “Thanks,” Tommy Lee said, after nodding to me.

  Four more agents trailed in, looking hungry, and Sonterra issued the same invitation. Pretty soon, there was a bologna sandwich assembly line going on at the long counter next to the fridge.

  Everybody sat down except Sonterra, who brewed a pot of coffee, then put some kibbles out for the dogs.

  “So,” I said brightly, “what do you think happened to Oz Gilbride? Is he in a shallow grave, or whooping it up someplace in South America on the coyote profits?”

  A silence fell.

  Special Agent Timmons, whose real name, alas, was George, not Tommy Lee, sat across from me, munching away. His gaze slid to Sonterra, then back to my face. “I trust Chief Sonterra has explained that this situation is—well—delicate?”

  “I guessed that much on my own,” I said. “I can’t help wondering, though, why you’d park two government vehicles in front of Sonterra’s house, in the broad light of day, and think for one moment that the whole town didn’t know about it.”

  George smiled. “I am well acquainted with the nature of small towns, Ms. Westbrook. I grew up in Northport, Washington. You can spit from one end of the place to the other.” He paused. “Sometimes it’s a good thing to stir up a little gossip in a place like this. Let folks speculate a bit. Usually loosens their tongues.”

  “Got it,” I said. “Anybody want more bologna?”

  Everybody did. I made the second round of sandwiches and poured the coffee. When everybody left but Sonterra, after about forty-five minutes of food and small talk, I spoke first.

  “Give it to me straight, Sonterra. You know I can keep a secret.”

  I watched while Sonterra struggled visibly with his better judgment. And I knew what he’d decided before he answered. “I gave you the high points at the station.”

  “But it’s more than that.”

  “It’s a lot more, Clare, and right now, that’s all I can tell you.” He approached, kissed the crown of my head. “I’ve got to get back to the office. I’ll grab a hamburger for supper.”

  “Translation,” I said glumly, “don’t wait up.”

  Sonterra thrust out a heavy sigh. “Yeah.”

  He left, and I sat there thinking about women who weren’t cut out to be married to lawmen.

  Ten

  I was making my breakfast—tuna salad and chocolate ice cream—when my cell phone played a chorus of “Folsom Prison Blues.” I squinted at the caller ID panel. “Hello, Loretta.”

  “Hello, yourself,” my friend answered. I couldn’t get much from her tone, but at least she didn’t sound tear-clogged, or drunk. “I’m an idiot.”

  I was ready to say I wouldn’t go that far, since she wasn’t the first wife to dash off to rescue a louse of a husband from the consequences of his own actions, but before I could get started, Loretta went on, sounding more dispirited with every word.

  “I should have taken a shuttle to the airport and left the Lexus for you. A couple of the guys from the ranch will pick it up in the long-term lot and bring it to Dry Creek.”

  I felt a rush of gratitude. With all her troubles, Loretta was thinking of me. “Thanks,” I said. Our neck of the woods wasn’t exactly packed with car dealerships, and I didn’t know when I’d get around to choosing and buying a new ride. I had Micki’s restraining order to file, and Sonterra and I were scheduled to leave that evening for Scottsdale. We planned to attend Jimmy’s funeral the next afternoon, and afterward I would devote the rest of the weekend to getting my Phoenix office packed up. Sometime on Sunday, Sonterra, Emma, and I would motor back down to Pima County and dig in for whatever came next.

  “I saw Kip last night,” Loretta announced. She must have dropped her bags at the hotel and boogied straight to the courthouse.

  “How was it?”

  She sighed. “Dismal. I ran into Miranda Slater as I was leaving the federal building. We almost had a scratching match, right there on the hallowed steps of justice.”

  I closed my eyes. Behind my lids, I saw Loretta opening a can of whup-ass on Little Miss Homewrecker, and I had to smile, albeit sadly. I hated that my friend had to go through all this in the first place; she flat-out didn’t deserve it. “What was she doing there? I thought Kip fired her, sent her away.”

  “He did,” Loretta said. “But she’s a persistent type.”

  “You should have punched her lights out.”

  “And end up in the cell next to Kip’s? I like the Plaza a lot better.”

  “I hope you’re in a suite, and charging it to him.”

  “I am,” Loretta replied, “but there’s a possibility my credit cards will be cut off if the government freezes his bank accounts.”

  There are times when being a multimillionaire comes in handy. Silently, I blessed my late and virtually unknown father.

  “I’ll take care of the hotel bill, Loretta. That’ll give you one less thing to worry about, and we can always settle up later.”

  Loretta paused, and even though there was no sound, I could tell that she’d choked up. “Thanks,” she managed, after a few moments.

  “So what else is going on? What does Kip have to say for himself?”

  “That he’s sorry. He asked for your e-mail address, Clare. I hope it was okay that I gave it to him.”

  “Why would he want to send me an e-mail?”

  “You’re my best friend. He’ll probably ask you to look out for me.”

  “Goes without saying,” I replied. If Kip was really concerned about Loretta’s well-being, he and I could deal. If, on the other hand, he planned to make lame excuses and try to win my sympathy and support, I’d be ready for him. “What about the lawyers? Did you talk to them?”

  “Briefly. Kip’s basically screwed, financially, at least. By association, so am I. I’ll tell you more about it when I get back to Arizona.”

  I felt sick. Loretta had been a cocktail waitress at Nipples when she met Kip. She was smart as hell, but she had no recent work experience and no education beyond a few halfhearted semesters at a junior college. How was she going to earn a living?

  I rallied. “When will that be?”

  “Soon,” she said.

  I’d been scanning Headline News, keeping up with Kip’s spectacular fall from glory out of loyalty to Loretta, but there hadn’t been much. Just a lot of fifteen-second video clips, showing Kip entering the federal building in Manhattan, surrounded by lawyers, and a voice-over promising to outline the calamity in depth when more facts were in. So much for hard news.

  “This whole situation seriously sucks,” I said. “I’m so sorry, Loretta.”

  “High five, girlfriend,” Loretta answered glumly, but with a touching effort to raise the cheer level. “What’s g
oing on in Dry Creek?”

  “I just signed up a new client. Her boyfriend knocked her around.”

  “I’m sorry I asked,” Loretta said.

  “Sonterra and I are heading for Scottsdale in a few hours. Worst possible time for him to leave town, but Jimmy’s funeral is tomorrow. I’m going to close my office while I’m there and make sure Shanda has everything she needs to run things from her apartment. Oh, and since Emma has decided to move to Dry Creek for the duration, we’ll be picking up her stuff, too. It’s at my old place.”

  “Where are you staying? While you’re in Scottsdale, I mean? Tony’s house is stripped to the walls, isn’t it?”

  “My house,” I said, and felt a pang of sadness. I’d left the modest abode, with Emma and the dogs, soon after my neighbor, Waldo’s original owner, was murdered. Moved in with Sonterra. Except for a few hasty forays to fetch files, cosmetics, and clothes, I hadn’t been back. Definite case of avoidance, but now some decisions had to be made. Like, keep my house, or let go and put it on the market.

  I’d said I’d marry Sonterra—soon—and even though we hadn’t talked about it again since, I knew there was a wedding on his agenda. If I didn’t show up at the church on time, he’d probably start without me.

  “You could always go to our—Kip’s house. Rosa’s there. Do you want me to call and tell her you’re coming?” That was Loretta. Always ready to help, even when her own life was falling apart.

  I hesitated. “No,” I said simply. “But thanks.”

  Loretta didn’t push it, and I was grateful. Just the same, it was decision time in Clareworld. “By the way, I spoke with Rosa last night,” Loretta went on. “It turns out that she has a cousin in Dry Creek—her name is Esperanza Lopez, and she’s looking for a housekeeping job. You in the market?”

  I considered. “Can she cook?” Rosa made a mean enchilada. Maybe it ran in the family.

  “Probably,” Loretta said.

  I wondered what the townspeople would say if the chief of police and his woman hired themselves a housekeeper. It might be construed as big-city stuff, highfalutin and all that. To hell with them, I decided. I was cooking-challenged, and I didn’t do windows, toilets, or floors. “Give me her number. Esperanza’s, I mean.”