Deadly Reunion

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.