Something's Gotta Give

“No.”

“So you’re pleading guilty?”

Sam was guilty of more than assault and battery. It was the reason he’d left the LAPD. A woman had died because of him. The law didn’t hold him accountable, but his conscience was something else. So he’d take responsibility for hitting a guy who deserved it. Besides, he didn’t have any priors. Probably he’d get off with a warning and a lecture about anger management, then be on his way.

“Yes.” He noted the judge’s raised eyebrow and decided not to push it. “I’m pleading guilty.”

“Okay, son. I’m sentencing you to thirty days community service.”

“Thirty days!” What the hell was going on? He’d already spent the night in jail for doing the wrong thing, right reason. “That seems excessive,” he said, suddenly developing an anger-management problem. “I’m just passing through town. Anywhere else, these charges would be dismissed with time served.”

“This isn’t anywhere else. It’s Charity City.” He glared down from the bench. “Do you have somewhere else you need to be?”

“No, sir. I’m between jobs.”

“Is there a financial hardship putting yourself up in town? If so, the county would be happy to arrange accommodations,” the judge said pointedly.

“Thanks, anyway, but I’ve sampled cell block hospitality. I can afford a room.”

He was pretty well off, thanks to all work, no play, a side job doing private investigations and the hefty inheritance his bastard of a defense attorney father had left him, even though he didn’t want any part of dear old absentee Dad’s blood money. But the judge didn’t need to know any of that.

“Okay, son, it’s the opinion of this court that thirty days is a fair and equitable sentence.”

“I’ve seen armed robbers get less than thirty days,” Sam blurted out angrily.

“Keep talking and I can go forty-five.” Sam started to protest, and the judge’s eyes narrowed in warning. He closed his mouth and Judge Gibson continued. “Your thirty days will be auctioned off at the philanthropic public sale that we here in Charity City like to call Buy-a-Guy. Proceeds go to a foundation to fund the town’s charitable endeavors.”

“Let me get this straight,” Sam said. “I’m being sold for thirty days?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“Last time I checked, buying and selling human beings was against the law.”

“It still is. This is community service.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Your pertinent information will be listed on the town Web site and anyone who’s in need of your particular skills will pay for them.”

“What if I don’t have any skills?”

The judge looked down at the paperwork in front of him. “Says here you’re LAPD. A detective. Retired. You any good?”

“At being retired?” Sam shrugged. There was that whole SOB thing again. “Haven’t been at it long enough to find out.”

“Smart-ass you’re good at,” the judge commented wryly. “What about police work?”

“I put away my share of bad guys.” Some he couldn’t keep behind bars.

“I know someone who could use a good detective.”

“So this is a setup.” Sam wasn’t asking. The crafty old judge had known his background and availability when he’d handed down the sentence.

“No. You broke the law. These are the consequences.”

“Harsh consequences given the circumstances.”

“Guess you shouldn’t have given up your right to an attorney. And remaining silent wouldn’t have done you any harm, either.”

This wasn’t the first time he should have kept his mouth shut. “I want to change my plea.”

“Can’t. It’s already entered into the record.”

Sam was seething. “I’m being scammed and we both know it.”

“You say scam, I say justice. Since I’m the one wearing the black robe, my say goes.” The judge glared as he pointed. “And before you open your mouth again, I’m warning you. One more outburst and you’ve got sixty days.”

Sam clenched his jaw.

The irony was he hadn’t intended to stop in this town, but the highway billboard had caught his attention. Charity City, The Town That Lives Up To Its Name. Then he’d remembered that his friend Hayden Blackthorn had moved here to open a branch office for his company, Blackthorn Investigations.

That’s when Sam had decided to pull into the Lone Star Bar and Grill in order to look up his old friend. Charity might begin at home but he was a long way from there.

“I think your parents bought you a man last night.”

“No way, Abby.”

“Yes, way.”

Jamie Gibson had thought that eating lunch in her office would be less stressful than hassling a crowded restaurant. Now she wasn’t so sure. Abby Walsh had become her friend after she’d handled her divorce from a husband as flaky as a French pastry. The guy had gone to Hollywood to audition for a reality show and never came back. More proof, as if Jamie needed any, that men couldn’t be counted on.

“My parents bought a man?” She shifted the phone to her other ear as she unwrapped her sandwich. That revelation cranked up her stress level by a couple notches.

“Yeah. You weren’t at the auction last night to keep them in line,” Abby said.

“I had briefs to write.”

“Riddle me this—if you have to work overtime to write them, why are they called briefs?”

“Named by a man,” they both said together.

“I’d much rather have spent the evening with you and Molly,” Jamie added, taking a sip from her drink.

Her gaze slid to the framed picture on her desk of herself with her two friends—brown-haired, blue-eyed Abby Walsh and redheaded Molly Preston. She’d hated missing her evening with them. And apparently it wouldn’t have hurt to keep an eye on her folks. “What happened? They bought a man?”

“First things first. I got the ex-army ranger.”

Jamie frowned. “The one who donated the weekend campout you wanted?” She was dying to take a bite of her sandwich but didn’t want to chew in her friend’s ear.