“I’ll take it.”
He didn’t know that she had a much more pressing deadline, a personal one. Alex wanted to present her grandmother with the name of Celina’s killer before she died. She wasn’t even concerned that her grandmother was in a coma. Somehow, she would penetrate her consciousness. Her last breath would be peaceful, and Alex was certain she would at last praise her granddaughter.
Alex leaned across Greg’s desk. “I know I’m right. I’ll bring the real killer to trial, and when I do, I’ll get a conviction. See if I don’t.”
“Yeah, yeah. In the meantime, find out what sex with a real cowboy is like. And take notes. I want details about spurs and guns and stuff.”
“Pervert.”
“Bitch. And don’t slam—ah, shit!”
Alex smiled now, recalling that meeting. She didn’t take his insulting sexism seriously because she knew she had his professional respect. Wild man that he was, Greg Harper had been her mentor and friend since the summer before her first semester of law school, when she had worked in the prosecutor’s office. He was going out on a limb for her now, and she appreciated his vote of confidence.
Once she had gotten Greg’s go-ahead, she hadn’t wasted time. It had taken her only one day to catch up on paperwork, clear her desk, and lock up her condo. She had left Austin early, and made a brief stop in Waco at the nursing home. Merle’s condition was unchanged. Alex had left the number of the Westerner where she could be reached in case of an emergency.
She dialed the D.A.’s home number from her motel room.
“Mr. Chastain, please,” she said in response to the woman’s voice who answered.
“He’s not at home.”
“Mrs. Chastain? It’s rather important that I speak with your husband.”
“Who is this?”
“Alex Gaither.”
She heard a soft laugh. “You’re the one, huh?”
“ ‘The one’?”
“The one who accused the Mintons and Sheriff Lambert of murder. Pat was in a tailspin when he got home. I’ve never seen him so—”
“Excuse me?” Alex interrupted breathlessly. “Did you say Sheriff Lambert?”
Chapter 3
The sheriff’s department was located in the basement of the Purcell County Courthouse. For the second time in as many days, Alex parked her car in a metered slot on the square and entered the building.
It was early. There wasn’t much activity in the row of offices on the lower level. In the center of this warren of cubicles was a large squad room, no different from any other in the nation. A pall of cigarette smoke hovered over it like a perpetual cloud. Several uniformed officers were gathered around a hot plate where coffee was simmering. One was talking, but when he saw Alex, he stopped in midsentence. One by one, heads turned, until all were staring at her. She felt glaringly out of place in what was obviously a male domain. Equal employment hadn’t penetrated the ranks of the Purcell County Sheriff’s Department.
She held her ground and said pleasantly, “Good morning.”
“Mornin’,” they chorused.
“My name is Alex Gaither. I need to see the sheriff, please.” The statement was superfluous. They already knew who she was and why she was there. Word traveled fast in a town the size of Purcell.
“He expectin’ you?” one of the deputies asked belligerently, after spitting tobacco juice into an empty Del Monte green bean can.
“I believe he’ll see me,” she said confidently.
“Did Pat Chastain send you over?”
Alex had tried to reach him again that morning, but Mrs. Chastain had told her that he’d already left for his office. She tried telephoning him there and got no answer. Either she had missed him while he was in transit, or he was avoiding her. “He’s aware of why I’m here. Is the sheriff in?” she repeated with some asperity.
“I don’t think so.”
“I haven’t seen him.”