Between Black and White (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #2)(38)

Helen’s pale face turned crimson red, and her hands balled into fists. “You son of a—”

“Easy, General,” Ray Ray cut her off, nodding at the press corps assembled in the gallery. “You wouldn’t want to make a scene.”

Helen gave a quick jerk of her head and turned back to Rick. “Let me hear from you by the arraignment.”





25


Though the Giles County Jail was air conditioned, the cramped space of the consultation room felt combustible as Bo paced in front of them, alternately glaring at Rick, then Ray Ray. Finally, placing his hands on his hips, he fixed his eyes on Rick. “What in the hell is going on?”

“The Professor was attacked last Tuesday night on the courthouse square,” Rick said, keeping his voice steady. When Bo’s eyes widened, Rick held out his palms. “He’s OK, but he’s hurt bad. He suffered a couple broken ribs and a severe concussion. He also tore some ligaments in his right knee and can barely walk.” Rick paused. “He was in the hospital for five days, but he’s out now.”

“Why didn’t you tell me—?”

“That was the Professor’s call,” Rick interrupted. “He saw no point in upsetting you before the prelim.”

Bo gazed down at the concrete floor. “Where is he?”

“The farm in Hazel Green. The doctor said he needs to be off his feet at least a month.”

“Jesus,” Bo said, scratching the back of his head and closing his eyes. “He could miss the trial.” As they all processed that possibility, Bo opened his eyes. “How did it happen?”

“He was jumped from behind after interviewing the waitress at Kathy’s Tavern who served you the night of the murder.” Rick kept his voice calm and remained in his seat.

“Cassie?” Bo said, scratching his chin.

“You keep good company, Bocephus,” Ray Ray chimed in, and Bo pointed a finger at him.

“When I want to hear from you, I’ll ask,” Bo said, his eyes on fire.

“Fuck you if you can’t take a joke,” Ray Ray shot back.

“I can’t believe you are in this room,” Bo said, keeping his finger pointed in Ray Ray’s direction while he turned his glare to Rick.

“The Professor said he had already cleared Ray Ray as local counsel with you,” Rick said, not backing down. “He said this case was like a knife fight in a ditch and—”

“That’s just my game,” Ray Ray finished Rick’s sentence, the wide grin back on his face.

Bo turned to Ray Ray, looking at him for a long time. “I should’ve kicked your ass on the courthouse steps last year,” he finally said.

“Why didn’t you?” Ray Ray asked.

Bo shook his head and whispered an obscenity underneath his breath. Then he resumed his pacing. After a full minute he turned to Ray Ray. “You saw how bad it looks,” Bo said.

“It looks like warmed-over dog shit,” Ray Ray said. “But I don’t care. I never liked the son of a bitch.”

“You think I killed him?”

Ray Ray shrugged. “If you did, nothing would make me happier than seeing you walk.”

“I didn’t,” Bo said.

“Well . . . good,” Ray Ray said. “I’d hate to have that eating at my conscience.”

After a two-second pause, Bo managed a weak smile and sat down at the table. “All right then,” he said. “Where are we?” He looked at Rick, who in turn nodded at Ray Ray to begin.

“The night Tommy was attacked, I went out to the Sundowners Club to interview anybody that had any contact with Andy on the night of the murder.” He squinted at Bo. “What you told Tommy was right, Bo. Andy did have a favorite.”

“And?” Bo asked, placing his elbows on the table.

“She’s gone.”





26


Larry Tucker was worried. It had been two weeks since Andy Walton’s murder, and Darla Ford had not reported back to work. Darla had always been one of his most reliable dancers, so this wasn’t like her. Plus it was beginning to hurt the bottom line. Not only was Darla reliable, Nikita—Darla’s stage name—was probably his most popular dancer. Several regulars had stopped coming in after Darla’s third day gone, and more would probably follow.

“Any ideas?” Larry asked, gazing bleary-eyed across the bar at Peter Burns. It was 10:45 p.m. on Thursday night—prime time for business—but the club was almost empty.

“Nope,” Peter said, drying off a beer mug with a towel. “Ain’t like Darla to do this. She’s pretty conscious about money, and I just don’t see her walking away from this job. She did well here.”

“Damn straight,” Larry said. “And so did we. It’s killing the bottom line to have her gone.” Larry drank the rest of his bottle of Bud. “She have any family in the area?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Peter said, cracking the top on another Bud and putting it in front of Larry.

“Shit,” Larry said, shaking his head and then taking a long swig of beer.

“You think Mr. Walton may have left her a chunk of change when he died?” Peter asked.

Larry shrugged. “Andy wasn’t thinking all that clearly in his last few months, so nothing would surprise me.”