Best Kept Secrets(10)
"Yeah, he's here," one officer said grudgingly. "He came
in a few minutes ago.'' He nodded his head toward a hallway.
"Last door on your left, ma'am."
"Thank you."
Alex gave them a gracious smile she didn't feel in her heart
and walked toward the hallway. She was conscious of the
eyes focused on her back. She knocked on the indicated
door.
"Yeah?"
Reede Lambert sat behind a scarred wooden desk that was
probably as old as the cornerstone of the building. His booted
feet were crossed and resting on one corner of it. Like yesterday,
he was slouching, this time in a swivel chair.
His cowboy hat and a leather, fur-lined jacket were hanging
on a coat tree in the corner between a ground-level window
and a wall papered with wanted posters held up by yellowing,
curling strips of Scotch tape. He cradled a chipped, stained
porcelain coffee mug in his hands.
"Well, g'morning, Miss Gaither."
She closed the door with such emphasis that the frosted-glass
panel rattled. "Why wasn't I told yesterday?"
"And spoil the surprise?" he said with a sly grin. "How'd
you find out?"
"By accident."
"I knew you'd show up sooner or later." He eased himself
upright. "But I didn't figure on it being this early in the
morning." He came to his feet and indicated the only other
available chair in the room. He moved toward a table that
contained a coffee maker. "You want some?"
"Mr. Chastain should have told me."
"Pat? No way. When things get touchy, our D.A.'s a real
chickenshit."
Alex caught her forehead in her hand. "This is a nightmare."
He hadn't waited for her to decline or accept his offer of
coffee. He was filling a cup similar to his. "Cream, sugar?"
"This isn't a social call, Mr. Lambert."
He set the cup of black coffee on the edge of the desk in
front of her and returned to his chair. Wood and ancient
springs creaked in protest as he sat down. "You're getting
us off to a bad start."
"Have you forgotten why I'm here?"
"Not for a minute, but do your duties prohibit you from
drinking coffee, or is it a religious abstinence?"
Exasperated, Alex set her purse on the desk, went to the
table, and spooned powdered cream into her mug.
The coffee was strong and hot--much like the stare the
sheriff was giving her--and far better than the tepid brew
she'd drunk in the coffee shop of the Westerner Motel earlier.
If he had brewed it, he knew how to do it right. But then,
he looked like a very capable man. Reared back in his chair,
he did not look at all concerned that he'd been implicated in
a murder case.
"How do you like Purcell, Miss Gaither?"
"I haven't been here long enough to form an opinion."
"Aw, come on. I'll bet your mind was made up not to
like it before you ever got here."
"Why do you say that?"
"It would stand to reason, wouldn't it? Your mother died
here."
His casual reference to her mother's death rankled. "She
didn't just die. She was murdered. Brutally."
"I remember," he said grimly.
"That's right. You discovered her body, didn't you?"
He lowered his eyes to the contents of his coffee mug and
stared into it for a long time before taking a drink. He tossed
it back, draining the mug as though it were a shot of whiskey.
"Did you kill my mother, Mr. Lambert?"
Since she hadn't been able to accurately gauge his reaction
the day before, she wanted to see it now.
His head snapped up. "No." Leaning forward, he braced
his elbows on the desk and gave her a level stare. "Let's cut
through the bullshit, okay? Understand this right now, and
it'll save us both a lot of time. If you want to interrogate me,
Counselor, you'll have to subpoena me to appear before the
grand jury."
"You're refusing to cooperate with my investigation?"
"I didn't say that. This office will be at your disposal per
Pat's instructions. I'll personally help you any way I can."
"Out of the goodness of your heart?" she asked sweetly.
"No, because I want it over and done with, finished. You
understand? So you can go back to Austin where you belong,
and leave the past in the past where it belongs." He got up
to refill his coffee mug. Over his shoulder he asked, "Why'd
you come here?"
"Because Bud Hicks did not murder my mother."
"How the hell do you know? Or did you just ask him?"
"I couldn't. He's dead."
She could tell by his reaction that he hadn't known. He