Best Kept Secrets(9)

He grinned like a crocodile. "Even my mama didn't like

me much."

"I'll send you a postcard." She turned to leave.

"Wait a minute. There's something else. You've got thirty

days."

"What?"

"Thirty days to come up with something."

"But--"

"That's as long as I can spare you without the rest of the

natives around here getting restless. That's longer than your

hunch and flimsy leads warrant. Take it or leave it."

"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?"



Three





The sheriffs 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 Sheriffs 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?"

22





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."