“I know what I’m going to do.” Bonnie reached down and absently fondled Hadrian’s head. “I’m going to tell Percy to keep an extra watchful eye on you when we’re not around. I know he’s scrawny as a stray dog, but that old cowboy is a dead shot and real protective of his kin. That’s how he sees us, you included. We’re all he’s got.”
“Thanks, Bonnie.” Rhianna felt surprisingly calm. Even telling half the story was better than holding it all in. “It’s good being able to talk about it.”
“And I have a great idea,” Bonnie said. “I’m going to drive us all into Laughlin this afternoon and get you the best snub-nose .38 special money can buy.”
“A gun?” Rhianna shook her head emphatically. “No, I think that’s dangerous. What if Alice got a hold of it?”
“Children don’t find guns unless adults are careless. This is not up for discussion. I am buying you a weapon. Period.”
“Bonnie, I’ve never even held a gun. I have no idea how they work.”
“That’s what Percy’s for. He could teach a gerbil to shoot straight.” Bonnie got to her feet, a woman with a mission. Hanging her head inside the French doors, she yelled, “Percy, are you in the house?”
When there was no reply, she marched off and returned five minutes later with the weathered ranch hand. He had his hat tucked under one arm, and Rhianna had a feeling he had just plastered his stringy gray hair back with some spittle on the flat of his hand. Probably tidied his mustache the same way.
“I was just telling Kate that you’d be happy to teach her how to shoot,” Bonnie said.
“Sure would.” Percy was economical with words. The most he usually said to Rhianna was “Howdy.”
“We’re going to the gun dealer’s this afternoon,” Bonnie said.
“Fixing to purchase what?” he asked.
“I thought maybe a Smith & Wesson AirLite.”
“Depends what she wants it for.” Percy’s blue-sky gaze inched toward Rhianna.
“I suppose a nine millimeter is an alternative,” Bonnie mused. “A semi-automatic. Maybe a Ruger.”
Like he thought carefully about every word, Percy drawled, “I heard you got yourself some man trouble.”
Great. Bonnie was going to announce her problems to the entire of Oatman. “He couldn’t take no for an answer,” Rhianna said. “But, honestly, there’s nothing to worry about.”
She was wasting her breath.
Percy hooked a thumb in his belt, his hand dangling over the holster at his hip. “No harm taking precautions.”
“Accuracy isn’t that important,” Bonnie noted. “Most times if you have to use a gun it’s a close-quarters situation, so a snub-nose would work fine, and you can carry it in your purse.”
“How come you know so much about this?” Rhianna teased. “You sound like the mafia.”
“At the casino, most of the management is licensed to own a gun,” Bonnie replied seriously. “We make sure they know how to use one.”
“Do you keep a handgun in the house?”
“Of course. Handguns, rifles…but they’re all in the gun safe.”
They.
Rhianna couldn’t imagine owning one weapon, let alone an arsenal. Her father had tried to get her to carry a small Derringer when Werner Brigham had first started stalking her. Wonderful in theory, and dangerous in practice. She had refused, seeing herself threatening Brigham with a gun only to have it snatched and used against her. She’d also been one hundred percent certain that she could never shoot another human being.
Rhianna let her gaze fall to the gun at Percy’s side. That had changed. Just like so many other things. She pictured Werner Brigham in front of her, stroking that strange dagger of his, softly talking to her as if she were an animal he was about to kill, but he wanted her cooperation so he could avoid sustaining bruises in the process. Yes, she could pull the trigger. She could watch him go down and feel nothing. She could even point the gun again while he was writhing in front of her, and blow him away. Disturbed by this dark truth, she said, “I think it’s a good idea for Percy to teach me, but I could learn with one of your spare guns, couldn’t I?”
“Oh, honey, I don’t mind buying you one all of your own,” Bonnie insisted. “It’s only a few hundred dollars. Call it a bonus.”
Rhianna didn’t want to seem ungrateful, but if she had to get a gun license for a weapon of her own, she would have to show photo identification. The last thing she needed was for Bonnie to see her real name and start asking questions. Sounding as innocent and thankful as she could, she said, “That’s really sweet of you. How about this? If Percy starts teaching me with one of your guns, then we can figure what kind might suit me best, and we’ll go buy it.”
“Get her started with the .22, maybe,” Percy said.
“Good idea,” Bonnie agreed. As though Rhianna might feel cheated by the smaller caliber offering, she added, “Don’t worry, you’ll trade up. You’ll be shooting cans off the fence with a .38 in no time.”
Rhianna liked the sound of that. “Thanks for thinking of me, both of you.”
“It’s my pleasure.” Bonnie beamed. “I don’t ever want you feeling vulnerable when you’re out here by yourself.”
Percy endorsed this sentiment wholeheartedly. “Want to take a man down with a single shot? Stick with me.”
Rhianna smiled. A bullet with Werner Brigham’s name on it. That was a reason to get out of bed in the morning.
Chapter Four
The client was ordinary. His hair clung to his skull in a thinning sandy thatch threaded with gray. His face was clean shaven with a nondescript nose, fleshy lips, and a soft chin. Women would probably find his bland looks comforting, and men would not feel threatened, despite his height and build. He was on the heavy side, but it wasn’t muscle. He carried the flab of a man who had been active once but no longer put in the hours.
Carl Hagel, managing partner at Sagelblum, in-house shorthand for Salazar, Hagel & Goldblum, stepped to one side of the conference room door and said, “Mr. Brigham, let me introduce your new lead counsel, Julia Valiant.” As the client stood to shake hands, Carl completed the formalities. “This is Werner Brigham. I think you know his mother, Mrs. Audrey Brigham.”
“Naturally.” Jules produced a watered-down version of the professional smile expected of a woman. The client’s handshake was half courtesy, half grateful squeeze. “I admire your mother’s charity efforts for children with cancer.”
Audrey Brigham had personally requested that Julia head her son’s no-expense-spared defense team five months earlier during the pre-trial phase. According to Carl, she’d showed up at Sagelblum’s Denver office with several clippings about Jules, including one that named her a “Super Lawyer” and claimed she was “the sex offender’s dream defense counsel,” not exactly the accolade her parents had dreamed of when they mortgaged their house and sold half their possessions to pay for her education.
Jules had been a little over halfway into a year’s leave of absence from the firm when Audrey Brigham slapped her money down on the table. She had seriously considered abandoning her overseas studies to take the case right away; it was unwise to say no to such a woman. Not only was Mrs. Brigham a major player on the charity circuit, she was also a formidable political fundraiser with influential friends. She had offered Sagelblum a performance bonus only an idiot would refuse, conditional upon Jules stepping in as lead trial attorney.
Declining was not an option, but the year in England reading philosophy at Cambridge University had been Jules’s promise to herself when she graduated from law school at NYU, and she could not bear to sacrifice her studies. Instead she’d cut short the European tour she’d planned for the final months of her absence, agreeing to take over Brigham’s defense when she returned. She had three weeks to get herself up to speed before the trial date.
Carl chatted for a few minutes to bolster the client’s confidence. He made a big deal of Jules’s acquittal record, one of the best in the business, then said, “If you’ll both excuse me. Sid Lyle will join you as soon as he gets back from court.”
Jules thanked him and opened the file she’d carried into the conference room. Watching the client closely, she said, “Rhianna Lamb.”
She had his attention and repeated the name in a musing tone, letting it linger. There it was. The tip of his tongue crept along the parting of his lips, moistening them. His pupils dilated. The Adam’s apple bobbed briefly above his blue shirt collar. He gave himself away so completely, the jury was going to see a pathetically fixated predator. That would have to change, along with the clothes. The necktie would be a problem, if today’s choice was any indication. The knot was too large, the sheen too costly, and the pattern too bold. This was the tie of a man with an ego. Or one so impressionable he had seen the likes of Puff Daddy sporting this look and wanted to convey similar panache. Neither would play well with a Denver jury.
Jules was pretty familiar with their whims, having led a number of criminal defense teams this side of the Rockies. Sagelblum was a national firm that sent its senior trial attorneys all over the country to work with local counsel from its regional offices. Jules usually enjoyed her Denver assignments. The place had somehow managed to weld its historical Western sensibility and friendly informality with progressive urban development and efficient infrastructure.
Most of the district court judges were efficient and reasonable. They would be well disposed toward the client, she thought. The Brigham name carried some clout in Colorado, and while the man himself had a certain old-money aura that could raise some hackles among jurors, he also seemed earnest enough to secure their sympathies.
She tested his reactions again. “Is Rhianna beautiful?”
The question seemed to take him by surprise. Blinking, he said, “Very.”
“Please,” she prompted with an attentive smile, “describe her for me, Mr. Brigham.”
“She is a classic beauty,” he replied promptly, “not one of those cheesy
Deal or No Deal
models. You know what I’m talking about. They all look like they were made in the same factory. She’s not trailer trash with a lot of makeup and a fancy hairdo.”
Jules gave an encouraging nod. “Elegant?”
“Yes, although not in that studied sense.” He warmed to his theme. “She’s more demure than obvious. I would say ‘classy’…the marrying kind.”
“I still don’t have a strong sense of her.”
This was untrue. Jules had looked through photographs, video footage, and an extensive file on the woman Brigham was initially accused of kidnapping and sexually assaulting. Rhianna Lamb was a prosecutor’s dream plaintiff, a natural blonde with long hair framing an innocent face with wide, soft cheekbones and enough puppy fat to make her look about sixteen. She had a clean record and a sexual history roughly comparable to that of a nun.
At the time of the alleged assault, she had held down a job in a traditionally female occupation, working as a fashion buyer at a department store in the upscale Cherry Creek shopping precinct. She volunteered at an animal-rescue shelter and took turns caring for the severely disabled child of a neighbor. She was a dutiful unmarried daughter, one of three respectable siblings who had never had a day’s trouble in their registered-Democrat lives. She had placed her house on the market and left town after Werner Brigham was released on bail, and would only provide the DA with her parents’ address, claiming she was “traveling” and not at any fixed abode.
Jules concluded from these maneuvers that the woman was not completely helpless. She’d had sufficient presence of mind to get out of Dodge and hide where Brigham could not find her. People did not abandon home, job, friends, and family without cause. Whatever the client said, one thing was perfectly plain. He had terrified the shit out of this Lamb woman.
From all accounts, the plaintiff had been a model student at her local high school and, later, at the second-tier college her parents had scrimped to afford. Naturally, she had waitressed at a family restaurant to help pay her own way. Months of dirt-digging, and thousands in private-investigator fees, had failed to turn up a single enemy or embittered ex-lover who could take the stand to reveal another side of Ms. Goody Two-shoes. There was no short-lived stint as an exotic dancer, no nude photos on the Internet, no sleazy MySpace revelations, no secret affair with a professor, no credit-card debt, no DUI, not even a parking ticket.