She cocked one brow at the arresting officer, a young blond with a handlebar mustache. "Why wasn't this man sent to the psychiatric ward at Grady?"
"We took him over there. They said if they admitted everybody who says weird stuff they'd have to commit half the city and most of Mayor Franklin's staff."
"Here's the report," the court secretary whispered from the desk to Vivian's left. Vivian looked down at Callender 31
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Remington's pretty face and saw discomfort. "I forgot," Callendar added anxiously. "I mean, 'Here's the report, Your Honor.'"
"No problem."
The tall redhead smiled sadly, thanking her. Cal was a prime example of how to let a man mess up your life, Vivian told herself silently. She was fighting to keep her husband, a lovable but irresponsible young golf player on the pro circuit, from spending the two of them into bankruptcy. The strain was showing.
Thinking of Cal's financial problems made Vivian think of farmers in debt, and farmers in debt made her think of Jake Coltrane. But then, everything during the two days since their encounter made her think of Jake Coltrane.
Thank God it's
Friday and I can spend the weekend getting back to normal
, Vivian noted, touching her sore head. She glanced at the medical report in her hand, frowning.
"Okay, Nostradamus," she snapped. The man tittered.
"Plead guilty to one count of misdemeanor assault and I'll send you to Grady for observation. You'll get a couple of hot meals and a cozy bed for the night."
He grinned. "Works every time."
Vivian thumped her gavel.
"I'll tell Nostradamus you said hello," he assured her as the police officer led him away.
The defendant in the next case was late, so they shuffled papers for a minute. A pair of attorneys lounged by Vivian's huge desk on its carpeted dais. Detectives and police officers ambled in and out. A room full of more than twenty rough32
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looking people waited to be arraigned over the course of the afternoon session. Tom Crawford, the court clerk, moved restlessly at the desk to her right. Angular, tall, sporting a short version of a Don King afro, Tom leaned toward her. He had a wicked sense of humor.
"Did that good ol' boy who helped you out the other night chew tobacco and dip snuff?" he asked in a low voice, grinning.
Shaking her head at the way the stores about Jake Coltrane were growing, Vivian sighed.
"He was very nice and very polite. We could use more of that around here, you know."
"I'd give twenty bucks to have seen his face when he unwrapped you. It's probably been years since he saw a woman wearing anything but overalls."
"He didn't ogle me, if that's what you're hinting at. He was an old-fashioned gentleman," Vivian said firmly.
"Heard he tried to hit on you. And you hit back." Vivian's stomach jumped. A detective who'd been listening plopped one arm on Tom's desk and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper.
"I heard the guy's a cross between Larry the Cable Guy and Huck Finn." They shared low, masculine snickers. Vivian blanched.
"That's enough," she ordered. "All right, where's my pimping case?"
An undercover detective ambled through the double doors at the back of the small room, chewing gum. He wore army fatigues, a ski sweater, and sunglasses.
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"Your honor, are you waitin' on Schwartz, Malcom E.?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"Hospitalized." He put a finger to his chest and pulled an imaginary trigger. "Ka-boom. One of his ladies plugged him this morning."
"One down," Vivian muttered under her breath. "Thank you, detective." Without missing a beat, she handed the Schwartz invoices to Cal. Shootings were so commonplace that Vivian didn't take time to register surprise or even curiosity.
"My pleasure," the detective purred, looking at Cal. Vivian glanced up in time to see him leer at her.
Men. Hormone-
driven dogs
.
"Take your spastic eyebrows out of my court, Detective." He smiled. "Yes, Your Honor. Good work the other night, Your Honor. Heard you got your man."
Before she could threaten to charge him with contempt, he disappeared into the dirty, concrete-walled corridor outside. Vivian turned over a cupful of pens with a disconcerted movement of her hand.
Jake Coltrane might as well have branded her with a hot cattle iron. Everyone seemed to think she belonged to him.
* * * *
Jake stopped on the courthouse's stairs, keeping a tight grip on the big, muscle-bound young man who gasped beside him. An arrow on a red-lettered sign pointed to a scuffed, 34
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steel door on the next landing. The sign cautioned: PUBLIC
DEFENDER. NO WEAPONS.
"Just leave me here and get somebody to carry me, man. I can't make it up any more steps," his captive whined. "We're never gonna find municipal court like this."
"I'll turn you loose when chickens lay square eggs." Jake dragged the burly character back down the slick steps. The guy hobbled quickly, his hands and feet bound with rows of baling wire. Jake kept one rock-hard arm around his neck. They maneuvered up the last set of stairs, through the security door, then down a narrow, stained hallway into another part of the building, where Jake found a lobby. Jake was thankful no officers stopped him to ask questions.
In the afternoon crowd wandering around this
place we're about the most normal pair
, he thought in amazement, as a surly, heavily tattooed man bumped him and uttered an obscenity.
How could Viv—that was the intimate way he thought of her now,
Viv
—work in this joint? No wonder she had to act so tough and snappy.
Directions to the five municipal court chambers upstairs were posted over two creaking elevators. Jake exhaled in relief and guided his prisoner toward them. They trundled through yet another set of security scanners.
"See, man, I told you we should have come in this way instead of creeping in the back door," the man sniped during the elevator ride. "Dumb redneck." 35
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"Not so dumb that I couldn't catch
you
," Jake reminded him as they left the elevator, went through more security checkpoints, then worked their way to an information desk.
"Where's Judge Costa's courtroom, ma'am?" he asked an officer.
She stared at him and his baling-wire-wrapped prisoner.
"What the ... how did you ... who are ... didn't anyone ask you for I.D. downstairs? What department are you from?" Uh oh. "I'm makin' a citizen's arrest." She nearly shrieked. "You just walked in
off the street
?"
"That's what citizens do, ma'am."
"Not in
this
city, mister." She was reaching for the call button on her shoulder radio when Officer Washington walked up. "I know this farmer. It's cool, Shaneeqa."
Jake looked at him gratefully while giving his prisoner a little shake. "I brought Viv a present. Figured this is more subtle than roses and a bottle of champagne." Barney Washington's dark, surprised eyes filled with sly amusement. "Awright, man. I'll ride this train to Trouble Town with you. Come on."
He led Jake and the hobbling criminal through a set of double doors identified by a COURTROOM 3 sign. Jake gazed happy at Vivian Costas, looking small but official behind the courtroom's raised desk. She was studying the screen of a computer and didn't see him come in. Her black hair was tucked up in a knot on the back of her head. The front of it fluffed away from her face in layers. Even in a voluminous black robe with a prim white collar peaking out 36
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the top, she looked enticing. Jake took a deep breath then lugged his captive up the center aisle.
The scraggly crowd lounging in the courtroom benches turned to stare. Someone sputtered. "That's police brutality if I ever seen it!"
"He can be brutal to me
any
time," crooned a woman in tight purple hot pants and a tank top. "Oooh, baby, your place, my place, any place. Tickle my fancy, you big ol' hunk of flannel-covered sausage."
Jake's face was grim as he shoved his charge ahead of him. A detective yawned and turned from Vivian's desk to slowly scan him.
"You work vice, don't you, man?" he asked Jake. "I think you're supposed to take this guy next door."
"This Duddly Do-Right doesn't work vice!" Jake's captive burst out in exasperation. "Get him off me, man! He's just some crazy mofo out there doin' a Rambo on people."
"Your Honor," Jake said firmly. "Viv..." Her head came up quickly at the sound of his voice. He noted happily that for just a fleeting second her eyes lit with what might have been delight, and their glow sent shivers through his body. Then her mouth popped open and her face turned bright scarlet.
"I brought you a present, Your Honor," Jake said solemnly. He nodded toward his prisoner. "This is one of 'em, isn't it? I got a good look at him the other night, but you need to identify..."
"Mr. Coltrane," she said tightly, her voice wavering. He blinked in surprise at the rebuking tone. "Mr. Coltrane," she 37
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repeated more definitely, "you cannot just barge in here with a man trussed up like a bale of hay. We have procedures for this sort of thing, and you have just circumvented all of them. You should have turned this man over to a police officer." She peered around him, glaring at Barney Washington, who stood at the back of the room, trying to look innocent.
"I made a citizen's arrest," Jake protested. In Tuna Creek, no one questions a citizen's duty to help the law out from time to time. You can split hairs all you want ... Your Honor ... but the fact is that this joker is one of the creeps who attacked you."
She blinked rapidly, frowning harder as her gaze went to the man Jake held. Her eyes narrowed to grim slits as she recognized him. Her breath made a slow hiss. Her hands, resting on the computer's keyboard, trembled then clenched.
"Mr. Coltrane," she said formally, straightening her shoulders, "the court appreciates your help, and the arrest is duly noted." She motioned for one of the uniformed officers to come over. The officer rushed forward. "I'm going to file aggravated assault charges against this man," she told the officer. "The baled-up one, not the other, despite the fact that he's disrupted the court with his irresponsible actions..."
"Aw, don't be mean, your honor," the purple-panted hooker called from the pews. "If a man did something that nice for me, I'd take him home and—"
"Order!" Vivian thumped her gavel down. Tom Crawford had one arm flung casually across her desk, holding out a document. She hit his fingertips by accident. 38
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Tom yelped. Vivian's face went white as the spectators and most of the detectives repressed giggles.
"Viv," Jake began desperately. "Your Honor, I mean. I thought I was doin' the right thing." He spread his big hands in front of him, the gesture beseeching and frustrated. "I don't know the rules here. I just know that men who beat up women shouldn't be out on the streets. That's no different here than anywhere else. But I apologize for upsettin' you ... upsettin' the court, I mean. I sure didn't start out to do that." He stuck his hands into the pockets of his rugged coat and gazed at her in silence for a moment. She looked back, shaking her head slowly, her expression formal and reserved. She seemed about to pop with anger.
"The court thanks you again," she said finally. Her voice had no tone at all. He nodded dully.
Well, that was that.
He tipped a finger to his forehead in good-bye and turned on his heel, striding down the aisle. An old man leaned out of a pew and hissed at him wordlessly, toothlessly. Several women in the audience made little kissing sounds and laughed.
Jake squared his back and felt miserable.
Vivian watched him go with tear-filled eyes.
I've never met anyone like you before,, Jake Coltrane.
What am I going to do
?
* * * *
Like its owner, Jake Coltrane's little apartment building was sturdy, basic and old-fashioned.
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Vivian slowly climbed the wide concrete steps. Her eyes assessed the fading red brick and confused architectural styles—the arched, Spanish-style windows, most of them boarded over, the ornate cornice, the gated alcove that led into a courtyard at the main entrance. She estimated the twostory building was split into about six apartments, upstairs and down.
She glanced up and down the street. Small bungalows and old Victorians crowded up to the narrow, tree-lined sidewalks. Some of the homes were freshly renovated, others were still shabby. The whole street looked that way—a mixture of hope and despair, the future and the past. Vivian tested the complex's peeling, wrought-iron gate, fingering the new padlock and chain.
Peering through the bars, she saw an old fountain surrounded by patchy winter grass and a few scraggly shrubs. But the shrubs had been carefully pruned and were necklaced in rich mounds of fresh soil and mulch.
Jake's work. It must be. What would a farmer do first after inheriting a run-down building in the middle of the city?
Tend to his land, of course.
Vivian looked up at the apartment on the front side of the building to her right. Its windows weren't boarded over, and light shown through them.
"What now? Should I throw a rock at his window panes?" she asked aloud in the fading winter light. "Is that how women come calling in Tuna Creek? He'll probably shoot first and ask questions later."
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The sound of scurrying paws startled her. In the dusk, two huge dogs raced across the courtyard toward the gate. They barked—no, they
bellowed—
their canine voices deep and rolling. Vivian backed away s they reared and placed thick paws against the gate. She remembered them vaguely from the other night.