Night Fever (17 page)

“Please check under your hood before you drive away,” Berry cautioned wearily. “We don't want you blown to bits before we get the goods on the perp who wired you. Okay?”

“I'll do my best,” Kilpatrick assured him, sticking the cigar in his mouth and grinning around it. “I'd look like hell in pieces, I'm sure.”

Berry started to speak but Kilpatrick was already out the door, headed directly for Becky's office. To hell with noble principles, he told himself.

He opened the door and walked in, finding Becky bent over her typewriter. The other women stopped working to stare at him.

He perched himself on Becky's desk and waited until she looked up, her face first astonished, then radiant with delight.

He grinned. “Glad to see me? I'm glad to see you, too. I'll be tied up all week in court, but we can have dinner Friday night. Chinese or Greek? I'm partial to a good moussaka and resinated wine, but I like sweet and sour pork almost as much.”

“I've never had Greek food—or Chinese,” she confessed, sounding as flustered as she felt.

“We'll work it out as we go. I can't stay. I'm going to interview a man who threatened to pull out my guts and knot them around a telephone pole.”

She gasped.

“No problem,” he said, getting to his feet. “I don't think he did it. He doesn't know beans about electronics, and he wants to stay on the outside too much to complicate things.”

“Do you check your car…” she began again.

“You and Berry,” he muttered, glowering down at her. “Honest to God, don't you people think I like living? Of course I check my car, and my door, and my bathroom, and I even had a cat imported to check my food before I eat. Satisfied?”

She laughed in spite of herself, and noticed Maggie smothering a giggle.

“I've lived almost thirty-six years all by myself,” he murmured. “I'll make forty yet. Did you catch hell at home?”

“I started to, until I told Clay he could move out and handle his own bail from now on. He was in a snit the rest of the weekend. And even Mack went broody. He knew the little boy who died,” she said with a long sigh. “Poor little guy. What a rotten age to die.”

“Any age is a rotten age, if it's senseless.” He searched her face, reading the pain there.
She even feels for strangers,
he thought, and wondered if he might have read too much into her words the other night. That bothered him. He was beginning to realize that he wanted a lot more from Becky than distant compassion.

“I've got to go,” he said abruptly. “See you later.”

“Yes,” she said with her heart in her eyes as she watched him walk away. It was a good thing that he didn't look back. She smiled and then she laughed. She'd been blue all weekend, thinking he'd said good-bye to her, and it had only been hello.

“Well, well—Cinderella, right here in my office,” Maggie chuckled. “I think he likes you.”

“I hope he does,” Becky said softly. “Time will tell.”

The next few days sped by. With court in session, Becky went mad filing and typing, and so did Maggie and the other girls in the office. But in a way it was good, because it diverted her thoughts from Kilpatrick.

At home it was a different matter. Becky found herself daydreaming regularly. It was amazing to her how bright and new the world seemed now that she had someone to dream about. Granddad and Mack didn't say anything when she announced that she was going out with Kilpatrick on Friday. Neither did Clay, although his blood went cold. He didn't know what was going to happen, but having the district attorney hanging around his sister was going to cause him a hell of a lot of trouble. When the Harrises got wind of it, he didn't know what they might do. If anybody got in trouble, he'd be the first person they'd suspect.

 

K
ILPATRICK HAD BEEN
fairly certain that Harvey Blair wasn't out to kill him, and he was even more certain once he'd been out to see the ex-con.

Blair, a huge, ham-fisted man with dark hair and light eyes, didn't even seem hostile when he answered the door in his run-down housing project apartment and found Kilpatrick standing there.

“I don't want any trouble, Kilpatrick,” he said instantly. “I read the papers. I know what's happened to you. But I didn't do it.”

“I never thought you did,” he replied easily. “But it's part of the job to check out all the leads. How are things going?”

Blair stood aside to let the taller man enter. The apartment was neat and clean, but noisy. A thin woman and three preschoolers were sprawled on the floor playing with building blocks. They looked up and smiled shyly before they went back to their amusement.

“My daughter and my grandkids,” Blair said with a beaming smile. “They're letting me live with them. My son-in-law was killed on the job last year, so I'm sort of taking care of them. Amazing, isn't it, how responsibility takes the wild streak right out of you?” He sighed heavily and stuck his hands into his pockets. “I got a job driving a truck for the city. Pays good, and they don't mind that I'm an ex-con. I even get insurance and retirement.” He grinned at Kilpatrick. “How's that for making crime pay?”

Kilpatrick actually chuckled. “I'm glad things worked out for you,” he said. “Of all the cases I ever prosecuted, I regretted winning yours the most.”

“Thanks. But I was guilty as hell, even if I did finally get pardoned. The thing is, I want to make this work,” he said seriously. “I've got a second shot at respectability. I won't waste this one.”

“No. I don't think you will.” Kilpatrick stuck out his hand and the other man shook it. He left the apartment, sure that Blair hadn't wired his car. The man had too much to lose. But that still left Clay Cullen a suspect, and he couldn't tell Becky how much evidence pointed to his involvement—even if it was only as an accessory—to that and the Dennis boy's death. God, some days were rough!

The rest of the week found him sitting wearily in court going through voir dire until he thought he was going to scream. The process required him to question each panel of jurors with regard to the matter under judicial consideration. Are you related to the defendant, any of the witnesses, or any of the attorneys? Are you familiar with the case in question? Do you have any relatives who were involved? On and on the questions went for each of five panels of twelve prospective jurors and an alternate, for most of the day. He had to remember each juror's name and jot down every bit of information he got that would go against his case. Then came the silent strike, where he and the public defender ran through the jurors and struck those prejudicial to their case until they were both satisfied that they had an impartial jury.

An impartial jury was important, but so was an impartial judge. He was fortunate to have drawn Judge Lawrence Kentner, an older man who knew law from the ground up. He was a credit to the bar, and Kilpatrick respected him. If he got a conviction in Kentner's court, there was very little chance of any sharp defense attorney finding a loophole in improper courtroom procedure.

J. Lincoln Davis had turned up in court during a recess in proceedings to present a motion for continuance on one of his own cases. He'd stopped by Kilpatrick's chair, looking smug.

“I guess you heard that I'm ready to announce,” he remarked.

Kilpatrick grinned. “I heard. Good luck.”

“At least give me a good fight,” Davis muttered.

“Why, Jasper. Don't I always?” he asked innocently.

“Don't use that name,” the other man groaned, looking around quickly to make sure the bailiffs and the junior attorney talking to the clerk of court hadn't heard. “You know I hate it.”

“Your mother didn't. Shame on your for hiding it in an initial.”

“Just wait until I get you on television in a debate,” Davis said, smiling as he considered the prospect. “I'm having my staff research all your past cases.”

“Tell them to have fun,” Kilpatrick said amiably.

“For a man seeking reelection, you certainly are insufferably casual about it.”

Kilpatrick wasn't seeking reelection, but why spoil Davis's fun by admitting it now? He only grinned. “Have a nice day, now.”

Davis made a face and walked out, his briefcase dangling from one big hand.

Kilpatrick felt vaguely ashamed for baiting the other man. Davis was a good egg, and a hell of a good attorney. But he could be a real pain sometimes.

He packed up his papers and left the courtroom. It was five o'clock and he still had two hours' work in his office on routine matters before he could go home. But it was Friday night and he'd promised to take Becky out. He groaned inwardly. He hated disappointing her, but there was nothing he could do. The job had to come first.

He stopped by her office on his way to his own. Everyone else was getting ready to leave, but Becky was still at her typewriter. He spoke to Bob Malcolm and then settled himself on the desk beside Becky.

“I've got two hours more at least in the office,” he said irritably. “It's been a hell of a week.”

“And you can't go out tonight,” Becky guessed, smiling so that her disappointment wouldn't show. “It's all right, really.”

He sighed angrily. “No, it's not. Go home and feed your family.” He studied her wan face. “It would be a late supper,” he began hesitantly, “but if you want to drive back here and sit with me while I finish up, we can still have a bite to eat.”

Her heart leapt and the sadness lifted from her eyes. “I'd like that very much. Unless you're too tired…”

“I have to eat, too, Becky,” he said. “I'm not that tired. Lock your doors when you come back. I'll follow you home when we're through.”

“All right. I won't be long.”

He got up, chuckling at her expression. She looked like a kid at the circus. “Don't let them lock you in a closet, either.”

“No chance,” she murmured, and meant it.

She went home spoiling for a fight. She'd already told them the night before that she was eating out with Kilpatrick. This time, Granddad had a sick spell and moaned and groaned for all he was worth.

Becky panicked. She helped him to bed and then wrung her hands worrying about what to do. The doctor would come if she asked him, but it would take a chunk out of the budget she didn't want to use if Granddad was just pretending. She didn't know whether or not he was.

Clay, they told her, had gone out for the evening. They didn't know where he was. Mack was watching television and couldn't be budged from the screen. It looked as if Becky wasn't going to have a date.

B
ecky sat down beside Granddad's bed with her face in her hands. Every time he had sick spells, her nerves got worse. It was terrifying to have the full responsibility for another person's life. If she did the wrong thing, he might die, and she'd never forgive herself. On the other hand, she couldn't be certain that he wouldn't use his bad health to keep her away from Kilpatrick, whom he disliked.

“It's all right, girl,” he said, grimacing at the look on her face. “I'm not going to die.”

She shook her head. “I know. It's just…” Her thin shoulders lifted and fell. She smiled gently. “I've never had a real beau, you know. Nobody ever looked at me and liked me enough to ask me out two times. Kilpatrick knows that I'm not modern, and he still likes me.” She lowered her eyes to the bedspread. “It's nice, having him want to take me out.”

Granddad sighed angrily. “It will lead to heartache,” he said stiffly. “He could be using you to get to Clay. Clay's up to something, Becky. We both know it, and I'll lay odds your friend Kilpatrick does, too. You're the best and most obvious way to keep Clay under tabs.”

“So you keep saying. But if that's so, why doesn't he ever ask me anything about Clay?”

“That I can't answer.” He sat up and rubbed a hand through his white hair. “I'm all right now. You go on. Mack can get me a doctor if I have to have one. He's a good kid.”

“Yes, I know.”

She hesitated, and he looked guilty for a moment. “I said I'm all right. I don't approve of you going out with this man, but I have to admit it's nice to see you smile for a change. I can bite the bullet while you get him out of your system. You just make sure he doesn't play you for a sucker, in any way,” he added firmly.

“I will.” She beamed. She leaned over and kissed him. “I'll finish getting supper before I go. And I'll be home on time.”

“You're a good girl,” he said, frowning as she opened the door. “I guess it's been pretty hard on you. I've taken you for granted, Becky, and you shouldn't have let me.”

“Somebody has to look after you and the boys,” she said gently. “I don't mind. I love you,” she added and smiled.

“We love you, too,” he said gruffly, averting his gaze. “Even Clay, but he's got to learn what love is.”

“Let's hope it isn't too painful a lesson,” Becky replied. She went out and closed the door.

As she finished fixing supper, she suddenly realized that she was an hour later than she'd promised to be. Kilpatrick would give her up, and worse, it was already too late to get a meal out unless it was a hamburger. A man who worked as hard as he did needed a balanced meal.

Becky pulled out the old worn wicker picnic hamper and packed some buttered biscuits, potato salad, and baked ham in it, along with two slices of the apple pie she'd made earlier in the week. She fed Mack and Granddad and added a thermos of hot coffee to the basket before she left. They were amiable enough—especially Mack, who didn't seem to be miffed at her at all. And Granddad was almost cheerful. She allowed herself to wonder if they'd had time to poison Kilpatrick's part of the meal.

Kilpatrick was waiting for her. He glanced pointedly at the clock, because it was past the two hours he'd said he'd need to finish his work.

“Sorry,” she said sheepishly, as she stood with her old coat wrapped around her. It had rained and become chilly outside. “Granddad had a bad spell and I had to sit with him a little bit until I was sure he was all right.”

“Is he?” he asked.

“Just fine,” she said. “But I'm sorry I was late. Had you given me up?” she asked, dangling the hamper beside her purse.

He stood up, smiling. His jacket was off and his shirtsleeves were rolled back to his elbows. “No, I hadn't given you up. You'd have phoned long ago if you weren't coming.”

“You know me pretty well already,” she said with a laugh.

“Not as well as I want to. What's it going to be, Chinese or Greek?”

“How about home cooking?” she asked with a smile, and produced the hamper. “I guessed it would be too late to eat out, except for hamburgers or something. I thought you might like ham and potato salad and apple pie better.”

“You angel!” he exclaimed as she put the hamper on the desk and opened it. The delicious smells filled the office. “I'd resigned myself to a hamburger. This is a feast.”

“Leftover supper,” she corrected as she produced two plates, along with cups, saucers, and utensils. She saw him frowning at the unbreakable dishware and flushed a little. She couldn't admit that she wasn't able to afford disposable paper plates and plastic utensils.

Kilpatrick had worked that out already for himself, though. He smiled gently as he cleared enough space for her to put out the food.

“This is delicious,” he sighed when they reached the apple pie stage. He leaned back, sipping black coffee, as she unwrapped the pie and put it in saucers. “Becky, you're quite a cook.”

“I like cooking,” she confessed. “My mother taught me. She was super.”

“It must have been a terrible blow for you when she died,” he remarked, watching her as he ate.

“The end of the world,” she agreed, “at the time. Mack was only two years old, you see. Clay was nine. Dad was never at home much—he sort of came and went. It was Granddad who kept things going. I managed to finish high school. Mrs. White down the road would keep Mack. Granddad was still working on the railroad then.” She smiled wistfully. “It was fun, looking after a toddler. Mack and I are pretty close because I'm more like a mother than a sister. But Clay…well, he was always into trouble, even as a youngster. He's just gotten worse. He hates authority.”

“I imagine he's given you hell about seeing me?” he asked.

“Of course. He and Granddad both. Mack's the only one who seems to think about me,” she added as she finished her own coffee and pie.

“Were you a tomboy?” he asked, picturing her up in trees and playing baseball.

She laughed. “Yes. Having two brothers sort of disposes you that way. I can still pitch hay and drive the tractor, although I don't like to.” The laughter fell away as she thought about spring planting. “It's getting to be hard this year, without Granddad to help plant. We've always had a small truck garden as well as our kitchen garden, but this year I don't know. Clay's just no help at all, and Mack's still too young.”

“Your father contributes nothing toward the boys' support?” he asked.

She shook her head. “He has no sense of responsibility. He always wanted easy money.”

He toyed with the white mug he was holding. “I remember him, barely. He was a lot like Clay.”

“Disrespectful, arrogant, and totally uncooperative,” she guessed.

He burst out laughing. “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

“That's Dad.” She cleared away the plates and cups, glancing wryly at Kilpatrick. “I'm glad I take after my mother. She was painfully honest. Mack's going to be like that. He already is. He was furious about the little Dennis boy.”

“How do he and Clay get along?” he wondered aloud.

“They don't, lately,” she replied as she filled the hamper with the leftovers and closed it. “Mack won't even speak to him since the weekend.” She frowned. “I can't get him to tell me why.”

“Brothers always fight, they say,” he said, smoothing things over. It was much too soon to start probing.

“You don't have brothers or sisters, do you?” she asked gently.

He shook his head. “No. I've always been a loner. I guess I always will be.” He stood up, stretching lazily, so that his white shirt strained against the muscular expanse of dark-shadowed chest under it. He was hairy there. Becky could see curly black hair peeking out of the opening at his throat. The sight made her shy and she averted her eyes.

“Next time, we'll eat out,” he said, smiling lazily at her. His gaze fell to her soft mouth and lingered there as he remembered how it had felt to kiss her.

“You could come out to the farm for Sunday dinner,” she suggested hesitantly, and blushed as she realized how forward it probably sounded. “That is, if you want to. It would be kind of like marching into an enemy camp unarmed.”

“I'm never unarmed,” he replied. “I'd enjoy that. What time?”

“About one?”

“Will that give you enough time to get the meal together after church?” he asked.

“If it doesn't, you can always sit in the kitchen and talk to me while I work.”

“Saving me from the rest of the family, I gather?” he chuckled. “Okay. I survived two years in Vietnam. I guess I can survive an afternoon of Clay and your grandfather.”

“You served in Vietnam?” she asked.

“Yes. I don't talk about it, beyond that,” he added gently.

She smiled. “I won't ask, then. Do you liked fried chicken?”

“Very much.” He moved toward her, the very slowness of his steps a threat, considering the smile and the dark warmth of his eyes. He caught her by the waist and pulled her against him, his smile fading as his gaze moved from her wide eyes, over her straight freckled nose, down to her soft mouth. “I didn't frighten you the other night, did I?”

She didn't pretend not to know what he was talking about. “No,” she replied softly. She could feel his coffee-scented breath on her mouth, almost taste it in the sudden silence of the closed room. His lean hands smoothed her back, bringing her breasts hard against his broad chest.

“I was determined that I wasn't going to see you again,” he said, suddenly serious as he met her eyes. “You and I are worlds apart, and I don't just mean financially.”

“But you came back,” she whispered.

He nodded. His hands contracted, bringing her closer, and his head bent. “Because no matter how hopeless it is,” he breathed against her mouth, “I want you, Becky!”

Her breath caught as his mouth opened on hers, forcing her lips apart with its expert pressure. Her eyes closed and she slid her arms under his and around him. He was powerfully built. She could feel the muscles rippling as he held her, feel the strength of him. She floated between heaven and earth, and her body began to tauten until it was almost painful with a tension she'd never experienced before.

As if he sensed it, his hand slid to the base of her spine and jerked, dragging her hips against his so that she felt for the first time in her life the blatant reality of a man's physical arousal.

She gasped against his mouth. He lifted his head. His eyes were darker than ever, narrow, intense. She tried to move back, but his hand increased its intimate pressure on her hips, holding her.

He watched the blush cover her cheeks, watched her freckles stand out vividly against it. His eyes held hers relentlessly until he felt her tremble.

Then he bent again and his mouth teased, brushed, and lifted until she relaxed against him and gave in completely. She no longer fought against his hold on her. Her mouth opened to the persuasion of his lips and she breathed him, lived through him, in a state of mindless pleasure.

When he lifted his head again, her eyelids would barely open. She looked up at him dazedly. Her full lips were swollen, her face devoid of expression, her eyes yielding and gentle.

His hands had fallen to her hips while he was kissing her. He held her gaze and moved her deliberately against him, his dark eyes studying her helpless reaction.

“Thank your lucky stars that I have a conscience,” he said, his voice huskier than usual, deeper. “Because when it gets this bad, most men will invent an excuse to go the whole damned way.”

“Do you really think that I could stop you?” she whispered.

He smiled gently. “You wouldn't want to,” he corrected. “But afterward…what about afterward, Becky?”

Her whirling mind clung to that thought, and she realized what he was getting at. Guilt. Shame. Those would come afterward, because her particular code of honor didn't allow for intimate interludes. To her, sex and marriage and love were intermingled, indivisible. She lowered her eyes and he let her go, if a little reluctantly, and moved away to light a cigar.

“Did your mother ever have little talks with you about men?” he asked finally, staring out his window toward the streetlights below.

“I wasn't dating then, so I guess she didn't see the need. Granddad said to be good and we got lectures in school about the hazards of promiscuity.” She shrugged. “I learned more from reading romance novels than from anyone in my family. Some of them were
very
educational,” she added with a faint grin.

He turned around, chuckling at the expression in her eyes. Pure witchery. He was aching like mad, but she had a positive gift for making him laugh. “But you still don't want to be modern and liberated?”

She shook her head. “Not when I'm thinking properly, no.” She traced a pattern on the skirt of her dress. “I don't know very much about men, or things I'd need to know to be liberated.”