“The First Lady of Texas is pleased to offer herself as a character witness for Ms. Beth Maitland, whose generous contributions to the child-care community of our state cannot be overstated,” Paul recited.
“How does this outpouring of support strike you?” Ty asked, scanning the letter, which was addressed to the district attorney and had been copied to the mayor, the chief of police and the division.
“The family probably instigated it,” Paul said, “but that doesn’t mean it isn’t sincere.”
Ty laid the letter aside and nodded. “That’s my take, too.” He went on to tell Paul what he’d learned that day. Paul listened attentively, occasionally quirking an eyebrow or tossing out an astute observation. When Ty was done, Paul took his feet from the corner of his desk and leaned forward.
“Okay, so what’s our next step?”
“We poke holes in Dumont’s story so the truth can leak out,” Ty said.
“You’re sure that’s the way the wind blows?”
Ty considered a moment, stilling himself emotionally and mentally in order to access the small voice that whispered through his soul. A picture of Beth Maitland sprang instantly to mind, her long, thick, coffee-brown hair frothing past her shoulders in layers of wavy curls. He saw the vibrant blue of her eyes, the elegant line of her nose, the slender oval of her face with its delicately pointed chin and wide, expressive mouth. Her perfect peaches-and-cream complexion invoked thoughts of warm, pale silk. He felt the definite urge to smile, as if an unexpected shaft of sunlight had broken through a gray and gloomy sky. That woman couldn’t have killed anyone, and no one in his right mind would believe she had. Had Dumont set her up? His blood boiled at the very notion.
“Well?” Paul prodded.
Ty shook away the image and the emotions it evoked, aware that his small voice had developed a healthy libido. She was an extremely attractive woman, Beth Maitland, and he’d felt definite vibes around her. Something told him that she was as strongly attracted to him as he was to her, not that he could let that matter. She was an official suspect in a high-profile murder. He happened to think that she was innocent. “Let’s get Dumont and Beth Maitland in here for another interview, together this time,” he decided.
Paul rocked back in his chair, asking nonchalantly, “And which one do you want me to call?”
As casually as he could manage, Ty answered, “Doesn’t matter. Dumont, I guess.”
Paul winked and grinned. “Knew you’d say that.”
Ty kept his face expressionless. “Yeah? Then why’d you ask?”
“Just to hear you admit that you want to speak to Beth Maitland yourself.”
Ty snorted rudely. “I admit no such thing, and just because the woman is attractive doesn’t mean she’s my type, Jester.”
“Why isn’t she your type? Besides the obvious, that she’s a suspect.”
“She’s rich,” Ty answered succinctly.
“That doesn’t make her like that chick your mom told me about,” Paul argued, “the one from college who—”
“I know the one you’re talking about!” Ty snapped, thinking he’d have to have a careful word with his mother. It was unlike her to discuss his personal business even with his closest friends. “What did my mother tell you about her, anyway?”
Paul shrugged. “Just that she was from a prominent Houston family who didn’t like the idea of their little debutante hooking up with a Native American.”
A dirt-poor redskin, her daddy had called him, a breech-clout gigolo without so much as his own tom-tom to his name. The insult still burned rancorously in his gut whenever he thought about it. He was very, very proud of his heritage. At the time, however, his erstwhile girlfriend’s tearful wailing that her daddy was going to revoke her credit cards if she didn’t stop seeing him had seemed the worse insult. He’d been stupid enough to think that, because she’d hopped into his bed every chance she got, she’d loved him. He’d found out rather graphically how he’d stacked up against her plastic money and her society friends. It had been a brutal reality check, and one he wouldn’t need again, but Paul didn’t have to know that.
“She was nothing, that girl,” Ty said evenly, “just a little passing infatuation. My mother shouldn’t read so much into things.”
“Your mother is a very wise woman,” Paul responded.
“Well, her wisdom sometimes gets a little tangled up when it comes to her children,” Ty remarked. “But if you tell her I said such a thing, I’ll have to cut your nose off.”
“Crow punishment for betrayal,” Paul exclaimed delightedly. He loved hearing about the old lore and traditions.
Ty chuckled. “Maybe I’ll have to strip the skin off the soles of your feet and stake them to a fire-ant hill. Punishment for trespassing in private territory.”
Paul frowned, and Ty could almost see the wheels turning behind his eyes. “You made that up!” he finally declared. “The People never did any such thing.”
“Who said it was Crow punishment?” Ty teased. “It’s just my personal remedy for nosy partners.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, have I ever told you my remedy for smart-aleck Indians?”
“Indian is an incorrect and unacceptable label,” Ty said, deadpan.
“So sue me, native boy,” Paul retorted, reaching into his desk drawer for a rubber band, which he shot from between his fingers. Ty dodged the harmless missile and pulled out his drawer to get at his weapons stash.
The serviceable gray-carpeted floor around their abutted desks was littered with red and green rubber bands, and the mood had lightened considerably by the time Ty finally looked up Beth Maitland’s telephone number and made that call. The play had done nothing, however, to prevent the slow thickening of his blood that occurred when her light, musical voice brought back to mind her sexy image. He reminded himself that Beth Maitland was not a woman in whom he should feel the slightest interest. Now all he had to do was silence that whisper in his soul, the one that brought a vision of her to the mind’s eye and promised that here was fire to melt the ice of his heart.
CHAPTER THREE
TY WAS COOL. He didn’t blink an eye when Beth Maitland sauntered in wearing tan suede slacks that showed off her long, slender legs and tight, round bottom. He said nothing about the matching fringed jacket that she wore over a tight, wine red knit shirt that left no doubt as to the strength of her feminine attributes. He did not compliment her suede half-boots, which matched her shirt in color, or comment upon the way she had twisted her long, lush hair into a plump, frothy roll skewered with a trio of silver-and-turquoise pins. He failed to remark that the open, turned-up collar of her shirt emphasized the creamy length of her slender neck, or that an expensive silver-and-turquoise beaded necklace called eye-catching attention to the deep crevice of her cleavage. To the casual observer, his fascination and appreciation would not have been unduly marked. Only he knew that she amazed him by looking even better than he remembered. Moreover, she possessed a quirky, natural style that was wholly her own, and being a man of a certain personal style himself, Ty could only applaud. Silently, of course.
He got to his feet and greeted her impersonally. “Ms. Maitland, thank you for coming.”
She nodded and glanced past him to Brandon Dumont, her eyes going wide then clouding with confusion as she took in the small, dark woman next to him. Ty brushed back the sides of his suit coat and parked his hands at his waist, watching the byplay. Looking bored, Dumont pinched the crease of his navy slacks where one knee crossed the other. The Mexican woman next to him bowed her head and did not look up again, as if avoiding Beth Maitland’s gaze. Beth tilted her head to one side, questioning Ty with her eyes. He smiled reassuringly, realized what he was