He was getting ready to leave for lunch with his brother, McKuen Kilraven, when Joceline came to the doorway. She wasn’t smiling.
“What’s up?” he asked.
She hesitated. “They cut Harold Monroe loose this morning.”
He rolled his eyes. “Is my life insurance policy current?” he drawled.
She shook her head. “It isn’t funny. I mean, Monroe manages to fumble everything he does, but he did attack a policeman with a Bowie knife when you had him arrested.”
It was ironic that another man who’d made terrible threats to Jon earlier in the year had died of a heart attack in prison the day before he was due to be released. Joceline had thought her boss was safe, and had breathed a sigh of relief. But it didn’t last. A few days later, Monroe was arrested for human trafficking and charged and swore vengeance against the people who had landed him in jail, including Jon.
“Monroe came at the policeman with a Bowie knife, tripped on the carpet, went head-over-heels and stuck the knife in his own leg,” he reminded her with twinkling black eyes. “Then he tried to have the policeman prosecuted for assault.”
“I understand some of the people in our legal system are still chuckling over that one,” she agreed. “But even people who fumble sometimes manage to follow through on threats.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “If he ever kills me, you can stand over my grave and say you told me so. I’m sure I’ll hear you from wherever I am.”
She didn’t like that thought. She averted her eyes. “Anyway, the district attorney’s office felt you should be aware of Monroe’s parole status.”
“I’m very grateful. You can pass that along to Mary Crawford at your leisure.”
She grinned. Mary was one of their ablest assistant D.A.s and would probably win the big office one day.
Jon was reading her expressions. “Even if she gets to be D.A., you aren’t going to work for her,” he said firmly. “I’m too old to start breaking in new employees. The one we’ve got part-time is twisting my nerves raw.”
“Phyllis Hicks is a nice girl,” Joceline protested. “Just because she messed up one deposition …”
“Messed it up!” he exclaimed. “The woman can’t even spell!”
“The spellchecker was malfunctioning,” she said defensively.
“Joceline, she’s in college part-time. They’re supposed to teach you basic grammar in school before you even get to college, aren’t they?” He threw up his hands. “Every time I go online, I see people using the contraction for ‘it is’ for the possessive form, using ‘there’ for ‘their,’ giving personal pronouns for inanimate objects …!”
She held up a hand. “Sir, we can’t all be brilliantly literate. And there is the spellchecker function on all modern computers.”
He glared at her. “Civilization will fail. You mark my words. If people can’t spell, it’s just a short jump to not being able to read instructions at all. Havoc will result.”
It was his pet peeve. She just shook her head. “Havoc can’t result from not reading instructions.”
“Wait until some idiot strikes a match next to an oxygen tank and tell me that again.”
Her eyes brightened. “There was this guy on the Miami Vice TV series—I have it on DVD—who walked into an illegal drug processing operation with a lit cigarette and blew up the whole building …!”
“Don’t tell me. You still watch the A-Team, too.” He rolled his eyes.
“They had to knock out B.A., Mr. T’s character, every time they flew somewhere because he was terrified of airplanes,” she chuckled.
“There are all sorts of programs on television,” he began.
“Yes. How wonderful for people who can afford cable or satellite reception.” She sighed dreamily. “It’s wonderful to have a DVD player, even if it’s old.”
He was shocked. He’d never inquired about her finances. But now he took a closer look at her. Her clothing seemed serviceable, but quite old. Not that he cared much about women’s fashions, but what she was wearing seemed several years out-of-date. Her shoes were nicely polished, but worn and scuffed.
She blushed when she noticed his intent scrutiny. “There’s nothing wrong with dressing conservatively,” she muttered.
His eyebrows arched. “God forbid they should put you in stocks,” he commented.
“We don’t live in Massachusetts and we aren’t mucking about in the seventeenth century,” she pointed out.
“Point taken.” He sighed. “Is my brother going to pick me up for lunch?”
She put a finger to her forehead and closed her eyes. “I see a black SUV pulling into the parking lot as we speak.” She opened one eye and looked past him out the window.
He threw up his hands and walked out the door.
Joceline grinned to herself. She liked winding him up. She did it often. He was far too somber. He needed to loosen up a little and stop taking life too seriously.
Then she thought about her own situation and sighed. It was just as well that she had a sense of humor, or she’d be dead herself. Her life was no bed of roses. However, it was just as well to smile as to cry. Neither would change anything.
“YOU’RE OUT OF SORTS AGAIN,” Kilraven mused, eyeing the brother who resembled him so much. Well, they had the same hair color, but Kilraven kept his hair short, and Jon’s eyes were very dark, where Kilraven’s were pale gray and glittery. They were half brothers, but that didn’t stop them from being close.
“Cammy’s getting on my nerves,” Jon said tersely. “It was another dizzy debutante yesterday morning. I had half an hour on fashion and hairstyles.”
Kilraven glanced at him as he pulled into traffic. “You could use a little fashion sense. No offense.” He chuckled.
“I dress quite well, thank you,” Jon said, referring to his three-piece watered gray silk suit.
“You’re elegant, all right,” said Kilraven, dressed in khaki slacks and a white polo shirt. “But your hair’s way out of style.”
“I’m Lakota,” he pointed out. “Nothing wrong with long hair.”
“You’re Cherokee, too,” came the droll reply.
Jon sighed. “I like my roots and my culture.”
Kilraven smiled. “So do I.”
Jon glanced at him. “You don’t show it.”
He shrugged. “I’m not defined by my ancestry.”
Jon glared. “Neither am I. But I prefer the Native American side of it.”
“I wasn’t making accusations,” the older man said blithely. “You’re just bent out of shape because Cammy wants you to get married yesterday and present her with a dozen grandkids.”
“Aren’t you and Winnie working on that?” Jon asked dryly, referring to Kilraven’s new wife, Winnie Sinclair from Jacobsville.
Kilraven chuckled. “Yes, we are. I can’t wait.”
“I’m glad you can finally let go of the past,” Jon said with affection. Kilraven’s wife and child had been brutally murdered seven years earlier. He’d never dreamed that his older brother would ever get married again. It delighted him that Kilraven had found such a kind and loving partner.
“You ever going to get married?”
Jon