Read the book: «Outside the Law»

CHAPTER ONE

“ASKHIMNOW.”

Beth McClelland shrank back into the hallway, her mind screaming Chicken! “He looks busy.”

“He’s probably just surfing the web. Computer geeks can always look busy.” Raleigh Shinn, Beth’s best friend, stood behind her with a hand on her shoulder, ready to push if necessary.

But Beth planted her feet firmly. It had seemed like a good idea yesterday, buying tickets to a zydeco concert, then casually telling Mitch Delacroix she had an extra if he wanted to come with her. She knew he liked that kind of music because he often played it as background noise while he hunted online for elusive data or missing witnesses.

“What if he says no?” Beth knew she sounded like a teenager, but she wasn’t ready for rejection. Since her last relationship had been so disastrous, she wanted to ease back into the dating world. Shouldn’t her first foray be with someone easier? Someone less complicated? Someone she didn’t care about?

She and Mitch had become friends. They had an easy working relationship and she genuinely enjoyed hanging out with him. Taking it to the next level might be a logical choice—or a disaster.

“He won’t say no,” Raleigh insisted. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you, and you said he isn’t dating anyone seriously.”

“Then why hasn’t he asked me out?” He certainly flirted enough.

“Stop stalling and get this over with, please. I’m tired of watching you make cow eyes at him. If he says no—which he won’t—you can at least move on.”

Raleigh was a compassionate friend, but she never minced words. Her legal training had taught her to get to the heart of the matter in the most direct way possible.

“Can I help you ladies with something?”

Beth stifled a gasp and took a step back. While she’d been arguing with Raleigh, Mitch Delacroix had come out of his chair and walked over. He now stood less than two feet away, his thumbs hooked into the pockets of his faded jeans.

She tried to say something, but her tongue had grown twice its normal size and her brain felt as though it just went through a blender. She had no trouble testifying in court about DNA molecules and ion exchange chromatography, and normally she could hold her own with men, professionally or socially. But just the thought of asking Mitch Delacroix out on a date—a real date—twisted her up inside. She’d never been interested in someone she worked with before, so maybe her instincts were trying to tell her this was a bad idea.

To hell with instincts. She wanted Mitch and she wasn’t going to let anything stop her.

Raleigh leaned in and whispered, “Don’t screw this up. I’m out of here.” She walked away, leaving Beth and Mitch standing in the doorway.

He looked at her expectantly, a smile playing on his sexy mouth.

Crap. She struggled to come up with a credible excuse for why she’d walked into the bull pen.

Mitch’s desk phone chose that moment to buzz. He ignored it at first, but it buzzed again. “Mitch, pick up.” The voice of Celeste Boggs, office manager for Project Justice, boomed over the intercom, sounding bossy even for Celeste. No, not just bossy. Tense and worried.

“You better get that,” Beth said, pleased she could string words together.

Mitch rolled his eyes. “What now? You think she’s mad because I took the last doughnut?” But he returned to his desk and grabbed the phone. “Yo, Celeste, what’s up?”

Beth stared greedily as his attention moved to the phone call. His light brown hair, streaked with blond from the sun, was well past his collar and unruly—the kind of hair that was hard to tame so he didn’t bother trying. Her perusal moved to his body; his typical geek’s ratty T-shirt revealed biceps and a nicely muscled chest that were decidedly atypical, and his tanned skin meant he did not spend every minute staring at a screen.

How was it that he looked so sexy even talking on the phone? He had this quiet confidence that was so appealing—not like the macho guys she’d been attracted to in the past, the ones with swagger and swelled muscles. But she was so over macho guys. A cute geek with a touch of bad boy might be exactly what she needed in her life—and in her bed.

“I’ll be right up,” he said, looking serious as he hung up the phone.

“Is something wrong?”

“Celeste says there’s a Louisiana cop asking to see me.”

That couldn’t be good news. Had there been an accident? Mitch was from a small town in Louisiana, so he was bound to have some family there.

“Walk with me up to the front desk. You wanted to talk to me about something?”

She didn’t want to ask him out on a date if he was about to get bad news. Then again, if she didn’t do it now, she never would.

Just do it. This was Mitch, her friend.

“Uh, I have two tickets to see Dirty Rice next Friday and I thought you might like to go.”

There. She’d at least said the words, though with far less charm than she’d envisioned. She held her breath, bracing for the blow.

“Oh, hell, Beth, I can’t Friday night. I have something planned already. Maybe Billy would take the extra ticket off your hands.”

“Yeah, maybe. I’ll ask him.” Dammit. She was going to kill Raleigh—this was all her fault. Of course Mitch had said no. He probably already had a date for Friday night. Guys like Mitch didn’t sit around waiting for women to ask them out. They made plans. They did the asking.

What had she been thinking?

She wanted to run for the safety of her lab, where she could hide behind a microscope. But Mitch would know something was wrong if she suddenly took off like her tail was on fire. So she kept walking with him down the hall to the lobby, pretending she hadn’t just had her heart body-slammed.

“Celeste didn’t say what the cop wanted?” she asked, desperate to fill the silence. A Louisiana cop wouldn’t drive all the way to Houston on a whim; chances were good he was here on official business, and that usually meant bad news.

“The guy wouldn’t say.” Mitch sounded unconcerned, but Beth wasn’t fooled. When he flashed his playful smile at her, she could tell he was forcing it. “So, Dirty Rice, huh? I didn’t know you were a zydeco fan.”

“I’m not. I mean, I like it okay.”

“So you bought tickets because…” He seemed genuinely curious, not judgmental.

She couldn’t admit she’d bought them because he liked zydeco. Then, inspiration struck. “I won them from a radio station.”

“Oh.” He seemed to be digesting that. She wasn’t the type to call in to radio stations trying to win stuff.

They passed through a door in a frosted glass partition that led into the lobby of Project Justice, the Houston nonprofit where they both worked. The lobby was a large space with cold marble floors and wood-paneled walls, rather stark, Beth had always thought. It was intended to impress, but not to be inviting. Daniel Logan, CEO of Project Justice, didn’t want just anyone wandering in off the street and feeling at home. So the only visitor seating was a couple of hard chairs.

The cop had elected to stand, his back to Celeste, studying an arrangement of framed press clippings on the wall. He was a beefy guy, his muscular shoulders straining against his khaki uniform. His dark brown hair was cut very short, revealing a tan line at the margins.

Celeste made a big show of ignoring him, her nose buried in a Soldier of Fortune magazine, a large knife out on her desk—just in case.

Mitch picked up his pace, striding confidently into the lobby while Beth hung back. “You wanted to see me?” His voice contained a touch of arrogance.

The stranger turned, and Mitch skidded to a halt. “Dwayne?”

“Mitch. Been a while.”

“Yeah. A while.”

So, they knew each other. Maybe this was a personal visit, not an official one. An old friend, looking him up… No, that wasn’t right. Whatever their relationship, it wasn’t warm and fuzzy. The two men sized each other up, radiating tension.

“Why the big mystery?” Mitch asked. “Why didn’t you tell Celeste your name?”

“I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea. This isn’t exactly a social call.”

Mitch looked confused. “Did someone die?”

The cop named Dwayne looked faintly amused. “Funny you should ask that. I’m here in regards to an incident that happened twelve years ago. A Monte Carlo was stolen from the parking lot of a Piggly Wiggly. Ring any bells?”

“Yeah, I believe I do recall that incident,” Mitch said with an exaggerated Southern accent. “But the charges were dropped. Buried, in fact.”

Charges? Mitch had been arrested and charged with a crime? Her throat tightened as she recalled the last guy she’d dated, who’d also had a criminal past. Vince had explained away the assault charges, claiming it was all a misunderstanding, and she’d been stupid enough to fall for it. Until he’d broken her jaw.

She gave her head a quick, involuntary shake. No way was Mitch in the same boat as Vince. He’d freely admitted he’d been a “wild kid,” but Beth had pictured him pulling pranks, maybe spray-painting a bridge or decorating trees with toilet paper. She’d known nothing about car theft, but that wasn’t violent. Still, it was bad.

“I’m not here about the theft per se,” Dwayne said. “You had a friend with you that night. Robby Racine. That right?”

Abruptly Celeste came out of her chair, proving she’d been listening keenly despite her show of disinterest. She was well into her seventies, with wild gray curls and a spare, wiry body that she stuffed into the most improbable outfits. Today it was a zebra-striped, bat-wing shirt, black leggings and red boots. But anyone who knew her was scared of her. “Mitch, don’t say another word without a lawyer present.”

Mitch turned to Celeste. “This is my brother.”

“Half brother,” Dwayne said.

Beth thought the distinction odd, as if Dwayne wanted to deny the relationship.

“Whatever, I don’t think he’s here to arrest me.” But when Mitch returned his attention to Dwayne, he looked less than sure of himself. “Are you?”

“I’m just here to talk. So, about Robby…”

“Robby Racine was with me that night,” Mitch confirmed.

“You happen to know where he is?”

“Robby? Good gravy, no. Haven’t seen him since that night. Getting arrested for stealing a car would have been his third felony. He’d have done time for sure. He took off.” Mitch seemed to relax slightly. “I figure he’s in Mexico.”

“You figured wrong. He turned up the other day.”

“No kidding. What’s he up to these days?”

“Nothing. That’s the point. He turned up in a shallow grave on some land owned by your mother. And you were the last one to see him alive.”

Beth’s head spun. This could not be happening. Mitch, her Mitch, a murder suspect? She simply could not picture it. He was so nice, so laid-back. He was a computer geek. Since when did geeks go around stealing cars and killing people? It was ridiculous.

“Where did you find Robby?” Mitch asked. “My mom never owned any land that I knew of. She and Daddy were poor as cockroaches at a homeless shelter, you know that.”

“Hell, Mitch, I don’t know the details. I volunteered to come here, pick you up and take you to Coot’s Bayou for questioning. Thought it might go down a little easier if you saw a friendly face.”

Mitch looked as if he wanted to spit. “Friendly, my ass. You’re loving this. And if you want me to come to Coot’s Bayou for anything, you’ll need a warrant.”

Celeste pushed the intercom button. “Raleigh, wherever you are, get your ass into the lobby. Stat.”

“Mitch,” Beth said carefully, “don’t you think you should clear this up?”

Judging from the surprised look he gave her, he’d forgotten she was there—and didn’t seem to welcome her contribution. “I don’t owe the Coot’s Bayou police anything.”

“They just want to talk,” Dwayne said.

“That’s what they always say,” Celeste interjected. “You think we were born yesterday, sonny?”

“Celeste, thank you, but I’ll handle this.” Mitch focused on his brother. “Dwayne, whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying. I haven’t even lived in Louisiana for seven years!”

“Doesn’t matter. We think Robby died the night that car was stolen.”

Mitch looked over at Beth. Gauging her reaction? And what did he see on her face? She could hide her emotions when dealing with the press, or in court, but when dealing with her own life, every thought that whisked through her mind showed plainly in her expression.

The revulsion she felt was for the crime, not Mitch, who couldn’t possibly have done it, but would he be able to tell the difference?

“Let me know when you have a warrant.” Mitch turned on his heel and sauntered out of the lobby, appearing completely unbothered. But his gait was slightly stiffer than normal, his jaw set more firmly. Anyone who’d spent as much time studying Mitch as she had could notice these things.

Had he fooled his own half brother?

Dwayne looked first at Celeste, who stared back with open challenge, then switched his gaze to Beth, perhaps seeking someone with a more open mind. “It’s in his best interest to cooperate,” he said. “There’s gonna be a warrant, and I’ll have to come back with it tomorrow.” He turned and exited to the street.

By the time Raleigh arrived, whooshing into the hall with her pen, notebook and digital recorder ready for battle, it was all over.

“You’re too late,” Celeste said. “Missed the show. Did you know our Mitch has a half brother? And a cop, at that?”

“No, I didn’t. What happened here?”

“I’ll explain,” Beth said. “But let’s go to the ladies’ room where I can have a meltdown in private.”

Raleigh said nothing until they were safely inside the ladies’ lounge on the second floor. Raleigh and Beth had held quite a few cry fests in here over the past few years. It was furnished with tufted sofas and gilt-framed mirrors, but its best feature was a big box of Kleenex.

“He said no?” Raleigh guessed correctly.

“He said he was busy.” Beth slumped onto a sofa, swallowing back the tears that threatened. What if Mitch got arrested?

“He didn’t issue a counteroffer?” Raleigh sounded genuinely perplexed.

“Never mind the date. His half brother was there asking a lot of questions about something that happened years ago when Mitch lived in… I can hardly say it. Coot’s Bayou. Did you know he was from a place called Coot’s Bayou?”

“Seems I heard about it at some point.”

“Did you know he stole a car?”

“He was a teenager at the time. The charges were dropped.”

“So you did know. You should have told me.”

“It’s not like he’s a criminal. He’s a good person, Beth.”

“Maybe.” Deep down, Beth felt that Mitch was good, not that she could trust her own instincts where men were concerned. “But now he’s being accused of murder. His own half brother seems to think he might have killed the guy—”

“Whoa, whoa. Murder? Start from the beginning.”

Beth recounted the conversation between Mitch and his brother as best she could. Raleigh listened attentively, taking quick notes, firmly in lawyer mode.

When Beth was finished, Raleigh pulled off her glasses and massaged her temples. “He needs to cooperate. He needs to clear this up.”

“That’s what I told him. But instead he got angry. I never saw Mitch get angry before.”

“Everybody has buttons. Obviously Mitch and his brother have some issues.”

“You have to talk to him, Raleigh. Convince him to hire himself a lawyer and go to Coot’s Bayou and answer the questions.”

“I can try. But honestly…you’re the one who knows him better.”

“And you’re the lawyer. You know how to persuade juries and get witnesses to admit stuff.”

“We’ll talk to him together,” Raleigh said decisively.

Beth nodded. “Okay. Let’s do it now.”

They exited the bathroom, but in the hallway Raleigh paused as if something just occurred to her. “Why do you think the half brother showed up with the news?”

“He said he thought it would go down easier if Mitch saw a friendly face. But that guy’s face was far from friendly. He was loving every minute of the exchange. There is bad blood between those two.”

MITCHWASSOSTEAMED about his brother’s high-handed prank that he didn’t return to the bull pen. He needed quiet, not the controlled chaos of the large, open area, where the Project Justice junior investigators and interns worked. He headed upstairs to his private office, shut the door and collapsed into the leather chair behind his desk.

He didn’t want to see or talk to anyone.

He was supposed to be searching for a missing witness pertaining to another investigator’s case, but not even the prospect of losing himself in online research could distract him from his irritation.

Dwayne could have called. He could have emailed him or texted. He could have showed up at Mitch’s house. Walking into Mitch’s place of business and announcing to everyone within earshot that he was a murder suspect was the kind of cruelty Dwayne had always gone for.

He’d done it on purpose, of course—to humiliate Mitch as thoroughly as possible.

Mitch slammed his fist into his left palm. Hell, why was this happening now? He had a fight scheduled for Friday night, and he couldn’t afford to lose focus, not if he wanted to continue his winning streak.

He needed to sweat, to work out the anger and frustration. Beating the crap out of a punching bag, pushing his body until every muscle burned, was the only sane way he knew how to deal with stress. It sure as hell beat joyriding in stolen cars, or downing a case of beer.

After a futile hour, he decided concentrating was impossible. He closed his laptop and loaded it into his backpack. No one would notice if he cut out a couple of hours early, and he could put in a few more hours of research tonight at home. Right now, he had to get out of here.

He was heading for the door when someone knocked. Damn, no clean getaway. He yanked the door open.

Beth and Raleigh. Neither of them was smiling.

“Hey. I was just on my way out—”

“This will only take a few moments.” Raleigh pushed her way inside his office without invitation. Beth followed, and Mitch inhaled deeply as she brushed past him. Today’s scent was green-apple. She liked to wear all different kinds of perfumes, mostly botanical scents like kiwi and watermelon and vanilla. He’d made a game out of trying to guess the scent of the day.

But the stubborn expression on her pretty, feminine face told him this was not the time for games. He knew that expression. He was in for a fight.

Mitch smiled his best good-ol’-boy smile. “Ladies, I have a dentist appointment—”

“So you’ll be five minutes late,” Raleigh said. “As chief legal counsel for Project Justice, I have something to say. Now, you might not care if a posse of Louisiana cops shows up tomorrow with sirens and bullhorns and guns flashing, but I do. If you get arrested for so much as littering, it reflects badly on the foundation, and I can’t let that happen.”

“That won’t happen,” he assured her. At least, he didn’t think so. “My brother was just trying to piss me off. They don’t have any evidence.”

“They do have evidence,” Beth nearly exploded. “If you were the last person known to see the victim alive, that’s plenty of evidence to bring you in for questioning. You’re only making things worse. If you keep sticking your head in the sand—”

He held up one hand to stop the tirade. “I’ve got this under control, okay? I know how the local cops operate in Coot’s Bayou. I worked for them for a few years. They’re just shaking the bushes, hoping something will fall out.

“I’m not falling out. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He turned his back on them, daring them to try and stop him from exiting his own office. If he didn’t find a punching bag soon, he was going to lose it. But he heard no steps behind him, no clatter of high heels on the polished wood floor.

It was a fine spring day, cool and crisp in a way perpetually muggy Houston seldom saw. He’d ridden the Harley to work, and as he settled into his eight-mile commute home, he hoped the wind in his face would clear his mind. But when he pulled into his driveway, he was every bit as tense and angry as when he’d left work.

He didn’t bother putting his bike in the garage. He stepped inside his small ranch house long enough to shed his jeans and golf shirt and throw on shorts and a T-shirt with the arms ripped out. Barefoot, he headed outside again, straight through the backyard to the gate that led to the adjacent property.

Mitch lived next to a played-out oil field. He’d bought the little house out near Hobby Airport for a song because most people didn’t care for the sound of pumps and the occasional smell of raw petroleum. That was three years ago, and now the pumps were silent and still. The oil reserves were empty.

The quiet wouldn’t last forever. Even now, the oil company that owned the mineral rights to this two-hundred-acre chunk of land was in the process of acquiring more sophisticated drills and pumps that could go deeper into the ground. But for now the field was still and peaceful except for the breeze rustling through weeds that had reclaimed the ground and the occasional bird chirp.

Most of the old machinery had been removed, but one rusted grasshopper pump was left, abandoned, and Mitch had turned it into his private gym. It had just the ambiance he needed to train for a cage fight.

Mitch normally started his workout with some general fitness training—push-ups, jumping rope or agility drills with resistance bands wrapped around his thighs. But today he skipped all that. He tugged on a pair of four-ounce gloves, which offered minimal protection for his hand but left his fingers free, then went to work on the heavy punching bag he’d suspended from the pump.

Jab. Jab. Left hook. Right uppercut. Knee to the solar plexus. Head shot. Body shot. Like always, he imagined an opponent. Usually, he visualized the guy he was scheduled to fight. He would study any videos he could find of the guy, imprint his fighting style into his brain, then picture all the various ways he could beat him.

Today, his opponent was not Ricky “Quick Death” Marquita. Today, the face he saw was his brother’s.

Dwayne was the one who’d motivated him to learn to fight—not by encouraging him, but by beating him up a few times when they were kids. Bigger, older, Dwayne had had no trouble besting his little brother.

Mitch continued to rain punches and kicks onto the hapless bag filled with sand and gel, pausing only long enough to whip off his T-shirt after he’d gotten good and warmed up. Roundhouse kick to the head. Elbow to the chin. Inside crescent kick to the knee. He kept going long past exhaustion. Sometimes, the winner of a cage fight was simply the one who could stay upright the longest. Fighting through exhaustion was a key skill.

If he and Dwayne fought today, things would be different. Dwayne still outweighed Mitch by a good thirty pounds. But Mitch was sure that if they ever met in a chain-link cage—or in a back alley—he could smear the mat with his brother.