sixteen-ounce cups of coffee.”
“I’m talking about the merchandise they loaded in the back.”
“Who loaded? What back?”
“The two crates of Uzis. Surely you remember that little detail. We have it all on videotape.”
Uzis? Shelby blinked. “Uzis?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She’d been inside the coffee shop all of three minutes. “How can that be? It was coffee. I bought coffee.”
The cop pushed the door open in front of her, and car horns and engine revs overtook the beeps of the computer terminals. “That’s your story, and you’re stickin’ to it?”
An exhaust-filled breeze hit her square in the face. “It’s the truth.”
“Right,” he drawled. “The Uzis in your warehouse tell a different story.”
“I didn’t even know we had a warehouse. And I’ve never seen an Uzi. Well, except on television. And that one time at the airport in Brazil. I’m an innocent bystander.”
“I believe the technical term is ‘accomplice.”’
“This is outrageous,” Shelby protested, anger asserting itself over her confusion.
But then they crossed the sidewalk, and her momentary bravado disappeared. She cringed, suddenly conscious of the drivers and pedestrians passing by on the busy street. Not that she’d ever see them again. And not that she was the first person to be arrested on Black Street.
Still…
“You can tell it all to the judge when we get downtown,” said the cop.
Shelby felt the first ray of hope. “You mean, right away? Like tonight?” The judge would have to believe she was innocent. Maybe he’d free her before Allison could worry. And then her life could carry on as normal—such as normal was this month.
“Could we stop at Flower-Fresh on the way to the station?” she asked.
“No.”
“But, my dress—” She caught the look in his eyes and snapped her mouth shut.
“You won’t need a dress where you’re going.”
Shelby swallowed, gaze sliding away from his, her optimism bottoming out. “You mean, the station house, right?”
“I meant the lockup.”
“They might put me in jail?”
“That’s the usual procedure.”
“But, I didn’t do anything.”
The cop reached down to open the back door of his cruiser. “That’s what they all say.”
“Don’t I get a telephone call?” Allison’s new fiancé was a lawyer. Maybe Greg could rescue her.
“Not yet. Watch your head.”
Staring into the murky, pungent depths of the cruiser’s back seat, Shelby’s entire body recoiled in a wave of instant claustrophobia. She had to fight an urge to kick the cop in the shin and make a run for it.
She was going to Balley’s tonight—to drink shooters and laugh with Allison about rotten, cheating boyfriends and their nasty blond floozies. She wasn’t going to get strip-searched, eat gruel and sleep on a lumpy prison mattress with a woman named Spike.
But the cop was a whole lot bigger and stronger than she was. He planted her firmly on the bench seat.
“There’s been a mistake,” she whispered.
“Then you have nothing to worry about.” He slammed the handleless door shut and headed around the hood of the car.
Shelby hated to disagree with the nice policeman, but she had plenty to worry about. The cops didn’t believe she was innocent. Gerry wasn’t going to help her. And they had her on videotape making an Uzi pickup at a coffee shop cum firearms depot.
Her shoulders slumped and she let her head drop back against the hard seat, closing her eyes in defeat.
Gunrunner was going to look even worse than philosophy major on her résumé.
IF HONOR and principles weren’t already keeping lawyer Dallas Williams on the straight and narrow, the thought of spending more than ten minutes in the Haines Street lockup certainly would.
It had to be one of the most depressing places on earth. Fluorescent overheads buzzed and flickered against faded, gray ceilings. Prisoners shouted profanity from the long lockup hallway behind the desk sergeant’s counter. And the smell of mildew permeated the punky, dark walnut paneling, circa 1930.
“Got that arrest report ready for Dallas Williams?” the desk sergeant called to the officer behind him as two uniforms brought a man and a woman to the desk for processing.
Dallas automatically shifted away from the handcuffed female. He was here to get background information on a witness in an embezzlement hearing, and then he was out of here.
“Be about two minutes,” the sergeant called to Dallas. He gestured to the royal-blue, molded plastic chairs that lined the opposite side of the hallway. “Want to have a seat?”
Dallas shook his head. “No thanks.”
Rule number one in the Haines Street lockup was to stay well away from both the furniture and the clientele. He didn’t need gum stuck to the backside of his Armani’s. And he had no desire to chat with the colorful southside characters camped out, waiting for friends and relatives to post bail.
He felt the female prisoner staring up at him and glanced down to meet green eyes that were surprisingly clear and lucid.
“Are you Dallas Williams?” she asked.
She was five-foot-six, with wavy auburn hair that just brushed her tanned shoulders. She was too fresh-faced to be a Lakeshore Drive hooker, but that black tank top and the tight miniskirt gave him pause. She was willowy thin, and he was sure she wasn’t nearly dangerous enough to warrant the cuffs.
“Of Turnball, Williams and Smith?” she continued when he didn’t answer.
“I am,” he acknowledged with a cautious nod.
She smiled, tipping her head to one side, revealing white teeth that had probably cost her parents a fortune. She looked instantly relieved, as if he’d just admitted to being her guardian angel. “Thank goodness. I was going to try calling Greg, but this is even better.”
The desk sergeant pushed a manila envelope across the scarred countertop. “Here’s your report, Mr. Williams.”
“Thanks.” Dallas picked up the police report and started past her for the door. Last thing he needed was to let this woman pour out her soul.
“Wait,”
