the coincidence. Especially since she had switched rotations with Rick so he could attend the Andersen case pow-wow that morning. The big news from that gathering was Cleve Andersen’s one-hundred-thousand-dollar reward offer. The entire office was buzzing with it.
“She’s with the Whistlestop force.”
“I know who she’s with. Send her back.”
A moment later the police officer appeared at her door. Veronica smiled and waved her in. “Officer May, have a seat.”
The woman returned Veronica’s smile and sank into one of the two chairs facing the desk. “You look familiar,” she said. “Where do I know you from?”
Veronica motioned to the line of Starbucks travel mugs on the credenza to her right. “We share an addiction to coffee.”
“Of course. We frequent the same java joint.” Melanie May laughed. “I’m a cappuccino girl. You?”
“Latte.” Veronica settled back against her seat. “I confess, when the receptionist announced you, I knew exactly who you were. From the coffeehouse. Your uniform and name tag give you away.”
“You’re observant.”
“I’m an ADA, knowing the police is part of my job. I’m aided by an excellent memory.”
The policewoman motioned toward the travel mugs. “I have to ask, why six?”
Veronica glanced at them, then shook her head in self-directed amusement. “It started innocently enough. I forgot my travel mug one morning, so I bought another. I thought, why not? I could use a backup. I hate drinking out of paper.”
“Then you forgot it again?”
“Exactly. It’s evolved into this elaborate system of collecting, transporting, then washing.” She shook her head, smiling at herself. “Of course, I don’t call it obsessive-compulsive behavior, I tell myself I’m helping the environment by using plastic instead of paper. You know, saving trees. We can convince ourselves of anything, I suppose.”
“A lawyer with a conscience.” Melanie grinned. “How novel.”
Veronica laughed again. “Uh-oh. Sounds like you have a problem with lawyers.”
“Not prosecutors. My ex-husband’s an attorney. Corporate law.”
Veronica leaned toward her. “High-priced hand-holders and nose-wipers.” She made a face. “No thanks. Give me a scumbag to put on ice any day.”
Melanie laughed. “Well, here’s your chance. I have a class-? creep for you.”
“Fill me in.”
“Name’s Thomas Weiss,” Melanie said, handing her the report. “Batterer. Put his live-in girlfriend in the hospital. And not for the first time. However, this time it was bad enough, the girlfriend’s ready to charge him.”
Veronica looked the case over. She jotted the victim’s name, address and place of employment on her legal pad, then did the same for the accused.
She met the policewoman’s eyes. “It says here he owns a restaurant.”
“The Blue Bayou. In Dilworth.”
“I’ve been there. Nice place. Good food. Cajun.”
“That’s the one.”
“And she’s one of his bartenders.” Veronica pursed her lips. “He’s done this to her before?” “Yes.”
“But she’s never pressed charges?” “She has but dropped them. She won’t this time.”
“How do you know?”
“He threatened to kill her. She’s really scared.”
Veronica made a sound of regret and tossed the file back onto the table. “Sorry. No go.”
“No go?” Melanie repeated, stunned. “But why? It’s a good case.”
“With what you’ve got, we can’t win. And I’m not willing to start the clock ticking until I’m confident we can. Look at it this way, you’ve got nothing here but the girlfriend. One who’s scared silly at that. Scared girlfriends with a history of taking a hike on a case do not make good witnesses.”
Melanie leaned forward, her expression eager. “She won’t change her mind this time. I’m sure of it. This time—”
Veronica held up a hand, stopping her. “If the victim waffles, if she shows the slightest bit of hesitation, the jury thinks ‘So what?’ This guy looks squeaky-clean on paper. He’s the owner of a popular area restaurant. He’s the picture of the successful, educated citizen.”
“So he can get away with beating up his girlfriend?”
Veronica met the other woman’s gaze evenly. “Yes.”
Melanie made a sound of frustration, collected the report and stood. “This sucks.”
“Tell me about it.” Veronica followed her to her feet. “I’d love to nail this creep, Melanie. Trust me on that. Bring me more and I will. A witness to corroborate. A neighbor, kids. Another woman to stand up. If you can do that, I’ll nail his ass to a stake. And that’s a promise.”
9
Ashley let herself into Mia’s house, using the key her sister had given her for emergencies. She closed the front door behind her, relocking it. She glanced at her watch and frowned. At nearly five o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon, she had been certain she would find Mia home.
She would be soon, Ashley decided, crossing the massive foyer, moving toward the kitchen. In the meantime, she might as well make herself comfortable. First stop, the refrigerator and one of Boyd’s expensive, imported beers.
The click of her heels on the marble-parquet floor echoed, and Ashley paused, suddenly aware of how quiet the house was. No ticking clock or purring cat broke the silence. No drone of a TV inadvertently left on or muffled sound of children playing next door. She had always found Mia’s home mausoleum-like. Had always thought it beautiful but cold. Unwelcoming. A kind of gilded cage.
Now, after what Melanie had told her about her sister’s marriage, she realized just how on the mark her feelings had been.
Maybe she wasn’t completely losing it, after all.
Maybe she was hanging on by a thread, instead.
It had been exactly one week since she’d argued with Melanie about Mia and her marriage and Ashley had been unable to put the confrontation behind her. She had been unable to forget the way the argument had made her feel—angry and resentful. Bitter.
She couldn’t understand why Melanie refused to see the truth, why she refused to acknowledge that Ashley might be able to see the situation more clearly because she wasn’t a part of her and Mia’s little clique. Their little twin’s club.
