reporter. “Yes,” he replied curtly. “Now tell me, where were you when Ms. Wilks—”
“Why did your father kill himself, Deputy Steele?”
Chapter Two
As the look in Deputy Mitch Steele’s eyes, a shade of leonine gold beneath straight black brows, shifted from vaguely suspicious to blank, Cara could have kicked herself.
She had ruined any sliver of hope that he would cooperate as she tried to find out what had happened to Nancy.
And she would do everything necessary to find the person who had killed her friend. Not only for her story, but for herself.
Of course the story she was working on would definitely merit attention, for it went far beyond Nancy’s murder. Maybe even Pulitzer material, for it involved—
“Excuse me, Ms. Hamilton,” Mitch said, looking over her shoulder. She glanced in that direction and saw that a van with the Sheriff’s Department logo had pulled up Caddo Street and was now double parked beneath a streetlight in front of Nancy’s house. The crime-scene technicians, she figured. A good excuse for him to avoid her.
To avoid her question—the one she would take back in an instant, if she could.
“Cara,” she said quickly.
His attention returned to her momentarily as his gaze turned quizzical.
“My name is Cara,” she said, inviting him to use it. Maybe that small intimacy would make him forget what she’d asked, even though she wouldn’t forget it. Because despite regretting that she blurted it due to the consequences it would cause, she still wanted an answer.
“Right. Cara.”
She knew his first name was Mitch, not from his name badge, but she remembered it from news stories about his father. He didn’t invite her to use it and he walked away, toward where the technicians removed gear from their van.
Cara watched his confident stride. Most men looked tall to her because she was only five foot one. But Mitch Steele was tall, at least six feet. He held his head high, his broad shoulders thrown back beneath his khaki uniform shirt, as if in challenge to any bad guys who happened to be watching.
In challenge to the world. Cara knew a little of Mitch Steele’s background, and she was aware that the world had challenged him—or at least his family. She’d no doubt that Mitch, still working for the Sheriff’s Department, had to live every day under the stigma that surrounded his deceased father.
Sheriff Martin Steele was enmeshed in a scandal a couple of years ago—one much bigger than the earlier grumblings of nepotism when he’d hired his son. Before his involvement in the bribery plot was proven or disproved, he committed suicide.
He wouldn’t have done that had he been innocent—would he? And yet his arguments, arguments reported in the Mustang Gazette and other media, had made sense.
Too bad Cara hadn’t worked on that story. Back then she had still been listening to her boss, Beauford Jennings, when he gave her assignments. That had been before Beau had made it clear that to him, too, nepotism trumped merit. And ethics. His nephew Jerry, Cara’s casual boyfriend at the time, had stolen her firsthand, undercover research to write his own article on how local liquor stores, including one owned by a county commissioner, sold alcohol to kids known to be minors. Jerry broke the story and ended the commissioner’s career. That move catapulted Jerry out of Mustang Valley and into the world of big-city news.
Beau’s only regret was that Jerry was gone.
After that Cara didn’t ask for Beau’s opinion. She donned disguises and slung hash in local eateries for her story about restaurants’ cleanliness standards. She’d received applause after her article and surreptitious pictures got a popular place closed down by the local board of health—pictures showing the owner grin as one of his wait staff spat into the food of a patron who’d criticized the service last time he’d eaten there. That was when Beau had finally promoted her out of the copy room to reporter. He’d hinted of further promotions, too.
Score one for our side, Cara had thought. Her idol, the legendary Shotgun Sally, had reputedly once worn flouncing skirts and gone undercover as a dance hall girl to write a story on how it felt to be a fallen woman. She, too, had trounced all over those who failed to take her seriously. At least for her first big story, Cara had only had to put on a lacy apron over a short dress. Oh, and glasses and a wig.
Since her experience with Jerry, though, Cara hated the idea of sharing information with anyone. She’d made it clear to Beau that she would follow her own leads, write her own stories.
Beau had stopped underestimating her, at least when it suited him, but others hadn’t. Maybe it was because she was a woman, maybe because she looked so young. Though she used it to her advantage, she detested it.
Almost as much as she hated anyone to interfere with her getting her story. She’d allowed it once, but never again.
And now, she had even more impetus to get the story. She sighed and glanced back toward Nancy’s house. Her friend had been murdered. Maybe even because she’d been on the way….
Cara swallowed hard as she forced her gaze back toward the dimly lit street.
Mitch turned and preceded the techs back up the walk toward Nancy’s house—and where Cara stood. She half expected him to brush by her. Instead he stopped.
So did her breathing, for an instant, while she tried to figure out what to say to fix things between them.
“So, Deputy, any more questions for me? I definitely want to cooperate so you can solve this murder.” Assuming the Sheriff’s Department did solve this one.
Was it her imagination, or did the blankness in his gaze soften just a bit? “I’m sure you do. And, yes, I’ll have more questions for you, though not right now.”
“Good. Then I’ll just follow these people and take pictures while they work.” She reached way down into her bag, past the notebook, cell phone and personal digital assistant, to extract her digital camera. “That way, when you catch the perpetrator, I’ll be able to describe the entire process.”
Mitch Steele was one handsome deputy even when he scowled. If Cara recalled his father’s story correctly, Mitch’s mother was Native American, which would help explain the blue-black richness of his hair, the strong slant to his nose, the sharpness of his cheekbones and other features. That scowl of his only emphasized the well-honed planes of his face.
But when he let the corner of his mouth curve up in a half grin that way, Cara was sure he drove every woman in her right mind wild with lust.
She was in her right mind….
“No,” he said, bringing that creative imagination of hers back to reality.
“Pardon?”
“Ms…. Cara, I appreciate your cooperation. But you do not have my permission to get in the way.”
“I’ll stay out of the way. I promise.”
“Mm-hmm.” Though his murmur sounded affirmative, she was sure she was losing his attention, for he had turned to talk to
