What lies beneath

Mitch Delacroix is everything Beth McClelland likes in a man. Smart, good-looking and so very safe. She’s this close to making her intentions known.

Then Mitch is accused of murdering his best friend years ago. Suddenly his rebel past—including the criminal record—is revealed to everyone.

But something doesn’t fit—the Mitch she knows couldn’t possibly kill anyone. She’s determined to find the truth. As a forensics expert, she’s used to uncovering people’s secrets. Yet she never expected Mitch could be hiding so many. Despite rising doubts, she’ll help clear his name. Even if what she discovers could threaten their relationship…and their lives.

“He said no?” Raleigh guessed correctly.

“He said he was busy.” Beth slumped onto a sofa, swallowing back the tears that threatened. So Mitch had turned her down. Big deal. Beth had been concerned that an office romance might affect their working relationship, anyway.

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

“Maybe he would have.” Beth knew she was grasping at straws. “He never got the chance. 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 encouraged me to hook up with a criminal, when you know—”

“He’s not 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.”

Dear Reader,

When I introduced the character of Mitch Delacroix in an earlier book, all I really knew about him was that he was a charming Cajun and an expert computer hacker. But once I started to research the setting for this book—the bayous of Southern Louisiana—he came to life in a sudden burst of inspiration. His wild past and the reasons for his youthful rebellion, his current, secret life as a mixed martial arts cage fighter, his relationship with his half brother—it all came to me in a clump. The man was just there, fully formed, smiling that wicked-charming half smile, and all I had to do was take dictation from him.

Mitch’s story, though, wasn’t always easy to write. For one thing, I didn’t know beans about cage fighting. Bless my supportive husband, he bought tickets to a live mixed martial arts event so I could see for myself what it’s like. I blew my holiday gift cards on MMA magazines and spent hours watching YouTube video lessons on jujitsu and Muay Tai fighting techniques. Then I had my husband—a second-degree black belt in Tae Kwon Do—read my fight scenes to be sure they rang true.

I hope you enjoy the wild ride that Mitch took me on, and that you’ll cheer on Beth, his sweet heroine, as she tries to find common ground with a man who turns out to be very different from the computer nerd she thought she wanted.

Sincerely,

Kara Lennox

Outside the Law

Kara Lennox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kara Lennox has earned her living at various times as an art director, typesetter, textbook editor and reporter. She’s worked in a boutique, a health club and an ad agency. She’s been an antiques dealer, an artist and even a blackjack dealer. But no work has ever made her happier than writing romance novels. To date, she has written more than sixty books. Kara is a recent transplant to Southern California. When not writing, she indulges in an ever-changing array of hobbies. Her latest passions are bird-watching, long-distance bicycling, vintage jewelry and, by necessity, do-it-yourself home renovation. She loves to hear from readers. You can find her at www.karalennox.com.

Books by Kara Lennox

HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE

1689—TAKEN TO THE EDGE‡

1695—NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH‡

1701—A SCORE TO SETTLE‡

HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

974—FORTUNE’S TWINS

990—THE MILLIONAIRE NEXT DOOR

1052—THE FORGOTTEN COWBOY

1068—HOMETOWN HONEY*

1081—DOWNTOWN DEBUTANTE*

1093—OUT OF TOWN BRIDE*

1146—THE FAMILY RESCUE**

1150—HER PERFECT HERO**

1154—AN HONORABLE MAN**

1180—ONE STUBBORN TEXAN

1195—GOOD HUSBAND MATERIAL

1216—RELUCTANT PARTNERS†

1240—THE PREGNANCY SURPRISE†

1256—THE GOOD FATHER†

‡Project Justice

*Blond Justice

**Firehouse 59

†Second Sons

Other titles by this author available in ebook format.

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

EPILOGUE

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.

CHAPTER TWO

BETHTRIEDTOTELLHERSELF she’d done what she could. If Mitch was determined to be an idiot about this situation, how could she talk him out of it? Arguing wasn’t her best skill; she left that for the lawyers.

Turned out Daniel didn’t agree. He shared Raleigh’s concern about a scandal being detrimental to Project Justice, and he didn’t allow anything to get in the way of the foundation’s efforts to free wrongly convicted men and women from prison. But he also cared about Mitch, who had been one of the first people Daniel had hired when he and his father had started the foundation.

After Mitch had stormed down the hall toward the elevator, Beth had returned to her little laboratory, the place where she felt most comfortable. Fingerprints, fibers and blood didn’t argue. They spoke only the truth. They weren’t all that complicated.

Men—Mitch, in particular—were.

But she hadn’t been in the lab ten minutes before Daniel called her.

“You want me to try again to convince Mitch to cooperate?” Beth asked, almost before Daniel had said two words.

“You’re the one who knows him the best, Beth,” Daniel said. “I’m in the middle of a Logan Oil board meeting, or I would track him down myself and talk some sense into him.”

Those were pretty strong words, coming from Daniel, who seldom left his estate unless it was for something really important. His new wife, Jamie, was in the process of pulling him out of his shell, but old habits died hard.

“Apparently I don’t know him as well as I thought,” Beth huffed. “Coot’s Bayou? He’s never said a word to me about his hometown. Or his half brother. Or his arrest record.”

“He had good reasons for wanting to put that part of his life behind him, Beth. He wasn’t trying to hide anything. He grew up under pretty harsh conditions and it’s not something he wants to think about.”

“He’s sure trying to run from it now.”

“He can be convinced to do the right thing, I know he can. He’s smart, just bullheaded sometimes. Mitch cares about you and respects you. He’ll listen to you if you try one more time.”

Beth wasn’t so sure. But despite his reclusive ways, her billionaire boss understood human nature better than most anyone Beth knew.

“If you really think it will help, I’ll try.” She would simply have to put her disastrous attempt at dating Mitch out of her mind. He was, first and foremost, her friend. He needed her, even if he didn’t know it.

“Do it now. Because frankly, if you don’t convince him, I’m going to have to tell him to take a leave of absence from work.”

Beth stifled a gasp. “Daniel, he didn’t—”

“I know he didn’t kill anyone,” Daniel said impatiently. “But we have lots of innocent people depending on us. Having one of our key employees accused of murder, no matter how ridiculous the charge, could damage us beyond repair. I will stand behind Mitch a hundred percent. But I won’t have him dragged off in cuffs from our offices, in front of TV cameras. Which is exactly what could happen if Mitch doesn’t cooperate.”

Beth swallowed, her mouth going dry. She’d known things could get bad for Mitch, and for everyone who worked at Project Justice as well as their clients. Why didn’t Mitch see it?

“I’ll go right now, Daniel. I’ll find him. I’ll convince him.”

She tried calling Mitch’s cell, then his home, but got voice mail both times. He was very good at ignoring a ringing phone when he didn’t want to talk. “You can run, but you can’t hide,” Beth murmured as she grabbed her purse and headed out the door, putting her assistant, Cassie, in charge for the rest of the afternoon.

Mitch’s house was less than ten miles from downtown and close to the I-610 loop, but it had kind of a rural feel, with a cow pasture across the street and an oil field next door.

Rush hour hadn’t gotten a good grip on the city at three in the afternoon, so the trip to his home only took a few minutes. She pulled into the driveway and saw that his Harley was there. Good. But she didn’t get out right away. She sat in the car, composing in her mind exactly what she would say to him.

By following him home, she was pushing the bounds of their friendship. But she couldn’t sit back and allow him to be railroaded right into prison. Her job had presented her with too many examples of innocent men and women, accused of crimes, who had made their situations so much worse by going into denial.

Mitch’s house was cute, Beth had to admit, even if the locale wasn’t ideal. The white brick house had red shutters and a trellis shading the front porch, on which grew trumpet vine and morning glories poised to burst into bloom. Mitch kept everything in good repair, but Beth couldn’t help thinking, as she mounted the front steps, that the place could use a woman’s touch.

She rang the bell. When he didn’t answer after a few moments, she rang again and knocked. “Mitch? I know you’re in there. You better just come to the door, because I’m not leaving. We have to talk.”

Still nothing. No sound.

Determined, she walked around the house and let herself into the backyard through the gate in the honeysuckle-choked chain-link fence. The patio and yard were empty, but she found the sliding glass door unlocked.

Nervous sweat broke out on her upper lip as she opened it. “Mitch?”

She was about to go inside when she heard something, a strange noise punctuating the silence.

Smack, smack, smack. And the unmistakable sound of a human male exerting himself. The noise was not coming from inside the house, but behind her. From the yard…no, beyond the yard. Beyond the fence, into the otherwise still oil field.

What the hell?

Curiosity killed the cat, she reminded herself as she abandoned the sliding glass door and went in search of the source of the sound.

The back gate had been left ajar. As a trained crime scene investigator, she should have noticed that before. Mindful of her heels on the uneven ground, she crept through the gate and followed the strange sounds to another fence, a beat-up chain-link enclosure surrounding an old grasshopper pump.

She could see no way in, so she cleared away some of the tall weeds and peered through the gap she’d created.

Her breath caught in her throat. Finally she’d found Mitch, and he appeared to be beating the crap out of a punching bag, pounding it with his fists, bare feet, elbows and knees.

She was at once fascinated and horrified. Here was a male in the prime of his health and vitality, shirtless, muscles rippling and sheened with sweat. He was beautiful…and terrifying.

Her jaw throbbed and she rubbed it, trying hard not to think about the damage Mitch’s fists could do to a human being.

Suddenly he growled like a wild animal and rushed at the punching bag headfirst, hitting it so hard that it disconnected from the chain and crashed to the broken concrete at the base of the pump. The chain that had held it suspended whipped around and struck Mitch in the shoulder, but he seemed to not notice. He was intent on doing more damage to the bag, kicking it savagely with his heel. Then he jumped on top of it and beat it a few more times with his fists.

She must have made some kind of noise, because he slowly stilled his fists, then turned his head and looked right at her.

Embarrassed to have been caught staring at what should have been a private moment for Mitch, she wanted to shrink back behind the weeds and creep away. But it was too late.

“Beth?” He looked both surprised and…yes, apprehensive.

“I c-couldn’t find you and I heard something strange,” she stammered out. “I didn’t mean to spy but, Mitch…” She gained a bit of confidence when he didn’t aim his obvious anger at her. “What the hell is all this?”

Gasping for air, he slowly rose from straddling the bag and regained his feet. “This is where I work out.”

“Here?”

“Why not here? There’s plenty of space for my gear, and no one else is using it. And it’s private. Or it’s supposed to be,” he said pointedly. He grabbed a towel to wipe the sweat off his face, neck and shoulders, then picked up a water bottle, tipped back his head and took a long draw.

Beth watched, fascinated, as his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down and the cords of his neck flexed and relaxed.

She shook her head to clear it, ordering her runaway libido into line. Mitch’s body wasn’t hers to ogle. She was here on a mission.

“What kind of workout is this?” she asked, stalling. “Are you some kind of black belt killing machine?” She said it with a nervous laugh. She’d known Mitch was fit. No one who filled out a pair of jeans and a T-shirt like he did sat in front of a computer all the time.

“I’m not a black belt anything.” He sounded defensive. “It’s just a good way to stay in shape and work off stress.”

“Is it working?”

He peeled off his gloves, which were not like any boxing gloves Beth had ever seen, not that she ever paid much attention. They were small, and didn’t cover his fingers. She’d seen bruises and cuts on Mitch’s hands before, but he claimed to have gotten them doing yard work or fixing his bike.

“I’m not bouncing off the walls anymore, so, yeah, I guess it helps. Beth, what are you doing here?”

“Come out of that cage and let’s talk. Please,” she added, since he was under no obligation to speak to her after she’d followed him uninvited and spied on his workout.

He scooped up his discarded T-shirt and threw it on. Beth mourned the loss as he covered up those beautiful pecs and the washboard abs, but it was better this way. Mitch was distracting enough even when he wasn’t the next closest thing to completely naked.

Mitch gathered up his gloves, towel and water bottle. But rather than exiting through a gate, he peeled back a section of fencing that had been snipped open with bolt cutters and levered himself through, managing not to catch anything on the raggedly cut chain links.

But he was bleeding, where that punching bag chain had caught him on the shoulder. “You’re injured.”

“Hmm?”

She pointed to his shoulder and he looked, disinterested. “Oh.” He swiped at the blood with his towel, then seemed to forget about it.

“Doesn’t it hurt? And look at your knuckles.” They were red and swollen, and one of them had a small cut. More blood. Beth was torn between the desire to nurse him with antiseptic and bandages and an even stronger need to turn away in revulsion.

Revulsion won. Blood in a lab she could deal with—nice, clean blood in a test tube or on a cotton swab. But live, bleeding flesh and blood was not her thing. She’d discovered that at the police academy before she’d been booted out.

He shrugged, then stopped to hold the back gate open for her. No matter what, Mitch had the manners of a Southern gentleman, one of the things that drew her to him. Along with his calm, easygoing personality.

Which apparently had been nothing but a facade.

THATWASCLOSE. Panic had coursed through Mitch’s veins right along with the rush of his blood when he’d spotted Beth peering at him through the fence, a colorful tropical flower completely out of context in his personal gym of rust, metal, leather, concrete and sweat.

He’d thought for sure she would recognize the discipline suggested by his workout. The abbreviated gloves, the combination of punching, kicking and wrestling on the ground screamed mixed martial arts. But though the sport had gained popularity and respectability in recent years, not everyone was into it.

Sweet Beth apparently had no knowledge or interest in his particular fighting style, because she let his weak explanation ride. That was a good thing; he’d gone to a lot of trouble to keep his sporting life separate from his professional work because neither would enhance the other. What fighter would be intimidated by a computer geek who worked for a charitable foundation? And he didn’t even want to think about the negative fallout should the press get hold of the connection. What if it came out while he was testifying in court?

Not even Daniel knew about the UFC matches he’d been fighting over the past few years, and it looked as if he could keep it that way awhile longer.

But that didn’t mean he was home free. He knew why Beth was here, what she wanted him to do.

He tromped through his backyard and across the brick patio, wishing she was here for some other reason. Like maybe she’d decided his brush with the law turned her on and she wanted some hot, sweaty sex.

Yeah, he’d thought about it. Plenty of times. Every time he saw her, in fact. But she’d been giving him Do Not Touch signals for so long, he’d given up on that idea.

He entered his stuffy house through the sliding glass door, knowing she would follow.

“Mitch, are you going to sit down and listen to me?” she asked as he cruised into the kitchen, ignoring her presence, and grabbed himself the remains of a high-protein energy shake he’d mixed up that morning. What he really wanted was a cold beer, but he never drank the week before a match.

“I already know what you’re going to say,” he replied wearily. “You want something to drink?”

“No, thank you,” she said primly. “If you’re so smart, what do you think I’m going to say?”

He turned to face her in the small galley kitchen, still decorated in all its 1970s glory of red and harvest-gold. Beth’s hot-pink flowered dress made the decor look old and tired. “The same thing you already said. That I should indulge those backwoods cops from back home to answer stupid questions about a crime I know nothing about. Only you’ll probably throw in something about how I should patch things up with my brother. Because he’s family, and family is important.” Beth enjoyed a warm, loving relationship with her parents, two sisters, brothers-in-law, nieces and nephews. “Does that about sum things up?”

She seemed to shrink a little in the face of his displeasure, and he made a mental note to dial it down a notch. This was Beth, who wouldn’t hurt a fly, and she was here only because she thought she was being helpful. She was his friend. Still, that didn’t mean he wanted her meddling in his überdysfunctional family.

Usually it took very little to deflect Beth from any line of conversation he didn’t want to pursue. That was one of the reasons he liked hanging with her; she could take a hint when he didn’t want to talk about personal stuff.

Now, apparently, she wasn’t going to cooperate. She didn’t look as though she was about to back down from this fight. He tried to think of some way to change the stubborn thrust of her chin. His gaze focused briefly on her plump, pink lips.

A kiss would give her something else to think about.

“Yes, of course I’m here about your brother’s visit,” she said, bumping his attention back to the matter at hand. “Can we sit down? Will you at least hear me out?”

“Fine,” he mumbled. He suddenly became aware of his sweaty, bedraggled state. Beth was her usual fresh-as-a-daisy self in her sleeveless, summery dress, and he probably looked awful and smelled worse. “Can I take a shower first?”

“If you want, but I don’t mind you this way.”

For half an instant, Mitch read innuendo into her words. His traitorous mind visualized her leaning in and licking the sweat off his neck, like the fight groupies, who hung out at the gym, sometimes offered.

Then he gave himself a mental smack to the head. This was Beth, his friend, his work buddy, who liked sharing a pizza and watching true crime shows with him so they could make bets on who the real culprit would turn out to be. She was just being considerate. How many times did he have to remind himself she was Off-Limits, in capital letters?

“I’ll be out in five minutes. Go sit down.” He grabbed himself a protein bar on his way out of the kitchen. He was famished. Burning five hundred calories in one forty-five-minute workout could do that to a guy, and he didn’t want to drop any more weight. He was already lighter than most of his light-heavyweight-class opponents.

When he returned to the living room a few minutes later in jeans and a clean T-shirt, he found Beth sitting stiff-backed on the edge of a chair, looking anything but comfortable.

Man, this thing with Dwayne and Robby had gotten her all tied into knots. She must be convinced it was some kind of big deal. His heart felt a small twinge for causing her to worry. She didn’t deserve that.

Mitch sprawled onto the sofa, feeling a little better after his brutal workout, a stinging shower and ingesting a few calories. “All right, Bethy, lay it on me. Say what you have to say.”

“First, Mitch, Daniel wants you to know that he doesn’t—that no one at work thinks you killed anyone. The notion is preposterous.”

As hard as he was trying to remain detached, his coworkers’ faith in him touched something soft inside him. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

“That said, are you out of your mind?”

Mitch sat up, startled by her vehemence. “Excuse me?” He’d been expecting a much gentler approach from Beth. Some sympathy, maybe.

“You practically told a law enforcement officer to go to hell. I don’t care if he’s related to you. He was acting in his official capacity.”

Mitch shook his head. “It might have looked that way to you, but it was personal. He was doing his level best to embarrass me.”

“Why?” Beth asked. “Why would he do that?”

He looked at her, an angry retort on the tip of his tongue, then squelched whatever he’d been about to say. She was asking out of genuine concern, not prurient interest.

“A long and ugly family history,” he finally said. “Dwayne doesn’t have my best interest at heart.”

“So why don’t you stand up to him? Accept his challenge, prove him wrong.”

“Look, I appreciate your concern. But the police couldn’t possibly have any evidence against me. I didn’t kill Robby, and I don’t know anything about how he died. He was my buddy.”

“Mitch.” Beth stood and began pacing. “Who do you work for?”

“Is this a trick question?”

“You work for Project Justice,” she said, in a hurry to make her point. “And what is Project Justice’s mission statement?”

His gaze lingered on her trim calves and thighs. “To free those unjustly imprisoned for crimes they did not commit.” Every employee was required to memorize that statement and be able to quote it backward and forward.

“And how many people in this country are sitting in prison, right now, for crimes they didn’t commit?”

“You’re sounding a lot like Raleigh.” And he didn’t mean that as a compliment.

“Just answer.”

“The answer is unknown.”

“True. But it’s in the hundreds, possibly the thousands. How many people has Project Justice exonerated?”

The total was always posted in the lobby, but he hadn’t looked at it lately. “Sixty-three?”

“Seventy-two,” she corrected him.

“Look,” he said sensibly. “The police are on a fishing expedition. They couldn’t possibly have any evidence against me.”

Suddenly Beth sat down next to him, her face inches from his. “Mitch, listen to yourself. Do you have any idea how many of our clients were convicted on really bad evidence? Circumstantial evidence? Or no evidence? I’ll answer for you. A lot. And do you know what a lot of them say?”

Mitch could only shake his head. He’d never seen Beth grandstand like this. She could speak eloquently when called for, if it was about DNA or fibers or soil samples. But she never made impassioned speeches. Not around him, anyway.

Impatient, she answered the question for him. “They say, ‘If I’d known this could happen, I would have taken it more seriously.’” She skewered him so effectively with those big baby-blue eyes that he was afraid she’d soon push him out onto the patio and pop him onto his gas grill. “They say, ‘I would have hired a lawyer from the very beginning.’ Do you want to be one of those people? Do you want to hide your head in the sand until the cops show up with a warrant and handcuffs?”

The room went deathly quiet. Not even the air-conditioning fan whirred to break the silence. He couldn’t hear a bird outside or a passing car. Just the sound of his heart pounding in his ears.

Beth, all rosy-cheeked with her passion, was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.

Clearly she was waiting for him to say something.

“You think I should go to Coot’s Bayou and answer their questions?”

Beth seemed to remember herself. She scooted a few inches away from him, looked down and cleared her throat. “Yes.”

“And you think I need to hire a lawyer?”

Beth, looking a bit shell-shocked by her own outburst, squeaked out an answer. “Don’t you dare let the police question you without one. Raleigh will go. Eventually you might have to hire someone from the area who knows the local justice system, but she said she can handle the preliminary questioning.”

“Won’t hiring a lawyer just make it look like I have something to hide?” He couldn’t believe he was actually considering taking Beth’s advice. But she had made several good points.

“You know what cops do when a suspect agrees to be questioned without a lawyer, right? They stand up and cheer. You used to work for a police department.”

“Just computer stuff,” he said with a shrug. “I wasn’t anywhere near where they questioned suspects.”

“Well, know this. A good interrogator can trip you up six ways to Sunday, and every word you say can come back to haunt you during a trial. Let Raleigh be there for you.”

“Raleigh has her own cases to manage,” he argued, even though arguing was the first step toward defeat. He should have refused to even discuss this with Beth. But he couldn’t bring himself to fling any more harsh words at her. “Traveling to Louisiana to answer ridiculous accusations flung at a coworker falls way outside her job description.”

“Daniel made it clear,” Beth said quietly. “You are his—everyone’s—priority right now.”

“I appreciate this unnecessary outpouring of concern,” he tried again. “But as I’ve said before—”

“He’s going to fire you, Mitch!” Beth said suddenly.

“What?”

“Or suspend you or put you on paid leave or something,” she amended. “But he said he can’t have a murder suspect working at Project Justice. It could jeopardize everything he’s worked for.”

“Ah. So the concern isn’t really for me.”

“You’re being deliberately obtuse. Would you please just get your ass over to Louisiana to answer the damn charges?”

“Do I have a choice?” He was getting pissed off all over again, though he knew Beth was only the messenger. A suddenly sexy messenger. Every time her passion rose, so did his. Sure, he’d thought about what it would be like to go to bed with her. She was more than average pretty with a curvy little body that begged for a man’s most lavish attention. But he’d always dismissed the notion as ridiculous—first because they were coworkers, second because they were friends, and third…well, third, she needed a nice boyfriend. She’d gone to a private Catholic girls’ school, for cryin’ out loud. And he was a Cajun street punk. He didn’t know the first thing about how to treat a sweet, classy woman like Beth.

“Just give the word,” she said, unaware of where his thoughts had skipped, “and Raleigh will arrange for a meeting tomorrow morning. The two of you will drive down first thing.”

Dammit all to hell. This wasn’t going to go away. “Fine. I’ll go. But I want you there, too.”

“M-me? Why?”

“Because you know physical evidence better than anybody. If they have anything—anything at all—I want your take on it. Because if they claim they found something, it’s bogus.” He didn’t add that he wanted a friendly face in the room while those asses in Coot’s Bayou grilled him. Raleigh was a formidable ally, but she was not exactly warm and fuzzy.

“I’ll clear it with Daniel,” Beth said.

“Then I’ll go. But only so I can prove y’all wrong.” It galled Mitch to give in to his brother’s manipulations. But if that was what it took to make this problem go away, he’d do it.

“And ditch the attitude.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“This isn’t funny!”

He actually smiled. “I’m not used to seeing you all bossy. It’s kind of a turn-on.”

She didn’t respond to his flirting. Not at all. Instead she stood stiffly and grabbed her purse. “We’ll meet at the office at eight tomorrow morning. And would it hurt you to maybe wear something besides holey jeans and a T-shirt?” With that parting shot, she whooshed out of his living room, out the front door, leaving Mitch to stare at the little hitch in her hips, completely flummoxed.

He’d thought he had a pretty good handle on Beth McClelland, but her behavior was odd to say the least. Well, what could he expect? Before today, she hadn’t known anything of his sordid past. Now she knew he’d been a car thief. And that he had a half brother he’d never mentioned.

He was afraid she would know a whole lot more about him that he didn’t want her to know before this ordeal was finished. And their easy friendship might be over.

CHAPTER THREE

THE COOT’S BAYOUpolice headquarters hadn’t changed a bit in the past ten years. Oh, the interrogation room where they brought Mitch might have received a fresh coat of paint to cover graffiti left there by suspects, going from gray to a sickly green, but new graffiti had replaced the old. Likewise, the furniture was new, but the table’s veneer was already peeling up, and the cheap metal chairs were bent out of shape, wobbling uncomfortably.

But the smell—a nauseating mixture of burned coffee, stale cigarettes, sweat and fear—was exactly the same.

Sitting here made Mitch feel seventeen years old again. But this time, they weren’t questioning him about a missing car.

At least they hadn’t let his brother interrogate him. Mitch never would have been able to hold on to his temper if he’d had to answer to that smug bastard.

Instead, the cop questioning him—Lieutenant Gary Addlestein—was a fortyish man with the shape and overall charm of a fire hydrant, and he clearly thought Mitch was guilty. Every question he shot Mitch’s way dripped with skepticism. Every answer Mitch gave resulted in the guy raising a suspicious eyebrow and staring, saying nothing, waiting for Mitch to fill the silence with some incriminating additions to his story.

Raleigh had warned him about that. She’d counseled Mitch to answer as briefly as possible, then resist adding or clarifying anything unless asked specifically.

Although Mitch had been the one to insist, he had second thoughts about the wisdom of including Beth. It wasn’t that he doubted her abilities. She definitely knew her stuff. The very first thing she’d done was request to see the security video from the grocery store where he and Robby had stolen the Monte Carlo.

Not that Mitch would attempt to deny it was him and Robby on the tape, and that they had, indeed, stolen a car. But she made note of the date and time on the video, the license plate of the car, the clothing each of them was wearing—any of which might become crucial when it came down to establishing a time line for the evening’s events.

“So, let me get this straight,” Raleigh said. “This video footage is the sum total of the evidence you have against my client?”

“That, and his admission of guilt in the car theft.”

“The car theft has nothing to do with the murder. And I will move to bar any mention of that alleged crime during a trial, if it comes to that. The charges were dropped. Mitch’s arrest record was expunged.”

“Yeah, that was a sweet little deal you worked out, courtesy of your billionaire boss,” Detective Addlestein drawled. “But the cops in this department have long memories.”

“Robby and Mitch spent lots of evenings together. They were friends,” Raleigh continued. “The fact they happened to be together the night Robby may have disappeared doesn’t say much. You have no motive. You have no murder weapon, no trace evidence, no witnesses. My client has no history of violence.”

“No history of violence?” Addlestein hooted. “The kid was in a fight every other weekend.”

Mitch tried not to cringe. This was exactly the subject he didn’t want to discuss. He glanced over at Beth. Her face revealed nothing.

“I don’t see that any assault charges were ever filed.”

“No one bothers to file charges over street fighting, long as both parties are still breathing when it’s over. Doesn’t mean your client wasn’t prone to violence.”

“Throwing a punch now and then isn’t the same as shooting someone with a gun. It’s well established my client never owned a gun and didn’t even like guns. Have you even talked to Mitch’s mother?”

Mitch nudged Raleigh with his foot. He did not want his mother dragged into this.

Raleigh ignored his hint. “Mr. Delacroix maintains he was home in bed less than an hour after the surveillance video was taken, because he had to work the next day. His mother could corroborate this.”

Or she could throw him to the wolves. Mitch wasn’t close to his mom and had no way of knowing whether she would try to help him, or hammer nails into his coffin by making him look like a liar.

“An hour isn’t much time to joyride,” Raleigh continued, “have an argument, shoot someone, dispose of the body and the car, and arrive home to kiss your mother good-night.”

The cop leaned back in his chair, as if bored by Raleigh’s arguments. “Well, now, she was probably questioned after the car theft, if sonny-boy here tried to use her as an alibi. At the time, she might have said what time he came home. But all of that information is gone now. Expunged. Destroyed.”

“You and I both know you never really throw that stuff away,” Raleigh argued.

Addlestein shrugged helplessly.

Great. Getting his arrest record expunged was supposed to help Mitch. Now it was biting him in the butt.

“What about Larry?” Mitch asked suddenly.

“Who?” Raleigh and the detective asked at the same time.

“Crazy Larry. He was with us that night.”

The cop suddenly looked more alert. “First I’ve heard of it.”

“I never mentioned it before because I didn’t want to drag him into the car theft thing. And, let’s face it, being a known associate of Crazy Larry wasn’t likely to help me twelve years ago. But now it could.”

“You’re talking about Larry Montague.”

“Yeah, that’s him. You should talk to him. He was with Robby after I went home. And if he knew something, even if he just saw something, it’s not likely he would have gone voluntarily to the police.”

Addlestein scribbled something on his pad. “Last I knew, Larry Montague was homeless. He floats in and out of the area. I’ll talk to him—if I can find him.”

“I can locate him,” Mitch said. “It’s what I’m good at.” Addlestein knew that. He’d been a young detective on the force when Mitch had worked for the CBPD. “Give me his full name and his social and I’ll find him.”

“I can do that, but I doubt you’ll have any luck tracing him by computer. I’m betting the guy flies under the wire. Off the grid.”

As most homeless people did. But it was worth a try. Even homeless people left traces in cyberspace from time to time—arrest records, usually, but sometimes admissions information in hospitals or homeless shelters.

“Is there anything else?” Raleigh asked. “Because if not, we have things to do.”

Addlestein pursed his lips and ran his palm over his silver crew cut. He didn’t want to let Mitch go, but it seemed pretty obvious he didn’t have enough to hold him. Score one for the good guys. Mitch couldn’t wait to get out of this place and breathe some fresh air.

He would take Raleigh and Beth out for a late lunch, and they could be home by nightfall. It was nice of them to work so hard to exonerate him. He was lucky to work for a company that appreciated not just the contributions he made to the bottom line, but valued him as a person.

If the Conch & Crab was still open, he’d take them there. Freshest seafood in all of South Louisiana and a jukebox filled with 1970s—

“Excuse me, Lieutenant Addlestein?” A young female uniformed cop was at the door. “Could you step out here a moment?”

Looking impatient, Addlestein did as the woman asked. He was gone several minutes.

“I don’t like this,” Raleigh said after a long, uncomfortable silence among the three of them. “He was about to cut you loose.”

Mitch didn’t like it, either. A persistent itch had started at the base of his spine, a visceral, instinctual cue that told him something wasn’t right.

When the door opened and Addlestein returned, he wore a smug grin. Bad news was coming.

“Seems that stolen Monte Carlo was located. Sunk in the bayou about a hunnert yards from where Robby’s body was buried. And guess what was found in the glove box?”

“We’re not here to play guessing games,” Raleigh said tartly. “What?”

“A .22 handgun.”

“What caliber bullet killed Robby?” Beth immediately asked.

“That’s unknown. Cause of death couldn’t be determined. But a hole in the skull suggested a gunshot wound. A jury won’t care about that. The gun was rusted to hell, but they got a serial number off it and ran it through the database. Guess whose name came up?”

Mitch shrugged. “I never owned a gun in my life, so it can’t be mine.”

“Not yours. It belonged to Willard C. Bell.”

It took a moment for the shock to sink in. Oh, Lord, he was so screwed. He could hear the prison doors clanging shut and the key tinkling as it fell down a gutter.

“Who’s that?” Beth asked.

“You want to tell them,” Addlestein said, “or should I?”

“Willard C. Bell was my father.”

BETHFELTHELPLESS and clueless as she watched two police officers put handcuffs on Mitch and take him away. If this was a nightmare for her, how must he be feeling?

He hadn’t been able to offer any explanation for his father’s gun ending up in the stolen car’s glove box. He recalled that his dad had owned a couple of handguns along with a selection of shotguns and rifles for hunting, but he claimed not to have seen or even thought about his dad’s guns in years.

“I never touched my dad’s guns,” Mitch had insisted. “Talk to my mom. She might know what happened to the guns. But my dad sure as hell never gave me a firearm. He always said I didn’t have the temperament to own a gun.”

Mitch’s denial didn’t hold much weight with the cops. They typed up a warrant immediately, and in a matter of minutes Mitch had been in custody.

“What now?” Beth had almost wailed when she and Raleigh had been left alone in the room. “Daniel will get him out, right? He can’t stay in jail, he used to work for the police. It might not be safe—”

Raleigh cut her off with a glare, and Beth clamped her mouth closed. They were still in an interrogation room; anyone could be listening, and probably was.

“Let’s go,” Raleigh said. “We have work to do.”

She said nothing more until they were in the car. She started the engine and rolled down the windows of her Volvo. Though it was still early spring, the weather was already warm and muggy, the air fragrant with a mixture of magnolia, ocean and oil refinery like nowhere else in the world.

“Beth, how well do you really know Mitch?”

That was a very good question. “Until yesterday, I’d have said I knew him pretty well. I mean, we’ve worked together for five or six years, and the past few months we’ve even hung out after hours a few times. But I didn’t know he had a half brother or an arrest record. I didn’t know his parents were never married, which I guess they weren’t if Mitch and his dad have different last names. I didn’t know about the history of f-fighting.”

“What do you talk about?” Raleigh asked.

“Well…nothing very personal, I guess. We talk shop. Computers and science and evidence, and true-crime books and TV shows. And pizza—we both have a thing for pizza. I knew he had family in Louisiana, but he never got specific.”

Raleigh put the car in Reverse, but she didn’t back out of the parking place. Beth could see the gears in her brain were turning.

“What are you getting at?” But Beth had an uncomfortable feeling she already knew.

“People can compartmentalize their lives. A guy can be funny and kind at work, then go home and beat the crap out of his wife and kids every night. I’ve seen it.”

“Oh, Raleigh.” Beth was horrified at the direction of Raleigh’s conversation. “You think he did it.”

“I don’t know what to think, except the evidence suddenly got pretty compelling. Think about it. Who had reason to sink that car in the bayou?”

“Someone who thought he could be tied to the car.”

“Mitch might have known, or suspected, he’d been caught on video in the parking lot.”

“But anyone trying to cover up the murder would have sunk the car, hoping everyone would believe Robby had left town,” Beth pointed out, trying not to sound pathetically desperate. Just because she’d been crushing on Mitch for months, was she grasping at straws? Failing to see the obvious?

“I’m just trying to think like a prosecutor,” Raleigh said. “I haven’t written him off yet.”

“But you think it’s possible he did it.”

“You don’t?”

She took a deep breath. “No, Raleigh. Call it women’s intuition or gut instinct—”

“—or wishful thinking?”

“No. At least, I don’t think so. He rejected me. If anybody has an ax to grind, it’s me. Whether Mitch is guilty or innocent, in jail or out, we’ll never be together in…in that way. But I don’t think he did it. I don’t.”

“Okay. Just checking. His arraignment and bail hearing are tomorrow morning. I’m sure Daniel will post the bond.”

“Even when he hears about the gun?”

“Yes. Remember, Daniel is the man arrested for a murder he didn’t commit, with his fingerprints all over the murder weapon. He knows physical evidence isn’t the end of the story.”

“I sure hope it isn’t. What if they won’t let him out on bond? Sometimes they don’t, for a serious crime.”

“We’ll get him out somehow. Meanwhile, how do you feel about returning tomorrow with me to lovely Coot’s Bayou?”

“I’ve got nothing pressing,” Beth said. Cassie could cover the bases tomorrow. “But why do you need me?”

“Frankly…I need you to deal with Mitch. You have a way of getting through to him, and he seems to be on his best behavior when you’re around.”

“If you think so.”

“Good, it’s settled. Meanwhile, I’ll need to find Mitch another lawyer. While I’m flattered by his faith in me, and I’m licensed to practice in Louisiana, I think he needs someone local who knows which cops and judges are corrupt.”

“You’re thinking of bribing someone?” Beth asked, only half kidding.

“Beth, of course not. I want to know which might have already been bribed, who owes favors to whom, that sort of thing. This whole affair smells like something is going on behind the scenes. Grudges, revenge, you know.”

“Agreed. First place we should look for a grudge is Mitch’s half brother. He seemed way too complacent about his brother’s arrest.” Sergeant Dwayne Bell hadn’t been involved directly in Mitch’s interrogation—that wouldn’t be kosher even in a backwater town like Coot’s Bayou. But he’d been hanging around, lurking.

“You know who would give some background on that situation? Mitch’s mother. Let’s go pay her a friendly visit. She might want to know her son is in jail.”

“MYRA? SOMEONEHERE to see you.”

The man who answered the door was neatly dressed in pressed khakis and a plaid shirt, and he looked mildly annoyed to be bothered by strangers in the middle of the afternoon. A black Labrador retriever mix hid behind his master’s leg, peeking out and looking worried.

Mitch’s mother lived on the outskirts of town on a little piece of land that backed up to a creek. It was kind of pretty, especially this time of year when everything was green and blooming.

The small house was run-down. It had once been painted white with brown trim, but it desperately needed a new coat of paint. The roof appeared to be patched and repatched, and several boards on the creaky front porch were rotted.

But someone had tried to make the place homey. A huge pot of blooming geraniums sat near the front steps, and a morning glory vine added a note of cheerfulness to the sagging porch railing. The front door sported a straw wreath festooned with small wooden ducks and bunnies peeking out from silk flowers.

From the little Beth had gathered during Mitch’s interrogation, she knew he’d grown up pretty poor.

The woman who appeared at the door looked too old to be Mitch’s mother. Her shoulder-length hair had been dyed reddish-gold, but a good inch of brown and gray roots had grown out. She wore a garish shade of orange lipstick, and her low-cut blouse and tight jeans were less than flattering.

Her shoulders slumped in that peculiar way of people who had lost any enthusiasm they once had for living.

The man lingered nearby. Mitch had made no mention of a stepfather in the picture, but these two appeared to be a couple.

“I’m Myra LeBeau. Can I help you with something?”

LeBeau, not Delacroix. This man probably was her husband, then. Beth and Raleigh introduced themselves and explained that they worked with Mitch at Project Justice.

Myra, no idiot, immediately guessed there was a problem. Her hand fluttered at her breast. “Has something happened to Mitch?”

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but he’s in jail.”

Myra actually looked relieved. “In jail. Oh, thank goodness. I thought you were going to tell me he was dead. I mean, jail’s not good, of course… Won’t you come in? It’s warm for this time of year. I’ll get you some iced tea.”

They stepped into the creaky little house, and Myra showed them into her small kitchen and asked them to sit down. “So what trouble has Mitch gotten himself into this time? I thought we were past all that, but some boys never grow up. His daddy sure didn’t.” A surliness entered her voice at the mention of Willard Bell, but by the time she brought glasses of tall, sweetened tea to the table, her smile was firmly in place.

The husband, who hadn’t bothered to introduce himself, had returned to the living room, where he was watching a game show on TV. Apparently a grown stepson in jail wasn’t his concern.

“So what’d he do?” she asked again.

“He didn’t do anything,” Beth said, a note of challenge creeping into her voice, but Raleigh shot her a warning look and she clamped her mouth closed.

“There’s no easy way to say this, Mrs. LeBeau. He’s been arrested for murder. They think he killed Robby Racine.”

Myra, halfway to joining them at the table, fell the rest of the way into her chair, a hand to her mouth stifling a gasp. A genuine reaction, Beth thought, though she was no body language expert.

“I heard about the body they found on my land…it was Robby?”

Raleigh nodded. “He was killed soon after he and Mitch stole a car together. Probably that same night.”

“Why do they think it was Mitch? He and Robby were friends! There’s no way—no way my baby would do something like that. And, anyway, all those years ago, I didn’t own that land. It belonged to my great-aunt, Robby’s grandmother. Robby and Mitch were second cousins.”

“So the land was connected to Robby, not Mitch.” Raleigh pulled her phone out of her pocket and made a few quick notes. “That’s one damning piece of evidence we can easily discount.”

Beth couldn’t stand it anymore. “Mrs. LeBeau, Mitch’s father owned some guns. Do you know what happened to them?”

At the mention of guns, Myra’s demeanor changed dramatically. She sat up straighter and started fidgeting with a paper napkin. “I don’t know. I’m sure I don’t know. I never touched his guns.” She looked over her shoulder at her husband, still watching TV. “Davy! Do you know what happened to Willard’s guns?”

“I have no clue,” he answered in a deadpan. “Never saw ’em.”

“Do you own any firearms yourself, Mrs. LeBeau?” Raleigh asked casually.

“No, ma’am. No guns.”

“If you don’t remember what happened to Willard’s guns, how can you be so sure you don’t still have them around somewhere?” Beth asked.

Myra’s eyes narrowed. “After Willard died, I cleaned this house top to bottom. I’m sure if there’d been any guns, I’d have noticed them. Are you here to help Mitch? ’Cause you don’t sound that helpful.”

“We’re on his side, I promise,” Beth said. “The police are going to want to know about the guns.”

Myra settled back into her chair. “I wish I could help, but I just have no idea.”

“Did Mitch know how to use a gun?”

“His daddy tried to teach him to shoot. You grow up around here, you learn how to hunt and that’s that. Every boy does. That doesn’t mean anything. Mitch never took to it and Willard gave up.”

“Okay.” Raleigh set her iced tea to the side and blotted her mouth with the paper napkin she’d been using as a coaster. “We appreciate your time, Mrs. LeBeau.”

“Thank you for telling me about Mitch,” she said a little stiffly. “Lord knows he wouldn’t go out of his way to tell me anything. Have they set his bail?”

“The hearing is tomorrow morning at nine. It would be good if you could be there. They might deny bail, given the seriousness of the crime. But if we show the judge he has a supportive family, that he’s not a flight risk, it might help.”

Myra cast a worried glance toward her husband. “I’ll try to come.”

They said their goodbyes and returned to Raleigh’s car.

“What did you think?” Beth asked. “I mean, that was weird, huh? Your wife is being questioned by a couple of strangers, one of them a lawyer, and you just sit in the living room watching TV?”

“And did you see the way she got all nervous when I brought up the guns? She knows something.”

“Maybe her husband did it. He was trying to move in on Myra, and he wanted the stepson out of the way, so he framed Mitch for murder.”

Raleigh thought about that, then shook her head. “If someone had been trying to frame Mitch, they wouldn’t have worked so hard to hide the body. Still, we’ll have to find out how long Davy’s been in the picture.”

“She’s not going to be a big help,” Beth said with a sigh.

“No. She’s not happy her son is in jail, but there’s something just a little off about her reaction.”

“She didn’t ask enough questions,” Beth pointed out. “If I had a son, and I found out he was in jail, I’d be bouncing off the walls trying to find out details and figuring out how to get him released. She didn’t even ask how Robby died.”

“She’d already heard about the body,” Raleigh reasoned. “She might have known it was a suspected gunshot. As for her reaction to Mitch’s arrest…it’s possible she doesn’t care.”

“How could she not care about her own son?”

“We know nothing about their relationship,” Raleigh said. “Maybe Mitch can shed some light on things.”

CHAPTER FOUR

THE COOT’S BAYOUcourthouse wasn’t much to look at outside—a cinder-block building covered in coat after coat of beige paint. Apparently it was a popular target for graffiti, because a fresh set of gang tags had eluded the paint roller on this muggy Wednesday morning.

The inside was even less judicial—a room reminiscent of a church basement with metal chairs and folding tables. The magistrate, a jowly man with a bright red comb-over, wore a scuffed black leather jacket instead of robes.

The prosecutor had already said his piece, arguing that bail should be denied.

“Your Honor.” Mitch’s newly hired defense lawyer, a young, earnest man named Buck Michoux, cleared his throat. Raleigh had put him in charge of speaking at the hearing because judges were sometimes more favorably inclined to a hometown boy than they were some strange woman lawyer from the big city. “My client is a law-abiding citizen with a good job and family in the area. We request that he be released on his own recognizance.”

The judge rolled his eyes. “If I had a sense of humor, I’d laugh. Mr. Delacroix was booked for murder, son. Bail is hereby set at two million dollars. An additional condition of bail is that Mr. Delacroix cannot travel outside of Bernadette Parish.” He pounded his gavel.

Mitch breathed a sigh of relief. At least they were willing to let him out. Two million dollars was an appalling bail, but Raleigh had assured him Daniel would cover it no matter how ridiculous. It was hard to feel lucky in his situation, but he sure was lucky to have a boss who had faith in him despite the evidence.

Mitch still wore yesterday’s clothes. The Coot’s Bayou Jail wasn’t exactly the Ritz. He hadn’t been allowed to shower or shave or brush his teeth, and the meals they’d served had as much appeal as warmed-over roadkill.

The bailiff handcuffed him and prepared to escort him back to his cell, across the street.

“Is that necessary?”

Mitch groaned inwardly. Beth. She’d proved herself useful during the interrogation, speaking with confidence and authority to Lieutenant Addlestein when it came to matters of evidence. But why was she still here?

He’d rather spend another week in jail than have her see him like this.

“Standard procedure with any felony suspect,” the bailiff said, unconcerned as he gave the handcuffs an extra twist. Mitch winced.

“Beth, what are you doing here?”

“Working on getting you out of jail. Permanently.”

The bailiff made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snicker.

“Don’t you have other work? Other innocent people you can save with your microscope and test tubes?”

Beth shrank back a bit. She looked hurt by his dismissive words, and he felt a pang of guilt. “Daniel says you’re a priority.” Her voice was so soft he could barely hear it, reflecting nothing of yesterday’s confidence. “If our positions were reversed, you’d be working just as hard to get me free, wouldn’t you?”

“No one would ever accuse you of murder. The whole idea is ludicrous.”

“I suppose I should take that as a compliment.” She appeared anything but flattered.

“Time to go.” The bailiff grabbed his arm and dragged him toward the exit. Physically, the guy was no match for Mitch. Mitch found himself imagining how he’d take the guy out. A simple ducking maneuver, an elbow to the gut, a knee to the face and he’d be down for the count.

“You’ll be free soon,” Beth called after him. “Try not to worry.”

Yeah. Right. Louisiana was a death penalty state, and the judicial system in Bernadette Parish was so crooked, he couldn’t count on an acquittal no matter what kind of evidence Project Justice came up with.

But Beth was good. She and Raleigh would give these good ol’ boys a run for their money. And when it was all over, if by chance he was a free man, he’d be lucky if Daniel let him keep his job after the trouble he’d caused for Project Justice. He was pretty sure Beth would never look at him the same way again.

He’d started to really enjoy their time together, to count on it, even. But after this was over, she would probably cross the street to avoid speaking to him. He was in for a long and ugly fight, one that was likely to consume him. One that he might not win. He might go to hell for a lot of reasons, but involving sweet Beth in this mess wasn’t one of them.

The bailiff put Mitch back into the same stinking holding cell in which he’d spent the night, and he sat there for another hideous three hours. What the hell was taking so long? Though coming up with two million dollars wasn’t something that happened in ten minutes, if Daniel had made the decision to bail an employee out of jail, he would make things happen quickly. So either Mitch should get out, or they should take him to Bernadette Parish lockup, where prisoners awaiting trial were kept.

At least there he would get a shower and a clean jumpsuit.

His cell mate, with the unlikely name of Canthus, had been affable last night when they’d thrown him in here because he’d been drunk. Now he was good and sober…and mean. He’d already taken a swing at Mitch, and the only thing that had prevented Mitch from flattening the guy like a roach was a reluctance to add more charges to his record.

Canthus was currently crouched in a corner, twisting a dreadlock. “You gonna make bail?” he asked, apparently having forgotten their argument of ten minutes ago over who got to sit on what bench.

“I don’t know yet. You?” He didn’t even know what Canthus was in for.

“Naw, no one’ll bail me out. A few days would be okay, if they feed me. But I’d seriously rather sleep under a bridge.”

Mitch hadn’t seen any signs of food this morning, and he was getting pretty hungry. Didn’t prisoners have rights? Then something Canthus had said sank in. “You homeless, man?”

Canthus straightened his spine and stared at Mitch with dead, obsidian eyes. “You want to make something of it? I suppose you live in a mansion on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain.”

“I didn’t mean anything,” Mitch said affably. He had no desire to duck any more punches by the increasingly sober man. “I was just wondering if you might know a guy used to be a friend of mine. Larry.”

“Just Larry?”

That’s all Mitch had ever called him. But Addlestein had mentioned Larry’s last name…Montford? No, Montague. “Larry Montague. I used to hang with him. Back then we called him Crazy Larry ’cause he’d do anything for a laugh. Scrawny guy, long blond, curly hair, real pale skin. He has a tat on his upper arm of a snake and a heart.”

Mitch remembered the night Larry had gotten the tattoo, on his twenty-first birthday. Mitch, only sixteen, had watched in fascination as the needle had puckered Larry’s skin, and marveled at how Larry hadn’t even winced.

Suddenly the light of recognition dawned in Canthus’s eyes. “That Larry! He is crazy. Saw that guy jump off a railroad trestle once when we was running from the cops.”

That sounded like Larry. “You happen to know where he is?”

Canthus shook his head. “No, man, ain’t seen him for months. He might’ve said he was going to New Orleans for the winter. Huh, kinda stupid. It’s not much warmer there than here in the winter.”

If Larry had gone away for the winter, that meant he might be returning soon. “If you see him, do you think you could let me know? I really need to talk to the dude.” Mitch pulled a card out of his pocket. He always kept a few there, though he seldom needed them since his work usually kept him at the office, behind a computer.

“You work for Project Justice? I’ve seen those dudes on TV, man. At Brewskies, they’re always watching those crime shows on the TV over the bar. You got it made, man. Hey, think they could get me off? I’m looking at sixty days.”

“I can’t make any promises, but if you find Larry for me, I’ll see what we can do.”

“That’d be cool, man.” Canthus started cleaning his nails with the corner of Mitch’s business card.

Mitch didn’t hold out much hope. How would Canthus locate Larry from jail?

Finally, the bailiff returned. “Looks like you got some friends in high places.”

“I made bail?” Praise be.

“Yeah, but there’s a small complication. Remember, the judge said you had to stay in Bernadette Parish?”

“Sure, no problem.” Once he was out of this place, he would worry about how to get around that rule. He’d get Raleigh to talk to the judge again. Maybe the judge would remand him into Raleigh’s custody. Or Beth’s.

No, not Beth’s. He gave himself a swift mental kick, but that didn’t stop a forbidden fantasy from popping to mind involving handcuffs and a riding crop. He ruthlessly squelched it. Beth wasn’t that kind of girl.

“See, the thing is, the judge won’t just take your word for it. So you have to be fitted with a monitor.” The bailiff got the cell door unlocked, but Mitch just stood there.

“You gotta be kidding me. Where am I going to stay? I don’t live here anymore.”

“You got kin here, right?”

“I’m sure as hell not staying at my brother’s house.” He’d rather be thrown into a cold dungeon and starved than endure living under the same roof as Dwayne and Linda. Dwayne was bad enough, but Linda—she had obsessive-compulsive disorder. Dwayne’s high school sweetheart freaked out if she couldn’t count her French fries before eating them. Mitch could remember her making Dwayne clean her hubcaps with a toothbrush.

The bailiff shrugged. “All I know is they got something worked out.”

Ten minutes later, Mitch was the proud wearer of a black cuff around his ankle that appeared to be made of Kryptonite—indestructible and designed to rat him out if he tried to tamper with it.

“The cuff is equipped with a GPS signal that will report your exact location to a monitoring center,” Raleigh explained. Beth, who for unknown reasons was still hanging out in Coot’s Bayou, sat nearby watching somberly. They were in a small conference room at police headquarters, where they had cuffed him to a chair while the technician from the monitoring company did his thing.

“If you set foot outside Bernadette Parish,” Raleigh continued to explain, “the police have the right to arrest you and return you to jail to await trial.”

“This completely sucks,” Mitch objected. “I have to be able to move around. I have things to do. Obligations.”

“If you’re worried about work, don’t be. Daniel is having your entire computer system moved down here so you can telecommute.”

“From where? Where exactly is it that I’m supposed to stay? Do I rent an apartment? Stay in a motel? And who’s paying for that?” He had a sinking feeling Raleigh hadn’t told him the worst news. “What?”

“You’ll stay at your mother’s house, of course. It looks good, shows you’ve got support, and it’ll save you some money.”

Horrified, Mitch shook his head. “There’s no way. We don’t get along, and anyway, she’d never agree.”

Beth picked that moment to speak up. “She already has.”

This just got worse and worse. “Aw, now, why did you have to go and get her involved?”

“Did you want her to hear about your arrest on the news?” Beth asked. “We talked to her. She’s anxious to help any way she can.”

“Yeah? I didn’t see her at the bail hearing. And what about Davy? Was he anxious?”

“He was agreeable to the arrangement,” Beth said. “They both want to help.”

The technician checked that the cuff was working, and left. Raleigh left, too, mumbling something about signing out with the bailiff. Finally it was just Mitch and Beth in the room, staring at each other.

“Beth, what are you still doing here?”

“You were the one who wanted me here,” she said coolly.

“Yeah, when I thought I was just going to answer a few questions. Don’t you have work to do?”

“This is my work. I need to be there while they’re processing the car, the gun—”

“Good luck with that.” The Bernadette Parish crime lab wouldn’t let her within five hundred feet of their precious evidence, not until they were good and done with it—which meant making anything that didn’t support their case disappear. Then, if she wanted to run her own tests, Raleigh would have to file requests with the court, a process that could take weeks.

“You don’t want me hanging around.” She studied her fingernails with great interest. “That’s obvious. But you’re not going to scare me away by acting like a jerk. This is work. It has nothing to do with…with our personal relationship. Which we don’t have anyway.”

Beth’s face flushed to a lovely shell-pink as her argument wound down.

What the hell was she talking about? “So you’re no longer my friend?” he asked, just to be sure he understood. “We’re just associates now?”

“I’m not sure we can be friends,” she said glumly. “When a line is crossed…well, I could have just left things alone, but I didn’t and I ruined everything.”

“You ruined it?” What the hell was she talking about? “Sorry, I’m confused.”

“Can we not talk about this?” she pleaded.

“Talk about what?” Why were women so confusing? Why didn’t she just spit out what was bothering her?

“I just want to make sure you understand that I’m here only because Daniel asked me to stay on top of things. I’m not trying to…change your mind.”

He gave up demanding that she clarify; his questions were getting monotonous. When faced with an unreasonable female, his strategy was to agree. Saved a lot of unproductive arguing.

“Okay,” he said, offering up a smile.

With a frustrated sigh, she turned and exited the room, and Mitch couldn’t help appreciating the way her sassy little butt twitched back and forth with each tap of her heel on the hard vinyl floor.

He racked his brain to figure out what was stuck in her craw. Maybe she was so repulsed by the things she’d learned about him recently that she really didn’t want to be friends.

That was a depressing thought.

But she said it was a line she’d crossed, not him. What had she done recently regarding… Wait a minute. The zydeco concert. She’d offered him her extra ticket, and she’d acted kind of strange when she did it, standing in the doorway whispering with Raleigh.

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