Kara Lennox - For The Right Reasons

“If you won’t help me, then I’ll just do it myself.”

“Get in the car, okay?” Great. Now Bree knew just how to push his buttons. She knew he was just protective enough of her that he wouldn’t want her poking and prodding at lowlife drug dealers by herself. “I’ll go with you to talk to the sheriff. And if he doesn’t take it seriously, I’ll drop Daniel’s name. Sometimes that’s all it takes to light a fire under someone.”

For the next few minutes, Eric focused on getting them out of the hood. He breathed easier once they’d found the freeway.

“You know Daniel Logan pretty well?” Bree asked.

“Some. He’s hard to get to know. My brother doesn’t get along with him—Daniel threatened to kill Travis at one time. But despite that, Daniel offered me a job when I got out of prison. He knew I’d be a mess, and he gave me a safe place to land. That was pretty generous of him.” If Eric did drop Daniel’s name, he’d have to be careful not to come out and say his interest in Philomene was official Project Justice business. The work he and Mitch were doing was completely unofficial, and Daniel would blow a gasket if he thought Eric was invoking his foundation’s name where it wasn’t legitimate.

But no harm in letting the sheriff—and maybe that obnoxious D.A.—know that Eric knew Daniel Logan.

“He seemed really nice when I talked to him. I thought if anyone even read the application I sent in, it would be some intern or something. I was shocked when the head guy himself called me.”

“Most of the time Daniel doesn’t get personally involved in cases. But occasionally he sees something that intrigues him.”

“I really thought he was going to help me.”

Eric felt that twinge of guilt, which was becoming way too familiar. “You were right—it was my fault the case got dropped. But I felt like I didn’t have any choice.”

“You did, though,” she said quietly. “You shouldn’t have let a personal vendetta get in the way of justice.”

Oh, hell, he shouldn’t have brought this up. They were just going to end up yelling at each other again.

But Bree didn’t yell. “Maybe you could talk to him.”

“Talk to who?”

“Kelly. Maybe if you guys talked about what happened—”

“Are you insane? There is no way I would ever go face-to-face with that guy again. Not ever.” Eric fervently hoped that Kelly had forgotten about him. What a horrible mistake it would be to jog the convict’s memory. “It was a long, hard battle getting myself out of that hellhole. No way would I ever set foot in Huntsville again.”

Bree was silent for a while, then said, “Now imagine if you didn’t have people on the outside who loved you and wanted you to be free. Imagine if you’d been stuck in that disgusting place the rest of your life. I am the only one standing between Kelly and that fate. He doesn’t deserve what he got. He doesn’t deserve what you got.”

Ah, hell, she was crying. Before, she’d shown him only anger. That he could deal with. But the tears?

“I’m sorry, Bree. I know it has to be hell for you. But I did what I believe is the right thing.” Except, perhaps, for telling Daniel that huge lie. Daniel was not a man to be lightly crossed. If he ever found out, the results wouldn’t be pretty. But Eric would face the consequences if he really believed Kelly was harmless. Unfortunately, that just wasn’t the case.

Bree said nothing, just dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. Eric couldn’t think of one thing to say that might comfort her. For a guy known for his facility with words—one of the reasons he’d joined the legal profession—he was remarkably unskilled at saying the right thing when he was with Bree.

* * *

“NOT THIS AGAIN.” Becker County sheriff Bobby DeVille was a caricature of a bumbling but corrupt local cop. In fact, he had more than a passing resemblance to Jackie Gleason as he’d appeared in Smokey and the Bandit. So far he’d been barely civil to Bree, and he’d shaken Eric’s hand only with obvious reluctance. “How many times am I going to have to listen to this story?”

“I have new information,” Bree said in a calm, neutral voice. Eric admired her control. “Philomene’s phone was stolen. It turned up in the possession of a drug dealer.”

“And how did you come across this information?” the sheriff asked.

“The drug dealer’s mother found the phone and started calling the recently called numbers to find out whose it was.” This was the story Bree and Eric had agreed on, rather than implicating Mitch in what had obviously been some kind of illegal access to phone records. “It’s sounding more like Philomene met with foul play, right?”

“Do you know how many cell phones get stolen in a day?”

“Sheriff DeVille,” Eric began, “I know you don’t have the resources to chase down every person who leaves town without telling someone where they’re going. But a number of factors grouped together like this—”

“Save me your big-word lawyer speech,” the sheriff said tiredly. “Find me some blood. Or find her car abandoned someplace. Then I might think about suspecting foul play. But Philomene Switzer isn’t some innocent kid. She has a checkered past—been arrested a time or two.”

“Not for a long time,” Bree objected. “She’s worked so hard to straighten out her life. She had a good job, an apartment—”

“And a boyfriend who’d run up her credit cards.” The sheriff raised one eyebrow. “I see I’ve surprised you. I’m not as ill-informed as you seem to think. It’s entirely possible she disappeared to avoid paying her debts.”

“You’re right,” Bree said, sounding just short of defeated. “I didn’t know that.”

“What does this boyfriend look like?” Eric asked. “Maybe he’s the one we saw at her apartment Wednesday night.”

“I got a picture of him. He’s not exactly a stranger here.” The sheriff disappeared but returned shortly with an old-fashioned mug book. God, was the sheriff’s department not even computerized? How could any modern law enforcement agency survive without access to the NCIC database? Or AFIS, to run fingerprints through?

DeVille flipped a couple of pages in the book until he found what he wanted. “There. Jerrod Crowley.”

Bree and Eric both bent their heads over the book. They were so close that Eric felt her hair brush against his ear as it fell across her cheek. He could smell her. A certain part of his anatomy stirred and he jumped. The sensation was both familiar and alien—alien because it had been so long since he’d let a woman do this to him.

Why her? Why now?

“Is that the guy?” Bree asked.

Eric forced himself to concentrate on the mug shot of Jerrod Crowley. Large build, straggly medium-length brown hair, fair skin. “It could be him. I’m not a hundred percent sure—he ran by really fast.”

“Was he wearing overalls?” the sheriff asked.

“Yeah. How did you know that?”

“’Cause that’s all Jerrod Crowley ever wears. Musta been him, then. Came over for a booty call, found the place deserted and decided to see what he could steal.”

“Or he did something to her.” Bree’s hard-fought-for calm had deserted her. “Aren’t you even going to question him?”

“Please. Crowley doesn’t have the brains or the drive to commit a murder and then conceal it. He tried to steal a car once.” The sheriff burst out laughing. “What an effing joke that was.”

“But he might know something,” Bree insisted. “He might have seen something.”

“If I run across him, I’ll have a chat,” the sheriff said mildly. “Anything else?”

Bree and Eric exchanged a look. She wanted him to play the Daniel card, but he honestly couldn’t figure out a way to work it into the conversation.