Tara Quinn - In Plain Sight

“There are a lot of us,” she told him, though she wasn’t as sure of that as she’d been even a couple years before. “But when people like the county attorney and the governor have the last say, and they’re elected officials, politics can’t help but play a part.”

“And we end up with compromised justice.”

Jan glanced at the news clipping she’d just pulled up on her computer—which only hinted at the gory details of Lorna Zeidel’s rape and murder two years before. “It’s when politics define justice that I have a problem.”

Andrew leaned forward, resting an arm on the edge of her desk. “And it honestly doesn’t bother you that if you push this and lose, your professional reputation will suffer?”

She shook her head. There were a lot of things bothering her. Her professional reputation wasn’t one of them. “My mother’s health bothers me. Hailey’s adoption bothers me. The young gang members who have nothing better to do than throw bricks through windows bother me.” My awareness of my neighbor’s presence bothers me. “I’m not sure why, but my career doesn’t. I think I’m on the right track.”

“I don’t know how you do it.” Andrew expelled a long breath. “But I’m here to learn.”

“You’re here to teach, too, my friend,” Jan told him. “You’re an excellent attorney. I’ve bowed to your opinion on more than one occasion.”

“Maybe two.” He smiled and then sat back, his expression sober. “What’s this about your mother’s health? I thought she was doing well, keeping busy.”

“She is.” Jan didn’t want to think about her mother right now. “I’m probably overreacting. Growing up with only one parent tends to make you a bit insecure where their existence is concerned.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Less than twenty-four hours ago. I went down yesterday and took her to the Blue Adobe for dinner. We had cheese enchiladas and prickly pear margaritas and talked about a mah-jongg tournament she’s in.”

“Sounds like she’s doing great.”

Yeah. And Jan had just decided to go with what she knew and not with what she feared. To quit letting random feelings control her so much. Everyone had them—those insecurities that overwhelmed common sense. She just seemed to have to work harder than other people to keep hers at bay.

By Thursday, Jan still had not heard from Danny Ruple. But she was using every spare minute she could find, in between directing the continued research into Jacob Hall’s potential fraud victims and maintaining her other cases, to study police reports on Lorna Zeidel—searching for the elusive clue that might at least get her a grand jury indictment.

She’d had no word from her brother after his impromptu visit, but she’d had a quick visit with Hailey the night before. And not including Saturday, she had talked to Simon three times, twice at the mailbox and once when he was getting his paper in the morning.

By the time she got home that night, she was just plain exhausted with life. She’d seen the It’s a Boy sign in the Thorntons’ front yard on her way to work that morning, and felt such regret at losing touch with her friendly neighbors that she’d gone out on her lunch hour and bought them a gift. But she sure didn’t feel like walking two houses down to drop it off.

She didn’t want to, but as soon as she’d finished the toast and peanut butter she was having for dinner she did it anyway. And was rewarded with a greeting from Simon when she returned.

“I brought the trash out and noticed yours wasn’t at the curb, so I thought I’d get it for you,” he said, meeting her at the end of her drive as dusk was starting to fall. Friday and Monday trash pickup had been part of her routine for years. Today, she would have forgotten.

“My gate’s locked.”

“As I discovered.” He walked along with her up to the house, looking so comfortable in khaki slacks and a flannel shirt with tails hanging out and sleeves rolled up past his wrists, that she wished she’d taken time to change out of the maroon skirt and jacket she’d worn to work.

The clicking of her heels against pavement sounded loud in the early-evening silence.

“You been down the street?”

“Mm-hmm.” She walked up the couple of steps to her front door. Pulled it open. “Molly Thornton had her baby.”

“It’s not locked?”

“I was only gone for a few minutes.”

“Could you see your front door every second of that time?”

“Of course not. The Thorntons are on the same side of the street.”

“How do you know someone didn’t see you leave and then enter your house?”

Ignoring the blade of fear that slid through her, Jan forced a chuckle. “Like I said before, you need to be writing suspense, Green. Because stuff like that only happens between the pages of a book or on the screen. I was two houses down, for goodness’ sake.” They were still on her stoop.

“But it only takes…”

“And during that time you were bringing out your trash.”

She went inside. He stayed out.

“You mad at me now?” she asked lightly.

“No.” But he was frowning.

“You just changed your mind about taking my trash out?” She’d been rolling the big can out by herself for years, didn’t need his help, but she couldn’t pass up the opportunity to mess with him.

It took her mind off her weariness.

“Of course not,” he said. “I’ll meet you at the gate.”

“Simon!” She laughed out loud then. “You can come through the house.”

She didn’t really understand his hesitation. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been inside before. He’d seen every inch of her 2,000-square-foot home when he’d trailed behind the police officer who’d searched it after the brick incident the week before.

He walked through, went out to wheel the trash to the curb, then relocked the gate from the inside and came back into her kitchen, all without a word. He stood there, staring at her.

“What?” She’d poured herself a very weak vodka and orange juice—mostly orange juice—and leaned against the counter, taking a sip.

“It’s none of my business.”

“Probably not. But I’m sure you’ll tell me, anyway.”

He shook his head. “You know what you’re doing. And you have an inside track on crime in this town.”

“Yeah.”

“But I’d still appreciate it if you’d be a little more careful. A woman living alone…”

“I won’t live my life in fear.”

“I’m not suggesting you should. Keep in mind, though, that I live right next door. And I’d like to be able to relax now and then without constantly having to listen for strangers with evil intent bothering someone who’s nice.”

He thought she was nice. That was all right. Because she thought he was sweet.

“Okay,” she said, her mouth twitching as she held back a smile. “In an effort to contribute to your peace of mind, I will be more diligent about locking my door. Since this is the first time in years I can remember leaving it unlocked, I don’t think it’ll be too much of a challenge.”

And she was no idiot. She was prosecuting a killer who had loyal associates. She wanted to live long enough to get him into prison.

“Thank you.”

“Now how about a truce?” She held up her glass. “I have vodka to offer.”

“I accept.”

She was shocked. He was supposed to have made a joke and been out of there. Didn’t he remember his own MO?

Turning, she took down a glass from the cupboard. A juice glass. She didn’t entertain enough to justify highball crystal.

“You pour,” she said, handing him the bottle and pushing the orange juice his way.

He took a splash of juice to go with his vodka, leaned back against the opposite cupboard…and suddenly she was nervous. The man seemed a lot more vital, standing in her kitchen.