A Man for All Seasons (9 page)

He led the way to a booth in the back of the restaurant, with no diners nearby. A waitress came at once, young and pretty and clearly delighted to have Brannon at her table.

“What can I get you?” she asked enthusiastically.

Brannon grinned at her. It changed his whole appearance. He looked handsome and roguish all at once. It was the way he'd looked at Josette two years ago. “Coffee with cream, a rib eye steak, medium rare, and a house salad with Thousand Island dressing.”

“No problem.” She looked at Josette with a toned down mutation of the smile. “And you, ma'am?”

“Coffee, black, and the house salad with ranch dressing on the side.”

“It'll be right up. I'll get your coffee now.” She gave Brannon another shyly fascinated smile and hurried away.

“That silver star gets them every time,” Josette
drawled, nodding toward his circle and star Texas Ranger badge.

He leaned back with one long arm over the vinyl of the booth, stretching the fabric of his shirt over those hair-roughened muscles that she remembered with such painful vividness. “If there weren't a few women left who liked men, the next generation would be sparse.” He smiled coldly. “Not all of your gender are happily following their radical leaders and their man-hating agenda. Makeup-free lemmings,” he added to get a rise out of her, “playing follow-the-leader off a cliff.”

“Some men inspire women to start revolutions, Brannon,” she pointed out.

“Oh, I don't know. I closed a door in a woman's face just yesterday.” He smiled, watching her, waiting for a reaction.

He was absolutely gorgeous, she thought, watching him. He didn't look like the sort of man who liked to play, but he did. She remembered him with some teenagers on campus during an impromptu game of basketball; throwing sticks for one of his dogs on his own ranch. He could be as mischievous as any one of his cowboys. But there were only traces of that man in him now. He wasn't just making conversation. He was probing for weaknesses. So Josette was not going to get
into a verbal sparring match with him. He could keep his good-old-boy prejudices until hair grew out of his ears, for all she cared.

“I want to know how Jennings got out of a maximum security prison, into a state facility, and then placed on a work detail,” she said instead of gracing his remarks with a reply. Her dark eyes met his gray ones evenly. “Whoever was behind it, that would take more than mere influence. Money changed hands. A lot of money.”

“I'm still looking for a motive,” he said, irritated that she wouldn't rage at him. He hated that even, calm tone. The woman he'd known two years ago, even with her tragic background, had been feisty and happy and full of the joy of life. Her eyes had made love to his every time he'd looked at her. Now, they were empty eyes. They were painted windows with the curtains drawn.

“If we can find the evidence, we can find the murderer,” she returned, pausing while the waitress returned with two mugs of steaming coffee and four little round tubs of half-and-half for Brannon. The waitress gave him yet another deliberate smile.

Brannon took time to return the smile, and wink. The waitress blushed, a breathless little giggle escaping
from her lips before she continued to the next table, where another couple was just settling in. The back of the booth bowed behind Josette and she shifted, uncomfortably close to the table edge. It didn't bother her that he was flirting with the waitress. It didn't!

With an amused glance, Brannon busied himself with the cream and sugar, doctoring his coffee until it was just the right color and sweetness. He tasted it with his spoon before he placed the spoon carefully down on a napkin and lifted the mug to his lips.

“The motive is pretty obvious,” he said after a minute, setting the mug down carefully on the Formica tabletop. “Jennings had something incriminating in his possession.”

“I agree.” She sipped her own black coffee thoughtfully, noting the rich, strong taste of it with pleasure. In so many restaurants, coffee was like lukewarm brown water. She often imagined the cooks putting coffee into a cloth sack and dragging it across the surface of water in a coffee urn. The image amused her and she smiled to herself.

“Something funny?” he asked.

She'd forgotten how observant he was. Nothing made it past those quick pale eyes. She recalled that
he'd spent the past fourteen years of his life in law enforcement.

“I was thinking about the coffee, actually,” she confessed, and told him what she'd been thinking.

His firm lips pursed in a faint smile. “That's why I like to eat here,” he remarked, raising the mug deliberately. “Even when the food isn't perfect, the coffee always is.” He took a sip and put the mug back down. “I went to see Mrs. Jennings this morning,” he added unexpectedly. “She's in a downtown mission. She doesn't even have the price of a phone call.”

His expression told her how he felt about that. Despite his faults, Brannon had a soft heart.

“Dale didn't give her anything to keep for him, did he?”

“Now that's an interesting question,” he replied. “Because the house she'd owned was ransacked just before she was evicted. She was taken to the mission by a social worker. The woman was going to drive her back to her old home and help her collect her things, but when they got there, the house was already destroyed in a fire. Not a toothpick was salvaged.”

Josette frowned. “Just in case they missed something, they covered all their bases. If the evidence was there, it went up in smoke.”

“I don't think they know where it is,” he replied. “If Mrs. Jennings didn't have it, she still may know where it is, even if she wouldn't admit it when I asked her. The fire could have been a not-so-subtle warning that she'd better cooperate. I talked to the police chief here and asked him to have his men keep an eye on the mission when they could. They don't have a budget for full-time surveillance,” he added impatiently. “They hardly get enough to cover the bare necessities.”

“It's like that everywhere,” Josette said. “If we spent two percent as much money on law enforcement and poverty as we do on financial aid to other countries, we wouldn't have any crime.”

“And no little kids would have to go hungry,” he said. He shrugged. His pale eyes caught hers and he didn't smile. “Both of us know about poverty.”

She smiled wistfully. “Don't we, though? And now your sister Gretchen's the equivalent of a queen.”

“She carries it well,” he pointed out with a sigh. “Wealth and power haven't changed her. She's doing a lot of good in Qawi for the underprivileged, and the UN recently asked her to do fund-raising work for them.”

“She'll be a natural.”

It disturbed him how much Josette knew about his
family, his history. She probably knew that his father drank like a fish and had the business sense of a frog, too. Only his premature death in a corral had saved the family ranch from certain bankruptcy. There were no real secrets in his hometown of Jacobsville, Texas.

“What are we going to do about Mrs. Jennings?” Josette asked abruptly. “She's bound to be a continuing target if the perpetrator didn't get what he or she was looking for.”

He nodded. “If I were the perpetrator, I wouldn't assume that something I couldn't find was in a house, even if I torched it. I'd find a way to make Mrs. Jennings talk.”

She grimaced. “That's not a heartening thought. Got any ideas, beyond scanty surveillance?”

“Glad you asked. You can have Mrs. Jennings move into your hotel with you for the next couple of weeks and keep an eye on her,” he said.

“Great idea. But who's going to pay for that? Our budget won't stand it,” she said, aghast.

“Get Grier to talk to the D.A. for you. If he takes the trouble to ask for things, they usually give it to him without any argument.”

“Grier?” she asked, knowing the name rang a bell but unable to place it.

“Cash Grier. He's the cybercrime expert with the D.A.'s office here.” He eyed her curiously. “You haven't met him?”

“No. They put me in the office with him at another desk and said I'd work out of it, but that's about all they said. Well, except that I mustn't believe everything I heard about him. He was out of the office all day.”

“You'll hear plenty. He worked for us, just briefly, but he hated the commanding officer, so he quit.”

“That makes two of you,” she couldn't resist saying.

He didn't tell her the real reason he'd left the Rangers. His temporary commanding officer two years ago was the obvious one—most of the men had hated him. “Buller made a lot of enemies. He was allowed to resign, just after he lost Grier and me both at once,” he said shortly. “Damned paper-clip-counting bureaucrat. The high-ups wanted to know why we had such a turnover in this office, so after I left, the staff told them. Straight up. Buller wasn't fired, but he was cautioned that if he didn't voluntarily resign, he'd regret it.”

“Ouch. I guess he had skeletons in his closet.”

“Buller was the single bad apple we ever had in our outfit,” he said proudly, “and he was barely there two months, just filling in. But we all have skeletons,” he said quietly, and without meeting her eyes. He finished
the last swallow of his coffee. It left a faint, pleasant bitterness on his tongue.

“Somebody has a big skeleton, and if we don't find it, Dale Jennings is going to have a lot of company, wherever he went in the hereafter.”

He nodded. “I phoned Jones over at the medical examiner's office, but she's got bodies stacked up. She said the staff's on overtime and it will be another twenty-four hours before the forensic pathologist gets to work on our DB. That means it'll be in the morning before we get much about Jennings's autopsy.”

“Jones.” She pursed her lips. “You wouldn't mean, by any chance, Alice Mayfield Jones from Floresville?”

His eyebrows arched. “You know her?”

She chuckled. “She was at college with me,” she said. Her somber expression lightened just for a few seconds. “She was a great prankster.”

“She hasn't changed much,” Brannon told her.

His salad, and hers, arrived, and so did his steak. For a few minutes they ate without speaking. Both refused dessert, and over their second cups of coffee, they got back to the subject of Jennings.

“I think that Jennings's murder is connected to Henry Garner's,” Josette said.

“Why?”

“Because of the amount of money involved.”

“Don't say a word about Bib Webb,” he cautioned coldly.

“You stop that,” she said irritably, glaring at him. “Everybody, and I mean everybody, is a suspect. You have to be a law enforcement officer in this investigation. Period. You can't afford to be prejudiced. Not in your position.”

He almost ground his teeth, but he had to admit that she had a point. “Okay,” he conceded.

Her eyes softened. “I know he's your friend,” she said gently. “I know you don't want to do anything that might hurt him.”

He hesitated. “You don't know him the way I do,” he said quietly. “He loved Henry Garner. The old man was more like a father to him than his own father ever was. Bib's father deserted the family when he was just a kid. He had to support his mother and sister before he was even out of high school. After his mother died, he looked after his sister, until she died of a drug overdose. Not one single person had ever done a damned thing for Bib—except Henry. He couldn't even come to Henry's funeral,” he added.

Josette nodded. She'd known that. She assumed it was guilt, of a sort.

“It wasn't publicized, but we had to have a doctor come out to sedate him,” he added.

“Because of the grief,” she began.

“Hell, no!” he shot back. “Because he was raging like a homicidal maniac! He thought it had to be some of Jennings's mob contacts, that Jennings had arranged the murder because he knew Henry was going to fire him. He wanted to throttle Jennings with his bare hands. It took two shots of Valium to put him to sleep, at that. And when he came around, he couldn't stop crying for another two days. He hated Jennings.”

Josette didn't mention the obvious, that it gave him a motive for Jennings's death. But something about the episode unsettled her. She remembered Bib Webb's wife, Silvia, at the funeral, dressed in a black Versace suit, smiling at the other mourners.

“Webb's wife has very expensive tastes,” she remarked without thinking.

“Silvia lost her brother and her father just before she started going out with Bib. She was on the street and she didn't even have the price of a pair of shoes when she was sixteen, and Bib married her.”

“That's young to marry,” she said warily.

“He thought she was twenty. At any rate, she was old
enough to be pregnant with Bib's child,” he replied. He didn't like Silvia, and it showed.

“I didn't know they had a child,” she said.

“They don't. She miscarried,” he replied. “At barely two months. She went on a shopping trip to Dallas and apparently fell down some stairs at the hotel where she was staying. She said the doctor told her she could never have other children because of the damage it did.”

Josette almost said, how convenient, but she was having enough trouble with Brannon as it was. She really couldn't picture Silvia as a mother; the woman was too selfish.

“She's very possessive, isn't she?” she murmured absently. “The night of the party, she hardly let her husband out of her sight for a minute.”

“She's like that.” He studied her, toying with his empty mug. “She was with him all evening, I suppose?”

“Actually she wasn't,” she said honestly. “Dale went outside and I didn't see him or Silvia for several minutes. When they came back, separately, Dale was preoccupied and Silvia's hair was windblown. I remember that your friend Bib was dancing with a neat little brunette in a rather conservative dress, and Silvia almost made a scene over it when she saw them.”