Lawful Engagement

“I’ve got press credentials with me, Deputy Steele.” She pointed to the oversize bag over her shoulder. “You don’t want to be accused of violating the First Amendment of the United States Constitution, do you?”

“And I’m sure you don’t want to be arrested for obstruction of justice,” he said without missing a beat.

“I have no intention of obstructing anything,” she said smoothly. “I want you to solve this case. Fast. And I’ll even help you.” The sound of her melodic voice was as gentle as the evening breeze, caressing his ears, his soul.

Abruptly, to shatter the spell she seemed determined to weave about him, he said, “You’ll help by answering my questions and by staying out of the way. You’ll be invited to any press conferences just like other media representatives, and—”

“I’m not just like the other media people, Deputy,” she countered harshly.

What had happened to the sorrowing, sympathetic young woman of a few minutes ago? She was all business now. He believed her. She wasn’t like other media people. Though he knew there were a lot of reporters as abrasive, stubborn, irritating and challenging, few probably wrapped up those repulsive characteristics in as beautiful a package.

But so what if Cara Hamilton was a good-looking woman, with guts and strength to boot? She was still a witness. Maybe a suspect.

Most likely, though, she had just found the murdered body of a friend. Sure, she’d been shocked and fragile when Mitch had first arrived, but she had not fallen apart. Now she was asserting herself, doing her job. As Mitch was doing his.

If she weren’t trying so hard to get in his way, he might admire her.

“Let’s go back over what happened from the moment you heard from Ms. Wilks this evening, Ms. Hamilton. The forensics technicians should be here shortly, and they’ll need to get your prints for comparison purposes, plus do more testing to eliminate you as a suspect.” Maybe. “And then—”

“Your father, Martin Steele, was the former sheriff of Mustang County, wasn’t he?”

Mitch froze. He knew what was coming next from Cara Hamilton, crime-scene witness—and ace reporter. “Yes,” he replied curtly. “Now tell me, where were you when Ms. Wilks—”

“Why did your father kill himself, Deputy Steele?”

Chapter Two

As the look in Deputy Mitch Steele’s eyes, a shade of leonine gold beneath straight black brows, shifted from vaguely suspicious to blank, Cara could have kicked herself.

She had ruined any sliver of hope that he would cooperate as she tried to find out what had happened to Nancy.

And she would do everything necessary to find the person who had killed her friend. Not only for her story, but for herself.

Of course the story she was working on would definitely merit attention, for it went far beyond Nancy’s murder. Maybe even Pulitzer material, for it involved—

“Excuse me, Ms. Hamilton,” Mitch said, looking over her shoulder. She glanced in that direction and saw that a van with the Sheriff’s Department logo had pulled up Caddo Street and was now double parked beneath a streetlight in front of Nancy’s house. The crime-scene technicians, she figured. A good excuse for him to avoid her.

To avoid her question—the one she would take back in an instant, if she could.

“Cara,” she said quickly.

His attention returned to her momentarily as his gaze turned quizzical.

“My name is Cara,” she said, inviting him to use it. Maybe that small intimacy would make him forget what she’d asked, even though she wouldn’t forget it. Because despite regretting that she blurted it due to the consequences it would cause, she still wanted an answer.

“Right. Cara.”

She knew his first name was Mitch, not from his name badge, but she remembered it from news stories about his father. He didn’t invite her to use it and he walked away, toward where the technicians removed gear from their van.

Cara watched his confident stride. Most men looked tall to her because she was only five foot one. But Mitch Steele was tall, at least six feet. He held his head high, his broad shoulders thrown back beneath his khaki uniform shirt, as if in challenge to any bad guys who happened to be watching.

In challenge to the world. Cara knew a little of Mitch Steele’s background, and she was aware that the world had challenged him—or at least his family. She’d no doubt that Mitch, still working for the Sheriff’s Department, had to live every day under the stigma that surrounded his deceased father.

Sheriff Martin Steele was enmeshed in a scandal a couple of years ago—one much bigger than the earlier grumblings of nepotism when he’d hired his son. Before his involvement in the bribery plot was proven or disproved, he committed suicide.

He wouldn’t have done that had he been innocent—would he? And yet his arguments, arguments reported in the Mustang Gazette and other media, had made sense.

Too bad Cara hadn’t worked on that story. Back then she had still been listening to her boss, Beauford Jennings, when he gave her assignments. That had been before Beau had made it clear that to him, too, nepotism trumped merit. And ethics. His nephew Jerry, Cara’s casual boyfriend at the time, had stolen her firsthand, undercover research to write his own article on how local liquor stores, including one owned by a county commissioner, sold alcohol to kids known to be minors. Jerry broke the story and ended the commissioner’s career. That move catapulted Jerry out of Mustang Valley and into the world of big-city news.

Beau’s only regret was that Jerry was gone.

After that Cara didn’t ask for Beau’s opinion. She donned disguises and slung hash in local eateries for her story about restaurants’ cleanliness standards. She’d received applause after her article and surreptitious pictures got a popular place closed down by the local board of health—pictures showing the owner grin as one of his wait staff spat into the food of a patron who’d criticized the service last time he’d eaten there. That was when Beau had finally promoted her out of the copy room to reporter. He’d hinted of further promotions, too.

Score one for our side, Cara had thought. Her idol, the legendary Shotgun Sally, had reputedly once worn flouncing skirts and gone undercover as a dance hall girl to write a story on how it felt to be a fallen woman. She, too, had trounced all over those who failed to take her seriously. At least for her first big story, Cara had only had to put on a lacy apron over a short dress. Oh, and glasses and a wig.

Since her experience with Jerry, though, Cara hated the idea of sharing information with anyone. She’d made it clear to Beau that she would follow her own leads, write her own stories.

Beau had stopped underestimating her, at least when it suited him, but others hadn’t. Maybe it was because she was a woman, maybe because she looked so young. Though she used it to her advantage, she detested it.

Almost as much as she hated anyone to interfere with her getting her story. She’d allowed it once, but never again.

And now, she had even more impetus to get the story. She sighed and glanced back toward Nancy’s house. Her friend had been murdered. Maybe even because she’d been on the way….

Cara swallowed hard as she forced her gaze back toward the dimly lit street.

Mitch turned and preceded the techs back up the walk toward Nancy’s house—and where Cara stood. She half expected him to brush by her. Instead he stopped.

So did her breathing, for an instant, while she tried to figure out what to say to fix things between them.

“So, Deputy, any more questions for me? I definitely want to cooperate so you can solve this murder.” Assuming the Sheriff’s Department did solve this one.

Was it her imagination, or did the blankness in his gaze soften just a bit? “I’m sure you do. And, yes, I’ll have more questions for you, though not right now.”

“Good. Then I’ll just follow these people and take pictures while they work.” She reached way down into her bag, past the notebook, cell phone and personal digital assistant, to extract her digital camera. “That way, when you catch the perpetrator, I’ll be able to describe the entire process.”

Mitch Steele was one handsome deputy even when he scowled. If Cara recalled his father’s story correctly, Mitch’s mother was Native American, which would help explain the blue-black richness of his hair, the strong slant to his nose, the sharpness of his cheekbones and other features. That scowl of his only emphasized the well-honed planes of his face.

But when he let the corner of his mouth curve up in a half grin that way, Cara was sure he drove every woman in her right mind wild with lust.

She was in her right mind….

“No,” he said, bringing that creative imagination of hers back to reality.

“Pardon?”

“Ms…. Cara, I appreciate your cooperation. But you do not have my permission to get in the way.”

“I’ll stay out of the way. I promise.”

“Mm-hmm.” Though his murmur sounded affirmative, she was sure she was losing his attention, for he had turned to talk to one of the techs.

“If you let me follow them, I’ll tell you something I don’t think you know about Nancy,” she blurted out.

Damn! When was she going to stop speaking before she’d thought things through? She wasn’t always so adept at sticking her foot in her mouth. Something about this deputy was spurring her to foolishness.

But she had definitely regained his attention, for suddenly those piercing golden eyes were staring hard into her face. “If you have some knowledge about Ms. Wilks that’s relevant to this case, Cara, you’d better spill it. Now.”

MITCH WATCHED as the lovely Ms. Cara Hamilton back-pedaled. It would have been amusing if he hadn’t been certain that whatever she was hiding could be of significance in solving the murder of Nancy Wilks.

“You misunderstood.” The wide-eyed innocence in her luminous gaze didn’t convince him one bit. “I meant I don’t think you know how rotten Nancy felt that her job was disappearing so fast. She’d liked working at Lambert & Church. You know, the law firm where Paul Lambert was a partner? The guy who killed himself in jail after his murder of a local rancher was exposed?”

“Of course I know of it.” But Mitch hadn’t been directly involved in the case, despite its high profile. Maybe because it was so high profile, for though he had the seniority and authority to supervise on the most critical cases, Sheriff Ben Wilson made sure Mitch had other responsibilities that kept him busy. Like reorganizing the deputies on patrol so those who worked hardest got more to say about choosing their shifts.

Just like he’d been swamped with putting together the latest program to keep kids off drugs during the investigation of the murder prior to the one involving Lambert, the first murder the town had seen in two years. Most people claimed it was even longer than that. High profile? Heck, that one had been the highest profile, since the mayor himself had turned out to be the killer. And the victim had been a lawyer at the same firm, Lambert & Church.

The same place where the latest victim had worked. Was there a connection among the three killings? Hell, yes. There had to be. Mustang Valley wasn’t exactly a hotbed of crime. And with that same law firm at the center of all three… Mitch would follow that connection and see where it led.

Unlike the other killings, solving this case was his. And once he put it all together, he’d insist on the recognition he deserved. For once. No matter how much it galled others.

Although, partial invisibility would help with his personal, highly frustrating, agenda. So would following Sheriff Wilson’s orders—more or less.

Still, good thing Ben Wilson hadn’t thought that putting Mitch on the night shift for a while would lead to something big. Like being the first at a murder scene. And that gave him the advantage in staying in charge.

This time, his self-imposed patience—so much against his driven nature—would pay off.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, Deputy—” Cara Hamilton’s lilting voice interrupted his thoughts. In the shadowed light from the nearby streetlamp, she watched his face with what appeared to be total concentration. Almost as if she were trying to read his mind.

A disconcerting idea.

“Sorry, Cara. We’re not through. I still want to know exactly what you’re hiding.”

He had to hand it to her. The woman was good. Her innocent smile hardly wavered. “Not a thing. But if anything comes to me, I’ll be sure to let you know, Mitch. Okay?”

His mouth opened as he instinctively started to correct her. It might be all right for him to use her first name, but if she used his, he risked losing his appearance of authority. And distance. And everything that would give him an edge over this civilian.

No matter how much he’d liked the way she’d said it.

But before he could say anything, she’d turned and headed for the house. Again.

“Hey.” He hurried after her, swinging around so that she nearly walked straight into him. She looked up with that same guileless expression he was coming to recognize. The expression that lied as easily as her mouth. Guileless? Heck, the woman was an expert at deception. And nosy as all get-out. In his face, and in his way.

“Look, Ms. Hamilton. If you’re not willing to talk to me here, you’ll have to come to the station.”

His body blocked most of the light emanating from the porch behind him, so she stood in shadows. He could nevertheless see how her forehead crinkled as she mulled this over. He observed the arch to eyebrows, which, despite the dimness, seemed a similar shade of auburn as her hair. Its soft red hue must be natural, then. Interesting.

He’d note it in her profile as a witness and potential suspect. That was his only reason for noticing.

“Okay,” she said.

“What?” She’d confused him.

“Okay, I’ll come to the station so you can question me there.”

The lady was full of surprises. “Fine. Make it—” He glanced at his watch. He’d have to be here for a long while, till the crime-scene investigation was well underway. “—nine o’clock this morning.”

“Fine.”

“Meantime, I’ll send one of the techs out here to check you out.”

“To get my fingerprints so you can eliminate me as a suspect.” She confirmed what he’d told her before, her tone a little sarcastic, as if she didn’t believe he thought the forensics exam would clear her.

Maybe it wouldn’t, though right now his main reasons for sticking her on his suspect list—her limited cooperation and her being at the victim’s at one heck of a bad time for a social call—weren’t exactly proof of her guilt.

“That’s right. And to check to make sure you don’t have any gunpowder residue on you, too. That kind of thing.” Or any blood, though he saw none on her.

She stared but said nothing. He allowed her, this time, to walk away. As he watched her, she glanced at the house once more and then, assessingly, back at him. He shook his head.

With a look of annoyance, she headed toward the sidewalk, her long skirt swaying again with her determined stride. Was she going to leave before the techs checked her out? He held his breath, ready to go after her, until she turned again, crossed her arms and stood there, obviously impatient.

He realized with surprise, and irritation with himself, that the challenge of Cara Hamilton had whetted his appetite for more.

Right now nine o’clock seemed very far away.

UNLIKE THE MAJOR metropolitan area of Dallas/Ft. Worth to the northeast, the population of Mustang Valley wasn’t very large. Neither was the population of the whole of Mustang County, which was why the Sheriff’s Department had jurisdiction even in town.

As a result the station funded by the taxpayers was compact, too. Only ten years old, it looked more like an architect’s vision than a functional law enforcement command center, all glass and steel and vulnerability—if any terrorist, or even petty crook, thought it worth the effort to attack.

But its small size was compact, too. Which was why Mitch was able to keep his ears open to comings and goings at the front desk even as he sat in the nearby computer room. He’d begun entering his initial report on the Nancy Wilks murder investigation into one of the aging, outdated machines.

It was nearly nine o’clock. Would Cara Hamilton actually come, or would he have to look for her? If she came, would she be on time?

Mitch heard the clump of heavy footsteps on the wood floor. More than one set. Definitely not Cara.

“Is Steele in?” demanded the voice of his boss, Sheriff Ben Wilson.

“Yeah,” replied the deputy on duty. He must have gestured toward the room where Mitch sat, for in a moment Wilson and his favorite senior underling, Deputy Hurley Zeller, entered.

Wilson, in his fifties, tall and rangy in his loose khaki uniform, had the leathery, tough skin of a much older varmint. He’d never made any attempt to hide his disdain of Mitch or his rage that he’d inherited the son of the disgraced former sheriff and didn’t have any reason to fire his ass and oust him from the department. He probably even held it against Mitch that his dad had become sheriff first.

Ben glared at Mitch with narrowed brown eyes. The odor of cigar smoke clung to Zeller and him. “I just came from the crime scene on Caddo Street. The Wilks murder.”

Mitch nodded. “I’m just finishing my initial report.”

“Got it solved yet?” Hurley Zeller sneered.

Wilson’s flunky Zeller, nearly as wide as he was tall, was a smart-mouthed son of a bitch who smiled a lot, particularly while emitting his nastiest utterances. And Zeller could be damned nasty at times. He was around thirty-five, older than Mitch’s twenty-nine, but acted as if he still was a hot-blooded teenage kid more often than not. But he did a superior job of kissing up to the sheriff, who bought it.

“I’m working on it,” Mitch replied mildly to Zeller’s jibe.

“The deputies there said you have a suspect already,” Wilson said. “That reporter bitch Cara Hamilton was caught right there red-handed.”

“She was there,” Mitch agreed, sticking his hands behind his back so his boss wouldn’t see that he’d clenched them into fists. The guy was jumping to conclusions. No need for him to accuse Cara Hamilton…yet. “The weapon wasn’t found, though. Hamilton wouldn’t have had time to ditch the gun.”

“Maybe.” Zeller stepped closer to Mitch. “Or maybe you just missed it.” He turned to Wilson. “How about putting me in charge of the case, boss? I won’t miss any big clues.”

“The way you don’t miss the target at shooting practice?” Mitch stuck an expression on his face that he intended to be as innocent as any of Cara’s. Not that he could make himself look as young and sweet. But Mitch had learned well the art of acting, particularly since joining the Mustang County Sheriff’s Department. From his intentionally placid demeanor, no one here would guess how tightly he was coiled inside, prepared to spring in an instant if he let himself.

Mitch hadn’t thought Zeller’s small brown eyes could narrow any more, but he scrunched them into something he probably thought looked menacing. Instead, he appeared like an ape with gas. “I always pass the tests. And I’m sure you’d feel better if they let you use a bow and arrow.”

Mitch again flexed his fists behind his back. Most guys around here were at least subtler in their cracks about his half-Native-American ancestry. He forced himself, as always, not to respond, knowing that ignoring Zeller was more of an insult than trading barbs. If it were not for his own quest, more important to him than anything else, he’d have decked Zeller long ago.

Facing Ben Wilson with more calm than he felt, Mitch said, “Here’s what we know so far about the Wilks murder.” He gave a rundown. It wasn’t a lot. The coroner’s report hadn’t come in yet, but he described the apparent cause of death: a bullet to the head. “No sign of a weapon at her home, so we won’t have its description till we get more from the coroner. No sign of forced entry. The neighbors interviewed so far noticed nothing out of the ordinary, so the weapon’s noise must have been suppressed. The reporter, Cara Hamilton, said she was there because the victim called her to chat about losing her job.”

“You bought that?” Wilson’s voice was edged with sarcasm.

“No. In fact, she’s due here now for further interrogation.”

“Fine. I’ll sit in.”

Mitch opened his mouth to protest, then shut it. He knew how to conduct a good witness interview. But having Ben there would ensure he wouldn’t get second-guessed later.

Just then, in the next room, he heard the soft, determined voice he’d been listening for. “My name is Cara Hamilton. I’m here to see Deputy Steele.”

CARA HADN’T THOUGHT she’d feel so unnerved by being the subject of an official interrogation. This was a first. In her line of work, it was unlikely to be the last.

But she enjoyed situations so much better when she was the one asking questions.

Mitch had come into the station’s reception area almost immediately after she’d arrived. He showed her down a short hallway into a moderate-size room that resembled a company’s conference room, with a big, scuffed wood table in the center.

What had she expected—a jail cell with a wired chair in the center where she’d be strapped in?

Not that the chair he showed her to was comfortable—physically or emotionally. She had the seat of honor at the head of the table. Not quite wired…

Mitch sat beside her. He looked tired, with the shadow of a dark beard emerging and circles beneath his golden eyes. Bedroom eyes—sexy, yes, but even more a sign of exhaustion. She doubted he’d gotten any sleep that night.

Of course, neither had she. She’d gone home, written a story about the murder on her computer and e-mailed it to the Gazette, requesting a photographer to follow up since her digital shots weren’t professional. Then she’d showered, changed and lain in bed, her eyes wide open.

Nancy had called her. Nancy had been murdered….

As Cara’s former fiancé Andrew McGovern had been, only a few months ago. They hadn’t been together in a long time, but his death had still hit her surprisingly hard.

She’d called her parents at six-thirty this morning so they’d hear the news from Cara about Nancy, and about Cara finding her—not from the radio, TV or someone else. They still lived in the house in Mustang Valley where she’d grown up. Always overprotective, her mother had been proud when Cara had joined the editorial staff of the Mustang Gazette, but when she’d insisted on becoming a hard-hitting investigative reporter—

“Ms. Hamilton, this is Sheriff Wilson,” Mitch said. “He’ll be joining us this morning.”

“We’ve met.” Forbidding her nose from wrinkling despite the smoke smell hovering around the sheriff, Cara shook his hand. She had tried interviewing him for stories now and then, but he’d always been condescending, over-bearing and snide, a combination that always set her teeth on edge. Right now he regarded her as if prepared to place her under arrest. “Good to see you again, Sheriff,” she lied. As pleased as she’d be to run into her worst enemy, whoever that was. Of course, her list of enemies was expanding, thanks to her revelation in print of all sorts of nasties committed by the subjects of her stories.

She wasn’t sure, though, which was her worst one.

She accepted a cup of coffee, then exchanged pleasantries about the weather with the sheriff until Mitch Steele interrupted. “So, Ms. Hamilton, let’s start at the beginning for Sheriff Wilson’s benefit. You were a friend of Ms. Wilks?”

“Yes. Not close…” The way she was with her dearest friends in the world, Kelly McGovern—Kelly Lansing now—and Lindsey Wellington. “But we got together for lunch often, exchanged birthday cards, that kind of thing. She even sent me a postcard from Orlando when she was on vacation a few months ago.” Cara stopped abruptly, thinking of how excited Nancy had been to get away. And now she’d never—