"I don't think an offer of hospitality const.i.tutes a story, Mr. Mardnez. And I might remind you, there are laws against posting fiction as fact. But you're a reporter. You know how careful you have to be."

"Yes, ma'am. My source was pretty good, but I'll double-check. Could make a story out of what I've got. You know, a retrospective. Put it in front of the public one more time. Would be great to have something from you, though, to round it out."

The man gave another Eeyore sigh. Tara wasn't fooled. She'd met reporters she thought were brain-dead only to find them sharp as tacks. So when Martinez held up his hand in what pa.s.sed as a wave, Tara took the initiative.

"On some other matter, Mr. Martinez, and only at my office, please."

"Sure thing," he said, not put off by her rejection.

"You never can tell how these tips are going to work out, can you?" He looked at her, heavy lidded then looked away and began the tortuous ritual of leaving.

Back in his little Good & Plenty car, he coaxed his cranky clutch into gear and drove down the road he had come up only moments before. Tara rested her hands on the low wall and stood looking after him. When he was gone, she tilted her head back and howled like an animal, just once, just loud enough and long enough to get it out of her system. Finished, content knowing no one had heard her lose her last shred of composure, she calmly went into the house, got her car keys, and headed out.

"Woodrow, I thought we were done with this nonsense. I can't believe you're still trying to force this issue. Does an election mean so much to you that you would sell me out to the press just so you can look good? You've not only put a wedge between Charlotte and me, you've brought George in on it, and now you're whispering in a reporter's ear that I've got the Circle K. killer in my backyard."

Woodrow sat in front of Tara's desk, she behind it. Not a harsh word pa.s.sed between them because Tara knew it would do no good to scream, and Woodrow was still in shock. This wasn't what he'd antic.i.p.ated when Caroline had called and asked him to stop by.

"What are you talking about? I did no such thing."

Tara was surprised, too. She hadn't expected him to look honestly dumbfounded. It threw her for a minute, but she recovered nicely.

"Woodrow, I came to you in good faith with this problem. In good faith, I a.s.sumed, you took a stand that wasn't concordant. I accept that. Woodrow. And I a.s.sumed that after we'd been to see Sepada and it was clear that neither of us had recourse, we would let the matter drop. Didn't we agree to that?"

Tara sat back and looked at him full face, her blue eyes icy. To his credit he looked back quietly, waiting to hear what was next.

"What possible good could come from planting a story and scaring the public half to death when there's no solution for our problem? I don't see how you could think that you could forward your campaign when you can't deliver on an indictment?

And Woodrow, did you honestly think sending a reporter to my home would intimidate me?"

"I didn't think anything, Tara, since I didn't talk to any reporter. I didn't send anyone to your house and I resent being called here and spoken to like this."

Woodrow no longer looked surprised. He didn't look angry and Tara finally saw what kind of governor he'd make. A good one because he didn't back down and he lied like a pro.

"Resent it all you like. You've been free with in forma don before. I don't see why you should balk at telling the press," Tara said.

"I'm willing to forget this. I'm willing to go back to the original deal.

A psychiatric workup and state commitment or nothing. We'll just wait.

"But if you pull anything like this again, I'll talk to the press. And I'll tell them how you refused to get a murderer off the street. You had the opportunity, and you blew it. I think it'll make a fine story. They can run it next to the Strober inquiry."

"You wouldn't dare!" That got a cool rise out of Woodrow, but it was Tara who stood.

"Yes, I would," she said calmly, gathering her papers.

"I just realized, Woodrow, there's very little percentage in not being creative. This is the new Tara Limey. Be on your toes. Now, I have a deposition to take. I just wanted to make sure we were clear about everything. Don't pull any fast ones, Woodrow, *cause I'll pull them right back, and I'll do it better. If you'll excuse me."

"I will not." Woodrow was out of his chair, meeting her halfway around the desk.

"You're really arrogant, Tara. You think everything is being done to you. Did it ever occur to you that you might have done it to yourself? I'm not the only one who's been asking about this guy. You've been trying to get a psychiatrist to see your boy. Since I don't have a report, I'll a.s.sume n.o.body wants to touch him. Didn't you tell me you saw his old shrink? Why should I believe that you didn't spill it to him? Or maybe he knew all along and he's been talking. So get off your high horse, Tara, because there are a hundred ways a reporter could get something like this."

Tara looked at him, knowing in her gut that he was grasping at straws. But her gut was telling her something else too. Standing face-to-face, she didn't feel the vibes she'd expected. Indignation, yes. But guilt was missing.

"Look," she said, "I was ready to wait. But now I have to make a judgment call based on the facts in evidence. Those facts tell me that you have a history of sharing information, you have a use for my client, and you could manipulate the press in your favor. I have no choice but to a.s.sume the leak is coming from you or is directed by you. I'm asking you to stop now, Woodrow." Tara hugged her papers tighter and raised her chin.

"I promise you, no more confrontations. Neither of us wants to be running in and out of each other's lives screaming.

From here on out I take my cue from you. You send reporters sneaking around, I promise to give them a story. And you won't come out looking like Prince Charming."

Tara started to walk around him, but Woodrow stopped her.

"Tara. Please believe me. I had nothing to do with leaking this information. And remember this is my life we're talking about here. You're saying you'll tell on me if I tell on you, like this is a game. This could ruin my campaign, my standing in the community. This guy's a murderer. He deserves what he gets. I'm only trying to do what's right."

Tara softened, seeing in him a man afraid, and she was sorry for that.

"And I'm trying to do the same, Woodrow. There are real lives at stake here.

My client's, for one, and that's where my loyalties lie. I've promised to be his advocate. I'll do that to the letter of the law and in the spirit of it, too.

I can't worry about your professional future."

She walked out the door with a nod. There was nothing more to say. Ten minutes later, Woodrow was gone, and Tara was deposing a witness to the fateful crash involving her client Johnnie Rae Riskin. At least Johnnie Rae's case would have a conclusion. For that Tara was grateful, and she gave her full attention to the matter at hand. Even when Caroline slipped into the conference room and pushed a note onto the table beside her, it took Tara a minute to realize Caroline was waiting for an answer.

Tara un.o.btrusively slid her right hand toward the note, still listening to the woman being deposed.

She read it, and jotted her directive. Caroline was to call Dr. Crawford and advise him that she would be unavailable for an early dinner. She would be leaving as soon as the deposition was done.

Gina Patton had found Bill Hamilton's parents.

Seventeen.

"Good." Tara flipped through Johnnie Rae's file and found what she wanted.

"Caroline, do me a favor and contact Johnnie Rae's employer. Ask him if we can change the time of his deposition."

"His lawyer's Phil Harmon. We already asked for an extension on this guy. Harmon likes to keep his appointments. This time he's going to be mad."

Tara snorted softly.

"Phil only gets mad because changes interfere with his manicure appointments.

Leave a message on my machine if you have any trouble getting him to agree. I'll call him at home tonight to see if I can straighten it out. Do you have the calendar?"

"Yep." Caroline flipped open a black, leather bound book.

"How about a week from now? Same day. Same time."

Caroline shook her head.

"No. You've got a meeting with the U.S. attorney about the casino and the Women in the Judiciary reception. The next day you're handling a pleading first thing in Judge Ferguson's court for Shirley Templeton. Remember?

She's on vacation and Ferguson screwed up the calendar before she left, but you're free that afternoon."

"Okay, let's do it then." Tara put on her coat.

"If you finish early, go home."

"Thanks," Caroline said, knowing she'd be lucky to leave by five. She handed over a neatly typed sheet of paper.

"Here's all the information including directions. Gina didn't contact Bill Hamilton's family per your instructions, but she's confirmed that someone is living at that address."

"Okay." Tara slung her purse over her shoulder, leaving her briefcase behind.

"If there's anything important, give me a call on the car phone or page me."

The elevator came quickly, but it wasn't soon enough for Tara. She was itching to get where she was going. Finally she'd have something concrete to put under Woodrow's nose. Maybe even a living, breathing human being who would add a voice to hers and convince the DA that Bill Hamilton needed the protection of the law. Maybe two.

Tara pushed open the gla.s.s door of the office building. She hoped to bring both parents back to the city with her. Outside, the afternoon was cold and bright. Tara decided to settle for either mother or father, when she realized that the insistent blaring of a horn was directed at her. A van pulled around the island in the parking lot and Tara waited. It stopped right in front of her. Automatically, the tinted window rolled down, and for an instant, Tara's heart stopped. She imagined that window was a curtain and Bill Hamilton the actor behind it. But her heart was beating again and she was smiling a second later.

"Need a ride, lady?"

Tara put her hand out and touched the dark green van.

"Nice wheels, Ben," she said, before climbing into the pa.s.senger side.

"Turn here." Tara put her hand under Ben's nose and pointed excitedly.

He chuckled and pushed it out of the way. She apologized.

"Sorry.

Do you see any numbers?"

"I haven't been out this way for a hundred years, but I do remember that no one worried about their address numbers being legible." He squinted behind his dark gla.s.ses. The sun was brilliant. Unfortunately, even a bath of bright light couldn't make this lay of land look hospitable. They'd left the freeway twenty minutes earlier, and the highway ten minutes after that, in favor of a long stretch of road that seemed never-ending and never-changing.

"Do you even know what town we're in?" Tara's hands were folded in her lap, but she could barely contain herself. She would have gotten out and run if she thought it would do any good. Instead she lifted her sungla.s.ses as if that would help her identify something significant in these generic surroundings.

"I know it isn't Albuquerque. There." Ben pointed with a tip of his nose, simultaneously braking with the controls at his fingertips. Another magical motion with his hands and the van went backward.

"That's wonderful," Tara said, delighted as a kid learning how to work a Christmas train.

"This is the ultimate boy toy."

Ben laughed and revved the engine. Backward they went again, Ben in full control. He pointed over her shoulder when they stopped.

"Can you see a house number there?"

Tara looked in the direction he indicated.

"Yes--2010."

"We're close then." Ben threw the car into gear and they were off again.

"How come you don't roll?" Tara asked. No question or turn of phrase seemed wrong or awkward now. Walk, run, put your feet up, take a load off, were all words and expressions Ben had a.s.sured her would not have to be stricken from her memory bank.

"You want the official explanation?"

"We can start there," she said.

"On the base of the chair are metal brackets which support a vertically centered bolt under it, allowing a few inches for clearance. Without that I'd be bolted to every nook and cranny around."

Ben looked out the window as he lectured. His voice slowed along with the van when he tried to identify a number and picked up again as he drove further.

"Underneath me is an electronically activated receiver.

When I roll over it properly, the receiver is activated and automatically grabs the bolt. It's the same technology tractor-trailers use to hitch the rigs together. Only problem is, they have to take out the seat so my chair will fit. I don't even get to choose the upholstery when I get a new car."

Ben chuckled, but his amus.e.m.e.nt didn't last long.

They'd arrived.

Ben pulled to the side of the road. The car idled.

They were silent as they scanned whatever part of nowhere they were in. If it wasn't the middle, it was darn close. Tara counted ten houses scattered around the flat and rocky land. It was impossible to tell how far the farthest was and the closest seemed uninhabited. Three unleashed, mangy dogs ran about. A horse was tethered in an area that someone had forgotten to fence in. The house was as ill cared for as the poor mare. Tara's heart broke, but out here people would just as soon shoot her as listen to her run on about animal rights. This was the place where people came to disappear. Their choice of location was an unequivocal social statement.

If anyone was about, they were inside, alert to the arrival of strangers in a car that was far from ready for the junk heap that sprawled off to the left. To their right three trailers were planted in a neat row, oddly close considering the grand expanse of desert around them.

Dead plants in dusty bowls were strung from the metal awnings of the middle one. A lone azalea struggled for life on the trailer nearest the road and that shared the porch with a rusty bike and an ice chest. The home in the back was up on blocks, a fairly new model with splendid white siding and an awning striped yellow, green, and blue.

The awning had seen better days but it still looked almost new compared to the ones on the other trailers.

"Guess we better do it. Time's awastin'," Ben muttered, eyeing their target. They rode in silence as the van bounced over the rutted dirt road and finally stopped in front of the trailer on the third terrace.

The windows were curtained, the curtains drawn.

Air-conditioning units poked from two windows.

Bedroom and living room, Tara guessed. She gave them as much consideration as they deserved. A metal chair, with specks of rust on the legs, and a ripped, ineffectual screen door were the only two items that were ill kept on this homestead. Ben rolled down his window, stuck his head outside, pulled it in, and grinned, happy to have accomplished what they set out to do.

"Let's get to it," he said.

Before Tara could object, before she could suggest that he stay in the van while she dealt with Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, the rear doors flew open, the electronically activated bolt disengaged, and Ben was rolling backward, doing a whee lie halfway down the length of the van. He shot her a grin from the lift.