Deadly Charade - By Virna Depaul Page 0,5

illegal and it wasn’t contrary to the judicial position she was seeking. But she had to say something so...

Before she could reply, he said, “I was trying to imagine what you wore. You’d look beautiful in red.”

Her skin warmed at the compliment and the accompanying glow of appreciation in Neil’s eyes. The urge to tease and flirt back prodded at her, surprising her. She smiled. “Sorry to disappoint you but it was black. A plain black dress.”

“Huh,” he said, sweeping his gaze down her suit as if he was imagining her wearing a dress instead. “Black’s good. Short?”

“Midcalf,” she said drolly. “With long sleeves and a high-necked collar.”

He looked doubtful. “In June?”

“Hey, I get chilly.” She quickly took a sip of coffee to mask her own smile. She pictured the sexy black dress she’d worn. Simple, but by no means puritanical. Linda felt a small thrill, trying to imagine what Neil would have thought of the black lace camisole set she’d worn underneath. Or of the red set she wore today.

But the thrill quickly vanished. She tried—really tried to imagine herself disrobing for Neil, but although she once again felt a small flutter inside her, she didn’t feel anything else. Instead all she could remember was how Tony had loved buying her sexy lingerie. In fact, he’d loved buying her lots of things, and not necessarily expensive things. Sure, he’d bought her lingerie and jewelry, and often surprised her with dinners out or theater tickets, but he’d just as often written her a poem or sketched her a picture or baked her his famous chocolate-chip cookies with the secret ingredient he’d sworn he’d tell her—but only on their wedding night. Tony had spoiled her in so many ways, big and small, and had never failed to make her feel special. But despite all that, despite his kindness and generosity and sense of humor and the incredible physical connection between them, it hadn’t been enough. Because she hadn’t been enough. Not enough to overcome his cravings for drugs. And even worse, not enough to stop him from getting hold of those same drugs—bringing those very drugs into their home—with every intention of using them.

“I’m sensing a fashion intervention is in order,” Neil said, jolting her from her thoughts. “But you know what they say,” he joked. “Being flawed doesn’t mean you’re not lovable. I’m sure you looked beautiful,” Neil murmured. He watched her steadily. Warmly.

And that warmth eased some of the chill in her bones in a way the coffee hadn’t been able to. Linda smiled and seriously reconsidered accepting one of his dinner invitations. What harm could it do?

Maybe she wasn’t bowled over by passion right now, but that could change.

They chatted about work for a few minutes longer before court began. As Linda took her seat at the prosecutor’s table, she saw movement out of the corner of her eye. Allie Ranch, one of the law-school students interning at the D.A.’s office, smiled and waved to her. Next to her sat Brian Heald, a fellow prosecutor who’d just returned from vacation. Right now Brian seemed to be checking out a brunette across the room. So what else was new? Since his divorce the guy had been chasing everything in skirts, Linda included. She just hoped he had enough sense not to hit on Allie.

Lunch? Allie mouthed.

Allie was only a few years younger than Linda. She’d been an accountant before going back to law school and Linda admired her for being willing to pursue her dream. Linda nodded, confirming they’d have lunch, then turned toward the bench. After routine introductions and instructions to the courtroom audience, the court session began.

“Larry Moser,” the court clerk recited. “Charged with assault with a deadly weapon, resisting arrest and assault upon a police dog.” Linda opened up Moser’s file, reading it quickly as Mr. Moser stood up in the jury box. As was always the case, she didn’t know the contents of the files in her box but the notes the charging deputy had left were all she needed to handle this phase of the proceedings. Once things progressed to plea bargaining or trial, she’d obviously know the file inside and out.

Moser’s muscular six-foot-eight body dwarfed the inmates seated around him. He grinned wildly at his audience as they gaped at his bald head and the tattoo smack dab in the center of his forehead. A swastika.

According to his file, officers had chased Moser into a nearby residence after he had assaulted a man