Texas Tall - Janet Dailey Page 0,23

drawn lines that were not to be crossed. To cross those lines, to shatter that trust now, when he needed her help, could be the worst mistake of his life.

Summoning the last of his resolve, he lifted her hand from his robe and brushed a kiss across her palm. “Get some rest,” he whispered. “Good night, Tori.”

Releasing her hand, he turned and walked back into Erin’s room.

CHAPTER 5

Blanco County prosecutor Clay Drummond was a man at the top of his game. He’d run unopposed in the recent election, standing on his record of toughness, high conviction rate, and absolute incorruptibility. Now at fifty-three, stocky and muscular as a bulldog, with iron-gray hair and a face chiseled in determination, he was setting his sights on higher office—maybe Texas attorney general, if the party would back him. Meanwhile, he had a job to do; and his future depended on his doing it well.

Abner Sweeney’s report was waiting on his desk when he arrived Tuesday morning, after a three-day weekend of bird hunting at a friend’s cabin. Preoccupied with other concerns, he barely gave the two-page typed report a glance—until two names jumped out at him. The first was Nikolas Tomescu. The second was Will Tyler.

Drummond scanned the report, then read it again, his pulse pounding like a prizefighter’s before a title match. News of the shooting must’ve been all over the media, but he hadn’t read a paper or glanced at TV all weekend. Until now, he’d been unaware of what had happened. But whatever had gone down, he needed to take charge of it—ASAP.

This wouldn’t be the first time he’d dealt with the Tylers. Last spring he’d constructed an ironclad case for first-degree murder against the second Tyler brother, Beau. He’d assumed the conviction would be a slam dunk. But then, before the trial, the real killer had been exposed. Beau Tyler had gone free, cleared of all charges—and Drummond had been left with a pile of useless evidence and egg on his face.

This time it was Will Tyler, the respected head of the family, who’d run afoul of the law. There’d been no charges filed and no arrest made, pending the inquest. But Abner seemed to think he had enough on Tyler to charge the boss of the Rimrock with manslaughter, or even second-degree murder.

Drummond had no special quarrel with the Tylers. As far as he knew, neither did Abner. But he liked to win. And the press from a high-profile case like this one could jump-start a man’s political rise. Both he and the sheriff had personal reasons to find Will Tyler guilty.

As for the victim, Nikolas Tomescu . . .

In the silence Drummond became aware that beneath his fresh white shirt, his body had broken out in a cold sweat. There was a lot more at stake here than just winning. It was as if everything that truly mattered was about to be laid on the line.

In this small community he was admired and envied. He had plenty of money, thanks to his wife’s inheritance. He had a perfect family, a respected career, and a promising future. But two months ago, in a weak moment, he’d made one stupid mistake—a mistake that could cost him his marriage, his children, his career, and even his freedom.

Drummond glanced at the list of missed calls on his office phone. One number appeared three times. No messages, but he didn’t need any.

It was time to give the devil her due.

He reached for his desk phone, then changed his mind. He took his cell out of his pocket and punched in the number.

“What the hell took you so long?” The husky female voice was unmistakable. “I called you three times, and you never called back.”

“I was off the grid,” he said. “Got home from a hunt late last night. I just heard about your brother.”

“You could at least say you were sorry. Nicky was all the family I had. All I want now is to see Will Tyler pay for what he did—behind bars.”

“So do I. That’s why I called you. I’d like to make a deal.”

“A deal?” She gave a derisive snort. “You’re not exactly the one holding the cards, Mr. Prosecutor.”

“I know. And I plan to do my job. But I’ll work even harder for you if there’s something in it for me.”

“I’m listening.”

A bead of sweat trickled down Drummond’s temple. “I want that surveillance tape, Stella, and your promise that there are no copies. I want this whole mess over