Night Fever. Diana Palmer

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СКАЧАТЬ much evidence he has. He doesn’t like to waste the taxpayers’ money on a trial he can’t win. We’ll see.”

      He spoke to the D.A.’s secretary and was told that Rourke Kilpatrick had a few minutes free right now.

      “We’ll be right up,” he told her and hung up. “Let’s go, Becky.”

      “I hope he’s in a good mood,” she said, and glanced in the mirror. Her hair was neatly in its bun, her face pale even with its hint of pastel makeup. But her red plaid wool skirt showed its three years, and her black shoes were scuffed and scratched. The cuffs on her long-sleeved white blouse were frayed, and her slender hands showed the ravages of the work she did on the farm. She was no lady of leisure and there were lines in her face that should never have been noticeable in a woman her age. She was afraid she wouldn’t make much of an impression on Mr. Kilpatrick. She looked what she was—an overworked, overresponsible country woman with no sophistication at all. And maybe that would work in her favor. She couldn’t let Clay go to prison. She owed her mother that much. She’d failed him too many times already.

      Mr. Kilpatrick’s secretary was tall and dark-haired and very professional. She greeted Mr. Malcolm and Becky warmly.

      “He’s waiting for you,” she said, gesturing toward the closed office door. “You can go right in.”

      “Thanks, Daphne,” Mr. Malcolm replied. “Come on, Becky, chin up.”

      He knocked briefly at the door and opened it, letting Becky precede him. He shouldn’t have. She stopped dead at the face she met across the big wooden desk piled high with legal documents.

      “You!” she exclaimed involuntarily.

      He put down the thin black cigar he was smoking and stood up. He didn’t acknowledge the exclamation or smile or make any kind of attempt at a formal greeting. He looked just as intimidating as he had in the elevator, and just as cold.

      “You didn’t need to bring your secretary to take notes,” he told Bob Malcolm. “If you want to plea bargain, I’ll stick to what I tell you after I hear the facts. Sit down.”

      “It’s the Cullen case.”

      “The juvenile.” Kilpatrick nodded. “The boys he’s running with are scum. The younger Harris boy has been pushing drugs in the local high school between classes. His brother deals everything from crack to horse, and he’s already got one conviction for attempted robbery. That time he walked in and out of juvenile hall, but he’s of age now. If I catch him again, I’ll send him up.”

      Becky had been sitting stock-still. “And the Cullen boy?” she asked in a husky whisper.

      Kilpatrick gave her a cold glare. “I’m talking to Malcolm, not to you.”

      “You don’t understand,” she said heavily. “Clay Cullen is my brother.”

      His dark brown, almost black eyes narrowed and he gave her a look that made her feel half an inch high. “Cullen is a name I know. Another Cullen was in here a few years ago on a robbery charge. The victim refused to testify and he got off. I would have gone for a conviction without parole if I’d gotten him to trial. Any kin to you?”

      She flinched. “My father.”

      Kilpatrick didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. His level stare told her exactly what he thought of her family. You’re wrong, she wanted to say. We’re not all like that. But before she could even speak, he turned back to Malcolm. “Am I right in assuming that you’re representing your secretary and her brother?”

      “No,” Becky began, thinking of the legal fees she couldn’t afford to pay.

      “Yes,” Bob Malcolm interrupted. “It’s a first offense, and the boy is a hardship case.”

      “The boy is a sullen, uncooperative young brat,” he corrected. “I’ve already spoken to him. I don’t consider him a hardship case,” Kilpatrick said curtly.

      Becky could imagine how Clay would react to a man like Kilpatrick. The boy had no respect at all for men—not with the example his father had set. “He’s not a bad boy,” she pleaded. “It’s the company he’s keeping. Please, I’ll try to work with him...”

      “Your father’s done a great job of that already,” Kilpatrick said, totally unaware of the real situation at home as he went for her throat with sickening ease, his dark brown eyes stabbing into hers as he leaned back with his cigar between his big fingers. “There’s no point in letting the boy back on the streets unless his home situation changes. He’ll just do the same thing again.”

      Her hazel eyes met his dark ones. “Do you have a brother, Mr. Kilpatrick?”

      “Not to my knowledge, Miss Cullen.”

      “If you had one, you might understand how I feel. This is the first time he’s done anything like this. It’s like throwing out the baby with the bathwater.”

      “This baby was in possession of illegal drugs. Cocaine, to be exact, and not just cocaine—crack.” He leaned forward, looking more Indian than ever, his level, unblinking stare faintly dangerous. “He needs guidance. You and your father quite obviously aren’t capable of giving it to him.”

      “That was a low blow, Kilpatrick,” Bob Malcolm said tautly.

      “It was an accurate one,” he returned without apology. “At this age, boys don’t change without help. He should have gotten that in the beginning, and it may be too late already.”

      “But...!” Becky said.

      “Your brother is damned lucky he didn’t get caught peddling any of that poison on the street!” he said shortly. “I hate drug pushers. I’ll go to any lengths to prosecute them.”

      “But he isn’t a pusher,” Becky said huskily, her big hazel eyes wet with tears.

      Kilpatrick hadn’t felt compassion in a long time, and he didn’t like it. He averted his eyes. “Not yet,” he agreed. He sighed angrily, glancing from Becky to Malcolm. “All right. Gillen, the magistrate, says he’ll go along with whatever I decide. The boy denies possession. He says that he didn’t know how it got in his jacket, and the only witnesses are the Harris boys. They, of course, back his story to the hilt,” he added with a cold smile.

      “In other words,” Bob said with a faint smile, “you don’t have much of a case.”

      “Chorus and verse,” Kilpatrick agreed. “This time,” Kilpatrick said with a meaningful glance at Becky. “I’ll drop the charges.”

      Becky felt sick with relief. “Can I see him?” she asked huskily. She was too badly hurt to say any more, and this man hated her. She’d get no sympathy or help from him.

      “Yes. I’ll want Brady at juvenile hall to talk to the boy, and there’ll be a condition for the release. Now, go away. I have work to do.”

      “Okay, we’ll get out of the way,” Malcolm said, rising. “Thanks, Kilpatrick,” he said formally.

      Kilpatrick got up, too. He stuck one hand in his pocket, staring at Rebecca’s tragic face with mixed emotions. He felt sorry for her, and he didn’t СКАЧАТЬ