Fearless. Diana Palmer

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      She swallowed the capsule. “The damned things include a diuretic,” she said irritably. “I have to go to the bathroom every few minutes. How am I supposed to prosecute a case when I have to interrupt myself six times an hour?”

      “Wear a diaper,” Haynes replied imperturbably.

      Glory gave her a glare.

      “The D.A. doesn’t want you to die in the courtroom.” Marquez pressed his advantage now that he had backup. “He might not get reelected. Besides, he likes you.”

      “He likes me because I have no private life,” she retorted. “I carry case files home with me every night. I’d miss yelling at people.”

      “You can yell at the workers on the Pendletons’s organic truck farm in Jacobsville,” Marquez assured her.

      “At least I do know something about farming. My father had a little truck farm…” She closed up like a flower. It still hurt, after all these years, to remember the pain of seeing him taken away in an orange jumpsuit, cringing when she sobbed and begged the judge to let him go.

      “Your father would be proud of you,” Haynes interjected. “Especially now that you’ve cleared his name of that child abuse charge.”

      “It won’t bring him back,” she said dully. Her eyes narrowed. “But at least they finally found the man who killed him. He’ll never get out now. If he ever goes up before the parole board, I’ll be sitting there with pictures of my father at every hearing for the rest of my life.”

      They didn’t doubt it. She was a vengeful woman, in her quiet way.

      “Come on,” Marquez coaxed. “You need a rest, anyway. It’s peaceful in Jacobsville.”

      “Peaceful,” she nodded. “Right. Last year, there was a shootout in Jacobsville with drug dealers who moved hundreds of kilos of cocaine into the city limits and kidnapped a child. Two years before that, drug lord Manuel Lopez’s men were stormed on his property in Jacobsville in a gun battle where his henchmen had stockpiled bales of marijuana.”

      “Nobody’s been shot at for two months,” Marquez assured her.

      “What if I’m recognized by any leftover drug smugglers?”

      “They won’t be looking for you on a farm. San Antonio is a big city, and you’re one of dozens of assistant district attorneys,” he pointed out. “Your face isn’t that well known even here, and certainly not in Jacobsville. You’ve changed a lot since you went to school there. Even if someone remembers you, it will be for the past, not the present. You’ll be a quiet little woman from San Antonio with health problems watching over several fields of vegetables and fruit, thanks to your friends, the Pendletons.”

      He hesitated. “One more thing. You can’t admit that you’re related to them, or even that you know them well. Nobody in Jacobsville, except the police chief, will know what you really do for a living. We’re giving you a cover story that can be checked out by any suspicious people. It’s foolproof.”

      “Didn’t they say that about the Titanic’s design?”

      “If she goes, I have to go with her,” Haynes said firmly. “She won’t take her medicine if I’m not there pushing it under her nose every day.”

      Before Glory could open her mouth, Marquez was shaking his head.

      “It’s going to be hard enough to help Glory fit in,” he told Haynes. “If she takes you with her, a gang member who might not recognize you alone might recognize the assistant who goes to court with her most of the time. Most of the gangs deal in drug trafficking.”

      Glory grimaced. “He’s right,” she told her assistant sadly. “I’d love for you to go with me, but it’s risky.”

      Haynes looked miserable. “I could wear a disguise.”

      “No,” Marquez said quietly. “You’re more useful here. If any of the other attorneys find out something about Fuentes, you’re in the perfect position to pass it on to me.”

      “I guess you’re right,” Haynes said. She glanced at Glory with a rueful smile. “I’ll have to find a new boss while you’re gone.”

      “Jon Blackhawk over at the FBI office is looking for another assistant,” Marquez suggested.

      Haynes glared at him. “He’ll never get another one in this town, not after what he did to the last one.”

      Marquez was trying to keep a straight face. “I’m sure it was all a terrible misunderstanding.”

      Glory let out a chuckle in spite of herself. “Some misunderstanding. His assistant thought he was very attractive and asked him over to her place for dinner. He actually called the police and had her charged with sexual harassment.”

      Marquez let out the laugh he’d been holding back. “She was a beautiful blonde with a high IQ and his own mother had recommended her for the job. Blackhawk phoned his mother and told her that his latest assistant had tried to seduce him. His mother asked how. Now she’s outraged over what he did and she won’t speak to him, either. The girl was her best friend’s daughter.”

      “He did drop the sexual harassment charge,” Glory pointed out.

      “Yes, but she quit just the same and went online to tell every woman in San Antonio what he did to her.” He whistled. “I’ll bet he’ll grow gray hair before he gets a date in this town.”

      “Serves him right,” Haynes muttered.

      “Oh, it gets worse,” Marquez added with a grin. “Remember Joceline Perry, who works for Garon Grier and one of the other local FBI agents? They gave Jon’s work to her.”

      “Oh, dear,” Haynes murmured.

      Joceline was something of a local legend among administrative assistants. She was known for her cutting wit and refusal to do work she considered beneath her position. She would drive Jon Blackhawk up the wall on a good day. God only knew what she’d do to him after the other secretary quit.

      “Poor guy,” Glory murmured. But she grinned.

      Haynes glanced at Glory with a worried look. “What are you going to do on the farm? You wouldn’t dare go out and hoe in the fields, would you?”

      “Of course not,” Glory assured her. “I can can.”

      “You can what?” Haynes frowned.

      “You have heard of canning?” Glory replied. “It’s how you put up fruits and vegetables so that they don’t spoil. I can do jam and jelly and pickles and all sorts of stuff.”

      Marquez raised an eyebrow. “My mother used to do it, but her hands aren’t what they used to be. It’s an art.”

      “A valuable skill,” Glory said smugly.

      “You’ll need to wear jeans and look less elegant,” Marquez told her. “No suits on the farm.”

      “I lived in Jacobsville СКАЧАТЬ