Spill it," Woodrow said quietly, concerned now.

"Woodrow, I am bound by my oath as an attorney to do what is in the best interest of my client."

"Tara ..." Woodrow warned.

"He says he killed that woman, the clerk, at the Circle K last Independence Day. The murder on 47."

"Whoa," Woodrow breathed, his coffee cup tipping as his hand went slack. Luckily he had enough presence of mind to right it before a drop of the dark stuff spilled on his creamy slacks.

Quickly he put it on the desk and pulled his chair closer.

"Are you sure?"

Tara laughed lifelessly.

"I'm not sure about any thing. I talked to him at length before I took him on as a client. I met him in a social situation. He came recommended. I didn't pick him up off the street, he wasn't waiting in my office, he didn't put a gun to my head. He seemed like a nice, normal kind of guy initially. The last thing I expected to hear was something like this. But there are other things, feelings of apprehension, odd behavior of his that comes and goes. I'm not a psychiatrist, but I've seen enough to think that I'm not dealing with a sociopath. I know he has been under the care of a doctor for much of his life. He hasn't come asking for punishment. He wants my help to get him off the streets."

"We should call George on this immediately. You know that, don't you?" Woodrow said, yet he made no move to pick up the phone. He had nothing.

Not a name, not a clue as to whom Tara was talking about.

"Woodrow, please. I didn't come here for such a simplistic resolution, you know that. I'm not here to turn him in. The man believes, and I believe, that he is mentally disturbed. He's asked me to get him help. If he truly is the Circle K killer, he needs it and I'll want to get it for him fast. I don't want him on the streets, and quite truthfully, I don't want him near me."

"Hmm." Woodrow harrumphed in a most thoughtful manner. He looked at her from under his lashes, a look she'd seen him use on many a cowering witness when he was demanding the truth.

"If he's threatening people, Tara, you're fully privileged to breach the confidentiality. I will make sure that your client is separated from you quickly and kept incarcerated until there's a resolution to this problem."

"He isn't threatening anyone, Woodrow. That's the point. He's concerned that he might have another episode. The idea of that doesn't const.i.tute a threat. But if he's concerned, so am I. And you are too, if I had to guess. So all three of us want the same thing."

"I suppose that's true. We may not want it in the same way." Woodrow twisted in the chair and crossed his legs, ankle over knee. He had a rather handsome profile. He didn't quite look so gnome like from that angle. He had been smart and was photographed that way for some of his campaign literature. He looked back at her too soon.

"Why not tell me what you want first? Since this is new to me, I need time to mull it over. Better if I have your take to think about at the same time."

"Okay. Fair enough." Tara watched him carefully, trying to discern if there was anything going on in Woodrow's head. There were no vibes.

Either she was more unnerved than she thought, or Woodrow was simply taking it all in and the wheels weren't turning yet. She began to talk.

"There is a way we can do this so that everyone wins and justice will still be served. Since I'm not sure if this guy is just spinning a tale, I asked him for some specific information. I'd like you to go to George Amos. Get the status on this thing and the lowdown on those details. I've already confirmed the file is still open. I have my client's permission to give you this information only."

Woodrow nodded. Tara was walking a fine line and she was doing it beautifully. Woodrow searched for a pen and paper as he talked.

"You don't think he might be covering for someone else? Using you to do exactly this so that he can find out what the status of this thing is?"

"The thought crossed my mind," Tara admitted.

"A lot of things have crossed my mind. Believe me, if he's a confessor or playing some kind of game, I'll be thrilled to cut him loose." Then she'd tell Donna about her beloved's strange sense of humor.

This bit of information she kept to herself.

"But my next step has to be predicated on what you're going to do. Will you see George?"

"Why not ask him yourself, Tara? It would be more expedient." He faced Tara. She looked tired.

Beautiful, but tired. Ben had been the luckiest guy in high school to have her. Too bad they all had to grow up.

"I don't think it would be wise." Tara shook her head.

"Caroline found out George knew the woman. George isn't exactly the most judicious law man in the best of situations. I don't want to make this personal, and I don't want to give his imagination something to work on. You can approach this like a routine inquiry. Tell him you want to make sure your calendar is clear if there's anything new. Make it casual, Woodrow. Just take a look at the file and check out these details. Please."

"And once that's done?" He was playing with a pen now, his coffee getting cold, his eyes downcast.

He was thinking. Tara could almost see the wheels.

"When we're sure this man is who he says and has done what he professes, then I'd like the District Attorney's Office to pet.i.tion the court for hospitalization for my client. If your office makes the pet.i.tion, my client is hospitalized with impunity. Anything said to the doctors can't be used against him in a court of law. He's safe from self-incrimination.

I have done my duty and remanded him to the care of professionals who can monitor his behavior and, hopefully, help him."

"And this office has made that possible," Woodrow objected, his brows pulled together tight.

"I think it would be more judicious to get him behind bars. We're not talking about jaywalking here."

"Woodrow, if he did this, then he's got real problems.

He needs to be given all protection under the law. And," she said quietly, "you run a risk if you arrest and attempt to indict. If the grand jury won't return a true bill, the public will be outraged. This isn't fixing a high school basketball game, Woodrow.

If you try and fail, the voters will just see you chasing your tail again. I'd hate to see that. I'd hate for you to jeopardize your position, or the governor's seat."

Woodrow's gaze never left hers. They didn't war with their eyes, their body language never changed, but in their heads both knew what had transpired. Tara had thought this through and was willing to play hardball.

"I suppose it could happen," he said finally.

Smoothly he pulled his coffee toward him, lifted it, and drank. Tara knew it had to be cold, but he didn't react if it was. He was being decisive. Theatrics were dear to an attorney, as much for buying time as masking a disadvantage. Finally, he said, "All right. I'll take the first step. Let's go for it. Give me what you got."

Tara closed her eyes, a little prayer of thanks flitting through her mind as she reached into her briefcase. From it she withdrew a sheet of yellow lined paper, neatly folded. She didn't hand it to Woodrow. Instead, she unfolded it, held it in front of her so that he couldn't see her notes, and looked up before she began to read.

"Let's do this as quietly as possible."

"Exactly correct. Down to the pinky finger. Look here. See where it's wrapped around the metal thing that's sticking out from the shelf like she's kind of holding on to it? Whew, this guy is good.

I can't remember the last time I peed, and he's got a dead body from six months ago locked in his head down to how her fingers looked. Jeez, that's weird."

Harry Johnson made the comment. His partner Clay Williams took up the task.

"The other stuff checks out, too. The cardboard hat she was wearing, the positions of bullet entry, the one that just chipped her skull right here."

Woodrow listened without a second glance at Harry and Clay. No doubt they had many endearing qualities that set them apart from the rest of the human race and each other. Yet when they worked, the similarities were uncanny. They finished each other's sentences and came to the same conclusion within seconds. They dressed alike: short-sleeve shirts, brown Sansabelt pants, lace-up shoes, black and brown ties that hung halfway down their bellies. They were guests Woodrow had been unhappy to see at this particular party.

"Good pictures," Woodrow said, eyeing the cork board on which the coroner's photos were laid out helter-skelter. Woodrow wasn't skittish. He'd seen a dozen murder scenes, but he didn't take delight in lingering over them. Clay, or Harry, was showing them like they were last year's vacation stills. Woodrow glanced at it again, sorry to find himself thinking what a wonderful exhibit they would make in front of a jury. d.a.m.n effective.

"Thanks. I've always said this department was particularly talented that way." George Amos threw his feet on top of his desk and laced his hands behind his head. He was a handsome man. Woodrow could just imagine a campaign poster with him on it. He'd give anything to have half the man's looks in this day and age of television campaigns. Not that George could have done what Woodrow had. Not in a million years. He cared too much about kicking b.u.t.t.

"Yeah," Harry piped up, "look how great this one is. That hole right near her thorax is clear as day. Good thing somebody found her pretty quick after it happened. She was still warm. Time of death is real accurate."

"Who found her?" Woodrow settled himself on the credenza opposite the chief of police and hitched one leg up and under him, then let it drop again. He hadn't been able to get comfortable since Tara left his office. He almost disliked her for sticking another thorn in his side.

"Hey, Woodrow." He looked up. George wanted an audience since Woodrow had asked for the show.

"You want to hear this or what?"

"Yeah. Sorry."

"The guy who found her just stopped for cigarettes and a candy bar. Can you imagine seeing that when all you wanted was a Snickers?" He shook his handsome head but forgot to wipe the smile off his face.

"Called us right away, then split."

"Maybe your guy is the one who found her.

Might be," Harry speculated, hitching up his Sansabelt pants, looking sincerely at Woodrow. Clay seemed to have lost interest in the conversation and was still checking out the photos of the body.

He tired of it soon enough, gave George the high sign, and received a silent acknowledgment that he wasn't needed any longer. Clay tugged at Harry's sleeve. Harry was still waiting for an answer.

r "Yeah, that could be," Woodrow said, anxious to be away from this place and these people who seemed to enjoy their work more if it was just the wrong side of distasteful.

"I don't buy it for a minute," George said and his tone had an edge to it. The big guys could be honest now that the underlings were gone.

"Why phone it in that night and then turn yourself in six months later? No percentage in that. The guy was totally freaked on the 911 tape. He drove a rig, couldn't afford to get involved. Apologized all over himself when he was coherent." George tossed a wad of paper onto the desk. Woodrow hadn't noticed him toying with it.

"Naw. My bet is he was an upstanding citizen, doing what was right and scared to boot. That's not the guy you've got, is it, Woodrow?"

"I've told you, I haven't got anything but some information, and now you have that too," Woodrow complained, tired of George trying to draw him into a speculative discussion about this case. Woodrow's brow knit as he looked askance at the chief of police.

"You talk about this like it's a game. Doesn't it bother you at all?"

"What? That woman dying like that? d.a.m.n, Woodrow. I hate it."

"Doesn't sound like it."

"I'm a professional," George said softly. His eyes slid toward Woodrow, his gaze an accusation.

"I don't wear my heart on my sleeve. You start doing that, and you're in big trouble. You start doing that, and you won't think straight. I think straight all the time, and I've got patience. That's why I knew I'd be hearing this someday. I hoped I'd be the one to track that sucker down, but if he wants to stroll right in here, that's fine with me too. I knew that woman, Woodrow." He heaved himself up, grabbed another piece of paper, and settled down again. Instead of crumpling it, he began to fold it. Over and over and over itself until Woodrow was sure he couldn't fold it one more time.

He tossed it back on the desk.

"I knew her since we were kids together, and I want that boy hangin' from the nearest tree. Now we've got him, I want to do this right. No screwups."

"George, there are a dozen possibilities here that you simply can't discount. He could be the trucker, he could be someone who likes to confess, he could be covering for someone, he could be insane. I'd have to think he's insane to do that," Woodrow mused, bothered with this whole conversation.

He had wanted in and out in minutes. This little chat was going on an hour and George Amos was making vigilante noises. George, sensing the other man's caution, backed off, even managed a little grin.

"You're right. Can't rule anything out, Woodrow.

But this poor lady died bad. It was cold. I mean when you think about the mop ..." George put a hand to his mouth and let the sentence dangle.

Woodrow didn't rise to the bait. Two could play at this game.

"I didn't come to talk about the mop, George."

"We should talk about it. We got a great set of prints off the thing and they're just itching to be matched up to somebody." George's feet were off the desk, his hands atop it now.

"We've either got a fine upstanding citizen who's never been fingerprinted in his life, who suddenly went berserk and kills this lady, or we've got a sociopath who kills all the time, has never been caught, and therefore has no fingerprints on file. Or a little bit of both with a morbid sense of humor thrown in to boot.

Now I'd want someone like that off the streets. I'd think you would too, Woodrow."

Woodrow held up his hand.

"I want to do what's right, sure, but I'm not going to go off half-c.o.c.ked on this. It isn't personal. This is about what's legally possible."

"Bull. It's personal. If you don't think that, then you should get into another line of work."

"And if you believe that, then you shouldn't be in law enforcement," Woodrow drawled.

"You're the most dangerous kind of lawman."

"No." George stood, facing off with the man across the room.

"You're dangerous because you calculate every move without the right kind of motivation behind it. Everything in this world is personal, Woodrow. Now I'm not going to do anything stupid where this guy is concerned. But when I get him, within the parameters of the law, you better believe I'm going to feel personal about it. I'm going to do everything in my power to make him pay for what he did. If you don't feel personal once you get him in the courtroom, then he's going to walk and all my hard work is down the drain."

Woodrow slid from his perch and b.u.t.toned his double-breasted blue blazer. Over that he threw a dark trench and grabbed an umbrella. His business was finished, but George wouldn't let go.

"So," George said quietly, "where you got this fellow hidden, Woodrow?"

Woodrow shook his head and gave George a wry smile. George never did give him enough credit.

"I don't have him. An attorney came to me and asked me to check it out, confirm that the information she'd been given was correct. I promised to look at the file, not tell half the police force.

So next time I ask you a favor, George, let's keep it between you and me. Just to keep relations good between the cops and the DA."

George ignored the wrist slap. He loved the cops-and-robbers thing.

"Who, Woodrow?" George prodded.

"Marcia Mabley?" Woodrow b.u.t.toned his coat.

"Sue Farmer. That's who, right?" Woodrow rolled his eyes. Even he wouldn't have thought of Sue Farmer.

"Tara Limey," George guessed. Woodrow looked him right in the eye.