He didn't look bored or enraptured and those seemed to be the only two expressions on the faces of those who came to hear Woodrow. She made a beeline for the expressionless guy.

"You're from the governor's office .. ."

"I'm the man you came to see." He talked fast and low and for some reason she imagined he never spoke any other way.

"Do you have it?"

"Yes, I do," she said, slowing things down a bit, not quite sure this was what she wanted to do even if she had to do it. She looked over her shoulder and saw Charlotte Weber, beautiful and put together as if she didn't have a care in the world.

That made her mad*and uneasy. Some people had quite a bit to care about. Some people had worries. Maybe the politicians should think about that. She looked back at the man.

"Could we at least step outside?"

"Sure. Yeah. I've heard enough. The guy gives a good speech, but he's gotta learn to tailor it to his audience. He was all over the place."

"Everyone's a critic," she murmured and led the way out the door and into the parking lot. People were already leaving, headlights coming on, weaving about, illuminating them now and again. The woman skirted past a red Volvo, hugged the auditorium wall, and slipped around back between the cafeteria.

"Happy now?" The man was holding something out to her. She looked surprised, even though she'd asked for it.

"I brought it, so let's get on with it."

"It's only a memo. Maybe it doesn't mean anything."

A twinge of conscience.

"Look, you read it to my boss's secretary. She took it down and read it to him. If they think it's worth something, then it's worth something. I don't make those kind of judgments. Now, I've got fifteen hundred dollars. You want it, take it. Give me what I came for."

She hesitated a second longer, then opened her purse and took out a crumpled piece of paper.

She handed it to him. He flipped on a penlight and she could see he had bad skin for a man his age. Funny, she didn't think guys got acne past sixteen. His eyes flicked up.

"You couldn't put it in an envelope?"

"I wasn't thinking." She fingered the one he had given her. It felt light for fifteen hundred dollars.

She half smiled. She'd never had a bill in her wallet bigger than a twenty. Government work didn't pay much. After the last cut it didn't pay anything at all.

"Sorry. Is it what you want?"

He looked it over, clicked off the light, and pocketed it and the letter. He was neater about it than she.

"Yes, this is what I expected. Thanks. See you later."

"That's it?"

"What? You want to get a receipt?" the man asked.

"No, but I just thought there should be something*some a.s.surance ..."

Her voice trailed off.

"That's rich. You're s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g Weber's career, and you want a.s.surances that you won't get caught. Lady, you're not cut out for this kind of thing. If I were you, I'd take the money and run."

"I'm going to. But you should know, I wouldn't have done this if I wasn't desperate. I just found it in the personal stuff I took when I got laid off.

I was kind of mad when I called about this. Now, I'm not so sure I should do this. I mean people could get hurt, couldn't they?"

"Boy, lady, you are a rocket scientist, aren't you?" he muttered as he walked away. The woman was forgotten and so was her concern.

Behind him she was left to think about her life.

She was a really good secretary. It wouldn't be long before somebody recognized that. Heck, ifWoodrow Weber could convince people he was gubernatorial material, she certainly could convince someone to give her a job. Now, with the money in hand, she could wait it out until the right job came along.

Another minute and the woman walked to her car, her step lighter than it had been in weeks.

The man she'd been talking to watched until she was gone. He went across the parking lot and got into a nondescript sedan. Inside another man waited. That man turned on the reading light and they both looked at the memo. Albuquerque. District Attorney's Office. Recommendation to indict Strober Industries for fraud and endangering the public through shoddy building practices. All this in specific relation to the construction of the new county building. The memo was long. It was thorough.

It was specific. Across the face was a note, written in Woodrow Weber's hand they presumed, denying prosecution. Both men smiled. The one who had met with the colorless woman in the parking lot pulled another sheet of paper out of his breast pocket and glanced at it.

"I think the governor is going to be able to use this when he really starts campaigning. Strober wasn't even thoroughly investigated. Seems Weber nixed it pretty quick. Six months later his war chest gets a nice fat check from Strober Industries.

Then Strober begins work on three major developments doing business as three different companies.

Weber's dead meat if the governor keeps the heat on."

"He will," the other man replied.

"He's a pro."

The first put the key in the ignition and chuckled.

"Don't you just love politics?"

Ben Crawford rubbed his eyes. It had been a long day. Five interviews. Five reports to make and the last bit of unpacking to do. He had a.s.sumed it would take Social Security at least a month to get him on line with work, but he'd barely had time to get the kitchen in order before he was up and running*so to speak. Government. Slow as mola.s.ses or quicker than a jack rabbit. After this last move he would have preferred a little more mola.s.ses.

With a groan he threw his head back, rotated his neck, and attempted to knead the muscles at the top of his shoulders. A wife would have been nice right about then. Someone bustling about, whipping him up a little something to eat after a long day, ma.s.saging his neck. Ben snorted, knowing he'd never survive a wife like that. But women were on his mind and it wasn't because he was hungry or tired.

Charlotte Weber had called. Charlotte, who always had an ulterior motive for every lovely thing she did. She'd invited him to c.o.c.ktails. Had he been out yet? Only a few people. Had he reacquainted himself with any of his old friends? A little business, a little pleasure. Woodrow was running for governor, did he know? Fund raiser? Well, yes. Actually. But more a chance to renew acquaintances. Old acquaintances.

People she was sure he remembered. Tara Linl-ey, for instance?

Charlotte had said the magic words. She had stopped him cold with that one and he wondered if he should be grateful. Now he was thinking about the woman he'd been trying not to think of since he'd hit town. It had been a long time, after all.

Water under the bridge. Fond memories. Loving memories. He'd leave it at that. Unless, of course, he happened to run into her. Unless, of course, he happened to involve himself in something like-well*politics.

Ben laughed outright and switched off the desk light. The reports could wait. He was hungry. He was tired. He would decide about tomorrow night, tomorrow night. Then he wondered who he was kidding.

Four.

A lawyer shall not knowingly use a confidence or secret of his client to the disadvantage of his client or for the advantage of himself or a third party, unless the client consents after full disclosure.

Canon 4, ABA Model Rules of Professional Conduct "Ms. Limey. Would you care to respond?"

Judge Mason put a finger alongside his rather fleshy jaw and pushed up so that his right eye was almost buried in a fold of flesh. He raised the brow on his left He wasn't quite bored, but he was getting there.

"Yes, Your Honor." Tara stood up and away from the counsel table. Ignoring her paperwork, she spoke from a heart that was filled with joy. Her esteemed opponent was sweating bullets.

"I have not changed my mind. Your Honor. I respectfully put before this court a motion for summary judgment in this matter. The facts are clear and in evidence.

This is not a case of fraudulent behavior or malicious intent on the part of my client. Rather, it was a case of men experiencing an unfortunate and universal downturn of the market, which both acknowledge was risky. They also concurred that the possible return on investment warranted such a risk.

I have fully doc.u.mented statements to these facts. I have deposed the plaintiff and offered to this court the exhibits which should convince Your Honor that a summary judgment is not only wise, but the only course of action."

She sat down. Enough said. Judge Mason let that finger slide down his cheek, allowing his face to resume its normal, hangdog, expression. She decided he wasn't bored, only tired. Divorced a year ago, either the dear judge was worrying about alimony payments all night or he was trying to keep up with a new honey. Tara would put her money on the former.

"All right, Ms. Limey. As usual, your work is impeccable.

I've read over the myriad of exhibits you have given this court and would thank you to remember, sometime in the future, that our time is limited."

Masking a smile, Tara half stood.

"Yes, Your Honor."

"Unfortunately," he continued, "while I see there might be ground for a summary judgment as you request, I'm going to deny your motion. There are gray areas that might warrant further consideration.

You have shown no interest in settling this case ..."

"As well we shouldn't, Your Honor, since my client has done nothing wrong." This time Tara didn't stand. A wise decision. He spoke over her.

"The plaintiff seems to be champing at the bit, as they say." His honor gave the attorney on the other side of the room an ominous look.

"I think we have no choice but to go to trial and see what a jury has to say about this. I will, however, point out to Mr. Blackwell that he may be well advised to have a heart-to-heart with his client before that time. Were I the plaintiffs lawyer, I would be considering the long, hard road that I would have to walk to prove this case in his client's favor. Motion for summary judgment denied. We will see you here again for jury selection in four weeks' time."

The end. Other lawyers were already moving about, ready to take their places in front of the bench. Tara gathered her rfiings. She checked her watch. Ten *til. Good timing. She pushed through the swinging gate of the bar, nodded to Faith Cornlow, who was waiting to pa.s.s the other way. Tara headed down the aisle toward the door and freedom.

Gary Blackwell followed behind, briefcase under his arm, day planner already out as he called.

"Tara, hey, wait up." He was hot on her trail now, almost beside her. She grinned and kept going until she was through the door and in the hallway where spectators weren't interested in their conversation. Now she had time for Gary. Not much, but enough. Strangely, he seemed disappointed her motion had been denied.

"I gotta tell you. This date just isn't good for me.

You gotta cut me some slack on this. Jury selection in a month ..."

"Can't do anything about it, Gary. It sounds good from where I stand and my client wants his name cleared so he can get on with business. Have your client drop the proceedings, and you won't have any trouble with the hearing date. You know you don't have a leg to stand on anyway." She was revved up now, loving the pull and push of this business. It was like trying to control a horse once you've given it its head.

"Your client's trying to tell the court that my client was in on some conspiracy to defraud him. That's ridiculous. He doesn't even have a partner. Who was he conspiring with? His dog? Besides, we've got the records."

Two attorneys they both knew pa.s.sed them by with a nod and a greeting.

Tara and Gary smiled back and Tara moved in closer.

"We've got your client's approval on all transactions and memos indicating the risk involved in some of those transfers and purchases. The entire market went into the toilet the same time your guy was trying to second-guess the global economy. You can't blame my man for that. His advice was as solid as it could be in the face of your client's avarice. Now you're trying to recoup his losses at the expense of my client's good name and limited resources. That's the way I see it. That's the way I'll argue it." Tara gave him a pat on his shoulder and moved on.

"I have to run. Have an appointment at ten-thirty."

"That's not true." Gary hurried after her again, dodging an old lady resplendent in Navajo dress.

He took a minute to admire it. Nothing like the real thing. Then he sprinted after Tara.

"My client didn't understand what he was signing when your man gave him the transaction approval.

My client is seventy-five years old. He's infirm, Tara."

Tara turned on her heel, grinning from ear to ear.

"Then he needed you before the fact, not after.

And if he's so out of it, how come he had the presence of mind to even question what my client was doing? If he's that bad, he should be in a home where he can wheel and deal over a game of Monopoly."

Tara hitched her briefcase and laughed.

"Come on, this is such a waste of time. I haven't been sitting on my hands. If we go to trial, I fully intend to call the last three financial advisors your client has retained. To a person they will testify to his erratic behavior. The man wants to be Howard Hughes, but he's a small-time investor with dreams of grandeur and paranoid delusions.

"My man's five years out of business school with an unblemished record.

All his other clients are satisfied.

He's got a sweet little wife and twins on the way. Put your client's track record of professional abuse up against that saintly picture and take your chances. You want to go to trial? Fine. It'll be fun.

But if I were you, I'd drop the whole thing." Tara gave him a thumbs-up and walked away with a "call me" thrown over her shoulder for good measure.

Time was a-wastin' and she had a new client headed her way. Wishing last night she'd gotten a little more information, Tara now hoped Caroline had managed to work her magic and throw together some quick and dirty research on any summer problems at Circle Ks. She walked back to the office, pushing through the door at five after, a little flushed, anxious to get on with her day. Amazing what a good night's sleep and some company could do for an att.i.tude. She felt wonderful.

"Hi! I'm home," Tara called as she burst into the reception room, her coat already unb.u.t.toned.

Immediately her fingers went to her lips. Caroline was busy. Her hands were on the word processor and the phone was propped between shoulder and ear. She was muttering a mantra of "uh-huhs," so Tara tiptoed past, dropped her briefcase, hung up her coat, and sat at her desk.

George Amos, the esteemed chief of police, had called. Not her favorite fellow in the world, but useful.

She picked up the pink message slip. He wanted information on the deposition of one of his officers in the Johnnie Rae Riskin matter. She almost set it aside, but thought twice. She settled into the high backed chair and dialed George. There might be information to be had for her, too.

"George Amos. Tara Limey returning his call."