A Creed in Stone Creek - Linda Lael Miller [75]
“Great,” she muttered.
“You’re the prosecutor, O’Ballivan,” Tom said, his tone light, but grim, too. “Ferguson is being accused of a felony. And he’s beside himself over it. So you’d better get down here and decide whether or not the people have a case.”
“I’ll be there,” Melissa confirmed. “Tell Pete to hold on.”
She took a quick shower, got dressed and skipped the makeup, except for mascara and a swipe of lip gloss.
Melissa paused only briefly to check herself out in the full-length mirror before leaving the bedroom. Her tailored black slacks and peacock-blue silk blouse made her feel—and look—more like her old self. And that was important because, since last night, she hadn’t been quite sure who the heck she was.
As soon as she set foot inside the municipal building, a sense of dread settled over her spirit. After pausing to steel herself for a moment, Melissa marched down the corridor to Tom’s office, drew a deep breath outside his door, let it out again and went in.
Steven was standing by Tom’s desk, all spiffed up for the day and yet still managing to look like a man who’s just enjoyed a night of lively sex.
Which, of course, he was. Moreover, he was a lawyer, there to represent someone—Pete? Nathan Carter?
It was anybody’s guess, at that point, but one thing was for sure. Steven would inevitably side against her.
Melissa felt dazed, as though she’d collided with an invisible brick wall, crazy as it seemed.
Steven looked as cool as could be, in no apparent hurry to do anything.
His mouth crooked up at one corner when his gaze connected with Melissa’s, after a slow cruise from her feet to her face. He was trying to unsettle her, of course, and it was working.
Melissa felt strangely exposed, as though Steven had X-ray vision or her clothes had turned to cellophane.
“Morning,” he drawled. His eyes and that faint grin said it all.
He’d played her body the way Charlie Daniels plays a fiddle, during the night, and he wasn’t going to pretend it hadn’t happened, much as she wanted to do exactly that.
Melissa hoped Tom hadn’t picked up on the note of intimacy in Steven’s tone. He’d razz her mercilessly if he knew what was going on.
“Good morning,” she replied stiffly, as though she and Steven were mere acquaintances instead of very recent lovers. She glanced past him, as dismissively as she could, toward the cells, where Nathan stood behind bars, smirking at her.
Pete Ferguson, who had been fidgeting at his desk, bolted to his feet. “It’s a lie, Melissa,” he blurted out. “You know I’d never rough up a prisoner—”
Carter simply pointed to his eye, which was nearly swollen shut, the flesh around it shot through with varying shades of purple and green as well as bruise-blue.
Nobody spoke for a few moments.
Then Steven cleared his throat and said, “In addition to the injury Mr. Carter suffered, there seems to be some question of Deputy Ferguson’s reasons for detaining him in the first place.”
Melissa felt as though she’d been kicked in the solar plexus. Hard. “You’re representing Mr. Carter, then?”
Ferguson, tall and clean-cut, with a military haircut and pale blue eyes, looked sick. Tom just looked disgusted.
“It would be more accurate to say I’m advising him,” Steven said. His tone was even, though a bedrock of resolve ran beneath it.
Melissa turned on Nathan Carter. He looked her over insolently, and the effect was quite different from when Steven had done almost the same thing. “What happened?” she asked.
“He was hanging around the park, and it looked like he didn’t have any place to spend the night,” Pete put in. “So I bought him a hamburger and let him sleep in the cell.”
“You’ll have your turn, Pete,” Melissa said calmly. “Right now, I want to hear Mr. Carter’s side of the story.”
“I told the deputy I was fine with sleeping in the park,” Nathan said. The smirk was gone now, replaced by a cagey narrowing of his eyes. “He said that was vagrancy and he had to