High Noon

High Noon Page 2

Cleaned up and hung over, Duncan sat at his kitchen counter brooding over his laptop and a cup of black coffee. He'd meant to keep it to a couple of beers, hanging with some of the regulars at Slam Dunc before heading off to catch the music, another beer or two at Swifty's, his Irish pub.

When you owned bars, he'd learned, you were smart to stay sober.

He might bend that rule of thumb a little on St. Patrick's Day or New Year's Eve. But he knew how to coast through a long night with a couple of beers.

It hadn't been celebration that put the Jameson's with a bump of Harp back into his hand too many times. It had been sheer relief. Joe wasn't a smear on the sidewalk outside the bar.

I'll drink to that.

And it was better to be hungover due to good news than hungover due to bad. You still felt like shit, Duncan admitted as the horns and pipes throbbed in his abused head, but you knew it would wear off.

What he needed to do was get out of the house. Take a walk. Or a nap in the hammock. Then figure out what to do next. He'd been figuring out what to do next for the past seven years. And he liked it.

He frowned at the laptop another moment, then shook his head. If he tried to work now, even pretend to work, his head would probably explode.

Instead, he carried his coffee out to the back veranda. The mourning doves were cooing, bobbing heads as they pecked along the ground under the bird feeder. Too fat and lazy, Duncan thought, to bother to fly up into it. Rather take leavings. A lot of people were the same.

His gardens were thriving, and he liked knowing he'd put a little of his own sweat and effort into them. He considered walking through them now, winding his way under the live oaks and the thick spiderwebs of moss to the dock. Take a sail maybe, cruise the river.

Damn pretty morning for it, if you paid attention. One of those sparkling clear, hint-of-a-breeze mornings you'd wish you'd prized come July.

Or he could just go down and sit on the dock, look out toward the salt flats and watch the sun play on them. Take the coffee down and just sit and do nothing on a pretty spring morning-a damn good deal.

And what was Joe doing this fine morning? Sitting in a cell? A padded room? What was the redhead up to?

It was no use pretending it was just an ordinary day in the life when he couldn't get yesterday out of his head. No point thinking he wanted to sit on the pier nursing a hangover and pretending everything was just fine and dandy.

So he went up the back steps to his bedroom, hunted out clean jeans and a shirt that didn't look like it had been slept in. Then he pulled his wallet, keys and other pocket paraphernalia out of the jeans he had slept in after he'd dragged his half-drunken ass to bed.

At least he'd been smart enough to take a cab, he reminded himself as he scooped his fingers through his shaggy mass of brown hair. Maybe he should wear a suit. Should he wear a suit?

Shit.

He decided a suit was a kind of showing off when worn to visit a for mer employee in Joe's current situation. Besides, he didn't feel like wearing a damn suit.

Still, the redhead might like suits, and since he had every intention of tracking her down, a suit could play to his advantage.

Hell with it.

He started out, jogged down the sweeping curve of the main staircase, across the polished sea of white tiles of the grand foyer. When he opened one of the arching double doors, he saw the little red Jag zip down the last curve of his drive.

The man who folded himself out of it was wearing a suit, and it was sure to be Italian-as would be the shoes. Phineas T. Hector could manage to look perfectly groomed after mud wrestling in a hurricane.

Duncan hooked his thumbs in his front pockets and watched Phin stroll. He never looked to be in any particular hurry, Duncan mused, but that mind of his was always running on high speed.

He looked like a lawyer, Duncan supposed, and a high-dollar one. Which was exactly what he was now. When they'd first met-had it been ten years now?-Phin had barely been able to afford the cab fare to court, much less an Armani suit.

Now he wore it like he'd been born to, the pale gray an excellent choice against his dark skin, his gym-hammered body. Sun flashed off his dark glasses as he paused at the base of the white steps to study Duncan.

"You look a little rough there, friend of mine."

"Feeling the same."

"Imagine so after the amount of adult beverages you poured into your sorry self last night."

"Felt good at the time. What're you doing out here?"

"Keeping our appointment."

"We had one of those?"

Phin only shook his head as he climbed the stairs. "I should've known you wouldn't remember. You were too busy drinking Irish and singing 'Danny Boy.'"

"I did not sing 'Danny Boy.'" Please, God.

"Can't say for sure. All those Irish tunes sound the same to me. You heading out?"

"I was. I guess we should go inside."

"Out here's fine." Phin settled down on the long white glider, laid his arms out over its back. "You still thinking of selling this place?"

"I don't know. Maybe." Duncan looked around-gardens, trees, pits of shade, green, green grass. He could never decide how he felt about the place from one day to the next. "Probably. Eventually."

"Sure is a spot. Away from the action, though."

"I've had enough action. Did I ask you to come out here, Phin? I'm blurry."

"You asked if I'd check in with Suicide Joe this morning, then come out to report to you. After I agreed, you embraced me and gave me a sloppy kiss. I believe there's now a rumor going around that my wife is our beard."

Duncan considered a moment. "Did I at least kiss her, too?"

"You did. You want to hear about Joe?"

Duncan jingled the keys in his pocket. "I was about to drive into the city, check in on him."

"I can save you the trip. He's doing better than I expected considering the shape he was in yesterday when I first saw him."

"Was his wife-"

"She was there," Phin interrupted. "She was pretty damn pissed, but she was there. He's got a violent sunburn, which they're treating, and I've approved, as his attorney, the court-appointed psychiatrist. As you're not pressing any charges, he's not going to do any serious time. He'll get help, which is what you wanted."

"Yeah." So why did he feel so guilty?

"If you hire him again, Dune, I'll kick your ass."

"You can't kick my ass." Duncan gave him a slow and crooked grin. "You don't fight dirty enough, black boy."

"I'll make an exception. He'll get help. His wife will take him back or she won't. But you've already gone beyond what most would, and you hired him the best counsel in Savannah."

"Better be, for what you charge," Duncan mumbled.

Phin only grinned. "Got yourself to blame for that. Well, I'm going to head back and overcharge a few other clients."

"What about the redhead?"

"What redhead?" Tipping down his sunglasses, Phin frowned at Duncan over them. "There were a couple of blondes and one delicious brunette trying to move on you last night, but you were too busy brooding into your beer to intercept the passes."

"No, not last night. The redhead. Phoebe MacNamara. Lieutenant Phoebe MacNamara. God." On a long, exaggerated sigh, Duncan patted his heart. "Just saying that gets my juices up, so I believe I'll repeat myself. Lieutenant Phoebe MacNamara."

Phin rolled his eyes up to the white ceiling of the covered veranda. "You're a case, Swift, God knows. What are you going to do with a cop?"

"I can think of all kinds of things. She's got green eyes, and that snug little body. And she went out on that roof. Guy's sitting out on the ledge with a gun, a guy she's never met in her life, but she goes out."

"And you find that attractive?"

"I find it fascinating. And hot. You met her, right? What did you think?"

"I found her brisk and to the point, well bred and canny. And in possession of an excellent ass."

"I got her stuck in my head. Well, I think I ought to go see her, try to figure out why. You can give me a ride in, I need to pick up my car anyway."

After running a two-hour training session, Phoebe sat down at her desk. Her hair was pulled back, rolled at the nape of her neck, mostly to keep it out of her way. In addition, she thought-hoped-the style lent her some authority. A lot of the cops she trained-the male ones-didn't start out taking a woman very seriously.

They all took her seriously by the end, or they were out on their ass. She might have had an inside man in Dave to help crack the door open for her in the department. But she'd shoved the door wide, and earned her rank, her position.

Now, due to that rank and position, she had a pile of paperwork to push through. And she had to spend the afternoon in court, testifying on the circumstances of a domestic dispute that had gone south into a hostage situation.

After that, she needed to come back and finish up what she could. And after that, she needed to go by the market.

And after things settled down at home, she needed to hit the books, to prep for a lecture she was due to give on crisis negotiation.

Somewhere in there she needed to squeeze out time to balance her checkbook-long overdue-and see if there was any way she could afford a new car without robbing a bank.

She opened the first file, and got down to managing her little corner of the Savannah-Chatham PD.

"LT?"

"Mmm?" She acknowledged Sykes, one of the negotiators in her unit, without looking up.

"Guy out here wants to see you. Duncan Swift."

"Hmm?" This time she looked up with a frown. She looked through the window of her office, saw Duncan studying the squad room as if it were a foreign planet.

She thought of her workload, of the time crunch, and nearly passed him off. Then his gaze shifted, met hers. And he smiled.

"Ah well." She pushed up from her desk, stepped out to the doorway of her office. "Mr. Swift?"

He had a damn effective smile, she decided. Something about it said it was easy and often used. And his eyes, soft and dusky blue, looked right at you. In her experience a lot of people weren't comfortable making that solid eye contact. But this man let you know he wasn't just looking at you, he was thinking about you while he did.

"You're busy. You look busy," he said when he reached her. "You want me to come back when you're not?"

"If what you came by for can wait about a decade, that's fine."

"I'd rather it didn't."

"Then come on in."

"Wow. It's sort of like on TV, but not exactly. Do you get weirded out sitting here where everybody can see what you're doing all day?"

"If I do, I can always pull the blinds."

He hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of worn jeans. There were long legs in those jeans, she noted.

"Bet you hardly ever do."

"I spoke with the attorney you hired on Joe's behalf. He seems very competent."

"And then some. So... I wanted to ask you if I should visit Suicide Joe-"

"Excuse me? Suicide Joe?"

"Sorry, we got to calling him that last night. It stuck in my head. Should I visit him, or is it better for him if I step back?"

"What do you want to do?"

"I don't know. It's not like we were pals or anything. But yesterday's loop keeps running through my head."

"It's more to the point what's running through his."

"Yeah. Yeah. I had this dream."

"Did you?"

"I was the one sitting out on the ledge in my underwear."

"Boxers or briefs?"

It made him laugh. "Boxers. Anyway, I was sitting on the ledge and you were sitting there with me."

"Are you feeling suicidal?"

"Not a bit."

"It's called transference. You're putting yourself in his place. It was a traumatic experience, for you as well as Joe, even though it ended well."

"Have you ever had one that didn't?"

"Yes."

He nodded, and didn't ask for details. "What do you call me having you stuck in my mind? Wishful thinking?"

"That would depend on what you're wishing for."

"I started to Google you."

She sat back now, raised her eyebrows.

"I thought, sure it's a shortcut, a curiosity-satisfying one. But sometimes you want to go the long way around. You get to find out about somebody from the source, maybe over some type of food or drink. And if you're wondering, yes, I'm hitting on you."

"I'm a trained observer. I don't have to wonder when I know. I appreciate the honesty, and the interest, but-"

"Don't say 'but,' not right off the bat." He bent down, picked up a hairpin that must have fallen out of her hair earlier, handed it to her. "You could consider it a public service. I'm the public. We could exchange life stories over that some sort of food and drink. You could name the time and the place. We don't like what we hear, what's the harm?"

She dropped the hairpin in with her paper clips. "Now you're negotiating."

"I'm pretty good at it. I could just buy you a drink. That's whatthirty minutes? A lot of people spend more time than that picking out a pair of shoes. Half an hour after you're finished work, or off-duty, whatever you call it."

"I can't tonight. I have plans."

"Any night in the foreseeable future you don't have plans?"

"Plenty of them." She swiveled gently back and forth in her chair, studying him. Why did he have to be so cute, and so appealing? She really didn't have time for any of this. "Tomorrow night, nine to ninethirty. I'll meet you at your bar."

"Perfect. Which bar?"

"Excuse me?"

"You don't want to go to Dune's-weird after yesterday, and it's loud and full of guys arguing over sports. Swifty's."

"You own Swifty's?"

"Sort of. You've been there?"

"Once."

His brows drew together. "You didn't like it."

"Actually, I did. I didn't like my companion."

"If you want to pick somewhere else-"

"Swifty's is fine. Nine o'clock. You can spend part of the thirty minutes explaining how you 'sort of own a couple of bars and an apartment building."

He used the smile again when she rose to signal his time was up. "Don't change your mind."

"I rarely do."

"Good to know. See you tomorrow, Phoebe."

A mistake, she told herself when she watched him walk away. It was probably a mistake to make any sort of a date with a lanky, charming man with soft blue eyes, especially one who had those little tugs going on in her belly when he smiled at her.

Still, it was only half an hour, only a drink.

And it had been a long time since she'd carved out half an hour to make a mistake with a man.

Phoebe dragged into the house just after seven with a bag of groceries, a loaded briefcase and a serious case of frazzled nerves. The car she wasn't at all sure she could replace had limped to a shuddering halt a block from the station house.

The cost of having it towed would eat a greedy chunk of the monthly budget. The cost of having it repaired made the possibility of bank robbery more palatable.

She dumped her briefcase just inside the door, then stood staring around the elegant and beautiful foyer. The house, for all its grandeur, cost her nothing. And though nothing was a relative term, she knew even if it were possible to move, she couldn't afford it, on any terms. It was ridiculous to live in a damn mansion and not know how to manage to pay to repair an eight-year-old Ford Taurus.

Surrounded by antiques, by art, by silver and crystal, by beauty and grace-none of which she could sell, hock or trade. To live in what could be construed as luxury, and have a tension headache over a goddamn car.

Leaning back against the door, she shut her eyes long enough to remind herself to be grateful. There was a roof over her head, over her family's head. There always would be.

As long as she followed the rules laid down by a dead woman. She straightened, buried the anxiety deep enough so it wouldn't show on her face. Then she carried the grocery bag through the house to the kitchen.

There they were. Her girls. Carly at the kitchen table, tongue caught in her teeth as she struggled over homework. Mama and Ava at the stove putting finishing touches on dinner. Phoebe knew the rule of thumb was that two women couldn't share a kitchen, but these two managed just that.

And the room smelled of herbs and greens and females. "I told y'all not to hold dinner for me."

As Phoebe stepped in, all three heads turned. "Mama! I'm almost done with my spelling."

"There's my girl." Setting the bag on the counter as she went,

Phoebe walked over to give Carly a smacking kiss. "Bet you're hungry."

"We wanted to wait for you."

" 'Course we waited." Essie moved close to rub a hand down Phoebe's arm. "You all right, baby girl? You must be so tired, having the car go out like that."

"I wanted to take out my gun and shoot it, but I'm over it now."

"How'd you get home?"

"I took the CAT, which is what I'll be doing until the car's fixed."

"You can use mine," Ava told her, but Phoebe shook her head. "I'd feel better knowing there's a car available here at home. Don't worry. What's for dinner? I'm starving."

"You go on and wash up." Essie waved her away. "Then sit right down at the table. Everything's ready, so you go on."

"Don't mind if I do." She winked at Carly before slipping out to the powder room off the parlor.

More to be grateful for, she reminded herself. There were dozens of tasks and chores she didn't have to heap on her plate because her mother was there, because Ava was there. A thousand little worries she could brush aside. She wasn't going to let herself get twisted inside out over something as annoying as transportation.

She studied her face in the mirror as she dried her hands. She looked tired, and tight, she admitted. There would surely be lines on her face in the morning that hadn't been there yesterday if she didn't relax a little.

And at thirty-three, there would be lines sneaking in anyway. Just a fact of life.

But she was having a big glass of wine with dinner regardless.

It did relax her, as did the pretty food prepared by hands other than her own, the soft light, the easy music of female voices.

She listened to Carly talk about her school day, and her mother talk about the book she was reading.

"You're so quiet, Phoebe. Are you just tired out?"

"A little," she said to Ava. "Mostly I'm just listening."

"Because we can't keep quiet for five minutes. Tell us something good that happened today."

It was an old game, one her mother had played with them as long as Phoebe could remember. Whenever something hard or sad or irritating happened, Essie would ask them to tell her something good.

"Well, let's see. The training session went well."

"Doesn't count."

"Then I guess satisfying the prosecutor with my testimony in court this afternoon doesn't count either."

"Something good that happened to you," Essie reminded her. "That's the rule."

"All right. She's so strict," Phoebe said to make Carly grin. "I don't know if it's good, but it's different. I had a good-looking man come into my office."

"It only counts if he asked you out to dinner," Ava began, then gaped at Phoebe's expression. "You have a date?"

"Well, for God's sake, don't say it as if we've just discovered a new species."

"It's practically as rare. Who-"

"And it's not a date. Not really. The suicide I talked down yesterday? This is the man who he used to work for. He just wants to have a drink."

"Ava said it had to be dinner to count," Carly reminded her.

"He brought up dinner, we negotiated it to drinks. Just half an hour tomorrow." She tapped Carly's nose. "After your bedtime."

"Is he cute?" Ava demanded.

The wine and the company had done its job. Phoebe flashed a grin. "Really cute. But I'm just meeting him for one drink. Over and out."

"Dating isn't a terminal disease."

"Listen to who's talking." Phoebe forked up a bite of chicken and looked at her mother. "And listen to who's not. Mama?"

"I was just thinking how nice it would be if you had somebody to go out to dinner with, to the movies, to take walks with." She laid a hand over Phoebe's. "Only time there's a man's voice in this house is when Carter's over, or a repairman comes in. What's this really cute man do?"

"I'm not entirely sure, not altogether sure." She sipped more wine.

"I guess I'll find out tomorrow."

Whenever she was home and could manage it, Phoebe liked to tuck Carly into bed. With her little girl at seven and counting, Phoebe knew the tucking-in stage wouldn't last much longer. So she prized it.

"Past your bedtime, my cutie." Phoebe bent to kiss the tip of Carly's nose.

"Just a little bit past. Can I stay up until any-o'clock on Friday night?"

"Hmm." Phoebe brushed her hand over Carly's curls. "Any-o'clock could be arranged. Let's see how you do on your Friday spelling test." Bright-eyed with the idea, Carly pushed to sitting, gave a butt bounce. "If I get a hundred, can we rent a DVD, have popcorn and stay up till any-o'clock?"

"That's a lot of reward." Gently, firmly, Phoebe put the heel of her hand to Carly's forehead and nudged her back down. "You have an arithmetic test on Friday, too, don't you?"

Carly's gaze went to her Barbie sheets. "Maybe. It's harder than spelling."

"I always thought so, too. But if you do well on both your tests, we have a deal on the DVD, the popcorn and the any-o'clock. You get some sleep now, so your brain's ready to study tomorrow."

"Mama?" Carly said when Phoebe turned off the bedside lamp. "Yes, baby."

"Do you miss Roy?"

Not Daddy, Phoebe thought. Not Dad, not even-very often-my father. It was a pitiful commentary. Phoebe sat on the side of the bed, stroked her fingers over Carly's cheek. "Do you?"

"I asked you. "

"So you did." And honesty was a linchpin of her relationship with her little girl. "No, sweetie, I don't."

"Good."

"Carly-"

"It's okay. I don't miss him either, and it's okay. I was just wondering because of what Gran said at dinner about having somebody to take walks with and stuff."

"I can take walks with you."

Carly's pretty mouth curved. "We could take a walk on Saturday. A long walk. Down to River Street."

On to the ploy, Phoebe narrowed her eyes. "We are not going shopping."

"Looking isn't shopping. We can just look and not buy anything."

"That's what you always say. And River Street'll be jammed with tourists on Saturday."

"Maybe we should just go to the mall then."

"You're tricky, kid, but you can't win this one. No shopping this weekend. And no talking your grandmama into buying you something online either."

Now Carly rolled her eyes. "Okay."

With a laugh, Phoebe snuggled down for a major hug. "Boy, oh boy, I sure do love you into little, bitty pieces."

"I sure do love you. Mama, if I get A's on my next three spelling tests, can I-"

"Negotiations are closed for the night, and so, Carly Anne MacNamara, are you."

She tapped a finger to her lips as she rose. And when she went out, she left the door open a couple of inches so the hallway light slanted in, the way her baby liked it.

She needed to get her work started. There was a good two hours of it waiting for her. But instead of angling toward her home office, Phoebe veered off toward her mother's sitting room.

Essie was there, as she was most evenings, crocheting.

"Got an order for a christening gown," Essie said, looking up with a smile as her fingers continued to ply thread and hook.

Phoebe moved over, sat in the pretty little tapestry chair that matched the one her mother used. "You do such beautiful work."

"I enjoy it. Satisfying. I know it doesn't bring in a lot of money, Phoebe, but-"

"Satisfying's most important. The people who buy your work, why, they're buying heirlooms. They're lucky. Mama, Carly asked about Roy."

"Oh?" Essie's hands stilled now. "Is she upset?"

"No. Not at all. She wanted to know if I miss him. I told her the truth, that I don't, and I have to hope that was the right thing."

"I think it was, if you're asking me." Concern filled Essie's eyes. "We've had us some lousy luck with men, haven't we, baby girl?"

"Oh yeah." Leaning back, Phoebe let her gaze wander to the ceiling, the beautiful plaster work of an old, grand home. "I'm wondering if I shouldn't cancel this sort-of date I've got tomorrow."

"Why would you do that?"

"We're doing all right, aren't we? Carly's happy. You've got your satisfying work, I've got mine. Ava's content-though I do wish she and Dave would stop pretending, now that they're both single, that they're not attracted to each other. So, why mix anything else in with having drinks in some pub with a man I don't even know?"

"Because you're a lovely young woman, with so much of her life ahead of her. You've got to step out of this henhouse sometimes. Which may sound silly, coming from me, but it's true." Essie's hands started moving again. "The last thing I want is for you to start boxing yourself in, holing up in this place we've made here. You have that drink and that conversation tomorrow with this good-looking man. That's an order."

Amused, Phoebe angled her head. "So it's do what you say, not what you do?"

"Exactly. Mother's privilege."

"I guess I will, then." She rose, walked to the door, turned back. "Mama? No online shopping for Carly this weekend."

"Oh?" The single syllable resounded disappointment. "Mother's privilege," Phoebe echoed, then headed off to work.