Heat Of The Night. Donna Kauffman
the record, I think most attorneys are slimeballs, no matter who they are representing.”
Now she smiled. It was that or throw something at him. “So I’m a slimeball?”
“No, you’re a professional spin doctor who just might have jumped in over her head into shark-infested political waters where people play for keeps. This isn’t about prettying up some businessman’s brush with a drug bust.”
She smacked the table. “Okay, now you’re really ticking me off. I don’t really give a flying hot damn what you think of me, the mayor, or even Mort Sanderson. Finding out how Sanderson died and who might have killed him is not my job. Someone else has to worry about that, namely you. My only interest is seeing that this whole thing doesn’t drag my client through the sewage Ol’ Morty might have been wallowing in. How I present things to the media is strictly meant to help him, not hinder you. So there is absolutely no reason why you can’t continue your fight for truth and justice, while I protect the people who are getting caught in the crossfire.”
“So, if what I discover ends up painting the mayor in a less than positive light, you’ll just spin that the right way too, whether or not he might be a slimeball as well?”
Righteous indignation fled as a frown instantly creased her forehead. “Do you have any indication Henley is in any way involved in this? Personally?”
Brady laughed. “You’re a piece of work, you know that? But I can see why you’re doing so well. You do keep your eye on the end goal, no matter what blows across your path.” He pushed back his chair. “Your thirty minutes are up.”
“I want you to let me know the instant you get the report back. I’m going to push the press conference back to four-thirty.”
“Wouldn’t want to miss that five o’clock newscast.”
“No,” she said, looking him straight in the eye. “We wouldn’t. But if this isn’t a murder, I need to know. Otherwise I’m going with what I told you earlier. We need to steer this thing away from how he was found and toward catching the psycho that killed him. I would think you’d want that, too.”
“If there is a psycho killer.”
She stood and blocked his path. “Last I heard, the press only knew that he’d been found in the Dew Lily Inn and that there was supposition that his reason for being there was sexual.”
“No one is at the Dew Lily Inn unless it’s sexual.”
“Point taken. But the rest has been kept under wraps, right?”
“There are strict orders on those who were at the scene. Until I finish my interviews, it’s in the best interest of the investigation—not to mention your job—to keep the rest sealed. Now, how long that will last, I can’t say. You know how this town is.”
“You’ve talked to people, conducted some interviews already. What do you think happened?”
“I think I don’t make guesses. Now excuse me. I have to get back to work.”
That he felt his work was more important than hers came through loud and clear. “I’ll expect a call from you,” she said, “or I’ll be camped out at the precinct until I get an answer.”
He turned back at the door. “You know where my desk is.” Then he left.
She turned to the table, hands clenched, working hard not to toss her mug across the room. She was normally not a violent woman, but Brady… The man was impossible! Couldn’t he see she was just trying to do her job, here? She wasn’t deliberately doing anything to get in his way, nor was she hurting anyone. If anything, she was keeping the press off his back and putting them squarely onto hers. “He should be thanking me, dammit.”
She downed the rest of her coffee, knowing it would likely be all she had until dinner, then snapped her briefcase shut and headed out the door. She had a lot of work to get done before the press conference. Not the least of which was figuring out how in the hell she was going to spin this if Sanderson had in fact just died of a heart attack while playing kinky sex games.
BRADY WAS surprised when he returned from the morgue and did not spy a certain long-legged redhead perched at his desk. He spun a wary glance around the squad room. Nope, he was in the clear. He walked to his desk, totally ignoring the sense of disappointment he’d felt. And it was not smug disappointment either. Theo hadn’t been able to rule out foul play. It had been a heart attack, but there didn’t seem to be anything to back up why it had happened to an otherwise healthy forty-nine-year-old man. There had also been no sexual activity. They were running toxicology tests to see if anything had been introduced to his system to induce heart failure.
Until then, Brady had to keep working the case as a homicide. And Erin got to continue with her spin doctoring.
He wasn’t exactly sure what ticked him off so badly about it all. He’d had plenty of time to think it over while waiting for the overworked medical examiner. She was right about getting the press off his back. She was even right about playing down the sexual nature of the scene where Mort had been found. And he wasn’t so naive as to believe that any politician worth his constituents’ votes was going to let something of this caliber careen wildly down the media tracks without doing his or her damnedest to steer the train. Or hire someone who could steer the train. That someone being Erin Mahoney.
He had to grudgingly admit that she also seemed pretty damn good at her job.
He just wished like hell her job hadn’t crossed paths with his. He might admire her professional acumen, but that didn’t mean he trusted her. She’d made no bones about the fact that her loyalty was vested solely in saving Henley’s political ass. If she had to climb all over Brady and his investigation to do it, he had no doubt she would. He did not like anyone breathing down his neck.
The scent of her perfume wafted through his mind. Along with images of her climbing all over him and breathing down his neck…literally. He groaned and once again shoved the thought away. Erin was dangerous enough without giving her that sort of leverage. Even in the privacy of his own, suddenly feverish, mind.
The sound of a throat clearing just behind him brought him around. So the perfume had been real. He should have known. He could only thank God she had no way of knowing what thoughts—and images—had just been playing though his head.
“You’re late,” he said, taking the offensive. He’d already learned it didn’t pay to let her have the upper hand. Not even for a second.
“I do have other things to do besides dog your every move. Besides, I knew where to find you when I was ready.” She smiled. “You look a little let down, though. Who’d have guessed?”
She was just razzing him. No way did his expression reveal anything. And he hadn’t been let down, dammit.
When he didn’t respond, her smile faded and she was all business again.
“You got the report from the medical examiner? I’ve got—” she glanced at the slim gold watch circling her wrist “—twenty minutes to show time.” She looked him right in the eye. “So what angle am I playing?”
Brady really hated being party to her part in all this. He was tempted to just shove the file at her and let her come to her own damn conclusions and spin the press conference any way she saw fit. But technically anything said or done that dealt in any way with this case fell under his jurisdiction and it would be sloppy of him not to watch every move she made like a hawk.
“No conclusive evidence,” he said, not bothering to deflect the matter either. If he was going to have to deal with her—and it was apparent after this morning that he had zero choice there—he wasn’t going to waste more time than absolutely necessary on it. He raised a hand when she would have interrupted. He would be in charge, however. Whether she liked it or not. “There are enough unusual elements that we can’t rule out foul play. He did die of a heart attack.”
Her mouth dropped open in dismay.