Devlin's Light by Mariah Stewart Page B

white stripe. Across the foot of the white iron bed rested a blue and white floral comforter, which coordinated perfectly with the bedskirt, pillow covers, sheets, and a lightweight summer blanket. From the small wingchair right inside the door tumbled an array of pillows, all made by August from the hand-embroidered linens India had begun collecting as a young girl.
    India rolled over and looked at the clock, groaning when she realized that she did, in fact, have to obey its command. She swept her hair from her face and tottered into the bathroom across the hall and turned on the shower, hoping it would revive her. It did.
    She dressed hastily for work, pulling on a somewhat casual, totally comfortable pantsuit of soft gray and white pinstriped linen, since it was not a court day and she did not need to “dress.” That would come on Monday, with the start of the Thomas trial. Before closing the closet door, she checked to make certain that her favorite dark blue suit was clean. Smiling to herself when she saw that it was, she closed the door. She always wore that suit—her lucky suit—on the first day of a trial. She had never lost a case when she delivered her opening statement wearing that suit. India wasn’t going to take any chances. The suit was a go for Monday.
    Breakfast was a cup of coffee in the car and a bowl of fruit at her desk, lunch was less. Before she knew it, it was four o’clock and she still had two more briefs to read and respond to. Roxanne Detweiler, the inhabitant of the cubicle next to India’s, stuck her curly dark head through the doorway at seven-twenty and asked, “Want Chinese? Herbie is calling in an order.”
    Lost in thought, India nodded affirmatively.
    “What do you want?”
    Not raising her head from the file spread across the top ofthe desk, Indy replied absently, “Pepperoni, mushrooms, whatever you’re having.”
    Having seen India so immersed in her work in the past, Roxanne grinned devilishly.
    “You want a little sweet and sour bat wings on that, Indy? Maybe a side of frog toes and fried slugs?”
    “Sure, Roxie.” India waved a hand indifferently. “Whatever.”
    “What’s she want? Herbie’s waiting.” Singer poked Roxanne in the back.
    “Get us an order of hot and spicy chicken and an order of rice noodles with oriental vegetables and some steamed dumplings.”
    Roxanne folded her arms across her chest, well aware that India had no clue that someone was in her office. There was a joke circulating around the D.A.’s office that you could rob India’s office of everything except the file she was working on at that moment and you’d most likely get away with it.
    “India has been like that for as long as I’ve known her,” Roxanne once told the rest of the staff. “She has the enviable ability to block out everything and totally focus on the business at hand. She did it in college, she did it all through law school, and she’s still doing it. She says she tries to hear the person’s voice when she’s reading a statement, to see the scene as the victim did, to hear what they heard and feel what they felt.”
    “Spooky” was the consensus of India’s colleagues, but every one of them agreed she was the best at what she did. Her uncanny ability to block out what she considered irrelevant might be responsible for a good part of that success.
    It wasn’t until Roxanne called over the partition to tell her that her phone was ringing that India heard it. Searching through piles of papers, she finally located it and picked up the receiver.
    “Oh, hello, Aunt August.” India’s eyes sought the small desk clock. It was almost seven-thirty. “Oh, Aunt August, I am so sorry. I meant to call last night but it was so late when I got home, and then this morning just sort of got away from me and before I knew it …”
    “I understand, India.” Aunt August, as always, went straight to the point. “However, there is someone else to be considered