hospital.
Someone was asking her a question. She had to answer sensibly, but what? What was the question again?
Chapter Seven
Dixie looped the racquet over her gloved hand and leaned against the wall to wait for Brenda. Her cast felt downright silly with her gym shorts. Outside the glass barrier, two jocks in muscle shirts stole glances at her, making her feel even clumsier. But she intended to get a good workout today if it hair-lipped the devil. After the weeks of inactivity, she felt as if a swarm of bees had been trapped inside her.
From somewhere down the hall came the rah-rah music of an exercise class. This new club, all sparkle and glass, attracted too many dilettantes and spandexed weight-watchers. But the Downtown Y was overcrowded, and with Dixie’s uncertain schedule, lead time for reserving a racquetball court had become prohibitive. The new club was only a short drive from the courthouse. And the locker rooms smelled better.
She saw Brenda making her way down the hall, racquet and goggles in hand, hair pulled back in a braid. Brenda Benson had never been pretty. Perhaps a plastic surgeoncould’ve refined her square features; then with her muscular body and magnificent hair she’d be a knockout. But Brenda was more interested in improving the world than improving her looks.
Noting the deep worry lines etching the prosecutor’s forehead, Dixie wondered if Lawrence Coombs’ parting comment was getting to her. Surely Brenda had been threatened before—hell, who on the DA’s staff hadn’t? Dixie recalled one red-letter day when she’d personally received three hate notes.
“Let’s play.” Brenda swung through the door, adjusting her goggles.
Dixie bounced the racquetball.
“You wouldn’t rather talk first?” There’d been no chance after the trial to discuss Coombs’ cryptic remark.
Brenda’s grim smile spread the web of fine lines that encircled her strong mouth. She swiped her palms on the seat of her gym shorts.
“What’s to talk about? Are you trying to wangle a handicap for a little foot fracture?”
Dixie bounced the ball again. Perhaps the activity would be better than talking; better, certainly, for dealing with her own frustrations. She hated seeing the bad guys win.
“Can’t fault me for trying to get an edge.” She bounced the ball once more, then served.
It lobbed off the back wall and fell nicely within Brenda’s reach. Brenda whacked the hell out of it, sending it crashing from the wall to hit the front glass on the fly, then almost to the back again before touching down. Lunging, Dixie smacked the ball half as hard as Brenda had, coming down on the bad foot and stumbling.
“I suppose that was Coombs’ face you just splattered all over Houston,” Dixie taunted.
“You bet it was!”
Dixie hoped the bitterness in Brenda’s voice was tempered with humor. As long as the prosecutor could smile as shevented her anger, it wouldn’t gnaw at her. Only a fool ignored a threat, yet you couldn’t let fear erode your confidence.
“What do you suppose Coombs meant?” Dixie landed on her good knee to save a grounder and winced as floor grit scraped off a layer of skin.
“You know damn well what Coombs meant. He’s coming after me.” Brenda missed a high ball, plucked it out of the air on the third bounce, and served without losing a beat.
The ball stayed in a slow, easy play for over a minute until Dixie flubbed another grounder, landing on the same knee. Cursing the fancy gym that offered seventeen kinds of fresh-squeezed juice, but couldn’t keep the floors swept, she searched until she found a small black pebble, scooped it up, and tossed it into a corner.
Brenda served—
whawp!
“You’ve had threats before,” Dixie said. “How many bogeymen actually materialized on your doorstep?”
Whawp!
“Coombs means it.”
“You think he’s stupid enough to risk jail again?”
“I don’t think he’s stupid at all.”
Whawp!
“But
he
believes he’s
Someone was asking her a question. She had to answer sensibly, but what? What was the question again?
Chapter Seven
Dixie looped the racquet over her gloved hand and leaned against the wall to wait for Brenda. Her cast felt downright silly with her gym shorts. Outside the glass barrier, two jocks in muscle shirts stole glances at her, making her feel even clumsier. But she intended to get a good workout today if it hair-lipped the devil. After the weeks of inactivity, she felt as if a swarm of bees had been trapped inside her.
From somewhere down the hall came the rah-rah music of an exercise class. This new club, all sparkle and glass, attracted too many dilettantes and spandexed weight-watchers. But the Downtown Y was overcrowded, and with Dixie’s uncertain schedule, lead time for reserving a racquetball court had become prohibitive. The new club was only a short drive from the courthouse. And the locker rooms smelled better.
She saw Brenda making her way down the hall, racquet and goggles in hand, hair pulled back in a braid. Brenda Benson had never been pretty. Perhaps a plastic surgeoncould’ve refined her square features; then with her muscular body and magnificent hair she’d be a knockout. But Brenda was more interested in improving the world than improving her looks.
Noting the deep worry lines etching the prosecutor’s forehead, Dixie wondered if Lawrence Coombs’ parting comment was getting to her. Surely Brenda had been threatened before—hell, who on the DA’s staff hadn’t? Dixie recalled one red-letter day when she’d personally received three hate notes.
“Let’s play.” Brenda swung through the door, adjusting her goggles.
Dixie bounced the racquetball.
“You wouldn’t rather talk first?” There’d been no chance after the trial to discuss Coombs’ cryptic remark.
Brenda’s grim smile spread the web of fine lines that encircled her strong mouth. She swiped her palms on the seat of her gym shorts.
“What’s to talk about? Are you trying to wangle a handicap for a little foot fracture?”
Dixie bounced the ball again. Perhaps the activity would be better than talking; better, certainly, for dealing with her own frustrations. She hated seeing the bad guys win.
“Can’t fault me for trying to get an edge.” She bounced the ball once more, then served.
It lobbed off the back wall and fell nicely within Brenda’s reach. Brenda whacked the hell out of it, sending it crashing from the wall to hit the front glass on the fly, then almost to the back again before touching down. Lunging, Dixie smacked the ball half as hard as Brenda had, coming down on the bad foot and stumbling.
“I suppose that was Coombs’ face you just splattered all over Houston,” Dixie taunted.
“You bet it was!”
Dixie hoped the bitterness in Brenda’s voice was tempered with humor. As long as the prosecutor could smile as shevented her anger, it wouldn’t gnaw at her. Only a fool ignored a threat, yet you couldn’t let fear erode your confidence.
“What do you suppose Coombs meant?” Dixie landed on her good knee to save a grounder and winced as floor grit scraped off a layer of skin.
“You know damn well what Coombs meant. He’s coming after me.” Brenda missed a high ball, plucked it out of the air on the third bounce, and served without losing a beat.
The ball stayed in a slow, easy play for over a minute until Dixie flubbed another grounder, landing on the same knee. Cursing the fancy gym that offered seventeen kinds of fresh-squeezed juice, but couldn’t keep the floors swept, she searched until she found a small black pebble, scooped it up, and tossed it into a corner.
Brenda served—
whawp!
“You’ve had threats before,” Dixie said. “How many bogeymen actually materialized on your doorstep?”
Whawp!
“Coombs means it.”
“You think he’s stupid enough to risk jail again?”
“I don’t think he’s stupid at all.”
Whawp!
“But
he
believes he’s
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