untouchable.”
For several minutes Dixie concentrated on playing. Her foot ached like a bad tooth. To reduce running, she stopped going for wide shots. Soon she was hitting only the balls that lobbed within arm’s reach. But the movement felt great.
She knew Brenda was right about Coombs. An egomaniac, he would believe he could wreak vengeance on the ADA without getting caught. When they stopped for a breather, Dixie regarded the woman who’d just creamed her at racquetball.
“Think you need a bodyguard?”
Brenda pulled off her goggles and wiped a towel across her face. “What I’m thinking is maybe I don’t want this job anymore.”
“Aw, don’t say that, Bren. You’re too damn good at it. And you’re needed. You’ve locked up so many fist-crazy bastardsI’m surprised the Women’s Help Center hasn’t given you a medal. Hell, you’re the DA’s Golden Girl.”
The media nickname, coined for Brenda’s stunning hair as well as her occasionally brilliant courtroom procedure, failed to draw a smile.
“You
quit,” Brenda said. “And you seem to be doing all right.”
Dixie bounced the racquetball so hard it jarred her wrist when she caught it.
“Yeah, I’m doing all right.” She didn’t regret for an instant her decision to leave the DA’s staff, but sometimes she felt like a lily-livered deserter. She’d been good at her job, damn near as good as Brenda. If all the good guys laid down their swords, wouldn’t the bad guys finally take over?
Brenda was studying her. “You set your own hours, right? Work at your own pace? You’re making more money now.”
“A lot more money.” A
hell of a lot more money.
“And you finally have time for a love life.”
Dixie felt a sappy grin spread across her face. “Yep, I finally have a love life.”
“Aren’t you satisfied with what you’re doing?”
“I’m satisfied, Brenda, but I don’t envision myself a bounty hunter forever. And I’m not contributing much to the greater good.”
“Yes, you are! In your own way, you contribute a hell of a lot. We can’t convict the bail jumpers who skip off to Mexico only to resurface later doing the same dirty deeds. Working outside the system, you’re more effective, in some ways, than any cop.”
“What are you leading up to?”
Brenda looped the damp towel around her neck. “Do you think I could do what you’re doing? Bounty hunting?”
Dixie could tell the prosecutor was serious, and she didn’t want to answer without giving the question some thought. Bouncing the racquetball, she listened to the hollow
thunk, thunk, thunk
echo in the small room.
“You have the guts, Bren,” she said finally. “You have thestamina. And in defense class I’ve seen you practice hand-to-hand against some tough competition.” She looked Brenda square in the eye. “But could you kill a person, if that was your only reasonable choice?”
“You’ve never killed anyone.”
“Not yet. And I hope I never do. But every day of my life I face the possibility.”
“I could shoot a dirtball like Coombs, easy.”
“Even if you didn’t know whether the dirtball was guilty? Remember, I rarely know as much about a skip as I knew about Coombs.”
“If they skip, chances are they’re guilty.”
“I used to think so.” Until Parker. “A skip tracer brings them back to trial, and lets a jury decide on their guilt or innocence.”
A scowl hardened Brenda’s mouth. “I’m not sure I could do that.”
“Brenda, it’s only in old westerns that bounty hunters get to be judge, jury, and executioner.” Dixie wanted to say more, but all that came to mind were the same lame remarks some of her friends had spouted when she stopped practicing law.
They played two more games, Brenda winning all three. Playing with an injured foot had been dumb, but the vigorous exercise had banished the trapped bees. Dixie felt exhilirated. As they prepared to leave, she limped to the corner and retrieved the black pebble
For several minutes Dixie concentrated on playing. Her foot ached like a bad tooth. To reduce running, she stopped going for wide shots. Soon she was hitting only the balls that lobbed within arm’s reach. But the movement felt great.
She knew Brenda was right about Coombs. An egomaniac, he would believe he could wreak vengeance on the ADA without getting caught. When they stopped for a breather, Dixie regarded the woman who’d just creamed her at racquetball.
“Think you need a bodyguard?”
Brenda pulled off her goggles and wiped a towel across her face. “What I’m thinking is maybe I don’t want this job anymore.”
“Aw, don’t say that, Bren. You’re too damn good at it. And you’re needed. You’ve locked up so many fist-crazy bastardsI’m surprised the Women’s Help Center hasn’t given you a medal. Hell, you’re the DA’s Golden Girl.”
The media nickname, coined for Brenda’s stunning hair as well as her occasionally brilliant courtroom procedure, failed to draw a smile.
“You
quit,” Brenda said. “And you seem to be doing all right.”
Dixie bounced the racquetball so hard it jarred her wrist when she caught it.
“Yeah, I’m doing all right.” She didn’t regret for an instant her decision to leave the DA’s staff, but sometimes she felt like a lily-livered deserter. She’d been good at her job, damn near as good as Brenda. If all the good guys laid down their swords, wouldn’t the bad guys finally take over?
Brenda was studying her. “You set your own hours, right? Work at your own pace? You’re making more money now.”
“A lot more money.” A
hell of a lot more money.
“And you finally have time for a love life.”
Dixie felt a sappy grin spread across her face. “Yep, I finally have a love life.”
“Aren’t you satisfied with what you’re doing?”
“I’m satisfied, Brenda, but I don’t envision myself a bounty hunter forever. And I’m not contributing much to the greater good.”
“Yes, you are! In your own way, you contribute a hell of a lot. We can’t convict the bail jumpers who skip off to Mexico only to resurface later doing the same dirty deeds. Working outside the system, you’re more effective, in some ways, than any cop.”
“What are you leading up to?”
Brenda looped the damp towel around her neck. “Do you think I could do what you’re doing? Bounty hunting?”
Dixie could tell the prosecutor was serious, and she didn’t want to answer without giving the question some thought. Bouncing the racquetball, she listened to the hollow
thunk, thunk, thunk
echo in the small room.
“You have the guts, Bren,” she said finally. “You have thestamina. And in defense class I’ve seen you practice hand-to-hand against some tough competition.” She looked Brenda square in the eye. “But could you kill a person, if that was your only reasonable choice?”
“You’ve never killed anyone.”
“Not yet. And I hope I never do. But every day of my life I face the possibility.”
“I could shoot a dirtball like Coombs, easy.”
“Even if you didn’t know whether the dirtball was guilty? Remember, I rarely know as much about a skip as I knew about Coombs.”
“If they skip, chances are they’re guilty.”
“I used to think so.” Until Parker. “A skip tracer brings them back to trial, and lets a jury decide on their guilt or innocence.”
A scowl hardened Brenda’s mouth. “I’m not sure I could do that.”
“Brenda, it’s only in old westerns that bounty hunters get to be judge, jury, and executioner.” Dixie wanted to say more, but all that came to mind were the same lame remarks some of her friends had spouted when she stopped practicing law.
They played two more games, Brenda winning all three. Playing with an injured foot had been dumb, but the vigorous exercise had banished the trapped bees. Dixie felt exhilirated. As they prepared to leave, she limped to the corner and retrieved the black pebble
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