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  “Relax,” he said. “I sent you the roses because I wanted to, okay? It had nothing to do with your testimony.”

  Rachel glared at him. With his smooth voice and slick ways, he had manipulated her. She had been impressed by his position, the athleticism of his body, the richness of his skin. She had been a fool. What would a man like Atwater see in her?

  “We’re going to lose the weapons charge,” he said, breaking the silence. “We should be able to nail Brentwood on the two counts of drunk driving. If you had supported Townsend’s story, we would have gotten the full boat.”

  Rachel took a seat. “I didn’t see it,” she said, her anger dissipating almost as fast as it had erupted. “I know you think I saw it and just forgot, but I swear I wasn’t looking when Townsend found the gun in Brentwood’s pocket. I patted the guy down as soon as he got out of the car, and there was nothing on him.”

  Atwater gave her a stern look. “A .22 is a small gun,” he said. “People make mistakes.”

  “I didn’t make a mistake,” she insisted. “If you knew me better, you’d know I’m telling the truth.”

  “Well,” he said, flashing a smile. “Maybe we should change that. I’m game if you’re game.” He reached over and picked up a pen. “Give me your phone number. We’ll go out to dinner one night next week.” He flipped through the pages of his calendar. “I guess I’ll have to call you later and give you an exact date so you can get someone to watch your kids. How old are they, by the way?”

  “Tracy is fourteen,” Rachel told him. “Joe is three. I gave you my address and phone number last week. Don’t you remember?”

  For some reason, Mike Atwater found Rachel intriguing. Was it her fresh-faced appearance, her directness, the funny little expressions she made with her mouth? With the right tutoring, clothes, and makeup, she could easily be an eight. But she presented herself as a five, maybe even a three. Was this what fascinated him, her untapped potential? “I thought bringing up your past might earn us some brownie points,” he said, tapping his pen on the desk. “Making a police officer appear sympathetic in the eyes of a jury these days is not always easy.”

  “Look,” Rachel said, “I didn’t mean I’m a great officer, or that I never make mistakes. That’s the point. I’m so afraid for my safety that I would never miss finding a weapon during a patdown search, even if it was no bigger than a pencil.”

  “None of this amounts to a hill of beans now,” Atwater said. “You’ve already testified. I only wish you’d told me about this patdown search you conducted when we went over your testimony last week. We fed right into their hands on that one.”

  “I know,” Rachel said tensely. “When Brentwood’s attorney started drilling me, I didn’t know what to do other than to tell the truth. He asked me specifically if I had searched the defendant prior to the search Townsend conducted. The way you presented the question, I could hedge without actually lying. The defense attorney’s question was more direct.”

  “I don’t have much time,” Atwater said, glancing at his watch. “Are you suggesting Townsend planted the gun? When we talked last week, you didn’t mention anything along those lines.”

  “I didn’t say he planted the gun,” Rachel said, an anxious look on her face. “All I’m trying to do is tell the truth. No matter how the case turns out, don’t you think the truth is important?”

  “Police corruption is the hottest defense out there, you know?” Atwater said, nodding at another attorney standing in the doorway. “You know how many defendants we had last month who claimed the evidence was planted by the cops? A few sensational cases, and people suddenly act like there’s not an honest cop in the entire country. Thank God, Brentwood isn’t black. At least he can’t claim he’s the victim of racism. We’ve got three cases right now that are more than likely going to end up in acquittal because of race issues.”

  “I just wanted you to know that I did my best,” Rachel said, rubbing her forehead. “Maybe I did see Townsend reach in and pull out the gun. Sometimes I get so tired, you know? With the extra job and all, I don’t get enough sleep.”

  Atwater stared at her, then waved the attorney from the doorway into his office.

  Rachel stood and walked out, slipping past the man who had been waiting. Mike Atwater was a strange man. One minute he was asking her out on a date, the next he was dismissing her as if he had no interest in what she was saying.

  “Who was that?” Blake Reynolds asked. He was a short, wiry man in his late twenties with neatly trimmed blond hair, his eyes hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses. Carrying a file in his hands, he took a seat facing Atwater’s desk.

  “One of the officers from the Brentwood case,” Atwater told him, plucking a jelly bean out of the jar and tossing it in his mouth. “Her name is Rachel Simmons. What do you think?”

  “I don’t really know all the details of the Brentwood case.”

  “I’m not referring to the case,” Atwater said, his eyes trained on the doorway. “What do you think of her as a woman?”

  The young attorney said, “Are you talking about what I think you’re talking about?”

  “Possibly,” Atwater said. “She’s fresh, cute, not too bright but intriguing. There’s untapped potential there, my friend.”

  “I thought she was a bag lady or something,” Reynolds said, chuckling. Atwater was a notorious womanizer. He had been divorced for a number of years, but to those who knew him, he behaved like a man who had never been married. He seldom dated a woman longer than a month. The women he had been associated with in the past were polished professionals, both striking in appearance and heavy on brains. He courted them relentlessly. As soon as the newness wore off, he discarded them like an old suit, Reynolds’ gaze turned to the framed Mensa certificate on the wall, the track and field medals encased in glass, the Stanford law degree mounted behind Atwater’s desk. Not many people would have the balls to display their accomplishments that way.

  “What could you possibly see in this woman?” he asked. “She isn’t your type at all.”

  “Integrity,” Atwater said, standing and adjusting his tie. “Look around you, Blake. Integrity is in short supply these days. When you put a woman like Rachel Simmons in a police uniform, it’s the same as lighting a stick of dynamite. You know what intrigues me?”

  “No,” Reynolds said, “but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

  Atwater smiled mischievously. “How long will it be before the sparks start flying?”

  Before his colleague could respond, Atwater walked out of the office and disappeared down the corridor.

  c h a p t e r

  THREE

  Because most of the courts were in recess for the noon break, the cafeteria was crowded and noisy. After some searching, Rachel spotted Jimmy Townsend and walked over to his table. Plates were stacked on top of one another, not a morsel of food remaining. “Where have you been?” he said, cleaning his teeth with a toothpick. “I got out of court over an hour ago. I thought you’d left without me.”

  “Well, I see you went ahead and had your lunch,” Rachel said, slightly annoyed that he had not waited. Since she had gone out of her way to give him a ride to the courthouse, the least he could have done was wait so she would not have to eat alone.

  “Can you spot me a ten?” he asked. “I walked out of the house last night without any money. I had to give the cashier an IOU.”

  “Sure,” Rachel said. When she looked through her wallet, though, she could find only seven dollars. “I’m sorry, Jimmy. Can’t you put it on your credit card?”

  “I don’t have a credit card,” he said, his face flushing.

  “But I’ve seen you charge things before,” she said.

  “I have a card, okay,” Townsend snapped. “I can’t use it. I didn’t pay the bill last month.” He stood and walked over to the cashier’s console.

  Rachel took a seat at the table, pushing the stack of plates aside. Seeing a small white receipt, she picked it up and then rea
lized there was not just one receipt but three. Quickly doing the math in her head, she came up with thirty-five dollars. Her eyes went to the stack of empty plates, then drifted over to Townsend. How could anyone have a thirty-five-dollar lunch in the courthouse cafeteria? The food was reasonably priced. Deciding to forgo eating now that it was so late, she walked over to the cash register to tell Townsend she was ready to leave.

  “Catch you next time, buddy,” he told the cashier, following Rachel out of the cafeteria.

  “I thought you were supposed to be on a diet,” she said, eyeing his bulging abdomen. “Aren’t you worried about passing the next physical?”

  “Get off my damn case,” Townsend growled. “I have enough trouble at home right now. I don’t need another woman nagging at me,”

  They exited the building and headed for Rachel’s Nissan Pathfinder in the parking lot. When they reached it, Townsend paused by the passenger door. “What did you say in there? You told them you saw me remove the gun from Brentwood’s pocket, right?”

  Rachel opened her mouth, then closed it. “I told them the truth, Jimmy,” she said, speaking to him over the roof of the car. “If I did see you remove the gun, I don’t remember it.”

  Townsend struck the hood of the car with his palm.

  Rachel flinched, clutching her purse to her chest. “You made me look like a liar,” he yelled. “Isn’t that what you’re telling me? If you weren’t going to support my story, why didn’t you tell me before we got to court? We could have come up with something else.”

  “What? You mean make up a false statement?”

  Townsend lowered himself into the car. Rachel reluctantly took her seat behind the wheel. “I didn’t say that,” he continued. “But we can’t go into the courtroom with two different versions of the same event. Don’t you know how the system works by now? If we waver even an inch, the defense will rip us to shreds and the perp will walk.” The more he talked, the more agitated he became. Generally an easygoing person, he had become extremely tense in recent months. His wife had become pregnant again, with their fourth child, an event the couple had not planned. The pregnancy had been troubled from the onset, and Townsend had found himself responsible for the household chores. His eating habits were out of control and his weight was soaring. “I saved your life out there,” he shouted. “How do you know that asshole wouldn’t have shot you? He could have palmed that .22 I found, then blown your head off the second you tried to cuff him.”

  “I’m sorry, Jimmy,” Rachel told him, forcing herself to remain calm. “Why get into a fight about it now? I’ve already testified. Brentwood might still be convicted on the weapons charge. The trial’s not over yet.”

  “He better be convicted,” the officer said, shaking a stubby finger at her. “No one pisses on a cop and gets away with it. People have to learn to respect authority, Rachel. If we don’t demand respect out there, we’ll end up in a body bag.”

  They both fell silent. Rachel steered the Pathfinder up the on ramp for the 101 freeway, then became stuck in a line of slow-moving traffic. Deciding to take the surface roads instead, she exited and began winding through the hills before dropping down to the valley where the city of Oak Grove was located.

  Most of the businesses in Oak Grove had new facades, and a large shopping center had been erected on the outskirts of the city where another housing development was being constructed. Rachel preferred the older section of town, where there was still an abundance of trees and the storefronts had more character. Several large software companies had recently moved into the area, erecting a triangle of skyscrapers on the land where the fairgrounds had once stood.

  Rachel made a right turn onto Main Street, driving past the Majestic Theater that could no longer compete with the new multiplex cinemas that had sprung up in recent years, the toy store with its navy blue awning, the Heritage Bank, constructed out of pink brick. The Crazy Horse Saloon, the oldest structure in Oak Grove, was now a health food store, but the new owners had not replaced the hand-painted sign that dangled precariously over the front door. Oak Grove had once been a thriving agricultural community, but most of the residents were now baby boomers. The only people driving tractors these days were the developers.

  When Rachel turned down Townsend’s street, a blond little girl riding a tricycle shot out in front of her car. She slammed on her brakes to keep from hitting her.

  “Good Lord,” Townsend said, reaching for the door handle, “that’s Katy.”

  While he leapt out of the car to corral his daughter, Rachel pulled to the curb in front of his house, a modest one-story brick rancher with a large concrete porch. She waited as he chastised his daughter for riding in the street, then returned to the car window. “She could have been run over,” Townsend said, worry etched on his face. “Some of the teenagers on this block drive like maniacs.”

  The earlier tension between them was replaced by concern. “Where’s Lindsey?” Rachel asked.

  “She’s restricted to bed until the baby is born,” he told her. “I’m going to have to hire someone to help with the kids, Rachel. I thought we could get by on our own, but obviously we can’t.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “This pregnancy has turned into a nightmare. I have no idea where I’m going to come up with the money to hire a babysitter.”

  Rachel said, “What about your mother?”

  “She has severe arthritis,” Townsend said. “She could never keep up with my girls.”

  “I’m sorry,” Rachel said. “If I can help in any way, Jimmy, please let me know.”

  Katy ran over to the car and tugged on her father’s sleeve. “Ride, Daddy—”

  Townsend scooped her up in his arms, hoisting her over his head. “How’s the most beautiful girl in the world? Did you miss me, huh? Have you been taking good care of Mommy?”

  “Carry me, Daddy,” the child said, giggling and clapping. “Please, please.”

  “Not until you promise you’ll never go in the street again,” her father told her. “You know the rules, Katy. Daddy loves you. He doesn’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

  Rachel saw the look of joy spreading across Townsend’s face as he placed his daughter on his shoulders. She wanted to confront him about the gun. The statement he had made in the car was suspiciously close to the story Brentwood had told. But seeing him with his little girl, she knew this was not the time. Townsend was a devoted father, a man who worked hard to support his wife and children. Unlike other officers in the department, he didn’t live for the excitement of the job. His father was a retired FBI bureau chief. From what Jimmy had told her, the man had groomed his son from childhood to enter law enforcement. The FBI was extremely competitive, however, and a degree from a first-class university was mandatory. Jimmy had managed to get accepted to Yale, where the FBI did extensive recruiting, but the stress of being in such an intensive academic program had been more than he could handle. His true goal had been to become a teacher. Instead of dropping down to a lesser college and earning his teaching certificate, however, he had listened to his father and joined the police department under the assumption that once he made rank, the FBI would hire him. Townsend had never risen above patrolman, though, and from what Rachel could tell, he had long ago quit trying.

  “Want to come inside?” he asked. “I can make you a sandwich. I have to make the kids lunch, anyway.”

  “I need sleep right now more than food,” Rachel told him, smiling at the grinning child on his shoulders. “Tell Lindsey I said hello. Do you need a ride to work tonight?”

  “No,” Townsend said. “Since Lindsey can’t get out of bed, I might as well start taking the car.”

  Why would Townsend plant evidence? Rachel asked herself as she put the Pathfinder in gear. Brentwood wasn’t an ax murderer. He was a car salesman with an alcohol problem. Waving goodbye, she stepped on the gas and drove off.

  c h a p t e r

  FOUR

  “Where the hell is everyone?” Sergeant Nick Mil
ler barked from the front of the room, looking at his watch and seeing it was ten o’clock.

  It was Thursday night, and Rachel had just reported for duty. After dropping Townsend off, she had gone home and slept until it was time to get up and prepare dinner for her children. Tracy and Joe slept at a neighbor’s house during the hours Rachel was at work.

  Most of the officers arrived at the station in their street clothes and changed into their uniforms in the locker room. Rachel used those extra minutes to visit with her children or catch a bit more sleep. Whereas the rest of the officers assigned to her watch tended to linger in the locker room, gossiping and trading jokes, she was generally the last one to arrive at the station, but the first person to take her seat in the folding chairs facing the large blackboard.

  Rachel picked up one of the “hot sheets” stacked on a long oak table by the door. Produced daily, the sheets listed the license plates of stolen vehicles, outstanding suspects, and other stolen property the officers were to look out for during their watch.

  Officers were still straggling into the room, most of them bleary-eyed and grumpy. Metal chairs rattled, gunbelts squeaked, people coughed and fidgeted. The smell of freshly brewed coffee drifted from a pot on the back table. Someone had brought in a box of donuts, and officers were shoving them in their mouths as they gulped down their coffee. It might be nighttime to the rest of the world, but to the people assembled in the squad room, it was the beginning of a long day.

  A tall, good-looking officer flopped down in a metal chair next to Rachel. “Are you coming to the watch party we’re having Saturday morning?” he asked.

  Considered the best-looking officer in the department, Grant Cummings was in his early thirties and had never been married. His light brown hair was always shiny and clean. He wore it long on top, but shorn neatly around his ears and neck. The shock of hair that frequently tumbled onto his forehead had a pale blond streak from the sun.