Outside the Law Read online

  “Beth?” He looked both surprised and…yes, apprehensive.

  “I c-couldn’t find you and I heard something strange,” she stammered out. “I didn’t mean to spy but, Mitch…” She gained a bit of confidence when he didn’t aim his obvious anger at her. “What the hell is all this?”

  Gasping for air, he slowly rose from straddling the bag and regained his feet. “This is where I work out.”

  “Here?”

  “Why not here? There’s plenty of space for my gear, and no one else is using it. And it’s private. Or it’s supposed to be,” he said pointedly. He grabbed a towel to wipe the sweat off his face, neck and shoulders, then picked up a water bottle, tipped back his head and took a long draw.

  Beth watched, fascinated, as his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down and the cords of his neck flexed and relaxed.

  She shook her head to clear it, ordering her runaway libido into line. Mitch’s body wasn’t hers to ogle. She was here on a mission.

  “What kind of workout is this?” she asked, stalling. “Are you some kind of black belt killing machine?” She said it with a nervous laugh. She’d known Mitch was fit. No one who filled out a pair of jeans and a T-shirt like he did sat in front of a computer all the time.

  “I’m not a black belt anything.” He sounded defensive. “It’s just a good way to stay in shape and work off stress.”

  “Is it working?”

  He peeled off his gloves, which were not like any boxing gloves Beth had ever seen, not that she ever paid much attention. They were small, and didn’t cover his fingers. She’d seen bruises and cuts on Mitch’s hands before, but he claimed to have gotten them doing yard work or fixing his bike.

  “I’m not bouncing off the walls anymore, so, yeah, I guess it helps. Beth, what are you doing here?”

  “Come out of that cage and let’s talk. Please,” she added, since he was under no obligation to speak to her after she’d followed him uninvited and spied on his workout.

  He scooped up his discarded T-shirt and threw it on. Beth mourned the loss as he covered up those beautiful pecs and the washboard abs, but it was better this way. Mitch was distracting enough even when he wasn’t the next closest thing to completely naked.

  Mitch gathered up his gloves, towel and water bottle. But rather than exiting through a gate, he peeled back a section of fencing that had been snipped open with bolt cutters and levered himself through, managing not to catch anything on the raggedly cut chain links.

  But he was bleeding, where that punching bag chain had caught him on the shoulder. “You’re injured.”

  “Hmm?”

  She pointed to his shoulder and he looked, disinterested. “Oh.” He swiped at the blood with his towel, then seemed to forget about it.

  “Doesn’t it hurt? And look at your knuckles.” They were red and swollen, and one of them had a small cut. More blood. Beth was torn between the desire to nurse him with antiseptic and bandages and an even stronger need to turn away in revulsion.

  Revulsion won. Blood in a lab she could deal with—nice, clean blood in a test tube or on a cotton swab. But live, bleeding flesh and blood was not her thing. She’d discovered that at the police academy before she’d been booted out.

  He shrugged, then stopped to hold the back gate open for her. No matter what, Mitch had the manners of a Southern gentleman, one of the things that drew her to him. Along with his calm, easygoing personality.

  Which apparently had been nothing but a facade.

  THAT WAS CLOSE. Panic had coursed through Mitch’s veins right along with the rush of his blood when he’d spotted Beth peering at him through the fence, a colorful tropical flower completely out of context in his personal gym of rust, metal, leather, concrete and sweat.

  He’d thought for sure she would recognize the discipline suggested by his workout. The abbreviated gloves, the combination of punching, kicking and wrestling on the ground screamed mixed martial arts. But though the sport had gained popularity and respectability in recent years, not everyone was into it.

  Sweet Beth apparently had no knowledge or interest in his particular fighting style, because she let his weak explanation ride. That was a good thing; he’d gone to a lot of trouble to keep his sporting life separate from his professional work because neither would enhance the other. What fighter would be intimidated by a computer geek who worked for a charitable foundation? And he didn’t even want to think about the negative fallout should the press get hold of the connection. What if it came out while he was testifying in court?

  Not even Daniel knew about the UFC matches he’d been fighting over the past few years, and it looked as if he could keep it that way awhile longer.

  But that didn’t mean he was home free. He knew why Beth was here, what she wanted him to do.

  He tromped through his backyard and across the brick patio, wishing she was here for some other reason. Like maybe she’d decided his brush with the law turned her on and she wanted some hot, sweaty sex.

  Yeah, he’d thought about it. Plenty of times. Every time he saw her, in fact. But she’d been giving him Do Not Touch signals for so long, he’d given up on that idea.

  He entered his stuffy house through the sliding glass door, knowing she would follow.

  “Mitch, are you going to sit down and listen to me?” she asked as he cruised into the kitchen, ignoring her presence, and grabbed himself the remains of a high-protein energy shake he’d mixed up that morning. What he really wanted was a cold beer, but he never drank the week before a match.

  “I already know what you’re going to say,” he replied wearily. “You want something to drink?”

  “No, thank you,” she said primly. “If you’re so smart, what do you think I’m going to say?”

  He turned to face her in the small galley kitchen, still decorated in all its 1970s glory of red and harvest-gold. Beth’s hot-pink flowered dress made the decor look old and tired. “The same thing you already said. That I should indulge those backwoods cops from back home to answer stupid questions about a crime I know nothing about. Only you’ll probably throw in something about how I should patch things up with my brother. Because he’s family, and family is important.” Beth enjoyed a warm, loving relationship with her parents, two sisters, brothers-in-law, nieces and nephews. “Does that about sum things up?”

  She seemed to shrink a little in the face of his displeasure, and he made a mental note to dial it down a notch. This was Beth, who wouldn’t hurt a fly, and she was here only because she thought she was being helpful. She was his friend. Still, that didn’t mean he wanted her meddling in his überdysfunctional family.

  Usually it took very little to deflect Beth from any line of conversation he didn’t want to pursue. That was one of the reasons he liked hanging with her; she could take a hint when he didn’t want to talk about personal stuff.

  Now, apparently, she wasn’t going to cooperate. She didn’t look as though she was about to back down from this fight. He tried to think of some way to change the stubborn thrust of her chin. His gaze focused briefly on her plump, pink lips.

  A kiss would give her something else to think about.

  “Yes, of course I’m here about your brother’s visit,” she said, bumping his attention back to the matter at hand. “Can we sit down? Will you at least hear me out?”

  “Fine,” he mumbled. He suddenly became aware of his sweaty, bedraggled state. Beth was her usual fresh-as-a-daisy self in her sleeveless, summery dress, and he probably looked awful and smelled worse. “Can I take a shower first?”

  “If you want, but I don’t mind you this way.”

  For half an instant, Mitch read innuendo into her words. His traitorous mind visualized her leaning in and licking the sweat off his neck, like the fight groupies, who hung out at the gym, sometimes offered.

  Then he gave himself a mental smack to the head. This was Beth, his friend, his work buddy, who liked sharing a pizza and watching true crime shows with him so they could make bet
s on who the real culprit would turn out to be. She was just being considerate. How many times did he have to remind himself she was Off-Limits, in capital letters?

  “I’ll be out in five minutes. Go sit down.” He grabbed himself a protein bar on his way out of the kitchen. He was famished. Burning five hundred calories in one forty-five-minute workout could do that to a guy, and he didn’t want to drop any more weight. He was already lighter than most of his light-heavyweight-class opponents.

  When he returned to the living room a few minutes later in jeans and a clean T-shirt, he found Beth sitting stiff-backed on the edge of a chair, looking anything but comfortable.

  Man, this thing with Dwayne and Robby had gotten her all tied into knots. She must be convinced it was some kind of big deal. His heart felt a small twinge for causing her to worry. She didn’t deserve that.

  Mitch sprawled onto the sofa, feeling a little better after his brutal workout, a stinging shower and ingesting a few calories. “All right, Bethy, lay it on me. Say what you have to say.”

  “First, Mitch, Daniel wants you to know that he doesn’t—that no one at work thinks you killed anyone. The notion is preposterous.”

  As hard as he was trying to remain detached, his coworkers’ faith in him touched something soft inside him. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

  “That said, are you out of your mind?”

  Mitch sat up, startled by her vehemence. “Excuse me?” He’d been expecting a much gentler approach from Beth. Some sympathy, maybe.

  “You practically told a law enforcement officer to go to hell. I don’t care if he’s related to you. He was acting in his official capacity.”

  Mitch shook his head. “It might have looked that way to you, but it was personal. He was doing his level best to embarrass me.”

  “Why?” Beth asked. “Why would he do that?”

  He looked at her, an angry retort on the tip of his tongue, then squelched whatever he’d been about to say. She was asking out of genuine concern, not prurient interest.

  “A long and ugly family history,” he finally said. “Dwayne doesn’t have my best interest at heart.”

  “So why don’t you stand up to him? Accept his challenge, prove him wrong.”

  “Look, I appreciate your concern. But the police couldn’t possibly have any evidence against me. I didn’t kill Robby, and I don’t know anything about how he died. He was my buddy.”

  “Mitch.” Beth stood and began pacing. “Who do you work for?”

  “Is this a trick question?”

  “You work for Project Justice,” she said, in a hurry to make her point. “And what is Project Justice’s mission statement?”

  His gaze lingered on her trim calves and thighs. “To free those unjustly imprisoned for crimes they did not commit.” Every employee was required to memorize that statement and be able to quote it backward and forward.

  “And how many people in this country are sitting in prison, right now, for crimes they didn’t commit?”

  “You’re sounding a lot like Raleigh.” And he didn’t mean that as a compliment.

  “Just answer.”

  “The answer is unknown.”

  “True. But it’s in the hundreds, possibly the thousands. How many people has Project Justice exonerated?”

  The total was always posted in the lobby, but he hadn’t looked at it lately. “Sixty-three?”

  “Seventy-two,” she corrected him.

  “Look,” he said sensibly. “The police are on a fishing expedition. They couldn’t possibly have any evidence against me.”

  Suddenly Beth sat down next to him, her face inches from his. “Mitch, listen to yourself. Do you have any idea how many of our clients were convicted on really bad evidence? Circumstantial evidence? Or no evidence? I’ll answer for you. A lot. And do you know what a lot of them say?”

  Mitch could only shake his head. He’d never seen Beth grandstand like this. She could speak eloquently when called for, if it was about DNA or fibers or soil samples. But she never made impassioned speeches. Not around him, anyway.

  Impatient, she answered the question for him. “They say, ‘If I’d known this could happen, I would have taken it more seriously.’” She skewered him so effectively with those big baby-blue eyes that he was afraid she’d soon push him out onto the patio and pop him onto his gas grill. “They say, ‘I would have hired a lawyer from the very beginning.’ Do you want to be one of those people? Do you want to hide your head in the sand until the cops show up with a warrant and handcuffs?”

  The room went deathly quiet. Not even the air-conditioning fan whirred to break the silence. He couldn’t hear a bird outside or a passing car. Just the sound of his heart pounding in his ears.

  Beth, all rosy-cheeked with her passion, was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.

  Clearly she was waiting for him to say something.

  “You think I should go to Coot’s Bayou and answer their questions?”

  Beth seemed to remember herself. She scooted a few inches away from him, looked down and cleared her throat. “Yes.”

  “And you think I need to hire a lawyer?”

  Beth, looking a bit shell-shocked by her own outburst, squeaked out an answer. “Don’t you dare let the police question you without one. Raleigh will go. Eventually you might have to hire someone from the area who knows the local justice system, but she said she can handle the preliminary questioning.”

  “Won’t hiring a lawyer just make it look like I have something to hide?” He couldn’t believe he was actually considering taking Beth’s advice. But she had made several good points.

  “You know what cops do when a suspect agrees to be questioned without a lawyer, right? They stand up and cheer. You used to work for a police department.”

  “Just computer stuff,” he said with a shrug. “I wasn’t anywhere near where they questioned suspects.”

  “Well, know this. A good interrogator can trip you up six ways to Sunday, and every word you say can come back to haunt you during a trial. Let Raleigh be there for you.”

  “Raleigh has her own cases to manage,” he argued, even though arguing was the first step toward defeat. He should have refused to even discuss this with Beth. But he couldn’t bring himself to fling any more harsh words at her. “Traveling to Louisiana to answer ridiculous accusations flung at a coworker falls way outside her job description.”

  “Daniel made it clear,” Beth said quietly. “You are his—everyone’s—priority right now.”

  “I appreciate this unnecessary outpouring of concern,” he tried again. “But as I’ve said before—”

  “He’s going to fire you, Mitch!” Beth said suddenly.

  “What?”

  “Or suspend you or put you on paid leave or something,” she amended. “But he said he can’t have a murder suspect working at Project Justice. It could jeopardize everything he’s worked for.”

  “Ah. So the concern isn’t really for me.”

  “You’re being deliberately obtuse. Would you please just get your ass over to Louisiana to answer the damn charges?”

  “Do I have a choice?” He was getting pissed off all over again, though he knew Beth was only the messenger. A suddenly sexy messenger. Every time her passion rose, so did his. Sure, he’d thought about what it would be like to go to bed with her. She was more than average pretty with a curvy little body that begged for a man’s most lavish attention. But he’d always dismissed the notion as ridiculous—first because they were coworkers, second because they were friends, and third…well, third, she needed a nice boyfriend. She’d gone to a private Catholic girls’ school, for cryin’ out loud. And he was a Cajun street punk. He didn’t know the first thing about how to treat a sweet, classy woman like Beth.

  “Just give the word,” she said, unaware of where his thoughts had skipped, “and Raleigh will arrange for a meeting tomorrow morning. The two of you will drive down first thing.”

  Dammit all to hell. This wasn’t go
ing to go away. “Fine. I’ll go. But I want you there, too.”

  “M-me? Why?”

  “Because you know physical evidence better than anybody. If they have anything—anything at all—I want your take on it. Because if they claim they found something, it’s bogus.” He didn’t add that he wanted a friendly face in the room while those asses in Coot’s Bayou grilled him. Raleigh was a formidable ally, but she was not exactly warm and fuzzy.

  “I’ll clear it with Daniel,” Beth said.

  “Then I’ll go. But only so I can prove y’all wrong.” It galled Mitch to give in to his brother’s manipulations. But if that was what it took to make this problem go away, he’d do it.

  “And ditch the attitude.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “This isn’t funny!”

  He actually smiled. “I’m not used to seeing you all bossy. It’s kind of a turn-on.”

  She didn’t respond to his flirting. Not at all. Instead she stood stiffly and grabbed her purse. “We’ll meet at the office at eight tomorrow morning. And would it hurt you to maybe wear something besides holey jeans and a T-shirt?” With that parting shot, she whooshed out of his living room, out the front door, leaving Mitch to stare at the little hitch in her hips, completely flummoxed.

  He’d thought he had a pretty good handle on Beth McClelland, but her behavior was odd to say the least. Well, what could he expect? Before today, she hadn’t known anything of his sordid past. Now she knew he’d been a car thief. And that he had a half brother he’d never mentioned.

  He was afraid she would know a whole lot more about him that he didn’t want her to know before this ordeal was finished. And their easy friendship might be over.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE COOT’S BAYOU police headquarters hadn’t changed a bit in the past ten years. Oh, the interrogation room where they brought Mitch might have received a fresh coat of paint to cover graffiti left there by suspects, going from gray to a sickly green, but new graffiti had replaced the old. Likewise, the furniture was new, but the table’s veneer was already peeling up, and the cheap metal chairs were bent out of shape, wobbling uncomfortably.