stop with the diner.”
“The one with the motel out back, right?” At least he deserved some enjoyment out of this.
“Right, but sorry, honey, it’s not that kind of emergency. I’ll meet you in the diner. Get us a quiet booth. It’ll be too hot outside to talk in your car.”
“Sure. See you there.” Prescott ended the call, worry gnawing at his gut. Was this the showdown? Was the devil about to demand her due?
The truck stop was ten minutes down the highway. Maybe he should just go on past it and keep driving, or safer yet, turn his big white Cadillac around and go back to Lubbock. But he’d pay a price for that later, Prescott reminded himself. Better to face the music now. At least he’d know where he stood.
By the time he pulled up to the diner, he’d broken out in a cold sweat. As he walked in the door, the window-mounted AC raised goose bumps on his skin. Glancing around, he found an inside corner booth and settled in to wait.
Not wanting to be recognized, he’d left his jacket and bolo tie in the car, kept his sunglasses on, and used a baseball cap to cover his hair. Still, the middle-aged waitress who took his order for coffee was giving him funny looks. Maybe she’d recognized his car out front.
By the time Stella pulled up in her black Buick, Prescott was ready to bolt. He was going to chide her for making him wait, but then, as she sat down across from him, he changed his mind. Her eyes were bloodshot, her makeup creased. She looked as if she’d aged ten years.
When the waitress came with her order pad and her curious eyes, Stella shook her head. “Nothing for me, thanks,” she murmured.
“What is it? Is something wrong?” Prescott asked as the waitress left. His instincts told him Stella was about to ask for a big favor. Even before he knew what it was, he found himself groping for a way out.
She stared down at her hands. Then her fierce tiger-green eyes met his. “That body they found on the Tyler place,” she said. “Did you hear about it?”
“I believe so.” Prescott spoke calmly. Anything bad that happened to the Tylers gave him pleasure. “Some transient growing a patch of weed. At least that’s what I heard on the news. Why? Did you know him?”
She raked a hand through her hair, giving Prescott a glimpse of graying roots. “My brother Nick’s been arrested for the murder,” she said. “The cops found a gun with his prints on it at the scene. But he didn’t do it. So help me God, I’d bet my life on that. Nicky was framed.”
“I’m sorry.” Prescott could sound sincere when he had to. He reached for her hand across the table. “What makes you so sure he’s innocent?”
“I’ve known him all his life. Pretty much raised him while our mother was off with her boyfriends. Nicky’s no angel, but he’s not a killer. Besides, he’d never even met the man. Why the hell would he go all the way out to the Tylers’ and shoot him?”
Prescott listened as the story spilled out of her—the Glock, registered to her name, missing from the drawer; the finding of the weapon at the murder scene, and her brother’s arrest. He knew, of course, what was coming next. She’d want him to intervene. But he couldn’t do that—especially not with an election coming up. He braced himself as Stella made her pitch.
“I’ve done plenty for you, Garn. Those TV ads my money paid for have brought in enough backing to put you out front in the polls. I never meant to ask for anything in return. But now I need your help.”
“I’ll do what I can,” he said, knowing what she wanted. “But—”
“No buts!” Her eyes blazed into his. “You’re a powerful man. You know people—the district attorney, the judges, the state attorney general, even the governor. Half of them are your damned drinking buddies. They’ll listen to you.”
A couple of truck drivers had turned on the barstools to look at them. Prescott was beginning to squirm.
“Stella, it’s not that simple.”
“I don’t care! It’s not like I’m asking you to lie. My brother was framed by somebody who stole the gun. He’s innocent!”
“If that’s true, get yourself a good lawyer and put your faith in the American judicial system. Trust the jury to—”
“The jury will take one look at those tattoos and vote guilty. What’s it going to take? More money? I’ve got that.”
“Stella—”
She rose, leaning over the table. “You owe me, Garn! Whatever advantage I gave you, I can take back. You’ve got twenty-four hours before your magic coach turns into a pumpkin. That’s it. I can hurt you. Don’t make me do it.”
Squeezing out of the booth, she spun away and stalked out of the diner. Seconds later, tires spitting gravel, the Buick roared out of the parking lot.
The two truckers at the bar had turned their backs, making a show of minding their own business. But they’d no doubt gotten an earful. The waitress had probably been listening, too.
Prescott sat still for a moment, feeling the effects of his rocketing blood pressure as his world threatened to implode. Stella had given him twenty-four hours, and he knew she meant business. There had to be somebody he could call—if nothing else, just to show he was trying.
Acting Sheriff Sweeney would be taking credit for the arrest to boost his run for office. He wouldn’t want anybody to know he might have jailed the wrong man. Clay Drummond, the county prosecutor, was a hard-nosed s.o.b. who’d rather lose a finger than lose a case. Prescott could cross both of them off his mental list right now. Prescott had played golf and shared drinks with a couple of the judges, but he didn’t know who would be on the case. And even if he did, how could he explain his asking a favor on behalf of a woman like Stella? As for the governor or the state attorney general, one word to either of them would be political suicide.