needed. To move up the ladder and provide a better life for her and her young son was her goal. Working here could be the ticket.
She held up her hand to let the visitor know she would be with him as soon as she finished with the call.
“Colt Roger’s office, Devon speaking. How may I help you?” She listened for several seconds. “No, Detective Dantzler, Mr. Rogers is not in. He is meeting with a client. I expect him back around four-thirty or five.”
The man standing by the desk turned and walked away. He went to a table, picked up a copy of Time magazine, and began leafing through it.
“Well, Detective, I know Mr. Rogers has a meeting here tonight at seven,” Devon said. “Yes, I will put you down for six. And, yes, if there is a conflict, or if Mr. Rogers can’t make it, I will have him give you a call. Is there anything else? No? Then I will make sure Mr. Rogers gets your message. Thank you.”
When Devon finished writing on her message pad, she looked up. The man who had been standing there was gone.
Colt Rogers plopped down in the leather chair, opened the brown paper bag, and took out his supper. Egg salad sandwich on marble rye, chips, a generous slice of cheesecake, and a can of Dr. Pepper. Not a meal to rate very high on the nutrition scale, but one he was anxious to dig into. It had been a long, eventful day, and he was famished. At this point, bologna and crackers would have been acceptable supper fare.
Rogers was alone in his office, having let Devon leave thirty minutes before her five p.m. quitting time as a reward for her excellent work. Devon was, he judged, an energetic and enthusiastic worker, far superior to the standard replacements usually sent by the temp agency. He would definitely keep an eye on her. She was someone he would consider as a permanent replacement if Barbara followed through on her promise to retire within the next couple of years.
Rogers had a much more muted opinion of Cheryl Likens, his firm’s paralegal. Cheryl, twenty-six, was lazy and condescending toward virtually everyone she came in contact with. A mediocre paralegal at best, she was an uninspired writer, totally lacking imagination, cleverness, or insight. Her research skills, such as they were, also left much to be desired. Were she not so hot in the sack, Rogers would have fired her months ago. Like it or not, he knew it was only a matter of time until he would have to let her go. Despite her prowess in all matters sexual, she was too much of a liability to the firm to keep on board much longer. He could not allow his carnal desires to cost him money or clients.
He took a swig of Dr. Pepper and sighed out loud. The prospect of severing ties with Cheryl was more than a little disheartening. It was downright depressing. After all, how often does a fifty-nine-year old man have a sexual relationship with a twenty-six-year-old woman, especially one with the looks and body of a Playboy playmate? Once in a lifetime, if the man gets lucky. And if he were being completely honest with himself, he would admit that he hired Cheryl for her body, not for her brains. It had been a regrettable mistake, one that had to be rectified. Saying goodbye to Cheryl was going to be more painful than paying alimony. But he had no choice. It had to be done.
Sandwich and chips devoured, Rogers dug into the cheesecake. It was smooth and creamy, exactly the way he liked it. Plain, too, without some nonsensical chocolate syrup or strawberries lathered on top like an unwanted oil spill. That would only ruin it. No whipped cream, either. Cheesecake was meant to be eaten plain, sans any and all adornments. He had always preferred it that way.
When he finished the cheesecake and Dr. Pepper, he dumped everything back into the brown sack and dropped it into the wastebasket. Leaning forward, he shuffled through the notes Devon had given him before leaving for the day. Three related to phone calls he needed to return; those he would put off until Monday morning. There was a message reminding him of his seven o’clock meeting with Lance Ford, a stockbroker who was embroiled in a war of wills with the Internal Revenue Service. Lance, it seems, had conveniently neglected to list all of his income for the past three years, an oversight the IRS frowned upon. Lance was, Rogers knew, fighting a losing battle with those vultures. His best bet-confess his sins and beg for mercy, not that he should expect any. Those IRS folks are notoriously short on forgiveness.
The last note informed him that Detective Dantzler would be here at six. Rogers looked at his Rolex-it was now five twenty-five. He stood, went to the window, and looked outside. Night was rapidly closing in, those dark clouds off to the east bringing with them the threat of rain. West Short Street was deserted, not a soul in sight. Unusual, especially for a Friday.
Rogers felt like the only person left on the planet.
Standing there, deep in thought, he began to feel a strange heat rushing through his body, scorching his insides. He had the peculiar feeling that his blood was on fire. Butterflies suddenly fluttered in his stomach, a battalion of imaginary winged creatures gone berserk. His legs grew weak, and his breathing became quick and shallow. For a split second, he was certain he was going to pass out.
And he knew why his nerves were so unsteady.
Dantzler.
No secret why he’s coming-to talk about the Reverend. To stick his detective’s nose where it doesn’t belong. To dig up skeletons from the past. To uncover secrets buried by the passage of time.
To shine a light into dark places best left alone.
Rogers struggled to calm his shaky nerves, to get control of his emotions and thoughts. This was no time for weakness, not when facing a guy like Dantzler. He’s a cop, and like everyone else in law enforcement, he sees weakness as one of the absolute signs of untruthfulness. And he has a reputation for sniffing out weakness the way a shark sniffs out a drop of blood miles away in the ocean. Dantzler was known as a furious, hard-edged investigator.
Falter ever so slightly and Dantzler will know. Then he’ll pounce, relentlessly, until you cave in.
Rogers felt as if he were about to lose his supper. He swallowed hard, took several deep breaths, and sat back down. Perspiration dripped from his chin to the desk. The butterflies continued to swarm inside him.
Rogers felt his nerves begin to settle and the butterflies disperse. He had won the internal debate against the coward that lay deep inside him, that quiet but often persuasive voice he continually had to battle, to silence, to drive away from the dark places in his soul.
He was ready for Dantzler
At that moment, Rogers heard a knock at his door. He glanced at his Rolex. Five-forty. Dantzler, true to his reputation, was eager for confrontation. So be it, Rogers murmured to himself. I am also ready for confrontation.
Striding confidently forward, Rogers moved through the outer office and opened the door. Surprise and confusion registered in equal amounts when he saw the man standing in front of him. It was not Jack Dantzler.
It was-
“What are you doing here?” Rogers asked.
The man said nothing as he slowly raised his right arm. In his hand was the most beautiful pistol Colt Rogers had ever seen.
“What the hell?” Rogers said, backing away.
Those were his last words before his face exploded.
CHAPTER TWENTY
