If she had any involvement in his drug case or Priscilla Parker’s apparent suicide, he would find it. And he’d do what he had to, without being swayed by her exotic good looks or her sad childhood.
“Jess or Jessica Parker. Got it. Anyone else?”
“Yeah, Stanley Branch, the chief of police.”
“Think you might have a dirty cop?”
“Probably not.” Conceited? Yes. Condescending? Definitely. But dirty? Not likely. Too much effort for him. It never hurt to check, though.
He disconnected the call and let his head rest against the back of the couch. Across the room, a large plate glass window invited in the morning sunshine. At the corner, where Oak Avenue met Main Street, a directional sign hung from a wooden frame. He couldn’t see it from his vantage point on the second floor, but he’d read it earlier—Hope Community Church, with an arrow pointing down Oak. After getting settled in yesterday afternoon, he’d followed the sign to the small brick building two doors down. The service times were posted out front, beneath one of those changeable banners that currently read “Come as you are; you can change inside.” Maybe Sunday he would go.
Sometimes he got to attend church. Usually he didn’t. It depended on the assignment. When he was trying to blend with the bad guys, it was out of the question. Unless the bad guys attended. Occasionally they did.
He released a wistful sigh. That was something he missed, being active in the church in Columbus, Ohio where he’d grown up, worshiping with people he’d known all his life, enjoying monthly dinners on the grounds with Tricia Duncan’s homemade mac and cheese and old Mrs. Wilson’s blackberry cobbler. Now, far too many Sunday mornings involved watching services on TV, alone in an empty motel room or apartment. It made a poor substitute.
That fellowship with other Christians was just one of the things he’d given up when he left the local police force to join the Bureau. There were others. Sleeping in his own bed three hundred fifty nights of every year. Getting together with lifelong friends. Having a social life that was the real deal.
But his career choice had its advantages too. The schedule kept him from dwelling too much on past mistakes. He got to see places he would otherwise never visit. He’d met more people in the last two years than he had in the prior ten. And always at the end of an assignment, he could walk away, because he was never in the same place long enough to form any real emotional bonds.
Never again would his affections put another person’s life in danger. Never again would someone close to him pay the ultimate price for his drive to see justice done.
And that was worth everything he’d given up.
Chapter Three
Jessica stood in front of the bank of elevators at the Polk County Courthouse, clutching the folded sheet of notebook paper. She had retained a probate attorney, Harmony Grove’s own Mark Downing. Mark requested an emergency hearing, and the hearing had been granted. Super fast. He said he’d pulled some strings. That was the good news.
She lowered her gaze to the paper and scanned the words she’d scrawled there yesterday—Wednesday, 2:30, Judge Daniel Peterson, Courtroom 7B.
That was the bad news.
Of all the judges in Polk County, why did she have to get stuck with Peterson? He was a juvenile judge. At least he used to be. Mark said he transferred out five years ago. She hoped he wouldn’t hold the past against her. He would definitely remember her. She’d appeared in his courtroom too many times.
The bell dinged and the elevator doors opened, beckoning her in. As soon as she stepped off on the seventh floor, Mark met her. When she’d left home as a troubled teen, he’d been in his second year of community college. Now she was back, and he had a J.D. after his name. The Harmony Grove attorney was fine. The Harmony Grove judge she could do without. Maybe those were the strings that Mark had pulled to get the speedy court date.
When the bailiff called them into the courtroom, Jessica slid onto one of the wooden benches and Mark sat next to her. As she waited for her case to be called, she forced herself to stay calm. Unlike every other time she’d occupied one of these rooms, she wasn’t in trouble. But that knowledge didn’t keep the perspiration from her palms or slow her rapid pulse. She didn’t have jail to fear, but she still needed to be successful.
Finally, the bailiff called them forward. Judge Peterson read the pleadings without a flicker of recognition in his steel-gray eyes. Then he invited Mark to speak.
“Your Honor, in view of the fact that Priscilla Parker left no will, we are requesting that you appoint her sister, Jessica Parker, to be administrator of the estate, with the authority to handle Priscilla’s financial affairs.”
Judge Peterson’s gaze raked her from head to toe. Oh, yeah. He remembered her. There was no doubt. She squared her shoulders. She wasn’t coming before him as a rebellious teenager, in trouble yet again. She was presenting as a responsible woman. Her whole appearance screamed professional, from the well-fitting charcoal blazer to the red silk blouse underneath, to the matching skirt whose hem, when she was standing, rested a modest three inches above her knees.
“Miss Parker, approach the bench.”
She rose from the chair and walked to the front. “Yes, Your Honor?”
“Has next of kin been notified?”
“Your Honor, I am next of kin.”
“What about your mother?”
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Maybe parents did take precedence over siblings when determining next of kin. But in her case, it was a moot point, at least in the immediate future. Her first day back, she’d learned that her mother had put the house in Priscilla’s name and taken
