Prologue

7:45 a.m., Friday, April 26.

Clockwork. Joey appreciated it -- especially when he was planning random acts of violence. For fifteen years, killing in all its myriad forms had been his job. He was good at it.

He'd watched the lawyer's office and home for more than two weeks getting the patterns of her life and those of her office staff down like they were his own. In all the jobs Joey had done in the past, he'd made it a matter of pride to make a good, clean kill the first time. To do that, organization and planning were the keys. Joey had it set in his mind now, and today was the day. By ten o'clock this morning, Brigit Bauer was going to die -- a victim of an extremely well-planned, random act.

Joey strolled into the building where Brigit had her office and headed for the stairs leading to the second floor. Of the few people in the building, not one paid any attention to him. Joey knew himself to be a nondescript person, which was good for a career hit man. People never seemed to remember him. If they did, he wouldn't be so good at his job.

As was the norm for this time of day, the second floor of Morrison Opera Place was deserted. The building, a rehabilitated theater from the '30s, had a fifty per cent vacancy rate, making it perfect for Joey's purposes. He met no one as he took the fire stairs from the back of the second floor hall up to the third where the lawyer's office was located.

His timing was on the mark. The secretary had gone down the hall to get water for the coffee. During his reconnaissances, he'd noted it was her practice to stop and gossip with the receptionist in the advertising firm near the restrooms. Joey knew she would be gone for fifteen minutes -- never more and never less - and more than enough time for him to plant the vehicle of the lawyer's demise.

Moving the few steps from the fire stairs door, Joey slipped through the open doorway into the office. Glancing from side to side, he moved down a dimly lit, book-lined hallway to what he'd surmised was a break area. In this room, he found the pastries the secretary had picked up that morning at a bakery down the street from the office building. Among those pastries was what he'd learned was the lawyer's favorite, a blueberry cake donut.

Habits, both bad and good, were devices used by Joey. Many of his victims had been brought down by their slavish devotion to their routines, their addictions. Brigit Bauer's fetish for blueberry donuts for breakfast would be her downfall.

Taking the capped syringe filled with Oleander sap from his pocket, Joey injected the fast-acting poison into the donut. She would never know what hit her.

Personally, Joey would have planned a more dramatic end for the lady, but his employer wanted it to look like an accidental death, a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, like the Tylenol poisonings many years ago. Since variety had always been one of his calling cards, Joey didn't mind a bloodless hit once in a while. In fact, an occasional hit of this type was good for his reputation; it showed he was creative and cunning. He prided himself on the fact that no two hits were ever alike.

Pocketing the recapped syringe, he left the office. No one had seen him. It had taken him less than three minutes in the office. Five minutes later, he sauntered out of the building and down the street where he entered a coffee shop to wait on the results of his morning's work. He'd continue to watch the building until she came to work and, then, until the ambulance or police came. Only after he was sure his job was done, would he call his client and arrange to get the rest of his money - $50,000 for a piece-of-cake hit.

CHAPTER ONE

8:15 a.m. Friday, April 26.

Gasping, Brigit awoke. Brushing tears from her face, she sat up. Damn. It had been a year since Joseph's death and several months since she'd last had the dream. Why now? Just when she'd decided to get on with her life.

Maybe because you still blame yourself.

Who else could she blame? She'd stood there and watched her husband die. Done nothing, just stood there.

The sound of the clock radio blaring out Guns & Rose's "Welcome to The Jungle," a morning thunderstorm, and her phone ringing finally startled her out of her morbid memories.

Fumbling for the portable phone, she put it to her ear and mumbled, "Hel-l-lo?" The nausea she always felt post-dream threatened to engulf her. She beat it down and concentrated on her secretary's rambling speech. With her free hand, she pushed her long auburn hair out of her eyes and glanced at the clock, double-checking to see if she'd overslept. Nope, she hadn't.

"Slow down, Rita."

"Did I wake you?"

"Yes, but the clock radio went off at the same time, so don't worry about it." No way was Brigit going to admit she'd been awakened by the dream, no, nightmare, again. Rita already thought Brigit was too hard on herself.

Brigit swung her legs out of bed. "Now, what were you trying to tell me about the Willises? They aren't due until nine o'clock."

"They're here now . . . and they're arguing already." Brigit could hear the mixture of irritation and upset in her secretary's voice. She could also hear loud voices in the background. Oh brother. Poor Rita.

Rita was into peaceful auras. The Willises, she'd once informed Brigit, had dark auras, not at all peaceful. She'd also told Brigit her aura was slightly sick but could be improved with positive thinking. Brigit didn't disbelieve her on that point; she just didn't have the energy most days to be positive. Work was the way she survived. Her work had saved her sanity. Today wouldn't be any different.

"Okay, separate them the two of them," sighed Brigit. "Put one in my office and one in the small conference room. All I need is for the mediation to be over before it even starts." As she walked into the bathroom, Brigit listened to Rita's interpretive and highly amusing account of the couple's current arguments.

God knew she wasn't particularly looking forward to this morning's session. In the past eighteen months, the Willises had essentially dug into their respective trenches and were engaging in a pitched battle over everything they'd ever accumulated in their twenty-year marriage. Fred wanted out to marry his twenty-something secretary, but he also wanted to keep his lifestyle--or at least his new love, with her 38DD-hold on him, wanted to maintain his lifestyle. Ruth wanted to make him pay through the nose and have no lifestyle at all.

Brigit had gotten the impression that Ruth, if she felt she could get away with it, would just as soon erase her soon-to-be ex and his little indiscretion off the face of the earth.

The couple's respective lawyers now expected Brigit to work miracles. Her gut told her it wasn't in the cards on this one. But then again, she'd never been one to give up on a case. Brigit hated to lose - not reaching a settlement in a mediation was losing as far as she was concerned.

Recalling herself once more, she spoke into the phone, "You'll do fine. Treat them like you do your brothers. Smile and tell them what you want them to do. I'll get there as fast as I can."

Brigit couldn't help but laugh as Rita started to chant her mantra for the day, which sounded very much like "just do it," then hung up. She could always trust Rita to make her day a bit brighter. Her secretary might be New Age crazy, but she was otherwise quite competent and a joy to be around. Bossing around eight brothers had given Rita a lot of practical experience in grace with humor under fire. Brigit knew the Willises would be shuffled to the designated rooms before they even realized what had hit them.

Yes, she thought, as she turned on the shower, it was going to be a lovely morning. Whatever had made her believe mediation was a kinder and gentler profession than law, she'd never know.

Humming along with the radio, Brigit stepped into the shower. Going over her schedule, she knew her day would keep her too busy to dissect the reasons why she was having the dream again. After refereeing the Willises for about three hours, she'd go to Probate Court and spend the rest of her day watching her client and her client's sister fight over their poor old mom's debilitated person. Legal sororocide without the blood. Brigit's only consolation was her client seemed to be the lesser of two evils. At least, she paid her bills. Joseph had taught her to appreciate that in a client. She smiled remembering all the times he'd pulled her in his office and said, "You did the work, didn't you? So don't feel guilty about charging for it." Then, he'd give her that amused smile and tell her he loved her.

Good God. Now she was getting maudlin. Grief and she had a love-hate relationship. In order to conquer the myriad of emotions she'd been feeling since Joseph's death, she'd set herself a task, sort of like the twelve Labors of Hercules minus eleven. Brigit had approached the Near East Side Community Organization and offered them her legal services in gaining historic preservation for the area. Her price - - free - - had been right. It wasn't going to be easy, but she'd eventually beat the city of Indianapolis and the developers. What better memorial to her dead husband than saving his beloved neighborhood from wrecking balls? Maybe, then, she could be at peace.

From her closet, Brigit pulled out several suits and threw them aside. Nothing appealed to her. She was only twenty-eight for God's sake. Everything in her closet was navy blue, gray or black, chosen to mimic the masculine world in which she worked. Joseph's world of movers and shakers. Frowning over one more boring navy blue suit, she caught a flash of bright pink at the back of her closet. Shoving clothes aside she pulled out a Chanel suit with a very short skirt that Joseph had urged her to buy in New York. The memories of drinks at Elaine's and then dinner at Tavern on the Green made her feel good. Then she got mad - - at herself, at the person she'd allowed herself to become. Damn, she was tired of looking and feeling dead and buried. Joseph would have been the last person to wish her to feel this way. She'd wear the suit. Starting today, she was going to cultivate a positive attitude. She couldn't change the past, but she sure could make an attempt to control her future. The world had better watch out the new battle-ready Brigit was about to make an appearance.

He'll like it. Shake him up a bit.

She grimaced. Where in the hell had that come from? Him who?

You know where it came from. Admit it. There's another reason you want to get on with your life.

"Shut up!" shouted Brigit. She couldn't deny it. Lately, she'd been dreaming about another man - - NESCO Board member, Tony Pendrake with his gray eyes, longish black hair, craggy looks and the muscled build of a decathlete, and the reason her subconscious was torturing her. Brigit knew he was a legend in the neighborhood. His background as a Navy SEAL and , if the rumors were true, his heroics in his civilian profession as a security troubleshooter qualified him as every woman's idea of a wet dream. Rita called him one hot stud. Brigit had to agree.

Admit it, you've got the hots for him.

As much as she'd like to deny it, she couldn't. Six months ago, she would've called anyone a fool for thinking she'd look forward to being in the same room with a man like Tony Pendrake. He scared her. He fascinated her. Hell, he wasn't even her type, nothing at all like Joseph, who had been urbane and civilized.

Grabbing her briefcase, Brigit set the security alarm and left her house. She pulled out of the garage and headed to her office, five minutes away on a good day, but with the thunderstorm, she'd bet it would be more like ten. Indianapolis rush hour was in full swing; she'd missed the window of opportunity for light traffic.

As she inched along from traffic light to traffic light, Brigit reflected on her past dating experiences and marriage and came to the conclusion they were similar to her Volvo -- staid and safe, involving tame, yuppie professionals, who'd probably never protected anything but the finish on their new BMWs from hailstorms.

Tony wasn't safe or tame. He made her madder than anyone had in her whole life. Considering that some of the lawyers she'd opposed in court were assholes and snakes, that was saying a lot. Some days she swore he did it on purpose, just to see how she'd react, testing her for some devious reason of his own.

He'd be at the meeting tonight.

8:30 a.m., Friday, April 26.

Wincing at the pain in his injured shoulder, Tony Pendrake stretched his legs out as far as the first class seats would allow. This assignment had been rough -- the evidence of just how rough was the very ugly hole in his shoulder courtesy of a terrorist's bullet. Discounting the wound, the mission had been successful. The Manders Drug Company now had their top research scientist back only slightly worse for the wear.

Defusing kidnappings committed by terrorists was one of his company's specialties.

Yes, he thought, Manders' was extremely happy with the result. The remuneration for this job would make Tony and T.P. Security wealthier. But right now, he just wanted to get off the damn plane and stretch his legs.

Ivan Ivanovich, his associate on the Manders' case, leaned over and whispered to Tony, "Do you think she's offering her very ample treasures to you or me?" Tony knew Ivan was referring to the stewardess who'd been displaying her cleavage to both men every chance she got.

"Well, if she's offering them to me, I'm not buying. Go for it if you're interested."

"I'm not, but I'm surprised you aren't. She is very sexy, dah?" Ivan laughed, then sobered. "You have been very quiet since we left Heathrow. Is your wound bothering you that much?"

Tony rotated the injured shoulder slightly. "Yeah, it itches, but that's not what's keeping me from taking that woman up on her offer. I find that I'm not into chasing all the available tail, or whatever, anymore. I'm thinking about finding a more permanent relationship."

"Does that relationship have a name?" Ivan's Russian accent became more pronounced. "Someone like Brigit Bauer?"

"That obvious, huh?" Shocked to know he'd been so transparent, Tony turned to his friend. Hell, he'd only realized he wanted her about a month ago.

"Dah. All of us, we have noticed. It has been very hard not to. You mention her quite frequently. You argue with her at all the meetings for no other reason that we can determine than to attract her attention to you or away from the other men." Ivan hesitated as if searching for the words. "You even gave her a pet . . . no, that is not the word. Ah, dah, a nickname. You've given her a nickname."

"That's it?" Tony was pretty disgusted he'd been so easy to read. He wondered if Bree realized his feelings, too, since it seemed all of his co-workers had figured it out. Some covert operative he was. He must be getting old.

Ivan grinned. "There is one more thing. We all noticed you haven't looked at another woman in months. We have a bet . . ."

Tony rose up in his seat groaning at the shooting pain caused by the sharp movement, glared at Ivan, then gritted out, "Bet. What kind of bet?"

Ivan didn't respond right away. Tony knew his partner wasn't afraid of him. Ivan could handle himself, even against Tony. He'd wager Ivan was attempting to choose his words carefully. "A bet on when you would make your move on Bree."

Tony controlled the surprising surge of anger he felt and hissed, "So, who's going to win?"

The wary look Ivan gave him caused Tony to smile. "Ah, Turk . . . he predicted you would take your time. Me . . . I lost months ago. I've never known you to wait before." Ivan shrugged his shoulders in chagrin. "Dermo, uh, shit, Tony, you aren't mad about this little bet, are you?"

"No, I'm furious. Bree isn't the type of woman whose name is bandied about and mentioned in randy bets. She's a lady."

"You are really serious about this woman then?" Ivan's left brow lifted.

"Yes. Very serious. I intend to be the only man in her life. After this trip, I've decided I may need to move faster than I'd planned."

Tony rubbed the spot where he'd been shot. A few more inches to the right and he'd have been dead. Yeah, life was too short to wait. His plan to storm her prickly defenses one brick at a time would have to be scratched.

He'd chosen Bree. Now, whether she would allow a beat up warrior like him into her life was another question. He knew he didn't match up with her dead husband for class, looks or manners. He wasn't even sure she liked him much . . . but he'd change all that. One thing he was good at was winning. Tonight, he would start the all out war to win her. Tony had no thoughts of losing this battle for love. The word "lose" wasn't in his dictionary.

9:00 a.m. Friday, April 26.

Fred Willis was nervous, and when he was nervous, he got hungry. His bitch of a wife was trying to destroy him both financially and personally. He was afraid she could do it.

After twenty years of marriage, he knew Ruth was one who got even, rather than mad.

Dorrie would leave him if he were broke, and Ruth knew that. So she was doing her best to get everything including his blood. Someday he might wonder if fantastic sex was worth all this aggravation, but that day hadn't arrived yet.

The mediation was his lawyer's idea. His over-paid legal eagle hoped the mediator would find a middle ground, but -- and he had to give the mediator credit for trying even though she was just another skirt -- Ruth wouldn't budge. She was one stubborn bitch.

That hippie secretary was smart in putting the old battle-ax and him into separate rooms until the mediator got there. Ruth would've just started in on him making snide comments about his Lolita-like girlfriend.

Fifteen more minutes and the mediator would be there, then he could concentrate on fantasizing about making it with her and spacing out Ruth. But until then, he needed something to eat; the coffee the secretary had given him wasn't going to hack it.

Leaving the room was not an option. He'd have to walk past the conference room where his wife was waiting. Knowing her, she would make some bitchy remark about his expanding waistline. It wasn't fair; she'd never had a weight problem.

Fred had been eyeing a donut on Brigit's desk since he walked into the room. He reasoned the secretary must have put it there for him. After all, the mediator was too svelte to eat donuts. Yeah, he thought, that donut had his name written all over it.

Fred sat down with his coffee and bit into the blueberry donut. His last thoughts were Ruth would get everything.

CHAPTER TWO

9:15 a.m., Friday, April 26.

Brigit heard the sirens before she saw them.

As she turned onto Meridian Street to get to her parking garage, the emergency vehicles blocked the street in front of her building. Premonitions of death and destruction to her staff and office skittered through her mind as she turned into the garage.

Please, God, don't let it be someone I know.

Then, it crossed her mind that her first appointment -- Ruth and Fred Willis-- were not exactly on amicable terms as evidenced by the argument in the background during the phone call with Rita.

Driving onto the fourth level, she scanned the area as she pulled into her assigned spot directly across from the elevator. Even though she was worried, old habits die hard. She double-checked the area around her car as she got out. The crisis in her office building could wait the few extra seconds it took for her to be sure no attackers lurked in the darkness. Better to be safe than mugged.

After clicking the lock button on her key ring, she rushed to the elevator and breathed a sigh of relief when it came immediately upon pushing the button. She hated parking garages. It was one of the main reasons she moved downtown into one of the newly gentrified neighborhoods after Joseph had died. It allowed her to walk to work. The rain and her schedule had precluded that today.

Pushing her way through the crowd gathered outside, she entered her building. At a glance she took in the coroner's people removing a body on a gurney and several uniformed cops talking with other tenants. Brigit's throat tightened on a gasp of fear. Rita. Had something happened to Rita?

She hurried over to the first available cop. "Officer, I'm Brigit Bauer. I own this building. My offices are on the third floor. Could you tell me what's going on here?"

The officer looked at Brigit, and replied, "Let me take you to the investigating officer, Ms. Bauer. He'll want to talk to you."

"Why? Is it one of my staff? . . . Please tell me . . ." Brigit broke off on another gasp, her stomach cramped with fear. Something had happened in her offices.

As she and the officer got off the elevator on her floor, she saw Rita. The moments of terror and worry for her friend vanished in tears of relief. Rushing away from the police officer, Brigit held open her arms and cried out in a strangled voice, "Rita."

Rita turned. A thank-God-you're-here smile replaced what Brigit imagined to be anger on her secretary's face. Leaving a large black man in a rumpled raincoat, Rita, a New Age vision in violet gauze and tinkling bells, hurried over. In a flurry of skirts and jingling, she enveloped Brigit in a quick hug, and then pulled her further away from the large man, who'd followed her whirling dervish of a secretary.

"Ms. Rossovich!" The large man bellowed. "I wasn't through with you yet."

"Brigit, I'm so glad you're here!" Rita turned and glared at the angry man as he closed the distance to the women. "Take a chill pill, Adams. I'm not going anywhere."

Showing the stunned man her back, Rita lowered her voice. "Something terrible has happened. . . . I don't know how it could've. I separated them the way you told me to . . . and then, it . . . happened."

"Calm down, Rita. What happened?" Keeping a wary eye on the disgruntled man whom she assumed was a cop, Brigit dug her heels into the carpet and stopped their progress. "Why is there a plain clothes cop here?" Aware of the angry man once again approaching them, she turned Rita around to face her and gently shook her. "Will you please tell me who's dead before that man gets over here and nips this tete a tete in the bud?"

"It's Fred Willis. Lieutenant Adams, the human volcano, has ordered everyone to stay in the building until he has a chance to question them. . . ." Rita took a gasping breath. "He put Ruth in the large conference room with a guard." Rita leaned closer and whispered in Brigit's ear, "I think the Lieutenant thinks she did it."

Whispering back, "Why would he think that?"

Rita blew out a disgusted breath. "Ruth sort of lost it when the cops showed up. She laughed and kept saying the bastard deserved to die."

Brigit moaned, "Jesus Christ." Pinning Rita with a glare, she asked, "Could she have done it?"

The bells around Rita's neck jingled harshly with her emphatic shaking. "No. Absolutely not. She'd have to have gone by me and, I swear it, she didn't. Besides, it looked like a heart attack."

"Did you tell the Lieutenant that?" Brigit breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the large detective had been temporarily waylaid from interrupting Rita and her. She was surprised he hadn't had someone haul them off to different rooms. He must be fairly sure Ruth had done it. Or, he was just sloppy in crime scene techniques.

"Yes." Rita's angry answer set the bells off again. "I've told him and told him, but he still thinks she did it. . . . She couldn't have unless she went through the walls. The man . . .," jerking her head in the Lieutenant's direction, ". . . is tunnel-visioned. It was a heart attack - - pure and simple."

Brigit took Rita's diagnosis of Fred's cause of death with a grain of salt. Besides her interest in anything New Age, Rita was one of those people who constantly read about health and nutrition and knew just enough to be dangerous. But, she also knew Rita never lied. Ruth had not gotten by Rita to get to Fred.

"Why don't we wait on the coroner's report? There must be all sorts of logical explanations about how Fred died. As long as you're sure, Ruth didn't do it, then that's good enough for me."

"Thanks, Brigit" Some of Rita's earlier tension left her face. "Now all you have to do is convince the Lieutenant. The man is dense. He made me so mad I could have spit."

The "he" in question was, by now, wearing one of the fiercest expressions Brigit had ever seen. Boy, did he look pissed.

"Let's go talk to this Lieutenant. Have you already given an official statement?"

"No. I told them I wouldn't until you got here. He was just accusing me of covering up for Ruth when you arrived. Well, actually he accused me of aiding and abetting Ruth in offing her husband. The man's a raving lunatic . . . and he hates women."

Brigit groaned. Just what she needed - - a dense, male chauvinist pig with a chip on his shoulder and the predilection for the easy answer. Warily, Brigit approached the detective.

"Lieutenant, I'm Brigit Bauer. Ruth and Fred Willis are -- or were-- my clients. My secretary has told me what happened and thinks you don't believe her interpretation of how Fred died.

The three seemed to be an island amid the flow of the crime scene techs around them. While Brigit waited for the officer to answer her question, a part of her noted the techs dusting, vacuuming, and bagging. Another part could sense, almost taste, the anger flowing from the large black man in front of her. She wondered if he would explode before he answered her question - - if he answered her question.

Lieutenant Adams scowled at Brigit. "Just what were your clients here for today, Ms. Bauer?"

Brigit hated being called "Ms. Bauer" especially in the condescending tone of voice the Lieutenant used. She counseled herself to be patient. "I was the Willises' court-appointed domestic mediator, Lieutenant, and that is about all I can tell you."

Before she'd even finished answering, the Lieutenant's demeanor went from scowling to glowering. Somehow, Brigit sensed the Lieutenant wasn't going to be satisfied with that answer.

Tough.

"Ms. Bauer, I'm going to rephrase my question just in case you didn't understand me." Brigit gritted her teeth at the sneer in his voice. "I would like to know exactly why your clients felt the need to consult a mediator? Were they having problems? Were they fighting?" The Lieutenant spat out the questions, his tone changing from vitriolic to hostile in the space of three short questions.

What's this guy's problem?

Brigit bit back the hasty words rising to her lips.

Maybe he just pulled an all night shift. Or his blood sugar is low. He hasn't had his caffeine fix for the morning. Calling the man a deaf bastard isn't going to help the situation.

Brigit breathed deeply to calm herself. Having trained as a domestic mediator, calm was something she was good at projecting. Once she was sure she wouldn't call the man an idiot, she replied, "And I repeat. I really can't go into what the Willises were doing in mediation. Mrs. Willis has the right to expect me to maintain confidentiality. Now, if you would give me some idea of why you want to know and allow me to speak with Mrs. Willis, then maybe I can help you."

"Ms. Bauer." The Lieutenant's tone now mimicked the roar of a large predatory beast seeking fresh prey. Obviously, projecting calm hadn't worked with this guy. "This is the scene of an unexpected death. Until I know differently, I am treating it as a homicide. Therefore, I will collect evidence and information as if it were a homicide."

Gathering steam, Adams stuck his large, fat finger in Brigit's face and used it to drive his points home. "Right now, my men are collecting evidence in the room where Mr. Willis was found and with or without your permission, we WILL eventually collect evidence elsewhere in your offices. Also, everyone who was here WILL be questioned, especially those with a possible motive, like an estranged spouse." The Lieutenant paused, nailed Brigit with a steely glare, and roared, "So, I ask you again. Why were the Willises' here?"

That did it. Unappreciative of the Lieutenant's manner and tone, Brigit lost it. Going nose to nose with the much taller man, she yelled back. "And . . . I repeat. I can . . . not . . . and will . . . not . . . tell you anything until I speak with Mrs. Willis."

Forcing her own brand of acid into her voice, Brigit took a stand. "I now have to assume you suspect Mrs. Willis of having something to do with Mr. Willis's unexpected demise. Yet, you haven't arrested her. This indicates to me you have nothing, Adams. You can't continue to detain her without reading her the Miranda warning and allowing her to have an attorney present. Since you have done nothing, you are holding her here against her will." Poking the cop in the chest with her index finger, she concluded. "Legally, you have to let her go."

"Don't tell me my job, why I was . . . "

Brigit interrupted the sputtering man before he got any further. "Either question Mrs. Willis with her lawyer present or let her go."

Reverting to sarcasm, the Lieutenant retorted, "You're a lawyer, right? Let's go -- to make you happy I will Mirandize her. We can get this all taken care of."

As the Lieutenant turned to lead the way into the offices, he threw out, "For your information, I am allowed to interview witnesses, Miz Bauer. But Mrs. Willis was so uncooperative I figured she had something to hide -- and I think you know what it is! So, let's go talk to Mrs. Willis!"

"Sorry, Lieutenant, nice try. But no can do." Brigit grinned at the look of total stupefaction on the detective's face. She heard Rita stifle a giggle behind her. "I can't represent Mrs. Willis as counsel. I'm her mediator."

"You can't do much, can you?" sneered the Lieutenant. He closed the short distance between them. "Just what in the hell can you do?" he asked, looking her up and down only stopping to fix a leering gaze on the expanse of legs displayed by the short skirt Brigit wore.

Damn. The man is ogling your legs. Creep.

"Listen, I don't know what your problem is," hissed Brigit, "and quite frankly I don't care. But you and I both know you can't continue to hold Mrs. Willis without reading her rights. So, either do it so I can get her legal counsel today, or tell her she can go home. She can come down to the station tomorrow with her lawyer and give a statement."

Brigit could tell by the stony faced silence that Adams knew she was right. She could also tell by the lethal looks he was giving her that he didn't like it.

Taking advantage of the silence, she pressed. "What's it gonna be, Lieutenant? Right now, you don't know what caused Fred Willis to fall over dead. For all you know, Rita could be right and Fred died of a heart attack. Personally, I think you're stretching it to think you can show that Ruth Willis killed her husband while they were in separate rooms."

"Go tell Mrs. Willis she can go," the Lieutenant growled. "But she needs to be at the station at nine o'clock in the morning -- with her legal counsel. And, I want you and Tinkerbell," pointing to Rita, "there tomorrow also. Bright and early, so if Mrs. Willis says so, you can answer my questions. Does that meet with your approval?"

Realizing this was the most cooperative the man could be, Brigit nodded. "That'll work. By the way, don't bother getting a search warrant for the rest of the office space. You have my permission. We have nothing to hide here."

Ignoring Brigit's concession, the Lieutenant turned his back on her and Rita as he stalked over and yelled at one of the crime scene techs.

"Asshole," muttered Rita. "Didn't I tell you? He's a male chauvinist pig. We should register a complaint. Better yet, let me sic my brothers on him -- all eight of them."

Pulling Rita into the office with her, Brigit dismissed the Lieutenant. "Forget about him. He doesn't have anything. Now, tell me what happened this morning from the time Ruth and Fred arrived."

"Gee, Brigit. I handled them the way you told me."

"I know. I just want to get clear in my mind what happened. Did you check on either of them after you put them in their rooms?"

Rita closed her eyes and fingered her necklace. "I checked to see if they needed any coffee or anything. Ruth wanted a Coke. Fred wanted coffee. So, I got them what they wanted, then had to go back out front to answer the phone."

"Okay. What made you go into my office later?" Brigit prompted.

"I've been thinking about that in case I had to answer questions. And, I don't really know, except Fred usually pops out to pass the time with me. He didn't this time."

"You mean he flirted with you," guessed Brigit. "That wouldn't surprise me. He always tried to start something with me during private caucuses. Adams really would think Ruth committed murder, if he realized what a wandering eye Fred had and how much it irritated Ruth."

"Yeah, Fred really was a creep." Rita crossed herself as if speaking ill of the recently deceased were blasphemous. "Do you really think Ruth was crazy enough to kill him?" Rita shuddered setting her bells to tinkling. "And if she was, how did she do it? What am I saying, she couldn't have."

"I don't think so. I don't know. I believe you." Brigit shook off the thought of Ruth being a crazed murderess; Rita had said there was no way Ruth could have done it. Ipso facto, she hadn't. Period. "I got the impression Ruth liked tormenting Fred. Killing him would have taken away all her fun." Brigit grimaced at the thought of the warring couple's dysfunctional relationship. Joseph and she had never fought; they'd just agreed to disagree. Going back to her original line of questioning, she asked, "So, you went in to check on Fred because he hadn't come out and flirted with you as usual?"

"Yes, that's right. When I went in, he was on the floor -- sort of curled up with the most horrible look on his face, like he'd been in great pain." Rita's face paled at the memory. "I guess I screamed. Then Ruth came running in to see what was wrong. She looked funny . . ."

Brigit interrupted, "Funny, how? Murderous strange funny? Ha-ha funny? What?"

"I guess shocked would be a better word. Then she got really weird . . ." Rita's words trailed off.

"Weird how, Rita?" Brigit was getting a little exasperated. Rita wasn't usually this vague, nor did Brigit usually have to pry information out of her. God knew Rita could share her opinions at the drop of a hat. But Brigit had to acknowledge being in the room with a dead body was probably a good enough reason for anyone to act out of character. She had.

"Wel-l-l, she started laughing hysterically and kept repeating 'I knew that floozy would be the death of him' and 'there is a God.' It was those very phrases that gave the first cop the idea to call in Adams." Rita looked upset.

"It wasn't your fault." Brigit rushed to reassure her secretary. "Homicide would have been called in anyway."

Rita sighed and smiled.

Brigit headed for the conference room and Ruth Willis. Before tomorrow morning, Brigit wanted Ruth to answer some questions and give her permission to speak to the police freely.

At the entrance to the conference room, she stopped and turned back to Rita who had followed her. "Think carefully. One more time, did Ruth have the chance to put anything in the coffee before you took it into Fred?"

"No. I'm sure. Ruth couldn't have touched the coffee. It was never out of my hands from the time I poured it until I took it into Fred. She would have had to have gone past me to doctor it, and like I told you, she didn't." Rita stated with the proof of conviction in her words and voice.

"That's good." Brigit was more convinced than ever that Ruth Willis hadn't killed her husband. Rita was an excellent observer. Nosy was probably a better term. Nothing ever got past her.

Realizing Rita needed tasks to get her back to her usually calm, efficient demeanor, Brigit issued instructions for the rest of the day. "Well, back to work. See if you can get the Clemson guardianship file out of my office for this afternoon. I'll inform Ruth she can go and make sure she has the name of some good criminal lawyers before she leaves."

"Aye-aye, boss." Rita turned to leave, then stopped and tossed over her shoulder. "Oh, by the way, I like your suit. It's about time you took my advice. I imagine the hunk will like it." Grinning cheekily, she swept away in a flurry of gauzy skirts and jingling bells.

Brigit smiled. Leave it to Rita to bring things back to the more mundane. Had she been so transparent about her interest in Tony? Rita knew her better than most, so maybe no one else would make the connection. God she hoped not. She'd look so pathetic panting after a man who probably didn't even realize she existed.

Catching her pale reflection in the mirror on the wall opposite the conference room, she frowned and turned her thoughts back to Fred Willis's untimely demise. She knew by tomorrow the autopsy results would show just what had or hadn't killed Fred. The more difficult question would then be whether there was a "who" involved. As much as Brigit would've liked Fred's death to be from natural causes, her gut told her it wasn't. So, a "who" needed to be found. The Lieutenant was going for the easy answer. Normally, Brigit would've agreed with him, but in this case he was wrong. It was up to her to convince him of that. It was an argument she was determined to win.