does not change that.”
“Might make it a little more palatable.”
Annoyance snapped in her eyes. “So is this what you cops do?You drop ridiculous statements like that hoping you catch a big fish?”
Malcolm leaned forward a fraction so that he breached some of her personal space. “Never know when I’ll catch a whopper.”
Chapter 8
Wednesday, October 5, 6:30 P.M.
Iris appeared in Angie’s doorway. She wore her overcoat and held her neat square pillbox purse. “We have a last-minute visitor.”
A dull headache pounded behind Angie’s left eye. “Who?”
The fine lines around Iris’s mouth deepened. “Dr. James Dixon.”
Angie set her pen down carefully on a brief she was proofing. “Say that again?”
“He’s out front, and he wants to see you.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose. The last time he’d visited her it had been after his trial, and he’d suggested they go on a date. “I don’t have time for him. I’ll be here until midnight as it is.”
“He’s not going to leave without seeing you.” She tugged at the sleeve of her jacket. “My first inclination was to call the cops and have him dragged out of here. But sometimes I overreact so I thought I’d check first.”
Iris had never liked Dixon or even tried to hide her feelings toward the man.
As much as Angie didn’t care for Dixon she tried to see the situation with greater perspective. “The last thing I need is for it to get around that Angie Carlson, The Barracuda, had to call the cops to contain James Dixon.” News of a police intervention would spread throughout the department like wildfire. She’d be a laughing stock.
“You wouldn’t be calling. I would be.”
She rose. “Better not.”
Displeasure darkened her gaze. “You’ll see him then?”
“Give me a minute and then send him back.”
Iris shook her head. “I’ll stay until he leaves.”
“That won’t be necessary. If anything, Dixon is dedicated to good manners and public perception. He doesn’t want trouble any more than I do. Besides, Charlotte is here, and you have your ballet class tonight.”
Iris pulled her cell from her coat pocket. “I’ll keep my cell phone turned up.”
Angie smiled. “Won’t be necessary, but thanks.”
She smoothed her hand over her hair to flatten any strands that might have escaped her twist. She shrugged on her jacket and fastened the middle button just as Dixon appeared.
He looked so mild mannered—a proper, staid man who appeared more suited for books and libraries than plastic surgery. He nodded to older people when he passed them in the street; he opened doors for women; and he always rose when a lady stood. And according to the drug-addicted Lulu Sweet, he had nearly choked her to death as he’d rammed his body inside her and called her a whore.
“Dr. Dixon.” She remained behind her desk, not feeling the need to venture around and offer a handshake.
He grinned and seemed genuinely glad to see her. “Ms. Carlson. It’s been far too long. How long has it been?”
“Over a year.”
“Far too long.” He approached the desk and extended his hand to her.
She took his hand, allowing his smooth, long fingers to wrap around her hand and squeeze gently. In a flash, she pictured those hands wrapped around Lulu’s neck.
She tugged her hand away. “What can I do for you, Dr. Dixon?”
Dark eyes flickered to her hands and then back to her face. “I’d like to retain your services. The police came by my office this afternoon to ask me about the death of one of my patients. Sierra Day. She was an actress, and apparently they found her body this morning.”
“As I said when we saw each other last, I will not represent you again. Our business is concluded.”
“I was hoping you might have changed your mind.” He adjusted his tie. Hearing
no
had never suited him.
“I have not.”
He pressed the tips of his fingers onto her desk, like a spider searching for an anchor from which to spin his
“Might make it a little more palatable.”
Annoyance snapped in her eyes. “So is this what you cops do?You drop ridiculous statements like that hoping you catch a big fish?”
Malcolm leaned forward a fraction so that he breached some of her personal space. “Never know when I’ll catch a whopper.”
Chapter 8
Wednesday, October 5, 6:30 P.M.
Iris appeared in Angie’s doorway. She wore her overcoat and held her neat square pillbox purse. “We have a last-minute visitor.”
A dull headache pounded behind Angie’s left eye. “Who?”
The fine lines around Iris’s mouth deepened. “Dr. James Dixon.”
Angie set her pen down carefully on a brief she was proofing. “Say that again?”
“He’s out front, and he wants to see you.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose. The last time he’d visited her it had been after his trial, and he’d suggested they go on a date. “I don’t have time for him. I’ll be here until midnight as it is.”
“He’s not going to leave without seeing you.” She tugged at the sleeve of her jacket. “My first inclination was to call the cops and have him dragged out of here. But sometimes I overreact so I thought I’d check first.”
Iris had never liked Dixon or even tried to hide her feelings toward the man.
As much as Angie didn’t care for Dixon she tried to see the situation with greater perspective. “The last thing I need is for it to get around that Angie Carlson, The Barracuda, had to call the cops to contain James Dixon.” News of a police intervention would spread throughout the department like wildfire. She’d be a laughing stock.
“You wouldn’t be calling. I would be.”
She rose. “Better not.”
Displeasure darkened her gaze. “You’ll see him then?”
“Give me a minute and then send him back.”
Iris shook her head. “I’ll stay until he leaves.”
“That won’t be necessary. If anything, Dixon is dedicated to good manners and public perception. He doesn’t want trouble any more than I do. Besides, Charlotte is here, and you have your ballet class tonight.”
Iris pulled her cell from her coat pocket. “I’ll keep my cell phone turned up.”
Angie smiled. “Won’t be necessary, but thanks.”
She smoothed her hand over her hair to flatten any strands that might have escaped her twist. She shrugged on her jacket and fastened the middle button just as Dixon appeared.
He looked so mild mannered—a proper, staid man who appeared more suited for books and libraries than plastic surgery. He nodded to older people when he passed them in the street; he opened doors for women; and he always rose when a lady stood. And according to the drug-addicted Lulu Sweet, he had nearly choked her to death as he’d rammed his body inside her and called her a whore.
“Dr. Dixon.” She remained behind her desk, not feeling the need to venture around and offer a handshake.
He grinned and seemed genuinely glad to see her. “Ms. Carlson. It’s been far too long. How long has it been?”
“Over a year.”
“Far too long.” He approached the desk and extended his hand to her.
She took his hand, allowing his smooth, long fingers to wrap around her hand and squeeze gently. In a flash, she pictured those hands wrapped around Lulu’s neck.
She tugged her hand away. “What can I do for you, Dr. Dixon?”
Dark eyes flickered to her hands and then back to her face. “I’d like to retain your services. The police came by my office this afternoon to ask me about the death of one of my patients. Sierra Day. She was an actress, and apparently they found her body this morning.”
“As I said when we saw each other last, I will not represent you again. Our business is concluded.”
“I was hoping you might have changed your mind.” He adjusted his tie. Hearing
no
had never suited him.
“I have not.”
He pressed the tips of his fingers onto her desk, like a spider searching for an anchor from which to spin his
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