Nobody Lives Forever by Edna Buchanan Page A

full command of his faculties before having him make serious legal decisions that could affect the course of his entire life.”
    Ignoring objections, the judge allowed Sloat to introduce Roper’s arrest report and the detectives’ depositions, relating that they had found him at a bar, along with doctors’ affidavits stating that Roper’s alcoholism was involuntary because he was addicted and therefore not responsible for his actions.
    Defeat already lurked in the young prosecutor’s eyes. He argued that the defendant’s statement was the heart of his case.
    Sloat stood waiting behind the defense table, smiling expectantly and rubbing his polished palms together.
    The judge suppressed the confession.
    Jim shot out of his seat, his face red. “Your honor, the man confessed to murdering a little girl!”
    â€œI am clearly aware of the gravity of the charge,” the judge said solemnly, speaking slowly, one eye on the reporters who were scribbling furiously. “Had you been there at the time, I presume you would have followed the correct procedures to ensure that the defendant fully comprehended his Miranda rights.”
    â€œYour honor.” The prosecutor stepped in front of the detectives, signaling them to sit down. “We have no choice but to nolle prosse.”
    The defendant raised his head for the first time, looked around and blinked. Unsure of what was happening, he tugged at his lawyer’s sleeve for an explanation. Sloat slapped his fingers away as though flicking a speck of lint from his immaculate cuff.
    The judge peered down at Roper, told him he was free to go, called a recess and left the bench.
    Rick closed his eyes for a moment. The parents of the murdered child had attended every hearing until this routine pretrial motion. They had all expected Roper to plead guilty if he could negotiate a deal to escape the death penalty. Free to go—what would Rick tell the family? This was one of those gut-wrenching times that he hated the job.
    He stepped into the crowded corridor. Jim had slammed out ahead of him and was pacing in a fury. Dusty came striding down the hall to join them. She was smiling. Then she saw their faces.
    â€œWhat happened? You boys look like somebody took your ice cream and cake away.” Scalding TV lights suddenly flooded the hallway, and Dusty followed her partners’ eyes to an alcove where Sloat was holding court for the press. “Uh oh,” she said.
    A reporter started toward them. “Let’s get out of here,” Rick said. He took their arms and hustled Dusty and Jim into the elevator. “I think I need a drink.”
    â€œAt ten o’clock in the morning?” She gave him a sidelong glance. “Sounds good to me.”

Thirteen
    The detectives settled at a wooden table in the dimly lit back room of the nearly empty Southwind Bar and Grill. Rick and Jim drank Jack Daniel’s like people in pain swallowing their medicine and hoping for quick relief. Dusty sipped a glass of chilled wine.
    Rick called from a pay phone to tell Laurel a case had gone awry in court and he was delayed.
    Dusty watched him speaking intimately into the telephone, then leaned across the table, her voice a near whisper. “Jim, what do you really think of Laurel? There’s something strange about her … She’s just not right for Rick.”
    â€œYour problem is that you think you are.” His pale eyes were cynical.
    She looked wistful. “My personal feelings have nothing to do with this. You’re his friend too. Neither one of us wants to see him hurt. She’s not the sweet little thing she seems to be.”
    â€œOho!” His eyebrows raised over the rim of his glass. “Forget the wine, I’ll order you a saucer of milk.”
    â€œI’m serious.”
    â€œSo am I.”
    â€œYou should have seen her at the fitness center the other day, really coming on to Barry. The way she