the street below, a small boy ran a stick along the wrought iron fence bordering the little park.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked.
Nothing between them had been resolved. They simply went about their business in a businesslike way. Although at the moment, his arm lightly touching hers felt less like business and more like...enticement. He couldn’t know how her breasts tightened and her pulse raced while he continued to look down at the street. And she didn’t want him to.
"Did you know that this little enclave was the first cooperative community in America ?" he asked. The softly murmured question caressed her ear.
"I thought co-ops were a modern invention," she said, looking for a distraction.
"The original owners back in the mid-1800s shared responsibility for the upkeep of that mall down there and pooled their resources to erect the fence. Do you think they would have minded the kid's sacrilegious treatment of their pride and joy?"
A warm breeze floated through the open window, bringing the scent of new grass and spring-flowering shrubs. A patch of sky above the rooftops hung bright blue and cloudless.
"I don't think they would have minded."
"What's so fascinatin' out there?" a voice muttered behind them.
Ethan turned to face the sergeant. "Kids, and being free on a day like today."
"Yeah, I know what you mean all right. Wish I was out there myself 'stead of in here. Of course, I get to see some of it when I go off duty. You folks're kinda cooped up in here permanent like. I don't envy you being in P.C."
Ethan grimaced. Jordan knew why. Two days after the visit to the police station, Drew, Ethan and she were placed under twenty-four-hour surveillance. The police called the arrangement "P.C." or "protective custody." With most of their time spent in the house, it felt like prison.
Detectives in unmarked vehicles and plain clothes, "soft clothes," somebody had said, secured the front door. Rotating teams working in the wine cellar monitored the phones. A special task force already investigating Conlon's activities took over the effort to find evidence of Ethan's innocence.
The lawyer, Wallace Patterson, and his people, made daily visits to consult with the three of them and with Ethan’s friends, Pete Mosher and Eric Delavan. Brain-storming sessions with an Assistant District Attorney, a D.E.A. agent and two high-ranking police officers took hours each afternoon. Life had deteriorated into a tedious grind. The confinement offered no relief.
“When does this power session get under way?” Ethan asked.
“Soon as Assistant D.A. Santorelli gets here,” the sergeant replied.
“What about the Captain?”
“He’s already inside with the others. Came while you two were day dreaming out the window.”
"It's worse than a bloody summit conference," Ethan remarked.
"It is a bloody summit conference" O'Keefe said. "It needs a summit to tangle with the guys you got yourself involved with."
"Not me." Ethan shook his head. "The city fathers accepted VolTerre’s bid just like they did mine."
"Maybe, but you're taking the heat."
Ethan was about to say something when A.D.A. Santorelli swept into the room, high heels clicking resolutely on the parquet floor, plum-colored cape flaring out behind her, dark hair ruffling in the breeze she created. She addressed the police officer briefly, then waved at Ethan and Jordan. "C'mon Caldwell, Ms. VanDien. Inside, please. We have a lot to do today."
They followed her into the library, converted into a war room complete with oversized writing pad on an easel, cork bulletin board and mobile telephone unit. With brisk movements, she removed her cape and settled herself at the long mahogany table around which eight people now sat.
As she opened her briefcase and removed manila folders, she looked around at them. Finally, her gaze settled on two men seated side by side. Although they wore jackets and ties, their sunburned faces and work-roughened hands contrasted
"What are you thinking about?" she asked.
Nothing between them had been resolved. They simply went about their business in a businesslike way. Although at the moment, his arm lightly touching hers felt less like business and more like...enticement. He couldn’t know how her breasts tightened and her pulse raced while he continued to look down at the street. And she didn’t want him to.
"Did you know that this little enclave was the first cooperative community in America ?" he asked. The softly murmured question caressed her ear.
"I thought co-ops were a modern invention," she said, looking for a distraction.
"The original owners back in the mid-1800s shared responsibility for the upkeep of that mall down there and pooled their resources to erect the fence. Do you think they would have minded the kid's sacrilegious treatment of their pride and joy?"
A warm breeze floated through the open window, bringing the scent of new grass and spring-flowering shrubs. A patch of sky above the rooftops hung bright blue and cloudless.
"I don't think they would have minded."
"What's so fascinatin' out there?" a voice muttered behind them.
Ethan turned to face the sergeant. "Kids, and being free on a day like today."
"Yeah, I know what you mean all right. Wish I was out there myself 'stead of in here. Of course, I get to see some of it when I go off duty. You folks're kinda cooped up in here permanent like. I don't envy you being in P.C."
Ethan grimaced. Jordan knew why. Two days after the visit to the police station, Drew, Ethan and she were placed under twenty-four-hour surveillance. The police called the arrangement "P.C." or "protective custody." With most of their time spent in the house, it felt like prison.
Detectives in unmarked vehicles and plain clothes, "soft clothes," somebody had said, secured the front door. Rotating teams working in the wine cellar monitored the phones. A special task force already investigating Conlon's activities took over the effort to find evidence of Ethan's innocence.
The lawyer, Wallace Patterson, and his people, made daily visits to consult with the three of them and with Ethan’s friends, Pete Mosher and Eric Delavan. Brain-storming sessions with an Assistant District Attorney, a D.E.A. agent and two high-ranking police officers took hours each afternoon. Life had deteriorated into a tedious grind. The confinement offered no relief.
“When does this power session get under way?” Ethan asked.
“Soon as Assistant D.A. Santorelli gets here,” the sergeant replied.
“What about the Captain?”
“He’s already inside with the others. Came while you two were day dreaming out the window.”
"It's worse than a bloody summit conference," Ethan remarked.
"It is a bloody summit conference" O'Keefe said. "It needs a summit to tangle with the guys you got yourself involved with."
"Not me." Ethan shook his head. "The city fathers accepted VolTerre’s bid just like they did mine."
"Maybe, but you're taking the heat."
Ethan was about to say something when A.D.A. Santorelli swept into the room, high heels clicking resolutely on the parquet floor, plum-colored cape flaring out behind her, dark hair ruffling in the breeze she created. She addressed the police officer briefly, then waved at Ethan and Jordan. "C'mon Caldwell, Ms. VanDien. Inside, please. We have a lot to do today."
They followed her into the library, converted into a war room complete with oversized writing pad on an easel, cork bulletin board and mobile telephone unit. With brisk movements, she removed her cape and settled herself at the long mahogany table around which eight people now sat.
As she opened her briefcase and removed manila folders, she looked around at them. Finally, her gaze settled on two men seated side by side. Although they wore jackets and ties, their sunburned faces and work-roughened hands contrasted
Similar Books
