For The Defense. M.J. Rodgers

his brother had to be the one to gather whatever evidence there might be in Bruce’s garage. To Jack’s mind that made his twin a part of the defense team.

      Still, to get his brother’s help, Jack had to let him know what had to be done in a way that wouldn’t get either of them into ethical or legal trouble. This called for some careful staging.

      Jack pulled into the parking lot at Costco, heading directly for the pay phone. This was not a call he wanted anyone to be able to trace to him.

      Looking around to make sure no one was within hearing, he dropped some change into the slot and dialed his brother’s office. Jared answered with his name.

      “Hi, I’m a concerned citizen making an anonymous call,” Jack said. “I have some important information about an unsolved crime.”

      There was a pause on the other end of the line. He hadn’t disguised his voice because he wanted Jared to know who was making the call so that his brother would take what he had to say seriously.

      But he had purposely stated the fact that this was to be from an anonymous source so if Jared ever had to explain how he got the tip, he could truthfully say that a “concerned citizen” had called anonymously.

      “All right, Mr. Concerned Citizen, I have a pad and pen handy to take down the information you wish to pass me anonymously,” Jared said.

      “About five years ago, a four-year-old girl by the name of Amy Pearce was killed in a hit-and-run,” Jack said. “An old car jumped the curb and struck the girl while she was playing on her porch. The driver was never identified. You might find forensic evidence of that old car in the garage once owned by Bruce Weaton.”

      “Would that be the same Bruce Weaton who was killed last year?” Jared asked.

      “Yes.”

      “The same Bruce Weaton that Connie Pearce has been accused of killing?”

      Jared had put the pieces together fast. Jack expected nothing less.

      “A couple by the name of Donald and Joyce Epstein have recently bought the Weaton property, fully furnished,” he said. “If they haven’t cleaned out the garage, the evidence could still be there. Connie Pearce was holding a locket on the day she was arrested. That locket and its chain are most likely a part of her personal property being kept at the jail. They, too, could contain important evidence.”

      “I’m confused as to why you haven’t come into the sheriff’s office to tell us this in person, Mr. Concerned Citizen,” Jared said after a moment.

      Jack took pains to word his answer carefully.

      “If you decide to reopen this investigation and discover that Bruce Weaton was behind the wheel of the car that killed Amy Pearce, this concerned citizen hopes you will not compromise the defense of Connie Pearce by informing the prosecution of those facts.”

      “Who do you suggest I inform?”

      “The attorney for the defense. If anyone else learns of this connection before she has an opportunity to present the evidence to the jury, her client’s right to a fair trial could be compromised.”

      There was another significant pause on the other end of the line. Jack knew that he’d told his brother he was working for Diana. He had intended to. Jared now knew why he had to contact him anonymously and also whom he could trust.

      “Is there anything else you wish to tell me?” Jared asked.

      “I advise caution. The sheriff and prosecutor are buddies. Bruce Weaton’s mother is well connected. Watch your back. I wouldn’t want you to find yourself in a compromising position while trying to clear up an unsolved homicide.”

      Jack hung up the phone, satisfied that Jared would get hold of Amy’s locket and arrange for a team of investigators to scour the garage that had once belonged to Bruce Weaton. If any evidence remained, he’d find a way to let Jack know.

      Step one was in motion.

      Now on to step two. Jack was going to have to dig up everything he could on Bruce. He knew where to start looking, but he had no idea what he’d find. Not even his fictional character had sunk to the depths Bruce had.

      What kind of a man would pursue a woman whose child he’d killed?

      “YOU STILL HAVEN’T TOLD ME how dinner with Arnie went last Saturday,” Diana’s mother said as she ran some hot water over a sponge in the kitchen sink.

      Diana stacked the dishwasher with their dinner plates. “That’s because my mother always told me if I couldn’t say something nice about someone that I should hesitate to say anything at all.”

      Margaret Gilman switched off the faucet as she turned toward her daughter. “That bad?”

      “Oh, yeah.”

      “I’m so sorry. When Ray said Arnie was going to start dating again now that his divorce was final, I guess I hoped that maybe the two of you—”

      “Your heart was in the right place,” Diana spoke up quickly. “Unfortunately, he refused to keep his hands where they belonged.”

      Margaret gave the counter an overzealous wipe with the sponge. “If Arnie made improper advances to you, Ray should be told—”

      “—all his efforts to teach his stepson courtesy toward a woman failed? He must know. Why rub his nose in it? Arnie was seventeen when his mother married Ray. No doubt the damage had already been done.”

      “You’re right,” Margaret said. “But don’t be surprised if I develop a sudden klutzy streak at the wedding and dump a glassful of ice water onto Arnie’s lap.”

      Diana chuckled at the image, although she knew her gentle mother could never bring herself to carry out the threat. “Speaking of the wedding, have you decided where you’re going on your honeymoon?”

      Margaret squeezed out the sponge and set it at the edge of the sink. “Ray suggested we fly to Hawaii, but I don’t know.”

      Diana started the dishwasher. The explosion of water and whirling pump had her gesturing for her mom to precede her out onto the porch. She closed the door behind them to shut out the noise.

      Margaret eased her trim form onto one of the porch’s white wicker chairs and patted the one beside her.

      Diana sat, trying to emulate her mother’s physical grace, all the while knowing she’d fall short. She’d inherited her dad’s big bones and the kind of temperament that would dump a glass of ice water on a goon with grabby paws.

      She often wished she were more like her mother. Margaret Gilman’s smile lit every line in her face with the joy of life. That smile was like a secret fountain of youth. Men were drawn to the wearer in hopes of being able to share in its secret. No wonder she was still turning heads at fifty-five.

      Ray was a lucky guy. One of the nice things about him was that he knew it.

      “You don’t want to go to Hawaii?” Diana asked.

      “I’d love to go, but Hawaii is the kind of place you fly to when the weather where you are is cold and icy,” Margaret explained. “We wait all year for summer.”

      Diana inhaled the sweet fragrance as she looked around at the lovely garden her mother’s time and talent had created over the years. Red, white and pink roses, all in full and glorious bloom, nodded in the muted evening sunlight. Yes, this was a lovely time of year.

      “I was thinking maybe we could drive into British Columbia, find a cute little bed-and-breakfast and spend a few weeks there,” Margaret said.

      “Some place comfortable and pretty like home, but away from the duties of home,” Diana added.

      Margaret gave her a smile. “Sometimes I forget what a smart daughter I raised.”

      Diana smiled back. “Glad I’m around to remind you.”

      Mel