Close Proximity. Donna Clayton

he gave his permission for the authorities to search anything and everything he owned.” Libby sighed. “They carried out a whole file cabinet and boxes of other files as well. Everything that had anything to do with his finances—bank records, credit card statements. And his PC.” Again she shook her head and shrugged. “A mountain of stuff. And there’s no telling what was seized from his office at Springer.”

      “It can’t all be evidence against him.”

      “No.” Reaching up, she absently combed her fingers through her thick tresses. “I don’t expect anything from home to point to Dad’s guilt. But I am worried about his office at work. Anyone could have had access to it since his arrest, couldn’t they? And the prosecutor will use the other things—the information about Dad’s finances—to try to explain motive, I’m sure.”

      Silence settled over them, and while Libby busied herself with thoughts of her father’s case, Rafe took a moment to look around him.

      The Corbett home was huge compared to houses on the rez. The floors were constructed of rich, golden-hued oak, waxed and gleaming, and covering them were Oriental carpets that were most obviously costly. The room was elaborately trimmed in decorative moldings at the baseboard and around the ceiling. Such detail spoke of money. The furniture was heavy, luxurious stuff. Many pieces looked, to his untrained eye, to be antique.

      He imagined Libby growing up here. Running and squealing and laughing through these rooms with caring parents to tend her, nurture her, love her. He pictured Libby enjoying holidays eating at the long, walnut table he’d seen in the dining room. Blowing out candles on a fancy birthday cake. Decorating a Christmas tree here in the living room. Celebrating Independence Day with sparklers and cookouts in the spacious and shady backyard.

      A youngster would have enjoyed an idyllic childhood in this lovely house. A pampered and pleasant existence surrounded with lots of family and friends.

      Visions of his own youth came flooding into his mind, and seemingly out of nowhere hot emotion prickled the backs of his eyelids.

      What the hell? he wondered. Shoving against the arms of the chair in which he sat, he stood and paced to the nearest window. Not because he wanted to see the view, but because he needed a moment to collect himself, to force these damned thoughts from his mind. He hadn’t allowed memories of his past to affect him like this in years.

      It was Libby. She was making him care. She was making him soft.

      He couldn’t afford that. He couldn’t.

      “We’re arguing trial location tomorrow.”

      Rafe nodded, but didn’t turn around. He was glad for something to focus his attention on. “Trial location?” he asked.

      “Opposing counsel wants to go to Los Angeles,” she said. “He’s looking to make this high-profile. But I want to stay here. I know there are lots of people ranting against the contamination. Against Dad. But I’m hoping things will calm down and they’ll remember who’s on trial here.”

      She’d be safely cloistered in the courthouse during the day, he thought.

      “And what would you like for me to do while you’re occupied with that?”

      “I was hoping you’d do a little investigating. Talk to some people.” Glancing at her watch, she said, “I’m due to visit Dad. If you don’t mind, you could come along with me. He wants to thank you for helping out. And while we’re there, we can get a list of names from him. Springer execs, employees, friends who might know something. While I’m busy at the courthouse, you can try to touch base with as many of them as possible. Take some notes. Find out what people told the police. See if anyone knows or suspects anything that might help us nail the real culprit.”

      Rafe knew himself to be one of those people. He had a definite theory about the whys behind the chemical dumping, and he also had what could only be described as a scrap of evidence to back it up. However, hearsay was what the authorities would call it.

      Hearsay coming from anyone was, at best, flimsy proof. Coming from an Indian, it would be considered idle talk. Meaningless scuttlebutt. That was why he hadn’t gone to the police about what he’d overheard all those weeks ago. And he didn’t tell Libby now because he didn’t think he could continue working with her if he were to reveal all he knew—all he suspected—and she reacted with doubt and skepticism.

      He’d hold his tongue until he knew she trusted him. He’d play his cards close to the chest for now. Focus on digging up more information so he could lay out the pieces of the puzzle for her with simple clarity, with nothing but hard evidence. If real proof of David’s innocence was out there, Rafe would find it. And it had to be out there.

      “Sounds like a good plan to me,” he told her, reaching for his jacket from where it hung on the back of the chair. “Let’s go see your father.”

      David Corbett was sitting alone in the cold, stark interrogation room when Rafe and Libby entered. The metal table was dented, battered, extremely utilitarian. The walls were painted a greenish gray. Drab. Lifeless. Depressing as hell, Rafe decided.

      Although his face was clean-shaven, dark smudges underscored David’s eyes. His brow was puckered, his jaw tight. He looked like a man with a great deal of anxiety eating at his thoughts.

      Libby smiled brightly, hurrying to his side and bending to kiss his cheek.

      “Hi, Dad.” She set her leather case on the tabletop. “How are you?”

      “Fine, hon. I’m just fine.” David shifted his attention to Rafe. “Rafe, it’s good to see you. Pardon me if I don’t get up.”

      Rafe thought it strange when the man offered him his left hand, but quickly realized that David’s right wrist was handcuffed to the arm of the chair he was sitting in. Taking the man’s hand in both of his, Rafe pumped it vigorously.

      “It’s good to see you, sir.”

      David shook his head. “Stop with the sir stuff, if you don’t mind. We’re meeting here as friends. At least, I hope we are.”

      “Absolutely, sir.”

      Realizing what he’d said, Rafe offered up an apologetic smile and David chuckled.

      “Don’t you ever doubt it,” Rafe added.

      “I appreciate your wanting to help my daughter with this mess I’m in.”

      Darting a quick look at Libby, Rafe saw appreciation glistening in her gaze, and his heart jumped, tendrils of heat curling low in his gut. Her gratitude shouldn’t be causing him such satisfaction, but it did.

      Warning flags waved in his brain. He wished his reactions to this woman had some sort of switch he could flip off or a cord he could sever.

      “Trial location arguments begin tomorrow,” Libby informed her father, getting right down to the business at hand. “It could take a couple of days, maybe more, for the judge to make his decision. While I’m busy at the courthouse, I thought Rafe could do a little interviewing.” She opened her case and extracted a yellow legal pad and pen. “Dad, can you think of anyone…anyone at all who might shed some light on things?”

      She slid the pad in front of her father, handing the pen to him.

      Then her brows drew together, moisture instantly shimmering in her eyes, when she evidently realized the handcuffs were going to be a detriment to him. It was so obviously hard for her, Rafe reflected, seeing her father like this. She cleared the emotion from her throat as she reached for the paper.

      “How about if I take down the names?”

      David placed a quelling hand on the pad. “I’ll make do, hon. I’ll make do.” He picked up the pen in his left hand.

      Libby nodded, muttering, “Idiot guards.” She rose from her chair, her cheeks flushed with sudden anger, and went to the locked door. She banged on it. Hard. “Can someone come in here? Now!”

      A