Free Hallowed Bones by Carolyn Haines Page B

job if we can't talk to our client."
    "And I can't do my job if you people keep interrupting me. There are other crimes to be solved, you know." He handed me a slip of paper. "They'll let one of you see her. Only one. Now I've got work to do."
    We were dismissed, and we stepped out into the hallway. I looked at the paper, which bore the address of the city lockup. "I'll go talk to Doreen," I said, wanting to spare Tinkie what I knew was going to be a bad scene.
    "No, I want to see her." Tinkie put a hand on my arm. She was dressed to the nines in a sienna silk pantsuit. Her suede heels were a perfect match.
    "You aren't exactly dressed for the jail," I noted in a low voice. I'd opted for jeans and a blue sweater.
    "Don't you worry about me." She took the paper from my hand. "I need to talk to her about her books. And I want her to tell me a little about Michael Anderson."
    I nodded.
    "I'll try to get her take on him." She grinned at me. "Other than the fact that he doesn't believe in love."
    In truth, I was itching to talk to both the senator and the televangelist. I didn't care which one I got to first. Guilt made me stop in my tracks. "Are you sure, Tinkie?" I had a horrible picture of her walking down a line of cells while some pervert hurled bodily fluids at her, a la The Silence of the Lambs.
    "I'm your partner, not your little girl. I can do this. No one's going to bite me."
    Yikes. Tinkie was touchy this morning. Maybe she'd caught it from LeMont. "Okay," I agreed as we walked out onto the sidewalk. I waved down a taxi. Running the risk of her ire yet again, I held the door open for her and sent her on her way. Once she was gone, I pulled out my cell phone and began rounding up the numbers I'd need to get to both Oren Weaver and Thaddeus Clay. Michael Anderson would be last, per Tinkie's request.
    Standing
on
the shady front porch of the huge home, I listened to the somber tone of the doorbell. Senator Clay's residence showed all the traditional grace of the South. A maid opened the door and showed me in.
    "Mrs. Clay will be with you in a moment," she said, indicating a formal parlor where I should wait.
    "Excuse me, but my business is with the senator," I reminded her.
    She gave me a sidelong look. "Mrs. Clay will be here momentarily." She was gone before I could raise another protest.
    I took a seat and picked up one of the fashion magazines that featured the unmistakable image of El, the senator's wife.
    She'd been a cover girl for Vogue, Mademoiselle, Esquire, Modern Bride, Health & Fitness, Glamour, Paris, and Europe's Trends --every major magazine in the world. She was renowned on the runway and helped host the Cannes Film Festival each year. She was becoming a power to be reckoned with in the art world. And she ran the regional
United Way
fund drive. She was the perfect accoutrement for a
U.S.
senator with the ambition to be president. She'd taken Jackie O's attitude and put a spin on it that resonated with the culture of the new millennium--wealth, arrogance, and self-centeredness.
    When she walked into the room, I almost stood. She commanded that kind of attention. I caught myself and waited for her to walk to me. Her gaze swept over me and one eyebrow lifted.
    "Mrs. Clay," I said, extending my hand and giving her my name, though I knew she knew it. "I was hoping to talk to your husband."
    "He's a very busy man. What's this about?"
    "I'm sorry, I can't discuss this with you. I need to speak with him."
    "His business is my business."
    "I don't doubt that, but I have to talk to him." I saw the anger in her dark eyes. Her skin was flawless, her makeup perfection. She was very beautiful and very hard.
    "I don't think he's available." She gave me a practiced smile that touched only the corners of her mouth.
    "That's too bad. I was hoping to avoid taking this to the police." I rose.
    "If this is blackmail, you can forget it. We don't pay ransom. I'll turn it over to my family. I'm sure you've heard of the Boudets."