Free Hot Property by Karen Leabo Page B

attorney’s office could blunder in any number of ways—”
    “But if no mistakes are made?”
    Michael sighed. “It looks bad for you, Wendy. What can I say?”
    “And what about you?” she asked in a quiet voice. “Do you think I’m guilty?” She held her breath, waitingfor his answer. It seemed to her that if, after getting to know her as he had, he still thought she was a thief, then she might as well pack it in right now, plead guilty and be done with it.
    He hesitated. “Well, if I were to look strictly at the evidence—”
    “No, I mean you, personally. Knowing everything you know, not just the stuff that will get into court.”
    “Let’s just say you’re not like most of the felons I’ve dealt with. I have a hard time believing you’re a criminal. My opinion and a buck will get you a cup of coffee,” he added. “Some places, anyway.”
    She would have to settle for that, she supposed. It was better than the cold condemnation he’d treated her to the previous day. She allowed herself to fantasize about what it would be like to have Michael Taggert on her side of the fence, supporting her a hundred percent. The idea made her warm all over.
    “You’re blushing again,” Michael said.
    “It’s hot,” she fibbed, reaching for the van’s air conditioner controls. They were stopped at a light on the fringes of downtown, so she leaned down to study the unfamiliar switches, dials, and buttons. Could they make it any more complicated?
    The moment she ducked down, a deafening crack made her ears ring. She jumped and raised up to see that her windshield had shattered. A rock must have flown up and hit it.
    “I can’t believe it!” she cried. “A brand-new van and the windshield can’t take a little rock—”
    “Get down!” Michael shouted, grabbing her bythe neck and pushing her head practically into his lap. He didn’t stop there, though. With lightning-fast motions he unbuckled both of their seat belts, slid off his own seat, and dragged her to the floor of the van. Her foot couldn’t help but leave the pedals.
    “What are you doing?” she demanded. “We’re moving!”
    “It’s okay, traffic will stop.” He grabbed the cellular phone with one hand while pinning Wendy down with the other. She heard three blips and realized he was calling 9-1-1.
    Another loud crack, and Wendy’s headrest exploded into fluff. She figured out what was happening about the same time Michael verbalized it over the phone.
    “This is Sergeant Michael Taggert,” he said urgently into the receiver. “I’m in a green and white van at the intersection of Harry Hines and Pearl, and I’m under fire!”
    She was amazingly calm, given the circumstances. Someone had shot at them with, like, real bullets. Horns were blasting at them from all sides, but no more shots were fired.
    Michael released Wendy with a curt order for her to stay where she was. She turned her head just enough so that she could watch him. A gun had materialized in his hand—funny, she hadn’t thought about him carrying a gun before. From his cramped, crouched position on the floor of the van, he raised up slowly, pointing his weapon in a sideways arc 180 degrees.
    “Be careful,” Wendy said, as if he wouldn’t be at a time like this. As the van rolled to a stop, he unbent a little more, peering out first one window, then another. “Couldn’t we wait for reinforcements?”
    “They’re here.”
    Wendy heard sirens—lots of them. Jeez, the whole force turned out when one of their own was threatened. The passenger door flew open and a red-faced cop peered inside.
    “What the hell’s going on in here?”
    “We were shot at,” Michael explained, flashing his badge.
    “Oh, sorry, Detective Taggert, didn’t realize it was you. You’re causing one hell of a traffic jam. Do you think you could move the van—”
    “She’s not moving,” he said, nodding toward Wendy, “till the area’s been searched for the sniper. I’m pretty sure