Sweet Anger(79)

Kari stepped through the door. Harris snapped his fingers and two uniformed policemen rushed in to flank her. She looked at Harris with open contempt before being led into the corridor and through the door to the outside where a police car was parked at the curb.

Harris smacked his lips. “Well, that’s that. A couple of hours on ice and she’ll come around. I’d lay odds on it.” He yawned. “Still, she’s a saucy little piece, isn’t she?”

Hunter went into his office and slammed the door behind him to keep from yielding to an overpowering urge to bury his fist in Harris’s beer belly.


By the time she had been put through the red tape of incarceration, word had gotten out. News of her arrest had spread through the journalistic community. The corridors of the jail were thronged with reporters and photographers as she was led toward the cell block.

Questions were hurled at her. Flashbulbs exploded in her face. The sun-bright lights accompanying video cameras blinded her. She was reminded of the days just after Thomas had been implicated in the city hall scam. But this time, the mood wasn’t hostile.

“Kari!” a familiar voice shouted.

She whipped her head around and spotted Mike Gonzales. His camera was mounted on his shoulder, but he wasn’t looking through the eyepiece. His face was animated with excitement.

“Mike, what’s going on?” She tried to make herself heard over the clamor. A policewoman was firmly urging her to move along. Kari craned her neck around to keep the photographer in sight.

“You’re a heroine. Every journalist in town is behind you one hundred percent. Pinkie’s raising hell. McKee’s name won’t be worth two cents after this.”

“But—”

“Please move along, Ms. Stewart,” the policewoman said and pushed her through the crowd.

Disoriented by the events of the morning and confused by what Mike had told her, she didn’t realize until several minutes later that she was being led down the narrow hallway of a cell block.

“I called my husband when I found out you were going to be here,” the matron said. “I can’t believe I’m seeing you in person.”

Kari’s skin was crawling with goose bumps. She ran her hands up and down her arms. “I wish the circumstances were different.” She gave the woman a weak smile.

The matron shook her head in disgust. “This really tears it. I can’t believe they’re locking you up in here while criminals go free.”

“I don’t hold it against you.” What was she doing? Comforting her jailers? She felt a laugh bubbling up in her throat. Am I becoming hysterical? she wondered. She forced the laugh down. “There’s no one else here,” she commented. They passed cell after cell. All were empty.

“Not on this aisle, no. Word came down from the D.A.’s office to put you here.”

“I see.” But she really didn’t.

The matron held the door of the last cell open for her. “You’ve got a window,” she said in the friendly fashion of a bellhop saying, “You’ve got a room with a view.” “If you need anything,” the matron went on, “you just call for me.”

“Thank you,” she said, before realizing how ridiculous it sounded. Was she trying to win Miss Congeniality of the cell block?

The matron swung the heavy door closed. Kari jumped at the clanking sound of steel on steel. The bolt sliding home was the most nerve-racking sound she’d ever heard. It seemed to go straight through her. How did one keep from going mad?

“Could you give me your autograph before you leave?” the matron asked through the bars.

“Yes, of course.” Her teeth were chattering.

“And make it out to Gus. That’ll tickle him to death.”

“All right.”

“I’ll be at the desk. You remember to call out if you need anything.”

Her rubber-soled footsteps died away and Kari was left alone with a stool, a cot, a basin, and a commode. The cell was clean. It looked new. It was stark. And cold.

Shivering, she lay on the cot and pulled the blanket over her. What would her father have thought of this? And Thomas? He would have been horrified.

Rolling to her side, she drew her knees up to her chest and began to cry.


“You know how I feel about that girl.” Pinkie was morosely twirling his glass of Scotch over the plastic tablecloth. Bonnie was frying hamburger steaks at the range.

“She’s a woman, Pinkie. Not a girl. She’s taking a stand on something she believes. It was her decision. There’s nothing you could do even if she would let you, and she wouldn’t.”

“I know, I know,” he said irritably before swilling down the liquor. “Why does she have to be so damned obstinate?”