An Insignificant Case

Chapter Twenty-Two

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Charlie drove to a restaurant that served breakfast all day. Bridget was quiet during the ride, and Charlie didn’t feel much like talking either. When they parked, Bridget got out and looked down at her paint-spattered clothes.

“God, I look like a piece of abstract art.”

Charlie laughed and took off his suit jacket. “Put this on and only the bottom of your skirt will show.”

“Sir Walter Raleigh would be proud of you,” she said as she slipped on the jacket.

Charlie and Bridget ordered pancakes, bacon, and coffee.

“The people behind the attack at the farm must be desperate if they’re willing to attack a DA and police detectives,” Charlie said when the waitress left with their order.

“What Guido has must be dynamite,” Bridget agreed. “Do you have any idea how we can convince him to turn it over?”

Charlie shook his head. “The guy’s a space cadet.”

“Or a really cool customer. He was right, you know. Those hit men never took a shot at him.”

“Something just occurred to me,” Charlie said. “Those killers showing up at his farm just when we did. Was that a coincidence, or did they know you were coming?”

“How would they know?”

“Did you tell anyone we were meeting at the coffee shop?”

“I mentioned it to Nick DeCastro, the head of the unit, because you said you had info about our sex trafficking case. And one of the detectives could have said something.”

The waitress brought their coffee, and Charlie and Bridget stopped talking. While the waitress set out their napkins, forks, spoons, and knives, Bridget thought about the attack. It was an act of desperation, and that gave her an idea.

“Did you grow up in Oregon?” Charlie asked when the waitress left, anxious to talk about anything that would create distance from the terrible events in the barn.

“No, Chicago,” Bridget answered.

“How did you get out here?”

“I applied to law schools on the West Coast, and Lewis & Clark offered me a scholarship. What about you?”

“I’m a third-generation Oregonian. Did you always want to be a prosecutor?”

“Oh yes. My folks owned a grocery store in a dangerous area—lots of drugs, lots of guns, lots of wrecked lives. They were robbed so many times that they sold it. I was old enough to understand how awful that decision had been for them, and I’ve wanted to put bad guys away since I was a little girl.”

Charlie smiled. “You seem to be living your dream. None of the defense attorneys I know want to lock horns with you.”

Bridget laughed. “You didn’t do so badly.”

Charlie blushed. “I got lucky.”

“You destroyed my arresting officer. That had nothing to do with luck.”

Charlie’s blush deepened. “He shouldn’t have lied.”

“Too true. I was really pissed. He lied to me from the get-go, and we had a long talk after the case ended.”

“Oh, I thought you were mad at me because the judge granted my motion.”

“I’m sorry you thought that. I was never mad at you.”

Before Charlie could say that he was glad, the waitress brought their order, and they both dug in, grateful that the act of eating kept the horror of the shoot-out at bay.

Charlie dropped Bridget at her condo in Southeast Portland and drove home. As soon as he was in his apartment, he stripped off his dirty clothes and headed for the shower. While the hot water pounded down on him, he smiled as he thought about their meal at the restaurant. Bridget had put away a stack of pancakes smothered in maple syrup, and four strips of bacon. Most of the women he dated asked if their food was gluten-free, wouldn’t touch a slice of bacon with a ten-foot pole, and barely touched what the waiter brought because they were watching their figure.

Before their ordeal, Charlie had a pretty negative opinion of the prosecutor. He’d seen her the way most of the defense bar did—a rigid, hard-nosed DA who lacked a sense of humor. He still didn’t think she’d cut him a break, despite what they’d gone through together, but she seemed less like a killing machine now that he’d spent some time with her. And he was definitely relieved that her anger in Peter Easley’s case was aimed at her witness and not at him.

Charlie toweled off and dressed in sweats. Then he got a beer and sat on his sofa and channel surfed, looking for a show that would help him forget his near-death experience.

Bridget Fournier’s condo was close enough to the Willamette River and high enough to give her a view of Portland’s skyline, but she had no interest in the view when she was safely inside.

She took off her paint-stained clothes and dropped them on the floor. Then she walked into her shower. When the hot water poured down on her, she began to shake. She sank down on the floor of the shower and let the water cascade over her as she recalled how close she’d come to dying. If Charlie Webb hadn’t thrown her over the hay bales, she would not exist.

She took deep breaths to calm herself. She was alive. She was not dead. She had survived. She was okay. Thanks to Charlie Webb.

The only other contact she’d had with Charlie had been in the Peter Easley case. Everyone in the office had assured her that he wasn’t too bright and wouldn’t put up much of a fight. But they’d been wrong. Charlie had surprised her by figuring out that her key witness was lying, then proving it in court. Today, he had fooled her again by saving her life when most people in their situation would have saved themselves.

Bridget stopped shaking. She stood up, grabbed the soap, then the shampoo, and scrubbed the horror off her skin and out of her hair. When she was completely clean, she threw on sweats and clean socks. Then she poured a stiff shot of very good scotch she saved for special occasions, having decided that not dying constituted a valid reason for celebrating.

While she sipped her drink, Bridget thought about Charlie. To date, she had not had a successful romantic relationship. There had been close calls—a romance in law school with a boy who couldn’t handle the fact that Bridget was smarter than he was, and a brief fling with a partner in a civil firm. Nothing had stuck.

Bridget liked how humble Charlie had been after saving her life. And if memory served, he hadn’t gloated after beating her in court.

She took another sip of scotch and decided to stop thinking about Charlie Webb. They were on opposite sides of a murder case, and that ruled out any chance of getting to know him better. Assuming that he would want to know her better.

After a while, she focused on an idea she’d gotten while they were eating their pancakes. It wasn’t a great idea, but it might have great results if it worked. She would flesh it out tomorrow. Today, she was going to find the dumbest comedy movie on her television and try to forget the sight of the gun barrel that had come within inches of her face.