election, she had purged the office of all but a very few of Lockeâs old prosecutors, and it was no secret that this was part of the reason that now her office couldnât seem to convict anyone. Sheâd had to let them go for their political incorrectness, to say nothing of the general culture of incorrigibility. Locke had been black but heâd hired, in Prattâs view, far too many white males whoâd adopted a macho âwin at all costsâ mentality that had infected the officeâgetting convictions, sure, but at what cost?
Sharronâs own motto was: âThereâs more to being a prosecutor than getting convictions.â To which the Locke crowd tended to respond, âOh yeah? Like what?â
So any mention of Chris Locke and his administration put Sharron Pratt on the defensive, and it was immediately apparent that she was on it now, the fingers of her right hand thrumming uneasily on the bar.
Torrey carefully reached over and covered her hand with his. âElaine was having an affair with Locke.â
âWith the D.A.? While she worked for him? How much younger was she than he was? God, that man!â
Torrey suppressed his desire to point out to his boss that the two of themâhe and Sharronâwere in precisely the same relationship that Elaine and Locke had enjoyed. There would be no pointâSharron would be hard pressed to see any similarity, in spite of the fact that in both cases the D.A. was sleeping with an assistant D.A. But Locke had been a predator of gullible young women; she was nothing like that. She and Torrey had a mature relationship between equals, and that could not have been true with Locke and Elaine.
Instead, he waited her out in silence. Then: âIn any event, after Locke was killed, she needed a shoulder to cry on, and weââ
Pratt pulled her hand out from under his. âDonât tell me. I donât want to know.â
âIt wasnât that, Sharron.â He took her hand again, patted it soothingly. âIt wasnât that. Okay?â
She finally nodded. âOkay.â
âThere wasnât anybody she could talk to here. The office was changing. She felt there were spies everywhere.â He shrugged, making light of it. âI was doing some neighborhood work in the African-American community, outreach stuff, you know, just like you were. Anyway, Elaine and I, we got to be close for a while. Platonically. Really.â
He squeezed her hand. âSheâd lost her mother and her lover within a week. She wanted to talk ideas. What was the place of a strong, smart black woman in a white manâs world? What was the price of her motherâs fame? Was any of it worth it? Was it wise to have affairs with married men? Where was she going? What had she done? That kind of thing.â
He paused. âEventually, she got it together. I put her in touch with Aaron Rand and you know the rest. But she was just very special somehow. And now . . .â A sigh. âI cared about her, and now I feel I owe her something.â
âWhat? You couldnât have prevented what happened with her. It wasnât anything to do with you.â
âNo, I know that.â He considered his phrasing. âLetâs just call it a payback. This bum who killed her, if somebodyâs going to take him down, Iâd like it to be me.â
Â
Two hours after heâd left Glitsky, after a visit to Frank Batiste, the chief of inspectors, Hardy was coming out of his shock but still wasnât sure how to proceed. He had, at least, gotten Cole Burgess booked into the jail, and now he wanted to talk to him, get some take of the damage. He took the outside corridor from the back door of the Hall. It was bitter with a wet wind, and when he got inside the door to the jail, he stood a minute getting the warmth.
The admitting sergeant at the counter was a short, skinny Caucasian with the name tag
Hundreds of Years to Reform a Rake