Rook didn’t respond. Harris had lived in social and professional exile for a long time, but, as prickly as he was, he was observant, experienced and very smart. He had a long career behind him, and even now, people owed him favors and came to him, quietly, for advice.

He gave Rook a supercilious smile. “Thinking you’d be smart not to underestimate me, aren’t you?”

“I’m thinking you need to get to the point.”

Harris leaned over the small table and said in a dramatic whisper, “Don’t forget. I know where a lot of the bodies in this town are buried.” He sat back abruptly and grinned, his teeth yellowed from age, cigarettes, drink and neglect. “Figuratively speaking, of course.”

Rook sucked in his impatience. “If you’re looking for action at my expense, Judge, you’re looking in the wrong place.”

“Understood.” Harris nodded wistfully at the middle-aged woman in the hall. “Bernadette used to stop by my office just to say hello, grab a cup of coffee. We don’t see each other that often nowadays.”

“It’s to her credit she didn’t drop you altogether.”

“I suppose it is. Ah. Here we are.” Harris seemed relieved. “Finally.”

Another woman came into their line of sight.

Rook took in her dark red hair, her big smile as she greeted Bernadette Peacham.

Hell.

Harris’s eyes lit up. “Mackenzie Stewart,” he said with relish.

She was barely thirty and slim, wearing a slip of a deep blue and carrying an evening purse just big enough for a.38 caliber pistol. Rook didn’t know women’s purses. But he knew guns.

“She’s a deputy U.S. marshal,” Harris added. “A fugitive hunter, a protector of the federal judiciary. A fellow federal agent. Doesn’t look like Wyatt Earp, does she?”