Practice to Deceive by David Housewright Page B

Levering Field in any fashion or to come within five hundred feet of his person, his family, his home, and his office. Is that understood?”
    “Sure. Want some coffee?”
    “What?”
    “Coffee. French almond. I grind my own beans.”
    “Did you hear what I just said?”
    “Perfectly. And I want to give you my personal assurance that I will strictly adhere to the court’s request. Now, about that coffee …”
    Monica glanced down at the paper, picked it up again, and held it out for me to take. “Are you Holland Taylor?” she asked, serving me properly this time.
    “Yes, I am,” I said, taking the paper and tossing it back on the desk. Monica’s eyes followed it to the blotter, then turned on me. I shrugged. “I just had lunch with a guy who pistol-whipped me couple of months ago. I don’t hold grudges.”
    Clearly Monica had expected some kind of confrontation, would even have welcomed it—why else deliver the restraining order personally when she could have hired it done? Instead, I was being hospitable, offering her a beverage, and now she was confused. No doubt she figured I was up to something, so she accepted my offer while she tried to determine what it was.
    She smiled with pleasure when she sipped from my mug—I make dynamite coffee—then wiped the smile from her face, not wanting to give me the satisfaction.
    “So, how is the Ring man these days?” I asked when I was sitting snug behind my desk and she was sitting in front of it.
    “You should know,” Monica told me.
    “But I don’t know,” I claimed. From her expression, Monica did not believe me.
    “He’s angry,” Monica said.
    “Why is that?” Monica did not answer the question, so I did. “Let me guess. He got a flat tire, a couple of crank calls, and he’s holding me responsible. He remembers what I said, and now everything that goes wrong in his life he figures is punishment because he ripped off poor Mrs. Gustafson. A guilty conscience will do that.”
    Monica set the coffee mug carefully on my desk and said, “You and I both know there’s been a lot more going on than just flat tires and crank calls.”
    “Such as?”
    “Such as death threats in the middle of the night.”
    Monica’s answer shook me, and I took a long pull from my own coffee mug before I was ready to reply. I chose my words carefully: “That is something I would never do.”
    “Oh? Why not?” Monica asked, retrieving her mug, leaning forward, on the offensive now. “You’ve killed before. How many times? Four?”
    “Four,” I agreed.
    “Of course, the review board let you get away with it. What was it they said? ‘You were acting within the scope of your employment’?”
    “Close enough,” I replied. She was fighting dirty now, hitting me where it hurt. I was sorry I had offered her the coffee.
    “I know all about you, Taylor.” Monica was leaning across my desk now, her hands supporting her weight, her face only inches from mine. “You’ve been skating on thin ice with the Public Safety Commission for years. You keep it up and I’ll personally see that your license is revoked.”
    A trick my father taught me years ago: When someone is giving you the business, threatening you, trying to put the fear of God into you and you want to get the upper hand, ask something innocuous that will throw them off track and break their concentration.
    “Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” I asked.
    Monica stopped speaking. A quizzical expression crossed her face.
    “You obviously think I’m this terrible person stalking innocent victims in the night, and I’m not,” I added. “I’d like to prove it to you.”
    She pushed herself upright, took a step backward.
    “I’m just an average guy trying to help a little old lady get her money back from a thief.”
    “‘Average’ is the last word I would use to describe you,” Monica said after her brain reset.
    “See, I knew you liked me.”
    “I didn’t say—”
    “How ‘bout I pick