it as a punching bag. He got up and made his way to his vehicle.
The sooner he took care of business for his mother’s sake, the sooner he could sail away. That was the day he was living for. Starting right now, he would count the days.
The hell with that; he’d count the minutes and the hours.
Eight
“You’re still here, I see.”
“For now.” Holt couldn’t hide his disdain for Seymour, so he didn’t try.
“You look like hell,” Seymour said, narrowing his eyes on his son.
“I could say the same for you, but I won’t.”
The conversation started just as Holt imagined it would when Annie told him Seymour wanted to see him. He’d been about to leave to go to the police station.
Holt had put off this second encounter as long as he could, taking more time in the shower and dressing. But like he’d told himself, the sooner he took this case and ran with it, the sooner he could sail away. That strategy had gotten him in gear quicker than anything else.
“I was hoping we could get through this without exchanging insults.”
Holt gave his father a sardonic smile. “Then don’t insult me.”
Seymour released a harsh sigh. “I can’t for the life of me understand why you can’t forgive and forget. Dammit, I’m your father.”
Holt’s stomach coiled into a knot. “Whoa. Memory Lane is closed. I suggest you keep that in mind when we’re together.”
“In other words, I heed or you walk.”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“You’re a real bastard, Holt.”
“Like father, like son, I guess.” Holt shrugged.
“Do you want some coffee?” Seymour asked in a tired tone.
His father looked exhausted, Holt thought. And old. Yet that defiant glint remained in his eyes and in the way he carried himself. But the lines in his face seemed to have deepened and his hands shook slightly, a result Holt figured, from his drug use.
“Holt, I asked you a question.”
“No coffee for me.”
“Suit yourself. I’m having some.”
Holt watched as Seymour not only poured himself a cup out of the silver coffeepot that Annie had brought in, but brought back a small bottle of bourbon from the bar and proceeded to lace the coffee with that.
“Are you a drunk as well as an addict?”
Seymour muttered a curse as he glared at Holt. “While you’re under my roof, I demand you show me respect.”
“If you earn it, you’ll get it. And drinking at this time of the morning isn’t going to earn it.”
“You just don’t understand,” Seymour responded in a clipped tone.
“I understand that if you don’t straighten your act up, they’ll put you under the damn jail instead of in it.”
“I’m paying you big bucks to see that doesn’t happen.”
“I’m an attorney, not a miracle worker.” Holt paused and made his way deeper into the room. “As for money, I don’t want one red cent from you.”
Seymour looked him up and down, the curve of his mouth bordering on a sneer. “Well, from the look of you I’d say you need it. I’ve never seen you so unkempt, so without pride.”
Holt clenched his jaw to keep from retaliating. They could stand there and hit each other with barbs until doomsday and nothing would change. Seymour was losing control even though he refused to admit it. And control was what made his father tick. Since Holt didn’t see him relinquishing rule without a fight, he’d have to ignore his little power plays.
Until Seymour tried to control him, that is. Then he’d nail him.
“Put the bottle away and pour the coffee out,” Holt said, with steel behind his words.
Seymour glared at his son. “I won’t have you dictating to me, dammit.”
Holt didn’t flinch. He merely held his gaze steady.
“Oh, all right,” Seymour muttered, shoving the cup aside.
“Were you drinking when you operated on Grant Dodson?” Holt questioned.
“Of course not,” Seymour snapped. “I would never take a drink before surgery.”
“But drugs are okay?”
Seymour’s face turned so red that Holt thought it might explode. “That’s different. I was just easing the pain in my back.”
“So you still maintain your complete innocence?”
“Without reservation.”
“Well, I can tell you right now, the odds are stacked against you.”
Seymour narrowed his eyes on Holt. “If I didn’t know you and your sense of ethics, I’d say I’m a fool for trusting you.”
“That’s a chance you’ll have to take.”
Their eyes met for a long hostile moment.
“So what’s your plan?” Seymour asked into the silence. “I want to be kept in the loop.”
“You know that’s not my style. When I think you need to know something, I’ll tell you. Meanwhile, I’ll do my job.”
“That’s unacceptable.”
“That’s the way it is.”
“If you’re planning to use this unfortunate accident to bring me to my knees, to try and make me pay for—”
“Put a plug in it, Seymour,” Holt interrupted. “You’re not fit to mention my mother’s name.”
Color flushed into Seymour’s face, but he didn’t say anything. He merely clenched his teeth so tightly, his jaw quivered.
“I’m out of here,” Holt said. “Before I go, I think it’d be to your advantage to be on your best behavior since the press is all over this like stink on stink.”
Seymour stiffened. “I don’t need you to tell me how to conduct myself.”
“From where I’m standing, you damn sure do.”
Holt sat behind the wheel of his SUV rental, trying to calm his temper before tackling the chief of police. If he’d thought that defending his father was the ultimate insult, having to be around Maci, his stepmother, was more difficult. “Can it, Holt,” he muttered to himself, stepping out of the vehicle, feeling the heat from the concrete rise up and envelop him. This weather was another reason his temper was on a short fuse. He didn’t appreciate air conditioning with his shirt plastered to his skin.
Patience, he told himself, walking into the station.
Five minutes later he found himself sitting across the desk from Ted Satterwhite, which had surprised him. He hadn’t expected to have such easy access to the chief, even though they had known each other since elementary school. Attorneys didn’t usually get such good treatment and he’d doubted he’d be an exception.
“So what can I do for you, counselor?”
“Other than touching base with you after a lot of years, I’d like a copy of the charges against my client.”
“That can be arranged.”
“I don’t suppose you want to tell me your secrets.” Holt