4.7 The Locke

by Matt P.

The total time from the initial request for an interview with Tania Summers to the first call from her attorney was exactly three minutes ad thirty-seven seconds. It was, Marshal Alexander had informed them, a new departmental record. And not just by a little bit.

It was hours later and pushing the end of business when, after a great dealing of wrangling and many assurances and promises ranging from annoying to meaningless, Tania Summers breezed in to the Border Police Department HQ with an entourage of two suited men in two.

Summers herself was dressed in airy reds ad golds, looking more like an art student or an heiress than a business tycoon; she would not have looked out of place with paint smudged on her face, or a flunky carrying a miniature dog in a purse. Her blouse was light gold embroidered with red whorls and swirls that matched the peasant style skirt swaying around her legs. Her eyes revealed the mettle of the woman who had apparently purchased most of the small town papers in the west. They were the perfect and crystalline green of emeralds found only in movies, and they were bright and clear and knife-sharp as they looked around the Police HQ and its modest conference room. She looked somewhat out of place surrounded by stain resistant carpet, and furniture built by inmates earning money at the state penitentiary.

The two men with her were more conventionally dressed in suits. Wilfred Locke sat in a conservative suit, conservative tie, and the conservatively distrustful expression of a practiced defense attorney. It wasn’t quite loathing on his face, but it was a long cooked distrust of police and opposing counsel. His features were a carefully constructed mask of politeness and a small smile that never made it to his eyes.

The other man wore a slightly more fashionable suit, still dark with with flashes of a hunter green silk lining when he moved. His features were naturally tanned and handsome, with an aquiline nose and dark brown eyes shot through with green. He stood more easily in the surroundings, leaning against the wall with a casual acceptance of what he saw and preparedness for what might come.

“I just want it known my client is here of her own free will to provide assistance.” Locke began. “At any time she can leave, and—”

“Ryan?” Walter interrupted the attorney, looking at the fashionably dressed man as the attorney permitted a slightly dark scowl through to his features. The fashionably dressed man’s face broe in to a wide grin, and he and Walter moved forward into a man hug. “I thought you were still in the suck for a private gig?”

“Not for a minute, Cap.” The man responded amicably. He gestured to the seated Summers. “Contract changed.”

“You two know each other, I take it?” The attorney asked testily. “This will not be a conflict of interest, I hope?” He asked, his eyes half lidded to hide a predatory gleam as he glanced at his client. The desire to give his client both an out and an opportunity to snub the police was not quite etched on his features, but it was certainly in the edges of his smile. He looked almost sad when she shook her head, although the mask was back up so fast it might have been a mirage.

“No, I do not expect my bodyguard’s relationship with his brother-in-law will be much of an issue.” Tania summers offered in a high, clear voice. Walter blinked and turned to her with a raised eyebrow.

“You seem to have more information about me then I’ve got about you, Ms. Summers.” He offered evenly as he, and his brother-in-law, resumed their places in the room. “How is that?”

“Well, that will become obvious in a moment, Major Richards.” Tania purred after a slow smile. She looked like she was about to say more, but paused when the door opened again and admitted one more person to the conference room.

“Hello, sister.” Doctor Morgan Winters offered with an exaggerated, if fond, sigh.