High Noon

opened one of the arching double doors, he saw the little red Jag zip down the last curve of his drive.
    The man who folded himself out of it was wearing a suit, and it was sure to be Italian—as would be the shoes. Phineas T. Hector could manage to look perfectly groomed after mud wrestling in a hurricane.
    Duncan hooked his thumbs in his front pockets and watched Phin stroll. He never looked to be in any particular hurry, Duncan mused, but that mind of his was always running on high speed.
    He looked like a lawyer, Duncan supposed, and a high-dollar one. Which was exactly what he was now. When they’d first met—had it been ten years now?—Phin had barely been able to afford the cab fare to court, much less an Armani suit.
    Now he wore it like he’d been born to, the pale gray an excellent choice against his dark skin, his gym-hammered body. Sun flashed off his dark glasses as he paused at the base of the white steps to study Duncan.
    “You look a little rough there, friend of mine.”
    “Feeling the same.”
    “Imagine so after the amount of adult beverages you poured into your sorry self last night.”
    “Felt good at the time. What’re you doing out here?”
    “Keeping our appointment.”
    “We had one of those?”
    Phin only shook his head as he climbed the stairs. “I should’ve known you wouldn’t remember. You were too busy drinking Irish and singing ‘Danny Boy.’”
    “I did not sing ‘Danny Boy.’” Please, God.
    “Can’t say for sure. All those Irish tunes sound the same to me. You heading out?”
    “I was. I guess we should go inside.”
    “Out here’s fine.” Phin settled down on the long white glider, laid his arms out over its back. “You still thinking of selling this place?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe.” Duncan looked around—gardens, trees, pits of shade, green, green grass. He could never decide how he felt about the place from one day to the next. “Probably. Eventually.”
    “Sure is a spot. Away from the action, though.”
    “I’ve had enough action. Did I ask you to come out here, Phin? I’m blurry.”
    “You asked if I’d check in with Suicide Joe this morning, then come out to report to you. After I agreed, you embraced me and gave me a sloppy kiss. I believe there’s now a rumor going around that my wife is our beard.”
    Duncan considered a moment. “Did I at least kiss her, too?”
    “You did. You want to hear about Joe?”
    Duncan jingled the keys in his pocket. “I was about to drive into the city, check in on him.”
    “I can save you the trip. He’s doing better than I expected considering the shape he was in yesterday when I first saw him.”
    “Was his wife—”
    “She was there,” Phin interrupted. “She was pretty damn pissed, but she was there. He’s got a violent sunburn, which they’re treating, and I’ve approved, as his attorney, the court-appointed psychiatrist. As you’re not pressing any charges, he’s not going to do any serious time. He’ll get help, which is what you wanted.”
    “Yeah.” So why did he feel so guilty?
    “If you hire him again, Dunc, I’ll kick your ass.”
    “You can’t kick my ass.” Duncan gave him a slow and crooked grin. “You don’t fight dirty enough, black boy.”
    “I’ll make an exception. He’ll get help. His wife will take him back or she won’t. But you’ve already gone beyond what most would, and you hired him the best counsel in Savannah.”
    “Better be, for what you charge,” Duncan mumbled.
    Phin only grinned. “Got yourself to blame for that. Well, I’m going to head back and overcharge a few other clients.”
    “What about the redhead?”
    “What redhead?” Tipping down his sunglasses, Phin frowned at Duncan over them. “There were a couple of blondes and one delicious brunette trying to move on you last night, but you were too busy brooding into your beer to intercept the passes.”
    “No, not last night. The redhead. Phoebe Mac Namara. Lieutenant Phoebe Mac Namara. God.” On a long, exaggerated sigh, Duncan patted his heart. “Just saying that gets my juices up, so I believe I’ll repeat myself. Lieutenant Phoebe Mac Namara.”
    Phin rolled his eyes up to the white ceiling of the covered veranda. “You’re a case, Swift, God knows. What are you going to do with a cop?”
    “I can think of all kinds of things. She’s got green eyes, and that snug little body. And she went out on that roof. Guy’s sitting out on the ledge with a gun, a guy she’s