Winter's Daughter (5 page)

Gunner chuckled approvingly. "Atta, babe. Now, what you gotta understand about City Hall is, there’s nobody up there but bureaucrats and politicians, and those kinds of people don’t understand emotions. You gotta talk to people in a language they
will
understand. Bureaucrats, now, all they understand is rules and forms. The only way to talk to a bureaucrat is to fill out a form. Politicians are a different breed of cat." He propped one elbow on the arm of his chair and leaned on it, unconsciously flexing his fingers while he stared at nothing, thinking.

Tannis waited quietly, watching massive muscles and ropelike tendons play beneath the mahogany skin of Gunner’s arm. She figured if anybody knew how to deal with bureaucracy, it was Gunner. He’d lost his legs in the service of his country, and in the years since, had probably been through more pitched battles with paper–pushers and politicians than he’d ever had with the Taliban.

Gunner chuckled, breaking the silence. "I’ll tell you how to get a politician’s attention. You just talk ’image’ to him—he’ll listen. Don’t waste your time tellin’ him about right or wrong, about people gettin’ hurt. Tell him how it’s gonna hurt his image. You dig?"

Tannis nodded, grinning. "Yeah, I dig. Thanks, Gunner." She hopped off the counter and leaned over to kiss his cheek.

"Atta, babe," Gunner said softly. "Go get ’em, sugar."

City Hall was not a happy place this morning, Dillon observed as he heard the receptionist say for the fourth or fifth time, "I’m sorry, the mayor isn’t in his office at the moment. Can someone else help you?"

Mayor Flintridge was famous for his folksy approach to city government. He was fond of expounding on the fact that while during his tenure as mayor Los Padres had grown from a small desert town to a not–so–small city, all the doors of City Hall, including his, remained open and accessible to all its citizens. Now, however, having chucked a rock into the hornet’s nest, the mayor had apparently run for cover. Which was probably an astute move on his part, but one that had left the resulting furor in the hands of council members shortsighted enough to show up at City Hall today. So far, that included the office staff, Dillon, and Maude Harrington, the only woman on the council. Fred Gould and Don McNeil had businesses elsewhere to give them a reasonable excuse for absence; presumably, they’d show up in time for the emergency session Flintridge had called for two o’clock this afternoon. Meanwhile, Dillon, Maude, and the receptionist were coping as best they could.

"Councilman James?" Sally, the receptionist, was standing in the doorway.

"Dillon," he said, smiling at her. "Just Dillon."

"Okay—Dillon," Sally said, returning the smile. "I guess this one’s yours. Mrs. Harrington is still talking to that guy from the L.A. Times. Can you take it?"

"Phone?"

"No, somebody to see the mayor. No appointment, but she said she’d speak to another council member, and I thought, if you were free—"

Something in the receptionist’s voice pricked Dillon’s curiosity. "Reporter?" he asked, frowning.

"I don’t think so. I wouldn’t bother you with it, except that—well, I just think you might want to talk to this one, sir."

"Well—" Dillon glanced at his watch. Not even ten o’clock. It was going to be a long day. "All right." He sighed. "I guess you might as well send her in."

In the fourth floor reception area Tannis was pacing. She was trying hard to hang on to the mood of confidence and control Gunner had restored in her, but it was a losing battle. If there was anything Tannis hated, it was being given the bureaucratic runaround.

"Ms. Winter? Right this way, please."

Tannis stared at the receptionist, a perfectly ordinary–looking woman with a pleasant face and dark hair, as if she’d arrived in a puff of smoke.

"Councilman James will be happy to answer your questions," the receptionist added, smiling.

Thinking, I’ll just bet he will, Tannis tucked her helmet into the crook of her arm and followed the receptionist into a paneled hallway.

"First door on your right," the receptionist told her, then went back to the outer office.

The door was ajar. Tannis paused in front of it, frowning. There wasn’t any name on the panel, nor any sound from within. She was lifting her hand to knock when a dry but not unpleasant voice said, "You’re in the right place—they haven’t gotten around to putting my name on the door yet. Please, come in."

Tannis took a deep breath, set her jaw, and entered the room with a firm and purposeful step. Momentum carried her halfway to the desk before an uncomfortable pressure in her chest reminded her to exhale. She halted. For one of the few times in her life, she was at a loss for words.

Councilman Dillon James wasn’t what she’d expected.

He was waiting for her, politely standing behind his desk, wearing a conservative gray suit and dark tie. His hair was dark brown, wavy, and, surprisingly, a little too long. And though that seemed at odds with the way he was dressed, in some inexplicable way Tannis felt it suited him.

He was very tall and rather too thin, she thought. His stance seemed relaxed and careless, but there was nothing lackadaisical about him. His glance was interested, alert, and his movements, as he leaned across the desk to briefly clasp her hand, had an economical grace that suggested he was also very fit.

Like his body, his face was long, angular, and undeniably attractive. His nose was aquiline, his chin just short of pugnacious, his eyes set deep and shadowed by thick, dark lashes. Two sets of grooves etched his cheeks, the inner set bracketing his smile like parentheses, the outer ones smaller, almost dimples. He looked familiar to her. She kept trying to think who he reminded her of—some movie actor, she supposed; she was never very good at recalling things like that.

One thing she did know. All in all, Councilman James was the most interesting looking man she’d met in a long time. She decided she might have to rethink her long–standing prejudice against politicians.

Belatedly realizing, as she took the seat he indicated, that he had said something, Tannis cleared her throat and blurted out, "I beg your pardon?"

A gleam of amusement twinkled through his thicket of lashes. "I said, please call me Dillon. How can I help you, Ms.…?"

"Uh—" Tannis said, and only just managed to add, "Winter," although her throat had gone dry, and all she could do was whisper.

She didn’t understand it. The way she was feeling reminded her of her very first foray into show business. On that memorable occasion, when she was about nine, she’d been chosen for the honor of reciting "Twas the Night Before Christmas" for the school Christmas program. She had stepped confidently into the spotlight, looked out upon the vast sea of faces—and developed total though temporary paralysis.

"Ms. Winter?" the councilman prompted kindly, and waited.

Tannis abruptly leaned over to place her helmet on the floor, a movement which seemed to help restore the flow of blood to her brain. This is ridiculous, she thought.
How could I possibly have stage fright? This man is nothing but a lousy politician!

Gunner, she thought, searching through her memory for his calm, intelligent eyes.
Help!

Straightening up with her wits more or less reassembled, she fixed the politician with a forthright glare. "I’m sorry. I’m a little upset right now."

The councilman’s eyebrows went up, and Tannis thought the look in his eyes had grown a bit wary.

Great. Now he thinks I’m a nut case.

She took a deep, fortifying breath. "It’s okay," she assured him with a wry smile. "I’m not going to freak out or anything."

The councilman looked amused. "Oh, good."

"I just think when it comes to feelings, it’s best not to equivocate. Mr. James—"

"Dillon," the councilman interrupted smoothly. "Just call me Dillon. Ms. Winter, I’m sorry you’re upset. Maybe if you told me what you’re upset about, I might be able to help you." He sounded very patient. Tannis almost laughed, recognizing the same tone, and almost the same words, she might have used to interview a patient in danger of becoming irrational.

"Actually," she said, "I had hoped to speak with Mayor Flintridge—"

She felt frustrated and unfocused, as if she’d somehow lost her way. The problem was, she’d come loaded for a politician, and the bull’s–eye in her mind wore George Flintridge’s face. With his jowly mug and florid style, the mayor was the epitome of the small–town politician. All the things she and Gunner had talked about, all the speeches she’d rehearsed on the way over here, had been aimed directly at Mayor Flintridge. Presented instead with this tall, rock–jawed, soft–spoken man, Tannis felt disoriented; she knew her lines all right, but somehow she had the feeling she was in the wrong play.

"Do you know what’s going on?" she asked finally, her habitual bluntness coming to her rescue.

The councilman looked blank for a moment, and then that smile lighted his face. "Well, most of the time I do, although it has been only two weeks since I was sworn in. I imagine I have quite a bit of catching up to do." Amusement made a pleasant ripple in his voice. "What is it you’re referring to?"

"That." Tannis reached across the desk to stab the newspaper that was pinioned to his blotter by one of his elbows. "This police sweep. These Gestapo tactics. This—"

"Come now, Ms. Winter. Hardly the Gestapo." He still spoke with patience, and even a touch of amusement, but his jaw had a new solidity, his eyes a new kind of glitter that though she knew she couldn’t have encountered it before, stirred her memory like a breath of air on a windless day.

Who does he remind me of?

She snorted. "Not far from it!" Too agitated to stay anchored to a chair, she jumped up and paced to the window, rubbing her arms, surprised to discover goose bumps there. She heard the scrape of Dillon’s chair. "Do you know," she said, tapping the window glass, trying to ignore the nervous tremors in the back of her neck that told her he was coming near, "that right down there on those streets there are people being deprived of their rights and their possessions just on the whim of some politicians?"

She whirled, ready to fix the councilman with her best glare and continue her impassioned appeal. In the next moment, however, her words expired with her breath, feeble and unspoken. A few feet away from her, Dillon James had come to a halt as if the words she’d hurled at him had been bricks forming a solid wall in his path. The expression on his face seemed stunned, as if he’d run headlong into it.

Good heavens, she wondered, what did I say? She wondered if she’d insulted him, saying all those things about politicians.
Me and my big mouth!
She hoped she hadn’t made him angry. Quite suddenly she knew that the last thing she wanted was to have this man angry with her.

And yet, he didn’t look like an angry man, or one with wounded feelings. Smiling again, he joined her at the window, but now there was something different about his smile. As he looked down at her, the harsh light unveiled his eyes, and in their depths Tannis saw a gleam of appraisal. Once again that elusive memory wafted through her mind, bringing with it a faint but tantalizing whiff of
deja vu
.

"Ms. Winter," Dillon drawled, thoughtfully rubbing the side of his jaw, "would you mind telling me what your interest is in all of this?" The question was polite, and asked with a smile. Even so, there was something about it that suggested Dillon James was a man accustomed to having his questions answered promptly—and truthfully.

"I’m a social psychologist," Tannis replied, relieved that his cautiousness had so simple an explanation. "I’m sorry—I didn’t realize I hadn’t explained."

"Ah," Dillon said, nodding. "A psychologist. Should I be calling you Doctor Winter?"

"Well, no." she smiled. "Not yet, but I’m working on it. And you can call me Tannis. I’m here because as my research project for my doctorate in sociology I’ve been studying the problems of the homeless—more specifically, the inveterate homeless. The ones for whom the street life is so deeply ingrained they don’t know how to live any other way. The ones who, given any choice at all, will go right on living on the streets no matter what you do to try to help them. Mr. James, those people—"

"Dillon."

"Dillon. Those people don’t want to go to a shelter. They’re suspicious of the shelters, even afraid, some of them. It’s the same as jail to them, don’t you see? And forcing them into shelters is like putting them in jail without due process."

He looked at her thoughtfully and released a long breath as he said, "I see…"

Elation poured through her. "Then you’ll help? You’ll put a stop to it?"

"What?" He blinked and seemed surprised, as if his mind had just come back from somewhere else. "I’m sorry." His smile was gentle again. "There’s not much I can do."

"But why? Surely the council—"

"It wasn’t a council decision. Mayor Flintridge ordered the cleanup himself."

"Can he do that?" Tannis asked, dismayed.

Dillon chuckled. "Oh, yes, certainly."

"But why? Why now, all of a sudden? Usually nobody pays any attention to the street people except to give them a wide berth when they pass them on the sidewalk!"