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He drove through a stone arch, then turned onto the first narrow road. There was an office to the right, but it was locked up tight. In an alcove near the door, though, he found a grave locator. He looked up the Franklins, then returned to the truck and drove slowly along the lane. Section six was at the far end of the second row of plots. It was also where the only other vehicle on the grounds was parked. A slender figure, a young woman, knelt in front of a double marker, tending the flowers planted there.
He considered driving on and returning after she was gone, but then she looked straight at him and smiled—really smiled. No one had directed a smile like that at him since he’d arrived in town.
She got to her feet and lifted one hand to stop him. He braked, then rolled down his window as she took a few steps toward him.
“You’re Jake Norris,” she said. “I was hoping to meet you. I’m—”
The angel. Silky brown curls, huge blue eyes, Cupid’s bow mouth. “Therese Franklin.” All those years ago, he’d thought she was of no consequence—too young, too girlie, too spoiled. He would have been much happier if the Franklins had had a son or even a dog.
Except that one morning when he’d found her sitting next to her dead mother. When he’d grabbed her up, held her tightly and run from the house with her, yelling for his father at the top of his lungs.
She looked pleased that he’d recognized her. According to Kylie, she’d pleaded with the senator to stop Jake from researching this case. Kylie’s lie? Or Riordan’s?
He preferred to think Riordan’s.
He parked in front of her car, then got out and joined her in the drab green grass. She was of average height and so slender that a stiff breeze could blow her away—quite possibly the most delicate creature he’d ever seen. Even her voice, light and airy, sounded as if it belonged in another world.
“I assumed I would be getting a visit from you sooner or later,” she remarked in that ethereal voice as they walked back to her parents’ graves. On the other side, another double marker bore her grandparents’ names, along with the dates of their births and his death.
Jake thought it ghoulish to have your name on a grave marker while you were still alive.
“Actually, I hadn’t decided whether I would try to interview you,” he admitted. “You were very young at the time, and I’d been warned this is a bad time for you.”
Her gaze shifted to her grandfather’s grave, and sadness dimmed her eyes. But when she looked back at him, she was smiling again, albeit faintly. “I doubt I’d be able to contribute much, if anything. But there’s a lot I’d like to know. My grandparents didn’t talk about my parents. It was too painful for them. I thought they had died in an accident until I was in high school, when I found out they’d been murdered.”
“That must have been tough.”
She shrugged.
“So you don’t object to my writing a book about this.”
Bending, she tugged a stubborn weed from the base of the monument, then straightened again. “Truthfully…you’re right. I was very young. I don’t remember my parents. I don’t feel a connection to them. They’re symbols rather than people to me. Maybe through your book I can get to know them.”
Abruptly she smiled and looked more like fifteen than twenty-five. “I’m reading your last book. I feel I know those people. That’s what I’m hoping for with this one.”
“What if you don’t like what you see?” It was always a possibility. She could find out that her mother or father had done something to cause their murders…just as he could find out that his father really had committed the murders. “They say ignorance is bliss.”
She smiled again. “Whoever says that isn’t the one being kept in the dark. I don’t think it’s too much to ask that I know about the people who brought me into this world, good or bad.”
“So you’re willing to sit down and talk with me?”
She brushed a strand of fine hair from her face. “I’d like that. My number’s—”
The squeal of tires on the highway interrupted her, and they both looked in that direction. A white police car was angled across both lanes as the driver made a clumsy U-turn.
“Derek,” Jake and Therese both said at the same time. She went on. “You know him?”
“He’s been following me, probably on the chief’s orders. I didn’t realize I’d lost him for this long.”
“He’s my boyfriend,” she said with a shy shrug. “Maybe you should leave. My number’s in the phone book. Call me?”
“I will.” Jake returned to his truck as Derek sped through the gate, then skidded into the first turn. The kid was probably enough of a hothead to confront him, unless Therese persuaded him not to.
Apparently she did. A glance back that way as Jake approached the gate showed the police car stopped in the middle of the road and Therese standing beside it, gesturing as she talked.
Jake turned west again on 66. A half mile from the cemetery, he turned north onto another paved road, followed it for a time, then reached the dirt road. He turned and stopped.
Neither house was visible from there. The road climbed straight up a hill with heavy woods on either side. At the Y, a road to the left led to the Baker house, a road to the right to the Franklins’.
Were the houses still standing? Had anyone ever lived in them again?
He would find out…but not today.
Backing onto the road, he headed back to town.
This case was becoming more difficult every time he turned around. No trial transcript, no newspaper articles, no cooperation from any of the principals besides Charley and, now, Therese, who frankly wouldn’t be much help. If her grandparents had refused to talk about her parents, then it was doubtful they’d saved anything that had to do with their deaths or the trial.
But after leaving the newspaper office empty-handed, he’d gone back to the courthouse and copied the case file before it could disappear, as well. It contained information on the warrants, a summary of each court appearance and other such data, including the name of the court reporter. He intended to track her down and see if, by chance, she still had the original of the transcript. He could find out who’d written the newspaper stories for the Journal and whether he’d kept copies. He could try to locate people who’d known Charley or the Franklins. And he could keep agitating Riordan and his cronies.
Agitated people tended to make mistakes.
It was five-thirty when he circled the courthouse. The parking spaces on the block where Riordan’s office was located were all empty but one. It held a silver Jaguar with the license tag designated for state senators. Since it had been parked there most of the day, he figured Kylie was driving Daddy’s car. He eased into the space next to it, pulled out his cell phone and punched in the office number.
He saw movement through the partially open blinds at the window in front of him an instant before she answered. “Riordan Law Office. This is Kylie.”
Shifting his gaze to the door, he saw the same name lettered in gold there. “And here I thought being a part-time senator was your father’s only job. Does he actually have any law clients?”
She was silent a moment before replying, “A few. People who have been with him from the beginning.”
“Judge Markham, Chief Roberts, Tim Jenkins…”
Somehow her silence took on an offended quality.
He rubbed his temple with one hand. “Sorry. Do you know that someone went into the library, took the microfilm containing all the newspaper stories about the Franklins’ murders and Charley’s trial and replaced it with blank film?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“And that the newspaper owner just happened to send all his archives to his son in Houston just a few days ago?”
“I didn’t know when.”
“Does it bother you—”
“Yes,” she interrupted. “I admit it. Something’s wrong here. Someone’s trying to stonewall you, to dissuade you.” She gave the word dissuade a twist, as if it disgusted her. “I just can’t figure out why.”
“Because they’ve got something to hide,” he said quietly. “Because they’re covering up something that happened twenty-two years ago.”
He waited for her to argue with him, but she didn’t. She merely sighed.
“Did you go see Judge Markham?”
“Where are you?” she asked.
“Sitting next to Senator Riordan’s Jag.”
Again he saw movement inside, then the blinds moved about eye level. He could vaguely make out her silhouette, but all the enticing details—the curves, the colors, the scent, the goddessness—were hidden. It didn’t matter. He had enough details about her stored in his memory to entice him for a good long while.
The blinds moved again, then became still. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
It was closer to ten minutes when she finally stepped through the door, locked up, then started his way. She wore the same green dress, the same sexy heels and the same diamond studs, though there was no direct sunlight to make them twinkle. The only difference from that morning was her hair—pulled back in a sleek braid—and her expression. She looked weary. Disappointed.
He hoped he wasn’t the cause, though of course he had something to do with it.
She walked to the driver’s side and waited motionlessly as he rolled the window down. Even then, she didn’t say anything.
Finally he did. “Want to have a drink before dinner?”
“How about a few drinks instead of dinner?” she wryly suggested. Without waiting for an invitation, she walked to the other side of the truck and climbed in—and managed to do so without showing more than an inch or two of thigh, he was disappointed to notice.
He had to move his backpack to make room for her and her attaché. “My research,” he remarked as he hefted it into the narrow space behind the seat. “The way things are disappearing around here, I’m afraid to let it out of my sight.”
She didn’t respond.
He didn’t ask where she wanted to go but backed out of the space. When he reached Main Street, he turned east and drove past his motel, past the businesses that gave way to houses that gave way to countryside. There were plenty of restaurants with bars in Tulsa, if they didn’t find someplace sooner, though he couldn’t imagine the daughter of Senator Jim Riordan letting loose and tying one on. She was too image-conscious for that.
The sun was low on the western horizon when she finally spoke. “He destroyed it.”
“Who destroyed what?”
“Judge Markham. The trial transcript. He destroyed it.”
“He told you that?”
“No, I read it in his palm,” she snapped. “Of course he told me.”
“Why would he tell you? Destroying court records is a crime.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it tightly and stared out the side window.
Jake’s muscles tightened, then eased. He wasn’t too surprised by the destruction. The admission, though…obviously Markham trusted Kylie enough to confide his own lawbreaking to her. He didn’t expect her to do anything with the information, to turn him in or make a complaint.
And if Markham could trust her that much…Jake shouldn’t trust her at all.
“Are you always this unpopular when you’re researching a book?” she asked after a time.
He managed a grin. “No. Riverview is setting a new low in my career.”
“But people aren’t always happy when they hear what you plan to do.”
“Not always. But this is the first time people have hidden or destroyed records. It’s the first time a cop has dogged my every step.” He saw her gaze flit to the outside mirror, checking the road behind them. He grinned again. “He turned around at the city limits. He probably recognized you and figured you’d fill in Chief Roberts.”
“I avoid speaking to Chief Roberts when I can.”
“You don’t like him?”
She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “He’s a friend of my father’s. Not mine.” Shifting in the seat, she faced him. “The senator says your books are inaccurate, that you twist the facts and sensationalize the acts to maximize sales.”
A muscle twitched in Jake’s cheek, the annoying kind of jerk that he could damn near see. “He’s wrong,” he said stiffly. His work was important to him. It was all he really had besides his mother, whose past went back only so far as her current marriage, and his father, wasting away in prison. He was proud of every aspect of every book that had his name on the cover. “The senator also said—”
“Turn left up ahead,” she directed, gesturing to where a flashing red light marked a four-way stop sign.
He obeyed, then followed her next direction into the parking lot that fronted a middle-of-nowhere bar. The smell of grease hung heavy on the air, suggesting the place also served food. He looked from the cinder-block building to the elegant woman unbuckling her seat belt. “Not quite your kind of place.”
“Good hamburgers, good fries, good music—and no one gives a damn about the senator or his daughter.” Leaving her attaché, she slid to the ground and slammed the door.
He grabbed his backpack and followed her inside, admiring the way the green dress clung to her hips and molded to her backside. She moved as if she’d gone through years of dance or gymnastics. Probably both had been deemed essential for the senator’s sake. After all, what would people think if his daughter was a less-than-perfect klutz?
The bar was dimly lit, as all bars should be, with pool tables on the left, a jukebox to the right, a small dance floor in the middle and tables and booths all around. It was too early in the evening for much of a crowd, though a half dozen young men were gathered around the pool tables and twice that number occupied a few tables.
Kylie chose the corner booth, as far from the door as they could get, and sat with her back to the room. He didn’t mind. He’d rather face trouble than let it sneak up behind him.
When the waitress came, she ordered a burger, fries and a Coke. He asked for the same, except with beer, then settled comfortably on the bench to watch her. She didn’t seem to mind.
“The senator also said what?”
He didn’t understand her question without thinking back. He’d been about to tell her about Therese when she’d interrupted to give him directions. Now he half wished he hadn’t said anything. She wasn’t going to like it and she looked as if she’d had enough disappointments—disillusionments?—for one day. But she was waiting and she was going to find out anyway. “He told you that Therese Franklin didn’t want me looking into her parents’ murders. That she pleaded with him to stop me.”
Kylie nodded once. Even in the near darkness her hair trapped light from somewhere, giving it a golden gleam.
“I ran into Therese today. She was enthusiastic about the book. She wants to talk to me, wants me to call her.”
For a long moment Kylie simply stared at him, looking…unsettled was the best word he could come up with. There was a little surprise, a lot of dismay and a lot of…well, unsettledness. “You’re saying the senator lied to me.”
Yes. “I’m saying Therese doesn’t appear to have any interest in stopping this book. That seems to be the senator’s agenda. And the judge’s. And the chief’s.”
Abruptly she covered her face with both hands, pressing her fingertips hard against her temples. He couldn’t blame her if she had a headache. Learning ugly things about the person you’ve given unconditional loyalty to could be enough to make anyone sick.
“Hey.” Leaning across the table, he caught hold of her left hand and pulled it away. “Let’s forget about this for a while, okay? Let’s just enjoy our dinner and each other’s company and deal with the rest of it later. Okay?”
Kylie kept her eyes closed a moment, focusing her attention on his hand. His palm was callused, his fingers strong, his touch gentle and warm. Just that little contact, and her breathing was easing, her tension lessening. If he really touched her—pulled her close, slid his arms around her, stroked her body—she just might melt…or shatter.
Finally she opened her eyes, carefully withdrew her hand from his and called up a practiced smile. “How did you get into the newspaper business?”
His grin was crooked and charming. “You did check me out.”
She’d been checking him out since the moment she’d first seen him.
“My mother married a man who owned three small-town papers, along with a ranch. I had a choice between castrating cattle and shoveling manure or working at the paper. Like many males, I get a little squeamish about castration, so I opted for the paper.”
