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“A helluva politician, anyway,” Brant conceded. “What are you doing here?”
Hugh shrugged. He wasn’t a tall man, nor was he particularly muscular. Rather he was of average height and average weight, his appearance completely nondescript except for one distinguishing feature—a jagged scar ran the length of the right side of his face, from his temple to his chin, turning what otherwise would have been a pleasant face into one that looked faintly menacing.
His hand tightened on Brant’s shoulder. “Let’s walk,” he said.
They headed toward Main Street, which in the seventies had become the Mid-America Mall in an attempt to revitalize downtown. Hugh stopped at a stone bench and propped one foot on the seat. He leaned his arms across his leg, gazing at the pigeons who were busily pecking at a bag of popcorn someone had thrown at a trash bin.
“I was still at headquarters when you called in earlier,” Hugh said. “I heard about the Snow woman. How bad was it?”
“Not as bad as it could have been,” Brant told him. “A few cuts and bruises. Nothing too serious.”
“What happened?”
“She says she was pushed in front of a bus.”
Hugh turned to Brant. “Think she’s lying?”
Brant bent to pick up a stray popcorn kernel and tossed it at the pigeons. “As a matter of fact, I’m inclined to believe her. She definitely fell in front of that bus, and she doesn’t strike me as the clumsy or careless type.”
“Did she give you any idea who might want to harm her?”
Brant thought about what she’d said. If you really want to find out who pushed me in front of that bus, why don’t you start with the three people I mentioned in that article? Including your own father, Sergeant Colter.
“Not really,” he said.
“Did you see anything?” It might have been Brant’s imagination, but he thought Hugh looked a little anxious.
The strain was probably getting to him, Brant decided. Scandal in the police force was nothing new, but as far as Brant could remember, no dirt had ever touched Hugh’s name. He was a cop’s cop, having started on the street and risen through the ranks the hard way. While Judd Colter had commanded respect and admiration, even awe at times, from his fellow officers, Hugh Rawlins was a man they could like. A man just like themselves.
“I’m not sure,” Brant said. “Do you remember a snitch named Remy Devereaux? Dad used him on occasion.”
Hugh looked surprised. “Remy Devereaux? He left town years ago. Why do you ask?”
“I thought I saw him on that street corner,” Brant said grimly.
Hugh turned back to the pigeons. “I doubt that. Word had it that the reason he left town was because he got into some trouble with the Mob. I don’t think he’d come back to Memphis.”
“You’re probably right. But it sure did look like him,” Brant said.
Hugh, still not looking up, asked, “What were you doing on that street corner, Brant?”
For a moment, Brant thought about telling him what Valerie Snow had assumed—that he’d been going to Austin’s press conference. But then he shrugged and said, “I was following her.”
“Why?”
“I guess I wanted to see if she was the monster everyone seems to think she is.”
Hugh straightened from the bench and turned to face him. “How did you know who she was?”
“I called the Journal’s offices from my cell phone. They said she was just leaving the building. Two women came out, and—don’t ask me how—I knew immediately which one was her.” The truth was, he’d known the moment he’d laid eyes on Valerie Snow that she meant trouble.
“Did she have horns sprouting from her head or something?” Hugh joked.
Brant grinned. “Hardly. I guess I figured eventually to catch up with her and ask her a few questions, but then all hell broke loose.”
“Yeah,” was Hugh’s only comment.
“Anyway,” Brant continued, “I’d like to stay on this case.”
Hugh frowned. “That might constitute conflict of interest.”
“She didn’t seem overly concerned about that,” Brant said. “I’d really like to follow up on this.”
“I’ll talk to Lieutenant Bermann,” Hugh offered, referring to Brant’s immediate superior in Robbery and Homicide. “We’ll see what he says.”
“Thanks.”
“You know, I’m glad the woman wasn’t seriously hurt,” Hugh said slowly. “But maybe this’ll put an end to her accusations. Maybe she’ll be frightened enough to want to drop the whole thing.”
“I don’t think so,” Brant replied, troubled by Hugh’s comments. “She’s determined to find proof that will clear Cletus Brown.”
Hugh glanced at him in alarm. “Proof? What the hell kind of proof could she find?”
“Have you ever heard of a woman named Naomi Gillum?”
Something flashed in Hugh’s eyes before he quickly looked away. His gaze scoured the street in front of them. “No, can’t say as I have. Why?”
“Valerie Snow mentioned her.”
Hugh shrugged. “Name doesn’t ring a bell.”
His response sounded convincing enough, but just before he’d voiced the denial, Brant could have sworn that what he’d seen in Hugh Rawlins’s eyes was fear.
CHAPTER THREE
“WHAT ARE YOU SAYING, exactly? That someone tried to kill you? Murder you, for God’s sake?” Julian Temple’s eyes gleamed gleefully at the prospect.
“That’s what I’m saying.” Valerie tried not to be offended by her boss’s reaction as she sat across from his desk the next day. She supposed she could hardly expect less from the “King of Sleaze.” At the age of forty, the owner and editor-in-chief of the Journal thrived on sensationalism and scandal, the uglier the better.
It was for that reason that Valerie, with her graduate degree in journalism from Northwestern and her years of serious reporting with the Sun-Times, had been squeamish about joining a tabloid-style paper like the Journal.
But it was also for that reason that she’d sought out Julian when she’d first arrived in Memphis. She’d known that no reputable paper would touch the story she wanted to write, not with the limited amount of evidence—mostly from undocumented sources—that she’d been able to gather so far.
The story she wanted to tell about the Kingsley kidnapping was just the sort of thing Julian Temple loved. In fact, he’d practically been salivating after that first meeting, when she’d outlined for him what she wanted to do. He’d loved the prospect of implicating a few of the old-guard police force—not to mention a local entrepreneur and philanthropist.
And the Kingsleys, with their money and power and political clout, were a tabloid’s gold mine, from the tragic kidnapping thirty-one years ago, to Edward Kingsley’s rise and fall in politics, to the exploits of his son, Andrew, the surviving Kingsley twin.
The Kingsleys were the stuff headlines and scandal were made of, and Julian had given Valerie carte blanche from the moment he’d hired her.
It was ironic, Valerie thought, because with his blond hair and movie-star good looks, Julian hardly looked the part of gossipmonger. And he certainly didn’t have that kind of background. He was from a very wealthy, old-money Nashville family who had bought him the Journal as a graduation present when he’d left Harvard, expecting him to turn it into a daily that would compete with the Press Scimitar and the Commercial Appeal.
Julian, however, had had other ideas, and while his family might not agree with his methods, they could hardly argue with his success.
He grinned at Valerie, not bothering to conceal his relish for what she had just told him. “Well, well, well. I’d say your little article has hit a nerve, Val.”
“To say the least,” she agreed. “And I’m fine, thank you. The bus didn’t touch me.”
“Oh, sorry.” Julian waved an impatient hand. “But that’s obvious, isn’t it? You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“I did go to the emergency room,” she reminded him. “Where I was interrogated by Judd Colter’s son, I might add.”
Julian’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding. What was he doing there?”
“That’s what I’d like to know. He says he was going to his cousin’s press conference, but I’m not so sure. I mean, he was right there. His was the first face I saw when I came to.” Valerie shivered in spite of herself, thinking about those black eyes staring down at her.
She’d even dreamed about him last night, a disturbing turn of events. The nightmares she’d had about his father were one thing, but the dream she’d had about Brant Colter was something else entirely.
The erotic images swept through her mind now, causing her face to heat unexpectedly. She fervently hoped Julian wouldn’t notice, but she needn’t have worried. His mind was off on a different tangent altogether. “You think he could have been the one to push you in front of that bus? You know…acting on his father’s behalf, or something? I hear Judd Colter’s been ill recently.”
“He had a stroke,” Valerie said.
“Whatever. In any case, you’ve got the makings of a real headliner here. Distraught Son Tries to Protect Dying Father’s Reputation. Cop’s Outrage Turns Deadly. Something like that. You get my drift.”
Loud and clear, Valerie thought. She rubbed her throbbing temples with her fingertips. Julian always gave her a headache.
He snapped his fingers suddenly and rummaged through the pile of papers on his desk. “I almost forgot,” he said, handing her a pink message slip. “Blackman called.”
Harry Blackman was a local P.I. Julian had suggested she use. Valerie had been skeptical at first, wondering if anyone Julian recommended could be trusted, but so far, Harry Blackman had proved to be reliable as well as resourceful.
“What did he say?” Valerie asked, glancing down at the paper.
“He’s got something for you. He wants to meet with you tonight in his office.”
Valerie’s initial excitement vanished. “Tonight? Why not sooner? I’m not exactly crazy about going into his neighborhood after dark.”
“Has to be tonight. He’s out of the office all day, on some Motel Eight surveillance job or something. His associate doesn’t spell him until seven.”
“All right,” Valerie said. “If that’s the way it has to be.”
“Look, I’d go with you,” Julian said, “but I’ve already made plans for tonight. Tomorrow night, however, I’m free as a bird, and I’d like for you to accompany me to Austin Colter’s fund-raiser at the Kingsley mansion.” He dangled two tickets in front of her, and Valerie reached across the desk to snatch them out of his hand.
“How did you get these? The Journal is definitely persona non grata in his campaign camp right now.”
Julian shrugged. “My family still has some pretty important contacts in the state. I had my old man call in a few favors. Besides, at five thousand bucks a ticket, they can’t afford to be choosy. I’ll pick you up at eight. It’s black tie, by the way.”
“Should be a night to remember,” she said, wondering if Brant would be there. Somehow a black-tie fund-raiser hardly seemed his scene, but then, what did she really know about Judd Colter’s son?
AT SEVEN O’CLOCK that evening, Valerie left the Journal’s offices, climbed into her dark blue Ford Explorer and headed toward the river.
Brant pulled into traffic behind her, keeping enough distance between her Explorer and his city vehicle—a beige, nondescript sedan—so he wouldn’t be detected. He had no idea what her destination might be, but he knew that, one way or another, she was headed for trouble.
It was ironic. She’d written an article trying to destroy his father’s reputation, and now he’d been put in the precarious position of trying to protect her.
Fate, he reflected, could sure as hell play some bad jokes.
She was a good driver, he noted as she wove in and out of traffic like a pro. On first glance, he would have pegged her as the sports-car type, in something sleek and red, something fast and dangerous; but then, when he’d seen her climb into the Explorer, he’d decided that maybe she had a practical side after all.
He hoped to hell he could appeal to that practical side now, make her see reason. If someone was trying to kill her, she didn’t appear to be taking any precautions.
Instead, she turned toward the river, heading for a section of downtown that no one, least of all a woman, should be going to alone. It would be dark soon. She should be home, safe and sound, watching television or reading a good book. Not traipsing about in a dangerous part of town.
But then, he had to admit, a part of him was glad that she was. A part of him was as intrigued as hell by Valerie Snow’s daring.
She pulled into a parking lot, paid the attendant, then headed across the street to a dingy office building that had once been a cotton warehouse. Some of the warehouses along the river had been turned into posh professional buildings and studio apartments, but no one had bothered to renovate the ones in this area. They didn’t have views of the river, but were bordered by alleys that led to more warehouses at the back.
She entered the building, and Brant quickly parked and followed her inside. The elevator door was closing as he walked into the dim, unattended lobby. A bank of mailboxes lined a wall across from a wooden stairway that led to the upper floors. Brant checked the boxes, looking for a name he might recognize. Blackman Security, on the fifth floor, caught his attention.
Harry Blackman was a security expert who used to work for his uncle Raymond. According to Raymond, Harry Blackman had once been the best in the business, but a drinking problem had led to his downfall, and Raymond had had to fire him. Their relationship had ended with bad feelings all around, and since then, Harry had become a small-time P.I., sometimes con man, hustling work wherever he could get it. He’d had run-ins with the police department more than once.
Brant checked the other businesses in the building, but none of them—independent insurance agents and accountants, for the most part—seemed likely prospects. If Valerie was mixed up with the likes of Harry Blackman, she didn’t know what she was getting herself into.
Brant started up the stairs, but a shadow moved by one of the grimy windows, drawing his attention. Probably a vagrant, he decided, or someone who worked in one of the warehouses at the back, but still, it wouldn’t hurt to check it out. Valerie was upstairs and would likely be there for several more minutes.
Brant hurried outside and entered the alley. Though darkness fell late in July, the street was full of shadows. Most of the evening traffic had long since disappeared from this part of town. Only the homeless and druggies looking for a fix would be caught out after dark down here.
And cops following beautiful women, Brant thought, hugging the warehouse as he made his way to the back of the building.
He stood still for a moment, listening to the darkness. A faint clanging sound came to him, drawing his attention upward. A metal fire escape led to the upper floors, and he thought he detected a movement on one of the landings.
Without a second thought, Brant started climbing.
HARRY BLACKMAN was probably the most formidable-looking man Valerie had ever met. It wasn’t just the fact that he was huge—well over six feet and at least two hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle—nor the fact that his head was completely bald with a dagger tattooed at the back.
What Valerie found so intimidating was the fact that he always wore a weapon, a .357 Colt Python strapped to his side, in plain view. She had no idea if he carried the weapon on the street or not, or whether he even had a permit for it. She’d never met him any place other than his office, and the gun was always there, like a crucial appendage he couldn’t live without.
Valerie supposed it was the nature of his occupation, or perhaps the location of his office, that made Harry overly cautious, but whatever the case, she found it hard to keep her mind—and her eyes—off that gun.
“All right, here’s the deal,” he said, in a voice that sounded like two sheets of sandpaper being rubbed together. “I’ve located the woman you’re after. She’s in New Orleans.”
Valerie’s heart quickened. “Is? That means she’s still alive?”
He nodded. “She’s going by the name Marie LaPierre. Has been for over twenty-five years. She owns a voodoo shop in the Quarter.”
A voodoo shop? Somehow that seemed appropriate to Valerie. There were so many strange things about her father’s case.
“Here’s the address.” Harry shoved a crumpled piece of paper across the desk toward her. Valerie noticed, as she had before, the tiny tattoos on each of his knuckles, but she’d never been able to tell what the images were.
“The guy you’re looking for. This Odell Campbell. He’s in a nursing home in Madison, a small town fifty miles north of here. He’s suffering from Alzheimer’s, the advanced stages, so I doubt he’ll be able to tell you much.”
