Tempting the Devil (10 page)

But murder? Of cops?

The sheriff's department had been the first to arrive on the scene of the murders. He'd been among them when the call came in. He'd seen the carelessness with which they handled the crime scene. He wasn't sure it was completely due to ineptness.

If he said anything, he knew his career would be finished. The sin of betrayal would not be overlooked. He could never get a decent job again.

If
he lived beyond the telling.

Three other cops were already dead. Fear in the past few hours had become a growing, poisonous vine inside, strangling the human parts of him. He knew now that men he worked with had been at least partially responsible in some way for the murders.

Perhaps even the sheriff.

He didn't know how long he could continue working there. Yet an abrupt resignation would be too dangerous. And what would he do for a job? He had a family. He had a high school diploma and nothing more. He loved police work.

Move? If he quit, the sheriff would want to know why; he didn't like losing people. Would he get a good reference, or would the only job he knew be closed to him forever?

And his family? Cleo would not want to leave the county. Her mother was here. Her sisters. Her job. His extended family. She loved family, lived for it.

Yet how could he live with himself if he didn't speak up? The crime scene was virtually clean of any evidence and what there was had been destroyed. The team of investigators from the police department and sheriff's office had no leads, not as far as he knew, and they were not bringing in the FBI.

His head ringing with doubts and guilt and questions, he checked in with the dispatcher. He looked at his watch. He had just enough time to go home, have dinner with his family, and return in time for roll call.

That evening, Robin returned to Charlie's Pub. It was after eight. She was emotionally drained from the funerals and the story she'd just completed. It had some of her heart in it, and the city editor said he would run it on page one.

Some of her heart
?

Too much of it
.

She'd felt much too much today to be comfortable. Reporters were supposed to be onlookers, neutral observers.

But too many memories clouded her view.

Drained. But she couldn't relax. Along with the emotional overload, there was also adrenaline surging through her as it always did on a big story and after the rare occasion of knowing she'd written a good story. She usually never thought a story was good enough.

Tonight she needed company, human rather than feline. Friends. Other reporters.

She maneuvered her way next to the police reporter and ordered a beer, the beverage of choice during these after-hours sessions, and listened as the others discussed the upcoming governor's race.

She turned to Bob Greene, the police reporter. “Do you have much to do with the FBI office here?”

“It doesn't have much to do with us,” he replied. “There's the occasional press conference when they want to brag about something. Other than that, it's nearly impossible getting anything from them.”

“Have you ever met a Ben Taylor?”

“Doesn't ring a bell. Why?”

“He was at the press conference the other day and then at the first funeral today.”

“That doesn't mean anything. Cops from half the country attended those funerals. They do that. By the way, that was a great story today.” He said the last as if it pained him. She knew he wanted the story himself.

“But at the press conference?”

“You think they're in the investigation?”

“If they're not, I think they might be trying to nose their way in.”

“I'll check around,” he said.

“Thanks.”

She listened for a while, finished her beer, and headed for her car. She'd made a rule a long time ago. One drink if driving. Preferably one over a very long period of time.

Daisy would be waiting.

It was ten when she reached home. She unlocked the door and went inside. She looked for messages on the answering machine and heard several hang-ups. She didn't recognize the number that went with them. She flicked off the machine for the night. It answered at two rings and it usually took her longer than that to get to it.

Daisy was the world's most abused cat, to hear her tell it. She meowed plaintively and refused to rub against Robin's leg as she usually did. Eager now to rid herself of the brace, Robin quickly filled the food dish, refilled the water dish, and went into her room.

She unbuckled the brace and pushed the heavy, ungainly apparatus into a corner, then rubbed her leg. She needed an hour in a hot tub, but she also needed sleep. Without the protection of the brace, she used crutches to get to the bathroom and ran the hot water.

When the tub was full, she moved onto the edge of the tub and used her arms to lower herself down without putting weight on the leg. Just a few more weeks, the doctor promised, and she could discard it. How she awaited that day!

Once in, she sat back and reviewed the day, the sorrow of it still haunting her. Daisy finally entered and sat on the toilet seat and stared at her with rebuke.

The phone rang and she groaned. She should have left the machine on.

It kept ringing.

She finally managed to get out of the tub and onto the crutches, very aware that by the time she reached it, the caller would likely have hung up. But she tried anyway; maybe it was one of her sisters. Maybe the baby had come early.

As she expected, the phone was dead when she reached it. Then she thought of the hang-ups on her answering machine. Her first thought had been telemarketers. But now …

She left the water in the tub. She wasn't going back for that. She'd take care of it in the morning. Whoever had called apparently was persistent. They would call back. She wanted to be near the phone.

Daisy jumped onto the bed but took the far corner to continue to sulk. Robin turned off the light and stretched out on the bed. Her leg ached, but not as badly as before the bath.
A few more weeks
.

She would always have a limp, the doctors said. A small price to pay to keep the leg. The initial call was to amputate. Thank God there were second thoughts.

She had just dozed off when ringing pierced her consciousness. She reached for the phone.

“Robin?”

She was instantly awake.

“Sandy?”

“Is it true that reporters won't give up their sources?” There were no preliminaries, and she heard the strain in his voice. He'd asked the question before, but now there was new urgency, a frantic need for reassurance.

She took a deep breath. “Yes.”

“No matter what?”

She paused then, trying to think of a scenario where she couldn't keep that promise. “If someone told me they were going to commit a crime …”

“No other reason?”

“Not if I promise …” She was wide awake now, looking at the clock. She thought she'd just dozed off, but it was three in the morning.

“You'll swear to it.”

“Yes,” she said again.

“Can you meet me tomorrow morning? Not here in Meredith County.”

“A coffee shop?”

“No. Someplace where no one can listen.”

“My house?”

A silence, then, “No.”

She tried to think of a place on his side of Atlanta. “Kennesaw Park. The battlefield. The picnic area outside the visitors' center. I'll bring coffee.”

“I won't be able to get there until eight, maybe later.”

“I'll be there,” she promised.

The phone went dead in her hand.

She stared at it for several moments.

She'd been right about him wanting to tell someone something. A mixture of uncertainty and exhilaration surged through her. She couldn't forget the stark fear that had been in Sandy's voice.

And despite her words, she didn't know legally how far she could go to protect a source. She did know there was a state shield law. But she wasn't sure how much protection it gave her.

She did know, though, that when she made a promise she would keep it. Whatever Sandy said would stay with her unless he gave her permission to share it.

I'm getting ahead of myself. He might not have anything of real importance
.

It could also be the biggest story of her career. One that would be a ticket to the best newspapers in the country.

She turned the light off.

But she couldn't turn off the chill of apprehension that snaked up her spine.

chapter eight

“I want your word that you won't say you talked to me.” Sandy's fists clenched. “I want to be sure I can trust you.”

No breeze ruffled the leaves of the oaks around them. Nothing broke the stillness of the hot summer morning except his ragged voice.

“I might have to tell my editor, but I won't do it unless he agrees to keep it confidential.”

He turned to go.

“Sandy, I won't say anything to anyone until you tell me I can. I promise you that. Tell me what's bothering you, and we'll go from there.”

He walked over to a cannon and put his hand on it. “I should have gone into the army. I'd planned to. But then Pop got shot and I stayed home.”

She waited.

“The sheriff has been good to me. Me and my family.”

She didn't try to force whatever he was reluctant to say. Reluctant, but obviously he had to say it or he wouldn't be here.

“I knew those guys,” he said. “Not well, but I knew them. They didn't deserve that.”

“You know something about it?” she finally asked after another long pause.

“I don't know who,” he said.

She waited again.

“The patrol guys had orders to avoid that spot the night of the murders,” he finally said. “I overheard several of them talking about it.”

“Who ordered it?”

“I don't know. I can't ask. No one knows I heard anything.”

“There's no one you trust?”

The silence was deafening.

“The FBI?”

“Proof? I have none. Just what I overheard. And if anyone knew I did …”

His words trailed off.

“Someone in the sheriff's department killed those officers?”

“Or knew something was going down. Those guys must have wandered into something they shouldn't have. Maybe they saw some lights. But someone didn't want to be seen there.”

She was stunned. But she wanted him to put into words what she had to hear. “What do you want me to do?” she prompted.

He shrugged. “I don't know. I thought maybe you could write something that might get the Feebies involved. They can do it with official corruption. Someone needs to know where to start looking.”

“Why me? Can't you give an anonymous tip?”

“My voice would be on tape. A letter? I thought about that, but … that could lead back to me, too. You've been talking to a lot of people. It could have come from anyone.”

Stunned, Robin stood there. Nine years as a journalist, and she'd always been an onlooker, an observer. A role she took pride in. Now she was being asked to become a participant. And it could be one of the biggest stories in her life. Excitement exploded inside her until it was tamed slightly by the fear in his eyes.

If he was afraid, shouldn't she be?

“Why would your guys kill their counterparts?”

“Something big would be involved. Bigger than I know how to handle.”

“Any ideas as to who?”

He hesitated. “Rumors. There's been rumors the Hydra Network been inching in.”

“Hydra Network?”

“Ever heard of the Southern Mafia?”

She nodded.

“What was left of it was gobbled up by a bigger group that operates in a bunch of southern states. Hot cars. Drugs. Prostitution. They're crowding out all the local dealers. Two locals have been killed in Meredith County. No big deal made of it. They were dung.”

She tried to make sense of it. Mainly why she'd never heard of it before, though she'd heard tales of the old Southern Mafia. “No one was arrested?”

“Not a trace of evidence. Just like at the crime scene here.”

“You mean this … Hydra is in Meredith County?”

“I didn't put much stock in the rumors. But I can't get that warning out of my head.”

“Did the deputies mention this Hydra?”

He shook his head. “But I can't think of anything else big enough that they would bring this much heat here.”

“What deputies were they?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“You don't know—or won't tell me?”

Silence.

“How can I do anything if you don't want to get involved?”

“You guys always use anonymous sources.”

“What would this anonymous source say?”

“That patrol officers were told to avoid the area at the time of the … murders.”

“Then why did the county police go there?”

“We don't share information,” he replied bluntly. “We have our territory. They have theirs. Those guys never should have been there.”

“Why do you think they were?”

He shook his head. “Everyone's been asking that.”

“Could they have been involved in some way as well?”

He shook his head. “They would have been more careful.” His eyes met hers. “I just want to send the Feebies on the right trail.” He paused. “I really hate their arrogant guts but it's the only way the truth might come out.”

“What about the state investigators?”

He just shook his head. “Everyone knows everyone.”

“I can't promise anything until I talk to my editor. He might have to tell the attorney. Otherwise the paper can't afford to go with it.”

He hesitated.

“I won't give him your name unless he swears not to use it.”

“I trust you. You've haven't let me down. I don't know
him
.”