Tempting the Devil (26 page)

He went around to the passenger's side and got into the car. Reluctance was in every move.

He sat awkwardly, his gaze roving over the parking lot. “No one checks this place?”

“A church parking lot? I doubt it.”

He opened a pack of cigarettes.

“I didn't know you smoked,” she said.

“I quit years ago.” His hands trembled as he lit one. “Just started again.” His eyes were haunted.

She decided not to mince words. “Do you have something for me?”

His eyes pleaded with her, then he tried with words. “Damn it, you don't know who or what you're dealing with. You go to the FBI, and we'll all die. You. Your sisters. My family. I wish to hell I never said anything to you. But I did, and I'm sorry, but you swore …”

“There's something more important than my word now. How many people will die before they find you?” She was harsh out of desperation. “You started this by giving me information you knew—a lot better than I—was very dangerous.”

“I never thought they would come after you,” Sandy defended himself.

“They went after cops.”

“They thought they could control the investigation. Threatening—hurting a reporter—would bring nationwide attention to them, even more so than three rural cops. I misjudged that. I'm sorry, Robin. If I'd thought I was putting you in danger, I never would have said anything. It was a mistake. I knew the families of those cops. I wanted their murderers caught. But I can't come forward.”

“They'll find out I went on patrol with you.”

“I never told anyone. It was against the rules.”

“We had coffee.”

“In out-of-the-way places.”

“My family's involved now,” she said, trying to make her voice more cool and sure than she felt.

“And mine. My son. My wife.”

“At least talk to the FBI about witness protection.”

He looked at her as if she'd grown another head. “Damn it, the moment I talk to them, I'm a walking dead man. Not to mention my family.”

“They can protect you. Even your extended family. I've been assured—”

“You just don't get it, do you? There's a damn good chance they've been penetrated.”

Stunned, she could only stare at him.

“There's been talk, rumors that there's a mole in the FBI as well as other local police agencies. If they learn I'm the one who has been talking to you, I wouldn't live long enough to testify. That's why I wanted to talk to you.”

Stunned, Robin stared at him. “The FBI? Who?”

“I don't know. I just know what I've heard. That the local FBI has been penetrated.”

“I don't believe it. They've talked to me. They've made it clear how much they want Hydra. They promised protection to my source.”

“They can promise anything they want,” he said bitterly. “But if there's an informer …” He stopped and she saw his hand tremble.

After a moment, he continued, “If the rumors are right, and either you or I talk, our lives wouldn't be worth a nickel. Not mine. Not yours. Not our families'.”

chapter eighteen

Robin froze. A thunderbolt of disbelief, then horror, tore through her.

She knew that corruption could be found everywhere, and she'd heard of the case of FBI corruption in Boston—agents who'd sent innocent men to prison to protect their mafia sources—in years past, but she'd felt safe with Ben Taylor. She'd had confidence in the FBI.

Just because Sandy speculated there was a mole in the FBI didn't mean it was Ben Taylor.

But unwelcome thoughts rumbled through her. Why had he been at the press conference before the FBI had reason to enter the case? Then the funeral?

He'd certainly been attentive to her, even though he disdained her occupation and sense of ethics. She hadn't even liked him in the beginning. There had been that weird attraction but, except with Mrs. Jeffers, he certainly hadn't been the epitome of charm.

No
! Not Ben. She prided herself on being a good judge of character. But she had liked Sandy, and now his white hat was turning a very muddy shade.

“You didn't say anything about that before,” she said, doubt in her voice. It occurred to her that he was making the accusation to keep her from going to them.

“Why do you think I came to you? No fed made a move until your article ran.”

“There were jurisdiction problems.”

“Hasn't stopped them in the past. They usually find a way.”

“I don't believe it,” she said.

“Why not?” he said bitterly. “If Hydra can … take over a sheriff's department, why stop at a few agents?” The questions were asked with self-condemnation.

Her reporter's mind logged the combination of guilt and fear and self-disgust, and yet he'd given her that one glimpse of the truth.

“How certain are you that someone from the FBI is involved?”

“After your article appeared, I was told personally we didn't have to worry about the feds. It was under control. Others were told as well.”

“But no specific agents named?”

He shook his head.

“What about the Atlanta police?”

“Look, I wouldn't vouch for anyone right now.”

“Not everyone in the FBI could be involved.”

“No, but I wouldn't trust any of them.”

“Damn it,” she said. “Why did you talk to me?”

“You came to me, remember. You wouldn't leave well enough alone. Then I thought maybe you could be the answer, that the publicity would force federal authorities to dig deeper.”

“You could get caught in the net.”

“I'm a very small fish,” he said.

“You didn't tell me how far it goes,” she countered.

“I didn't know myself,” he said. His gaze locked on hers. “Would you have done anything differently if I had told you?”

She honestly couldn't say she would have done anything differently. The story had meant everything to her. And even now she couldn't quite believe the scope of what he was saying. She surely wouldn't have believed him then.

Foolish to the extreme. She knew it now. But she was neatly trapped. Only more information would give her power. “At the very least, I need a bargaining tool,” she said. “I need
them
—whoever they are—to believe I know enough that they have to leave my family alone.” She paused, then said, “If I don't get it, I'll have to take my chances with the FBI.”

He hesitated, then took an envelope from inside his shirt. He held it for a moment as if weighing what he was about to do, then held it out to her. She took it gingerly and opened it. It contained a photo of a boat, a luxurious fishing boat from the looks of it. A group of men was gathered in front of it. She recognized some of them, including the deputy who had accused her of drinking, at the hospital.

She looked at Sandy, a question in her eyes.

“On occasion deputies are taken on fishing trips,” he explained. “I took the photo after a trip last year.”

She waited.

“It's one of the ways they ensure loyalty,” he said bitterly.

“To whom?”

“Loyalty to the department. To each other. To the sheriff.”

“Who owns the boat?”

“I don't know. No one seemed to know. We were always told it was a friend of the sheriff's.”

She looked at the picture dubiously, unsure as to what good it would do her.

“Why is it important?”

He was silent for a long time, then said, “I asked a few questions. Innocently. Kinda like I wish
I
had a friend like this. I was told real quick never to mention the boat to anyone or the sheriff would get in trouble.”

“I still don't understand …”

“The trips started at the same time we were told to avoid patrolling around private airfields and certain properties.”

“Tell me more about the trips.”

“After a year in the department, everyone is invited at least once a year, usually twice.”

“Are the wives invited?”

He looked at her as if she'd sprouted wings. “Are you kidding? The attraction's booze. Women. Gambling. There's also a beach house in Fernandina Beach. I went there once with a group about two years ago. I don't know if anyone else has.”

She was quite aware of the good ole boy syndrome, but somehow she hadn't thought of Sandy like that. He'd talked about his son, baseball, his wife.

“Everyone participates?”

“Some more than others. There's pressure …”

A chill ran through her despite the heat. How could this have gone on without anyone noticing? Raising a protest? But she still wasn't sure how that helped her. “How does this affect the murders. And me?”

“Imply you know everything about the boat and beach house, that you know who owns them and how they are used. That you know the department has been told to avoid certain locations on patrol. That you have names. They can't risk the fact that you might really have them.”

“It won't narrow possible sources to you?”

“There's nearly two hundred men in the department. More if you include the jail. They've all been on the trips. There's people who know more than me.” He looked at her.

She stared at him with dawning horror. “How deeply are you involved?”

He sighed. “When I first joined the department, there were minor favors. We always knew there were some people in the county we couldn't touch. Some gambling joints we should ignore. Some stills to avoid. There was an extra ten dollars, or fifty sometimes. But things changed three years ago. Then the trips started. The ‘bonuses' got larger. We knew we weren't supposed to get curious about small aircraft landing at night in small airfields.”

“Why didn't you leave?”

“You don't leave the sheriff's department.” He said the words in a flat, hopeless voice.

Blood ran through her veins like cold needles.

“How can I find out more about the boat and beach house?”

“You don't want to find out more,” he said. “Just drop the bomb on them, then get out of the story. Maybe they'll let you alone.”

“
Maybe
?”

He avoided her gaze and looked away.

They wouldn't let her alone, and she knew they wouldn't. So did he. She might delay them a bit. Unless she could checkmate them in some way. The more information she had, the more protection she had.

“What's the name of the boat? I don't see it in the photo.”

“I don't know. It wasn't important. I don't even remember if there was a name on it. But we got on it in Brunswick.”

“Where's the beach house?”

“Fernandina Beach in Florida.”

“What's the address?”

“I don't know. We went down in a van loaded with booze. Spent most of the time drunk.”

“Where is it when you get on the island?” she persisted.

“Couple of blocks off the main road.”

“What does it look like?”

“Robin?”

“What does it look like, Sandy?” she repeated.

“Big Victorian-type house. Three stories, I think. Maybe a few blocks from a restaurant with a net in the window. Directly on the beach. I remember it had a pelican mailbox. That's all I know.”

“I need names of the two men you overheard.”

He shook his head. “No. I doubt they knew exactly why they were told to avoid that area. They didn't have anything to do with the murders.”

“But they would know who told them,” she countered.

The stubborn set of his jaw told her he wouldn't say anything more.

Perhaps she had enough. At least she had enough to start digging.

“That's it,” he said. “That's as good as I can do.” He jerked open the door and spurted toward his own car. With her bad leg, there was nothing she could do to stop him. She drove out behind him onto the highway that led to the interstate. The taillights of his car turned north while she turned south.

Time to go home.

She felt numb; her feelings were paralyzed.

The FBI might be involved
.

Ben Taylor might even be involved. She didn't believe it, but neither could she take a chance that she was wrong. He'd been everywhere she turned since the murders. Despite the admonition from the paper's attorney, he'd pressed her for a name.

Or Sandy could be a liar of the worst sort.

Both thoughts were painful. She'd risked her career, possibly her life, on Sandy's truthfulness.

Think! Think about the next move!

She certainly didn't have a smoking gun, but Sandy seemed to think that mention of the boat might draw a reaction, might help protect them both.

As much as she wanted to flee Atlanta and head south to investigate the information Sandy had given her, she had to return home. She had to get her driver's license. She couldn't risk being stopped without it. She needed to get a new cell phone and reactivate her number. She had to be available for the call she'd been told was coming from the bad guys.

That latter thought caused her to exit the expressway. She couldn't delay reactivating her cell number. In fact she needed two cell phones. A permanent one to replace the one she'd lost, and a disposable prepaid phone that couldn't be traced to her.

She found what she was looking for: a twenty-four-hour discount store. In minutes, she had two new phones and a prepaid card for one of them. She paid for all in cash.

As she left the store, she studied the nearly empty parking lot, looking for anyone, or anything, that might be out of place. Nothing suspicious. The people going into the store were obviously coming off late shifts, or hurrying in for some essential item. Normal. Her keys in her hand, she hurried to the car and got in, immediately locking the door.

Then she sat back. The adrenaline that had carried her this far was fading quick.