Tempting the Devil (6 page)

She only reported what other people told her. What she saw. What she felt.

She felt this story deeply.

She would keep picking at it.

She
would
meet Sandy.

In the meantime, she would stop at the pub. Perhaps the enigmatic man from the news conference would be there. He had remained in her thoughts all day, though she knew it was folly. He probably didn't even have anything to do with reporting, though he'd been no casual onlooker. She had become more and more certain about that. He'd been far too intent on the speakers, on those in the crowd, to be a mere curiosity seeker.

Did he have something to do with the story
? He'd disappeared quickly enough.

She still felt a jolt down her spine at the memory of the way their eyes had locked, at the visual contact that had conveyed a momentary connection.

Nonsense
. Imagination. He was probably married with eight children and, if not, why did she think he would be attracted to her? Males in her life had always considered her a buddy more than a date. She'd never been a beauty, and her ambition had driven her life. She hadn't had time to nurture relationships.

Still, the image of the dark-haired man lingered as she made her way to Charlie's. It was her darn curiosity again.

Nothing more.

chapter five

The pub was full. She made her way to a table surrounded by
Observer
reporters, her eyes looking for the dark-haired man who'd stood behind her earlier.

He wasn't in the bar.

She recognized everyone at the table but a very good-looking man with sandy hair and quick smile he flashed as she neared.

She thrust out her hand. “I don't know you. You must be new at the paper. I'm Robin Stuart.”

A sheepish look replaced the quick smile. “Afraid I'm not with the paper. I'm an interloper.”

“A would-be reporter turned accountant,” Bill Nugent, a features writer, said. “Smart man.”

“Couldn't get a job,” the man said. “Luckily I minored in accounting.” A wry smile, then, “I'm Michael Caldwell. I'm auditing a company across the street and someone told me about this place. Bill invited me to join the table. We went to college together. Same dorm.”

“He sprang for a pitcher of beer,” Bill said.

Enough said. Bill was the biggest drinker at the paper, as well as the biggest freeloader for drinks. But his writing was sheer brilliance and it was impossible not to like him.

Michael Caldwell stood up and pulled out a chair for her, something the reporters never did.

Mama, the waitress who had been there forty years and knew everyone, greeted her with a chilled glass and the usual smile, and Michael filled it from the pitcher of beer on the table.

Robin took a sip and put it down. “You said you were auditing. Are you based here in Atlanta?”

He nodded.

“What company do you work with?”

He mentioned one she didn't know, but then she didn't know much about accounting and auditing firms.

He leaned over the table toward her. “I liked your story this morning,” he said. “You really made those officers come to life.”

“Thanks,” she said.

“What do you think happened?” he asked.

“I wish I knew.”

He had one of the nicest smiles she'd seen. That alone drew her to him. His dark blue eyes were an extra. “Did you major in journalism?” she asked.

He nodded.

“And minored in accounting? An odd combination.”

He shrugged. “I've always been good with numbers. It was my fail safe option. Turned out to be a good one. Only job I was offered in journalism was with a weekly that didn't pay a living wage.”

She sympathized. She knew how hard it was to get a decent-paying job, especially in print journalism. Too many papers had folded, too many others had merged with their competition.

He was well dressed, especially next to Bill, who loved to pretend he lived in a 1940s city room. He came into the office in an unpressed suit, a tie with the knot halfway down his chest, and a frayed white shirt. He'd been known to take people in off the street to stay in his apartment. He was also known to lose everything he owned in doing so.

“How long have you been with the paper?” Michael Caldwell asked.

“Nine years, including a two-year interlude,” she said.

“Robin thought her car could fly,” Bill said.

“It did,” she said. “It just didn't have a good landing. The result is a bionic leg.”

“Must have been difficult,” Caldwell said, his eyes glancing down at her empty ring finger. Or did she imagine that?

“It had its good points. I stayed with my sister for part of the time. We became close.”

“Must be a good sister.”

“I'm lucky. I have two of them.”

He lifted his glass. “To luck.”

She lifted her own glass in response. She liked him. There was something inherently nice about Michael Caldwell.

She listened to the conversation for several moments, then stood. “I have to go.”

Caldwell stood as well. “I'll walk you to your car.”

“I'll be fine,” she said, dismissing his offer. “I walk alone all the time.”

“Her father taught her self-defense,” Bill chimed in. “You don't want to fool with her.”

Michael grinned. “I'll remember that. Anyway I'm ready to go as well. Two beers are my limit when I'm driving.”

She didn't know how to say no. In fact, she didn't want to say no. She needed the company right now. Her emotions were still veering widely between the adrenaline of the story and the tragedy behind it.

He followed her out of the pub, his hand lightly touching her back as he opened the door. A courtesy, nothing more, but the human contact made her feel better.

She felt awkward with her leg, as she always did when she met someone, but he measured his pace to hers and seemed comfortable. “Are you from Atlanta?” he asked.

“No. My dad was military. Wasn't really from anywhere but army bases both here and overseas. What about you?”

“Born here. Went to school here. Then the University of Georgia.”

Small talk. What new acquaintances did. But right now it warmed the cold parts of her.

She was sorry when they reached her car. She unlocked it, and he held the door open for her. “I would like to call you sometime,” he said.

It was so old-fashioned. Everything about him was polite and correct. Yet oddly comforting right now.

“I would like that,” she said.

She hated being so awkward in getting into the car with the brace, but he didn't seem to notice.

“Good night,” he said and closed the door.

She started the car and drove off. In the rearview mirror she saw him standing there. Then she directed all her attention to the road ahead.

Robin arrived at the school nearly an hour early. She cursed her compulsion never to be late, but despite her assurance to Sandy she hadn't been exactly sure where it was.

She understood immediately why Sandy had selected the school as a meeting place. The beginning of the school year was still a month away, and the parking lot was empty. The weathered brick building had no ball fields to attract kids, and it was surrounded on one side by trees and on the other by a fenced and locked playground.

She drove around to the back and parked near some trees for shade. Then she left the car and studied the old building. It served the east side of the county, an area still rural in nature, where small farms were just beginning to be squeezed by new subdivisions spreading out from Atlanta.

There was something lonely about the empty old building. For a moment she thought she heard the spirits of generations of children who'd passed through its doors. She wondered when it was built, and how much longer it would last.

Or perhaps the loneliness reflected her own mood, even the small but growing seed of uneasiness she felt. She trusted Sandy but probably she should have told someone where she was going. The police officers might well have known their own killer or killers, and this spot was as isolated at the moment as the clearing in the woods.

She shivered. She no longer felt that safe in a county she had considered quaint, especially as far as many of the establishment went. The laid-back sheriff, the “good ole boy” commission chairman, the wily and lecherous justice of the peace could all have marched off the pages of a southern novel.

But now she was seeing something not nearly as benign as she had thought. She thought about calling Wade at the paper and telling him about the meeting with Sandy, but it might well come to nothing. Still, she should have told someone. She stared at her purse with the cell phone in it. Then turned her eyes away. Wade might well order her to leave.

Then she dismissed the discomfort as pure nonsense. Sandy was completely safe. It would still be daylight at seven. There was no reason to get spooked. Sandy's reticence was due to his job, and she would make it clear that a source was sacred. She would die before betraying one.

Or hoped she would.

She touched the small recorder in her pocket. She used it for all interviews since her fingers often didn't move as quickly as words. It was her protection against any charge that she misquoted someone. She usually threw the tapes out or reused them.

She looked at her watch. Forty minutes left.

If he came.

He hadn't wanted to meet her. He'd wanted to get rid of her. Yet she couldn't rid herself of the feeling that he had something inside he wanted to say.

She thought back over the day. It hadn't been that productive. She'd basically rewritten yesterday's story, staring with a lead saying the investigation was intensifying but that local officials were saying little. Neither the sheriff nor the police chief had been available today, and the only real news had been the funeral plans.

They were scheduled for tomorrow. Two of the murdered officers attended the same church and a joint funeral was planned. The third officer's funeral would be later in the day.

She'd talked to the pastors of both churches, learning even more about the two men with families and about the officer who had recently married. He and his new wife had had counseling sessions at the church before their wedding, according to the pastor. The bride was a longtime resident of the county, and he had relocated and changed jobs so she could remain close to her family.

An irony that ripped into her heart. She couldn't even imagine the guilt the woman might feel.

Another look at her watch. Fifteen minutes.

Would he come?

Then she saw an older-model sedan entering the lot. Sandy usually drove a red pickup. For a moment, she felt a sudden chill although the temperature hovered in the midnineties. She switched on her miniature recorder in her pocket and went to the driver's side of her car.

She saw Sandy step out of the car and went over to him. His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked years older than his thirty-some years.

“Thanks for coming,” she said.

“I just came to tell you not to contact me again,” he said. “I could lose my job if anyone thinks I'm talking to you.”

“You're not,” she said. “You haven't told me anything.”

“Just being seen with you …”

She waited for him to finish the sentence. When he didn't after several seconds, she tried to prompt him.

“I'm just asking about background. Stuff I could get from anyone.”

“Then try ‘anyone',” he said shortly. “Not me.”

“Surely—”

“Look,” he said, “you don't know what's involved here.”

“No,” she said, exasperated. “You won't tell me.”

He was silent.

“You said before, or intimated, that a ‘nosy' reporter could be in danger. It sounded as if you might have an idea who may have been involved.”

“Anyone who kills three cops is dangerous.”

“But wouldn't they be long gone by now? Unless someone is protecting them?”

His mouth tightened, and he wouldn't meet her eyes.

She tried a different tack. “Tell me more about the sheriff's department. Judge Godwin said it's a closed shop. What did he mean?”

“That crazy old coot.” Sandy's voice was harsh. “You can't pay any attention to what he says.”

“Is it?” she persisted. She hadn't really thought it was important before. Why wouldn't a local sheriff hire people he knew and trusted? She'd basically wanted a little color, a paragraph, but something about his reaction alerted her instincts.

“Is it what?”

“A closed shop? Didn't you tell me your father worked for the sheriff's office?”

He stared at her for a long moment. “I don't know what you're getting at.”

“I'm interested in the differences between the sheriff's office and the police department.”

“Why?”

At least she had him talking
.

“It just seems strange to have two agencies covering the same area and responsible for the same duties.”

“We do a heap more than the police. We serve warrants, control the jail, and take care of the courts.”

“But you also have joint authority over crimes. What happens if you both turn up at the same burglary?”

“Whoever gets there first takes the case.”

“And patrolling the county. Do you duplicate that as well?”

“We pretty much divide the county.”

“Who patrols the area where the officers died?”

“We do.”

“Then why were the county police there?”

“Probably so none of their own friends would see them drinking,” he said.

“Drinking?”

“There was a container of 'shine at the crime scene.” The moment he said the words, his lips clamped together.

“'Shine?”

“I didn't say that.”

“Moonshine?” she persisted. “Illegal whiskey?”