Tempting the Devil (7 page)

“Damn it, Robin. I didn't say that. Swear you won't say anything. They don't deserve a cloud over their name.”

She hesitated. He hadn't asked that anything be off the record. Then she nodded. “Unless it comes from someone else.”

He owed her now. She wasn't above using it later.

“Does your department patrol that particular road on a regular basis?”

He was silent for a moment too long, then said, “Why should they? It doesn't go anywhere. It's private property.”

“Kids, maybe. Drinking. Making out.”

“I don't think so. There's only one way out. If anyone came …”

“Wouldn't that be true then for something illegal?”

He stared at her in dismay.

“Unless,” she continued without a pause, “they knew somehow that no one would patrol that night.”

His fists knotted. “Damn it, Robin, that's crazy.”

“Is it?” she said.

She hadn't planned these questions but one had just led to another. It didn't make sense that the three officers would be found so readily on a road that everyone said was rarely used. Unless there was some kind of electronic way to keep track of the squad cars. She doubted that. Neither department seemed that advanced in its equipment.

“How were they found if no one went there?” She already knew the official version. She wondered if his would match.

“Because they didn't check in,” he said. “The police put out an alert. Our department received it. Everyone was looking for them.”

“But why look specifically in the woods?”

“Someone noticed the chain that usually blocks that road was down. They checked it.”

“Who are the deputies who patrol this area?”

A muscle worked in his throat. “You'll have to check with the sheriff.”

Suddenly she realized she should have checked the ownership of the property. No one had mentioned ownership, not any of the media. Not any of the law enforcement agencies.

“Who owns the property?”

He shrugged.

“I can find out from tax records.”

He didn't reply.

“There weren't any signs posted,” she persisted.

He still didn't answer.

“Sandy,” she said with irritation, “surely you all know who owns the property.”

“I told you, I can't tell you anything about the investigation.”

She studied him. His tanned face had paled slightly.

“What are you really afraid of?” she asked suddenly.

“I'm not afraid of anything,” he protested too strongly. “I need my job. My family has always worked for the sheriff's office. My cousin works for the department. Both me and my wife have family all over the county. I need this job, and if anyone thinks I might be talking to the press without the sheriff's okay …”

His voice trailed off. She was losing him. She took a wild stab, hoping it would cause some reaction. “Some people say the officers must have known whoever killed them. Others say it must have been committed by professionals. Do you think it could be a member or members of either department?”

Something flickered in his eyes before he uttered an oath. “Hell, no,” he said.

“Then …”

“Doesn't have to be cops,” he said. “There's gangs around here,” he said, his eyes not quite meeting hers. “You don't want to rile them.”

She was just about to ask who the gangs were when he turned almost violently and went to his car. He turned toward her again. “Do me a favor. Do yourself a favor. Just go with the press conferences. Don't poke your nose around, and I haven't talked to you. Not about anything.”

Then he was in the car and tires squealed as he tore out of the parking lot.

She leaned against the car and took a deep breath. He'd obviously said much more than he'd meant to say, or wanted to say, and she was sure he wouldn't talk to her again.

She took the recorder from her pocket and balanced it in her hand for a moment, then kept it there as she opened the car door. She was more convinced than ever that he knew more about the murders than he was saying. And he didn't like what he knew.

She started the car. It was a long drive home, and she would listen to the conversation on the way.

Was there anything really there?

Or was it just the way he looked, moved, spoke? The way his eyes couldn't quite meet hers, the paleness of his face, the palpable fear as he spoke of his family? She couldn't get over the feeling that he knew something that frightened him.

Something that haunted him.

Or was it her imagination?

As she steered the car onto a main highway, she looked around. Perhaps some of Sandy's caution was infecting her as well. There was a steady stream of cars but none that looked as if they had any purpose other than getting to where they were going.

In minutes, she was on the interstate. She switched the recorder on and heard the conversation again. Nothing could be interpreted as definite. Just vague comments that could be construed in different ways.

She thought about sharing it with her editor, but he would want to know the source, and that wouldn't be fair to Sandy. He had been speaking to her as a friend, not a news source.

But she would find the owner of the property tomorrow, right after the funeral.

And perhaps tomorrow she could get another source to discuss the possibility of some kind of gang, or an internal connection. Two sources—even protected, anonymous ones—would allow her to explore possibilities in print.

She pressed her foot down on the gas pedal. A disgruntled Daisy would be waiting in front of the fridge. She would hear about her tardiness tonight. She smiled at the thought. Daisy made the cottage home.

And tonight, she had a story to write in her mind. One that, if she could confirm her suspicions, would put her back in the big time of journalism. No more endless city hall meetings of a rural town. No one then would think her bad leg an impediment.

Her mind wandered briefly to the intense man she'd seen at the press conference the day earlier, even as she wondered why. Reporter? Sightseer? Good guy? Bad guy? The very intensity that radiated from him had alerted her. So had the way he'd swept her with his eyes, as if he was searching the crowd whereas she'd merely been glancing around in frustration at the repeated questions.

It was said that sometimes criminals attended such events, that they took pleasure in the fact that they'd stymied authorities. Had the killer been present yesterday?

She arrived at the cottage and went inside. Daisy was, as she thought, standing in front of the fridge, the best background to appear neglected and abused.

As Robin started to open a can of tuna to the accompaniment of some rather pitiable meows, the phone rang. She quickly shoveled the contents into a dish and ran for the phone.

“Sis,” her sister said, “I need your help. “Cal is suing for custody of the kids. I need you to testify for me. Next week.”

“I can't believe he would do that.”

“Well, he has.”

“On what grounds?”

“That I'm careless.”

“You've never been careless with them.”

A silence, then, “Hunter disappeared last week when I was shopping. I turned around and he was gone. He apparently saw a puppy when we went into the grocery store. When I turned around, he'd gone back to the parking lot to find the dog. He went several blocks looking for it, before the police found him. They called Cal when I reported him missing.”

“That could happen to—”

“He doesn't want to pay the child support,” she said. “He never paid any attention to them when he was home, but now he's found a woman who has some money and wants to be a stay-at-home wife.”

Robin was stunned. She'd never particularly liked Lark's husband. He was too good looking and knew it. He could never keep a job. He always felt that he was superior to any boss he had and eventually showed it. But she never thought he would try to take full custody of little Hunter and Kim.

“I'll do whatever you need,” she said.

“There will be depositions. You will have to come up here to do it.”

“When?”

“Next Tuesday.”

That was seven days away. Robin hated to leave the story, to give it to someone for even a day or two, but her niece and nephew were more important. She knew how much Lark adored them.

“I'll be there. What about Star?”

“She'll be there, too, if the baby doesn't come before then.”

“We'll have a mini-reunion.”

“I wish it was under other circumstances. We haven't been together since Mom died.”

“No one will take the kids away,” Robin said. “I feel like calling Cal right now and—”

“It won't do any good. He's convinced he's right. It might dilute whatever you have to say at the hearing.”

“Whatever you want. Are they with you now?”

“Yes. They're in bed now. The house is so quiet. I wish you were here now.”

“Me, too. I'm pretty sure I won't have a problem getting the time off.”

“Call me when you get a flight. I'll pick you up.”

Her sister hung up.

Depressed, Robin turned on the television. It was about thirty minutes before the newscast. She would go from one to another to see which reporters were covering the story, and what they had. She prayed it wouldn't be what she did not have, or she would hear about it in the morning.

They didn't. The news was mostly about the funerals on the following day. She didn't see the man who had so intrigued her, but then she hadn't really expected it.

Daisy hopped up on the chair next to her and kneaded her claws into Robin's slacks, meowing softly in a demand for attention.

Robin scratched behind her ears, wishing with all her heart she could solve Lark's problem as easily as she could placate Daisy, who now purred contentedly.

And discover why it was that Sandy seemed so spooked by something.

Once again, his strange behavior haunted her thoughts, as did his vague warnings. A sudden prickling ran down her spine as the faces of the slain officers flashed on the screen.

It still seemed such an unfathomable crime.

She tried to brush the disquiet away. Tomorrow would be a long day, and her sister's voice worried her. She'd never heard that frantic note before.

She was asleep when the phone rang. She looked at the clock. Three a.m. Her heart clenched. Calls at that hour in the morning invariably were bad news.

“Robin Stuart,” she said.

“It's Sandy,” came a low voice.

She woke up immediately.

“What's happened?”

“I just wanted to make sure you won't repeat anything I told you. Nothing.”

“You really didn't say anything,” she tried to reassure him.

“Reporters protect their sources. That's right, isn't it?”

“Absolutely.”

“You won't report anything I said.”

“Not unless I can get someone else to say it. Even then, no one would know where it came from.”

“Don't do it, Robin. Don't even try to find out who owns that property.”

She was wide awake now. “I can't—”

“I trusted you, Robin. Don't betray me. Don't say hello to me. Don't call me.” The connection went dead.

She sat on the side of the bed with the receiver in her hand, totally dumbfounded. Evidently he thought he had told her something he shouldn't have.

What in the hell was it?

chapter six

Ben took a sip of what was called coffee in the office and read the morning edition of the newspaper with a jaundiced eye. He noted that there was nothing new in the
Observer
. He wondered whether he could get away for the funerals. One cop paying respect to another.

“Still chewing on the murders?” Ellis Mahoney asked as he peered over his shoulder at the
Observer
.

Ben folded the paper and tossed it in the waste can. “We should be in there. Now.”

“Maybe they have more than they're saying.”

Ben raised an eyebrow, and Mahoney shrugged. “The SAC is pressing as hard as he can.”

“Not hard enough,” Ben retorted. “Those were cops, damn it.”

Mahoney was silent. He knew that Ben had lost a friend from the academy.

“They don't have any damn leads, and they refuse to ask for our help.”

“It's their own,” Mahoney reminded him.

“I did some looking on my own last night,” Ben said. “That land is owned by a company that doesn't exist except on paper.”

Mahoney raised an eyebrow.

“The officers are members of a law firm that filed incorporation papers.”

“Not that unusual.”

“Except when three murders take place there.”

“Anything else?”

“There's a private airstrip fifteen minutes away from the murder site.”

“Not exactly a smoking gun for a conspiracy.”

“No, but convenient.”

“Talk to Holland,” Mahoney said.

Ben took another sip of coffee and looked at the paperwork in front of him. They'd just arrested a low-level drug suspect in a continuing case with DEA, and he'd hoped that arrest would lead to others. In the meantime, he had to make detailed descriptions of how he and Mahoney had obtained each and every piece.

He hated doing that, knowing the slightest mistake would be magnified to something that could be used against the prosecution at trial. He always checked and double-checked, then triple-checked.

But that could wait.

He rose and went down the hall to Holland's office.

“Is he free?” he asked the secretary.

“Is it the drug case?”

He nodded, knowing that would get him through the door.

“I'll check,” she said. She lifted the receiver and punched a button. “Agent Taylor is here.” Then she turned to Ben. “Go on in,” she said.