The anchor's beautiful face leached of all color.
"I'm sure you're wondering how I learned about your earlier career, and what I might do with that knowledge," he pressed on, hoping to undermine her resolve to keep her distance from his idea. "Rest assured that right now, I'm the only one who knows you used to strip for a living over in Biloxi."
"Mr. Maillet--" Her voice cracked, and she broke off.
He held up his hand to keep her from continuing. "Wait. Let me finish. You grew up in a happy middle class family -- that is, until your father's furniture business went under and he lost everything, including your college fund. He changed after that, didn't he? Drinking too much, spending his days in bed staring at the ceiling. Your mother tried to help out, but ironing only brings in so much cash, and without a decent education she couldn't land a better job. So you turned to stripping to pay your way through college. Am I right?"
"Yes," she whispered in a shaky voice. All the light had gone out of those dazzling brown eyes. She uncrossed her legs and flopped back in the chair. "Go on."
"I'm sure you don't want anyone else to know about your rather... unsavory family history. Especially not your boss or your loyal viewers. So I'm sure you'll agree to help me with my plan to discredit Rick Blaylock."
"Wh-what do you mean?" The silken skin of her throat bobbed as she swallowed.
He smiled. "Why, I want him to look like a failure, of course. Like the burned-out shell of the strapping sheriff who took office four years ago. We need new blood fighting crime in this county, and if I'm elected I plan to clean house. I need your help to do that."
"Rick Blaylock has never hurt me. Why would I want to sabotage his campaign?"
"To save your own hide." He stepped up to the desk, leaned over it, and planted both hands on the blotter so he could meet her defiant gaze. "Does that make sense, Ms. Ravens?"
"I don't see how I can possibly--"
"All that matters is my plan," he broke in with a snarl. "Refuse to help me, and I'll send a story about your sorry life to every news outlet in the state. Do you understand?"
"Y-yes," she rasped, tears filling her eyes.
Satisfied she would comply, he pushed himself up to his full height and beamed down at her. "That's a good girl."
"H-how in the world did you unearth my story?" She wiped her face with one shaky hand and peered up at him. "Nobody else has been able to--"
"Don't you worry your pretty little head about that." He grinned. "Just know I have my ways. I couldn't find any dirt on Blaylock, however, although he must have a secret or two squirreled away -- hell, everybody does -- so I hatched this little scheme. If you do everything I say, not only will I not leak your pitiful little tale, but I'll also toss a little cash your way. A smidgeon of extra compensation for your cooperation, if you will."
"I don't want any of your goddamned money."
"Fine, whatever you say. I'll keep it." He shrugged, then finally relented and perched on the edge of one of the wretched orange chairs. He'd been right; it was terribly uncomfortable. He sat up straight and looked her in the eye. She appeared disappointed he'd chosen to sit. He chuckled and tilted his head. "I sense you aren't pleased I'm still here."
"I'm not," she snapped through gritted teeth. "I said I'd go along with your evil little scheme, even though I think the sheriff is doing a good job. I don't know what else you could possibly want from me."
"Seriously, Mindy?" He swallowed a guffaw. This meeting was going just as he'd envisioned. The poor little chippy was terrified right down to her pretty silk thong. Score one for the overweight middle-aged businessman running for sheriff. He sniffed. "I told you what I want you to do, but I haven't given you the first detail. Aren't you curious?"
"Not really." She skewered him with her eyes.
He countered by giving her a smile laced with contempt. "You should be. We have to discuss your first assignment."
"If you insist," she said, as if the words tasted bad. Her professional veneer had cracked, and she'd morphed back into poor little Cherry Delight. "Wh-what do you want me to do?"
"You were at the scene of last night's murder at the Kitty Kat Klub, correct?"
"Yes. I attempted to interview Sheriff Blaylock, but he blew me off using the 'ongoing investigation' excuse."
"Not surprising." Maillet sighed. "He's a cop to the core."
"So what do you want me to do?"
"Stick to him like glue. Horn in on the damned investigation. Put every fucking thing he does on television." A lava stream of anger and determination rose up within him. He pounded his knee with his fist. "I want him exposed, goddamn it. As transparent as a piece of Scotch tape. Something slimy is bound to rise to the surface if you do that. Do you understand?"
"Of course." She leaned forward in her chair, and for the first time since he let her know he knew her secret, a gleam reappeared in her eyes. "I'm good at digging up dirt."
"I know. I bet you were damned good at stripping, too." A thrill slid through him as he imagined her naked and writhing next to a metal pole. He grinned and opened his mouth to ask for pictures, but she cut him off with a brisk wave.
Her cheeks flushed bright red. "I only did what I had to do, and I'm not proud of it."
"Obviously not." He rubbed his hands together. "Doesn't matter. All you have to do is remember that if you want your past to stay hidden, you'll do everything I ask. Hell, one juicy story about Rick Blaylock, and he won't know what hit him."
*****
Keegan slept until after nine a.m. on Sunday, although she usually got up early, even on weekends. She hadn't gotten to bed until after two a.m., thanks to the adrenaline pumping through her veins, and had used the extra energy to sharpen her knives and clean the Sig before stowing them away inside her newly-purchased gun safe. She hadn't used any of them, but she liked to keep them in prime condition. Finally, however, exhaustion slammed into her like a runaway train and she wandered over to the kitchen sink to wash her hands.
To her surprise, the water was off.
Irritated but too tired care, she stormed into the bathroom, grabbed her toothbrush, and brushed her teeth in the kitchen with the aid of a bottle of water from the refrigerator. Best she could do. A trip to the bathroom reminded her she couldn't flush the toilet. At least she lived alone, so if she wasn't able to flush -- unless her stomach got restless during the night -- it wasn't too big a deal. Not bothering to retrieve the bottle of water so she could scrub her face, she stripped off her clothes, dragged on her favorite cotton nightshirt, and climbed beneath the covers. She hadn't worn any makeup today anyway.
Another hour or more passed before she finally fell asleep.
By morning, to Keegan's relief, the water had come back on. Once she stretched and wiped the sleep from her eyes, she stumbled into the bathroom and cheered when the tap gurgled, then spewed out a normal stream of water. She figured she probably shouldn't drink any of it just yet, but it would be fine for cleaning up. What she needed most was a hot shower.
She washed her hands and then glanced in the mirror. Her bloodshot green eyes mocked her. Their flat, weary look wasn't surprising, really, considering the night she'd had. Maybe she should at least put some drops in them. She had a full day to recover before returning to work tomorrow, and by then they should look okay. She'd been too tired last night to do anything at all with her hair, so she'd left it up in a ponytail. As a result, this morning it was a tangled mess. It also smelled like sweat. Another excellent reason for her to duck into the shower.
With a weary sigh, Keegan put lubricant tears in her eyes, then tugged the stretchy ponytail holder out of her hair and studied her face. She was only thirty-three, but already tiny lines radiated from the corners of her eyes. She attributed them to the grief she'd suffered after Jenny's death. Dirk had brought her entire family to their knees that day.
The sparkle of her right earring caught her eye. She'd bought the silver and garnet beauties as a present to herself after landing
her current job as a court artist for Keller County. The only bit of fun she'd allowed herself since losing her sister. She angled her head to admire the other one. The hole in that earlobe was empty.
No earring.
Panic seized her. She touched her ear. When had she lost the stud? Before she'd left the house last night, or while she was gone? She remembered catching her turtleneck on it as she'd gotten dressed, so it had been on then. After that, she'd paid no attention to the earrings. Then she'd gotten home and the water had been off, so she hadn't bothered to wash her face before bed. Without looking in the mirror, she hadn't known the trinket was gone.
"If it fell off near the Kitty Kat Klub and the cops found it..." she murmured, the realization sinking in and taking hold. Her hands trembled. "No. It has to be around here somewhere, right? I have to find it."
She bolted from the bathroom and dashed into the bedroom. Her heart beat hard inside her chest as she examined every inch of the carpeted floor, her bed -- at least she hadn't made it up yet -- and even the closet. No luck.
Her stomach swirled as she tossed down the sneaker she'd checked in case the earring had fallen into it and marched into the living room. A careful check of that room and the kitchen also left her empty-handed. She even dug through the garbage and found nothing.
"I don't believe this," she said aloud, her whole body shaking.
She needed to go back to the scene of Dirk's murder and look for it, but would the crime scene technicians be through scouring the parking lot yet? She glanced at the clock. Nine-thirty. Surely they'd be gone by now. Over eight hours had passed since the murder. Still, they might return at some point to view the scene in broad daylight and pick up any evidence they'd missed.
Like my earring.
A fresh streak of terror sliced through her. She gripped the edge of the sink and ordered herself to calm down and think logically. Even if they did find the earring, how would they know it was hers? Anybody could have dropped it, at any time. Last week, last month, or even last year. She'd stayed in the shadows, so no one had seen her. That meant they'd have no way to connect it to her even if they did find it, right? Unless they found skin cells on it and could get DNA, or discovered a partial fingerprint -- and how small would that be? Surely they couldn't get her identity from it. DNA, of course, was another matter.
She stalked over to the window. Thick gray clouds lined the horizon. A big line of storms was moving in. If she wanted to return to the site, she needed to go now before the rain started. Without thinking about it, she grabbed her jacket and ran out to the car.
Fifteen minutes later, she turned onto the narrow street leading to the Kitty Kat Klub. Today was Sunday, so the place would be closed. Still, she didn't like being here. The clouds had edged closer, turning the day to a deep, lifeless gray and enveloping the area in a gloom almost as ominous as the darkness last night. She shivered.
Sure enough, the two parking lots in front of the club were empty -- except for a lone truck belonging to a man on a ladder changing light bulbs in the strip club's brilliant pink sign.
"Damn it." Keegan pressed on the gas and kept going instead of pulling into the appropriate lot. If she stopped and got out, the man might be able to identify her to the cops. At the very least, he'd probably be able to describe her car. The bright red Nissan stood out like a beacon in this tacky neighborhood. She'd have to come back later, and preferably on the Kawasaki. Why didn't she think of that before she came here? She muttered another oath.
Just as she made her way back to Main Street, the bottom dropped out and fat raindrops beat a heavy cadence against the windshield. Keegan was suddenly glad she hadn't ridden the motorcycle back over here. The air had gotten noticeably cooler too, since the clouds had moved in, and with the rain, she might have developed hypothermia. Still, with storms forecasted to keep rolling in all night, she couldn't come back to the club until after work tomorrow. Dismayed by the delay, she squeezed the steering wheel.
What if the cops had already found the earring? She might never know, unless they found something to tie her to it. With that in mind, worrying about the situation wouldn't help one bit. Still, her nerves remained on edge.
To help take her mind off last night's fiasco, she stopped by to see Haley and spent a few hours playing on the floor with her niece so her mom and dad could go to church without having to put the child in the nursery with the flu going around. The little girl was walking now and kept getting into everything. Keegan couldn't help lamenting that poor Jenny would never see her baby running and playing or know the joy of hearing her laugh.
On her way home, Keegan ran by the grocery store to buy some soup for supper. She also picked up some chicken and vegetables for stir fry later in the week. Might as well concentrate on the little things rather than focusing on things she couldn't control, like the weather.
Keegan spent the afternoon and evening cooking, working out, and brainstorming about her new plan. The idea would only be viable if the police didn't find her earring and tie her to Dirk's murder, of course. Even if they didn't -- and she was counting on that -- before she could make a solid plan, she had to locate a fresh target.
Work should provide her with one, even though the number of trials she covered on a yearly basis had dwindled. Thanks to the many hours she spent sketching courtroom drama and the time she put in helping the court clerk between trials, she had access not only to criminal cases involving men accused of spousal abuse, but also to all of the case files. Finding a jackass who'd beaten the system should be a piece of cake. Once she zeroed in on a target, she'd do her research and come up with a strategy.
Despite her hope that the cops didn't have her earring and her plan to scout out a new target at the courthouse, she tossed and turned all night. If only she had time to run by the club before work. Unfortunately, she overslept and barely had time to scarf down a piece of toast slathered with peanut butter, before making herself a sandwich for lunch. She threw an apple and a bottle of water into the bag with it, along with a granola bar in case she wanted an afternoon snack. Not the best lunch or snack, but over the last few months she'd sunk all of her extra funds into equipment, self-defense classes, and her motorcycle, so she had to cut corners wherever she could. At least for a while.
She ducked out the door into the rain just in time to make it to the courthouse for the big trial on tap for today: Keller County vs. Ronald Wicker, a case that had already garnered her attention. Just thinking about it made her skin prickle.
Ronald Wicker was on trial for murdering his wife, the former Rosemary Preston, by beating her to death. Both the Wicker and Preston families had lived in Hunter's Bayou for decades, so the courtroom would be full. Nothing like a little family drama to bring out the town.
Judge Oscar Rouse, the stern, old-school adjudicator presiding over the trial, had banned cameras from the courtroom because of the case's inflammatory nature and arranged for Keegan to sketch the proceedings instead. Mississippi law allowed judges that autonomy.
Courtroom drama wasn't what interested Keegan, however.
"All I care about is justice," she whispered, suddenly determined to wait and pick her prey after the trial ended. She gritted her teeth. "If that sick bastard walks free on a technicality, he's mine -- unless I'm in jail myself by then."
She did her best not to think about that prospect as she pulled into her designated parking space only minutes before she had to be inside the courtroom. Just enough time to put her lunch in the refrigerator, grab her art supplies, and stop by the restroom. Unless something went wrong, the judge more than likely wouldn't recess for a break until noon.
By the time Keegan slipped into her seat at the end of the front row, her hands were so sweaty she could hardly hold the satchel containing her sketchpad and colored pencils. The man next to her reeked of cologne. The agony in his eyes told her he had a personal stake in the proceedings, yet she didn't dare ask which side he was on. If she had to guess, she'd say he was a relativ
e of Wicker's wife, Rosemary. He wore the haunted look of a man who'd recently lost a close family member.
She pulled out her folding lapboard and settled it across her knees. Then she took out her sketchpad and pencil case. The courtroom was so full, she barely had room to settle back against the corner of the bench. Her nose itched thanks to her neighbor's heavy cologne, and she had to lean into the aisle to take a deep breath. How she'd last in here all morning under these conditions, she didn't know.
To divert her attention, she glanced at the defendant, who sat in his chair as if on a throne behind the defense table and spoke to his attorney in animated whispers. He was a handsome man, even at fifty, with striking symmetrical features and cold blue eyes. His neat dark hair had streaks of gray at the temples, and he appeared to be tall.
"All rise." The bailiff's gruff call jarred Keegan into action. Shoving her lapboard and sketchpad under her arm, she closed the pencil case and lurched to her feet just as Judge Rouse strode through the door, his big black robe slapping the frame. The strong cologne odor from the man beside her made her dizzy, and she swayed on her feet.
Ignore it and focus. She grabbed the railing in front of her, leaned away from her aromatic neighbor, and held her breath as the judge made his way to the bench.
He was a burly bear of a man, with bushy white eyebrows and a perpetual scowl. Keegan had sketched trials in his courtroom for the past five years, and she didn't remember ever seeing him smile. Hopefully, his stern disposition would bode well for justice in this case. She wished he'd presided over Dirk's trial. If he had, the son of a bitch probably wouldn't have weaseled out of jail time for killing Jenny.
"Be seated," Rouse ordered in a gruff tone.
The crowd, apparently eager for blood sport, sat as one, accompanied by a cacophony of mutterings, thuds, and odd thumps. Seconds later, an odd hush fell over the courtroom.
"Mr. Abington?" The judge first zeroed in on the lead prosecutor, Keller County Assistant District Attorney Carl Abington, and then turned to lance Mr. Wicker's attorney, Fred Quincy, with a lethal glare. "Mr. Quincy? Are we ready?"
Keller County Cops Book Seven: Code of Vengeance Page 4