This wasn’t young Derek but an older man with a pot belly and a swagger. He approached the pickup with one hand on his gun, as if Jake was stupid enough to start trouble.
He wasn’t. But Chief Roberts’s goons might be.
The cop shined his flashlight into Jake’s face, then swept it around the truck cab before demanding, “License and proof of insurance.”
Jake pulled his driver’s license from his wallet and handed it over, then dug through the center console for proof of insurance. He didn’t bother asking why he’d been stopped. He hadn’t been speeding. He hadn’t run a red light. He hadn’t turned without signaling. But he had ticked off the chief of police.
The officer walked back to his own vehicle. Jake watched in the rearview mirror as he talked and laughed on the radio. Seconds ticked past, becoming minutes, and the cop continued to shoot the breeze on the radio.
A second patrol car pulled to the curb in front of Jake, the headlights bright in his eyes. The officer didn’t get out but simply sat there, no doubt watching Jake as if he might make a break for it any second now.
Nearly ten minutes had passed when the first cop swaggered back up. “Maybe they do things different in New Mexico, but around here, boy, a red light means stop.”
“The light was green.”
The officer puffed up. “You calling me a liar?”
Jake clenched his jaw to keep his temper under control. “No.” If I was, you wouldn’t have to ask.
After scribbling out a ticket, the cop handed it over to him to sign. Still gritting his teeth, Jake did, then extended his hand for his copy and the documents.
The cop held them out, then let go an instant before Jake could take them. The license fell to the floorboard, while the ticket and the proof of insurance drifted down, one landing on his leg, the other on the seat.
“Have a nice night,” the cop said with a good-old-boy grin before he walked away.
Jake muttered a suggestion for something that was physically impossible as he retrieved his license. Then he glanced at the ticket and swore again. A one-hundred-twenty-five-dollar fine for something he didn’t do.
But it was better than the life prison sentence Charley was serving for something he didn’t do.
He stuffed the ticket into the console, then made it back to the motel without further incident. After a productive four or five hours’ work, he went to bed, tired, ready for a good night’s sleep…and lay there wide-awake.
Too bad Kylie had turned down his invitation. He would feel a damn sight better if he’d been able to spend the past few hours indulging in—what had she called it?—wild sex.
And he had no doubt it would have been wild. She might think of herself as dull, but that was only because the previous men in her life hadn’t unlocked her passion. He wasn’t being smug or arrogant to think that he had. He’d been there for that kiss. It had been one hell of a kiss.
One hell of a buildup to one hell of a disappointment.
But there was always tomorrow.
Eventually he dozed off, his sleep fitful, his dreams vivid. After each dream, he woke up, loath to remember the details, and each time he fell asleep again, only to dream again. Finally around eight o’clock he gave up and stumbled to the shower.
He’d had the dreams, part reality, part nightmare, for months when he was a kid. Climbing the steps to the Franklins’ porch, knowing in his gut that something was horribly wrong, ringing the doorbell. Seeing a blotch of red paint on the white door, touching it, smearing it. Realizing it was blood.
Sometimes Therese was all right. Sometimes her body was as bloody and lifeless as her parents’. Sometimes when he ran outside with her, screaming for his father, Charley was nowhere to be found. Sometimes he was standing over the bodies, a butcher knife in his hand, blood flowing over his clothes, laughing, crying, sobbing words Jake couldn’t hear for his own silent screams.
The Franklins were the first dead people Jake had ever seen. He’d never been to a funeral, never lost a relative or a friend. He’d seen dozens of photographs of violent death since then, but nothing compared to that reality. Ten years old, and he’d lost his breakfast in the Franklins’ driveway. It still haunted him.
Once he was showered, shaved and dressed, he checked his e-mail and grinned. At least something was going his way. The night before, he’d contacted a friend, a cop who’d worked one of the earlier cases Jake had written about, and his buddy had come through with the current address of the court reporter from Charley’s trial. She lived in Glenpool, a small town south of Tulsa. Now if his luck would just hold…
He picked up the room phone, then set it down again and took out his cell phone instead, punching in the number included in the e-mail. He wouldn’t put it past Roberts to have illegally wiretapped the motel phone.
His luck held. Of course she had the original of the transcript, Ruby Stockard said as if offended he could think otherwise. She had every transcript of every trial she’d covered in her twenty-five years as a court reporter. He made arrangements to meet her around lunch, then grabbed his backpack and left the room.
He hadn’t driven more than twenty yards when an all-too-familiar sight morphed into another too-familiar sight: the cop behind him turned on his light bar, then hit the siren long enough for one shrill whoop.
Derek did his own swagger to the truck. “Can I see your license and proof of insurance?”
“Why? Did Officer Lard not get a good enough look at them last night?” Jake groused even as he handed them over.
“You’ve got a broken taillight. That’s a defective-vehicle violation.”
“I didn’t have a broken taillight last night.” If he had, no doubt the fat cop would have written him for it.
“Well, it’s broken this morning. You wanna take a look?”
Jake climbed out and walked to the back of the truck. Sure enough, the red plastic covering over the light was smashed, as was the bulb itself. Courtesy of the fat cop once he’d seen the motel room lights go out?
“You saying that ain’t broken?”
Jake scowled at Derek. Was a poor grasp of the English language a requirement to get hired by the Riverview Police Department? “Just write the ticket. I’ve got an appointment.”
“With who?”
“That’s personal.” Sounded better than None of your damn business. Though, of course, the kid would find out when he followed Jake to Riordan’s office. “Just give me the ticket.”
Derek complied, handing over a slip of paper that was going to cost Jake eighty bucks to fix. What were the odds he could convince the IRS that the increase in his car insurance and the repair costs were a business expense, directly attributable to the book he was writing?
Five minutes later he was parked half a block from Kylie’s office. He was tired and hungry, his head was starting to hurt and he was an hour early for their appointment. He opted for breakfast first, choosing Olivia Jane’s Tearoom, right in front of his truck.
The place was fussy, with lace tablecloths, delicate tables and chairs and flowers everywhere. He was the only male customer, but he was accustomed to being the odd one out. He was reading a left-behind copy of the Riverview Journal and waiting for his food when someone slipped into the chair opposite him.
“Good morning.”
He lowered the paper to find Kylie sitting there, and, like that, his headache was gone. She was dressed more casually today in a white shirt, khaki trousers and high-heeled boots, but she still exuded an effortless elegance. Her hair was in a braid again, but instead of diamonds she wore dangly turquoise earrings to go with the turquoise-bead bracelet of her watch.
She didn’t look as if she’d had any trouble sleeping last night, he noted wryly. Her eyes were bright and alert, and there wasn’t a line anywhere on her face.
“Good morning.”
“You’re up early.”
“Not by choice.”
“Livvy should give you a free breakfast for braving what is
traditionally women’s territory.”
“I’ll go anywhere for food.” He folded the paper and laid it aside. “How did you know I was here?”
“Lissa saw you. She was just in to pick up some muffins. I told her I’m taking the next few days off.” She hesitated. “I didn’t tell her why.”
The waitress brought his meal, then took an order for hash browns and toast from Kylie. He spread butter over the pecan waffle, smothered it with syrup, then cut off a wedge and offered it to her. She hesitated, then leaned forward, her hand over his to steady the fork, and slid the bite into her mouth. Her fingers made his skin tingle. Her tongue sweeping away a drop of syrup on her lip made other parts of his body tingle.
“What’s on the schedule for today?”
“I’ve got to go to—” Movement outside distracted him as Derek walked past the plate-glass window, staring hard inside. “Tulsa,” he substituted. “The taillight on my truck suffered from spontaneous breakage while I was asleep last night. I have to get it replaced.”
She glanced outside, too. “You mean one of Chief Roberts’s men broke your taillight intentionally?”
“It wasn’t accidental.”
“They can’t do that!”
“Sure they can. Just like they can give me a ticket for it the first time I drive. Just like they can give me a ticket for running a red light that happened to be green.” He chewed a bite of ham, then washed it down with coffee. “It’s called harassment, darlin’, and it’s damn hard to prove.”
“I’ll speak to the senator—”
“No.” He didn’t want her speaking to Daddy on his behalf. Besides, he suspected Daddy was the one who’d suggested it to Roberts, though not in so many words. Riordan needed deniability. Just a hint here or there was enough for an old friend like Roberts to understand.
“But—”
“Forget about it. It’s okay. So…you want to ride along to Tulsa with me? I’ll be making a few other stops, too.” Guilt nudged at him for not confiding the primary reason for the trip. But what if she innocently told Lissa that she would be in Glenpool, paying a visit to the court reporter? What if she not so innocently told Riordan or the chief? How easy would it be to make that original transcript disappear by the time his noon meeting with Ms. Stockard rolled around?
He would tell her. Once they were on the road. Once she lacked the opportunity to tell anyone else.
It wasn’t distrust. It was caution. For Charley’s sake.
“Sure,” she agreed. “That’s why I took time off.”
To spend time with him. He was looking forward to that more than to getting his hands on the transcript. Getting into bed with her…
He was looking forward to that most of all.
They were at a garage in Tulsa, waiting for work on the pickup to be completed, when Kylie’s cell phone rang. She’d expected an interruption long before this, but apparently nothing had come up that Lissa couldn’t handle.
A glance at the phone showed that it was the senator calling. Another glance at Jake showed that he guessed as much. Giving him a taut smile, she flipped open the phone and walked to the opposite side of the waiting room. “Hello, sir.”
“Lissa says you took a few days off. Are you sick?”
“No. I just needed a break.”
“With Norris? Coy says you had dinner with him last night.”
Chief Roberts couldn’t possibly have known that for a fact, though, she admitted, it was an easy assumption to make. “Checking up on me, sir?”
“No. Keeping an eye on that troublemaker. What were you doing with him? I told you to stay away from him.”
She faced a framed poster on the wall showing a shapely brunette draped over the hood of a Corvette. Reflected in the glass, she could see Jake watching her, his expression controlled. Was he curious? Of course. Concerned about what she was telling the senator? Probably. Distrustful? Likely.
She couldn’t blame him if he didn’t trust her, but that didn’t stop the knowledge from stinging just a bit. The words she was about to say made it sting even more. “Remember your motto, sir? ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.’”
There was a moment’s silence, then he chuckled. “I taught you well, didn’t I? Everything you know.”
Not hardly. She had to live her life, Jake had told her the night before, to take the blame for her failures and the credit for her successes. Her father had always taken credit for her successes.
“I need to ask you something, sir.” She swallowed hard, clearing the lump from her throat. “Who told you that Therese Franklin doesn’t want Jake Norris writing this book?”
The senator was too smart to answer straight out. He knew as surely as she did what he’d told her. He also knew she wouldn’t be asking if she didn’t have reason to suspect otherwise.
“Why?” he demanded. “Has that bastard been to see her? Has he upset her?”
She closed her eyes. He’d lied to her. He wasn’t going to admit it, but he didn’t need to. She pleaded with me, he’d told her, and it was nothing but a lie.
“No,” she said at last. “He hasn’t upset her at all. She’s quite excited about talking to him. In fact, she’s quite excited about the book.”
“No, no, no. She told Harold—”
Unable to listen to another lie, Kylie did two things she’d never done before. “I’ve got to go, sir,” she interrupted and then she hung up on him.
Chilled from the inside out, she returned to the row of hard plastic chairs and sat down next to Jake, her phone clasped tightly in both hands. He gently peeled her left hand free, then held it in his own hand. “It’s okay,” he said.
Her first impulse was to tug her hand free. The second was to hold tightly to him. “It’s not okay! He lied to me!”
He probably thought she was naive. People lied. Politicians certainly lied. But this wasn’t a politician making a promise to a constituent that he couldn’t keep. This was her father, and he was lying to her.
And he was lying to cover up something worse. A mistake, misconduct or malfeasance, Jake had suggested.
Or murder.
She remembered the day she’d come home from school to find her father there—unheard of in the middle of the afternoon. He’d put his arm around her and tried to gently break the news that her mother had died. She’d known it was true, had known it was just a matter of time, but she hadn’t wanted to believe him so strongly that she’d made herself ill. It had been too big a shock, too ugly a fact to face.
She felt something similar now.
She’d stared at the tiled floor so long that the lines were blurring when Jake bumped his shoulder against hers. “You want to talk?”
She glanced at him and shook her head, then, of its own accord, her mouth opened and words came rushing out. “He told me that he talked to Therese, that she pleaded with him, that he promised her…Now he says it was Judge Markham she pleaded with, and even that’s just so much bullshit.”
The profanity was alien to her. She’d heard it a lot but never said it. It felt good saying it now—strong and angry and so fitting.
Abruptly she twisted to face Jake, still clinging tightly to his hand. “What is he hiding?”
His dark eyes were sympathetic. “I don’t know.”
“I need to know,” she whispered.
“What if you don’t like what you find out?”
That was a polite way of asking, What if you find out he’s guilty of far worse crimes than you suspect? Could she handle it? If it meant complete disillusionment? Bringing shame on the family name? Losing the admiration and respect she’d always felt for her father? Losing him?
“I don’t know,” she murmured. “But I already know too much. I have to know everything.”
He laced his fingers through hers, then lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to it. “We’ll find out everything. You and me. And we’ll deal with it. Okay?”
He was saying she could lean on him, draw strength from
him, and at that moment she believed him. But even if the offer was rescinded, if something came between them, she would still deal with it. She was strong. Just not very strong at that instant.
“Okay,” she whispered, shifting her weight against him. “You and me.”
It was close to lunchtime when they left the garage, but instead of asking about a restaurant Jake headed south on Highway 75. Before she could question him, he glanced her way, dark glasses concealing his eyes. “We’re going to Glenpool. I called the court reporter this morning, and she agreed to have a copy of the transcript ready for us at noon.”
There was the issue of trust again—or distrust. She watched the countryside roll by for a time before quietly commenting, “You could have told me earlier. I wouldn’t have told anyone.”
“I had to be sure.”
She accepted that with a nod. They were strangers…though she’d never been so intimate with a stranger in her life. He could trust her, but he would have to figure that out for himself.
As they passed the tank farms located just north of town, she began talking. “Did you know that, in the heyday of Glenpool, this small area produced more oil than anyplace else in the world? They pumped so much that they couldn’t ship it all out. They dug big ponds and used them as holding tanks until they could get it on a train. Then the pipelines went in, taking it directly to the Gulf coast where—”
“Hey.” Jake reached across the cab and claimed her hand, resting it on the console between them. “There’s nothing to be nervous about.”
She swallowed. “Easy for you to say. This doesn’t involve your father and everything you’ve believed about him your whole life.”
For a moment his thumb, stroking the back of her hand, went still, and his jaw tightened. Then he exhaled loudly. “Whatever your father did or didn’t do, just remember—it’s on him. It’s his responsibility. The blame or credit is his. Not yours. Not mine.”
She managed an anxious laugh. “So don’t hold it against you if he winds up in trouble?”
“Or yourself. This is one instance where you can’t protect his reputation.” Pulling into the turn lane, he slowed for a left turn, then made a right into a parking lot. “Ruby Stockard’s husband’s office is here. That’s where we’re meeting.”
More Than a Hero Page 7