Simple stuff. Meaningless stuff. The stuff relationships were built on.
Well, that and good sex.
After lunch they settled in the living room, the dozens of file folders stacked on the coffee table. Bert Franklin had been meticulous in his record-keeping—a good thing for a banker. Every bill, statement and tax report was filed and labeled. He’d taken care of the household expenses, and Jillian had taken care of spending thousands every month on clothing, meals and gifts. He’d kept her personal checking account well funded and paid her credit card bills in full every month.
And she’d kept her personal savings account well funded and well hidden.
After a time, bored with finances, Kylie picked up the red leather address book and flipped through the pages.
“Anyone there who shouldn’t be?” Jake asked without looking up from his own stack of papers.
“Seems to be the same names you would find in my mother’s address book. The Whitleys, Coy Roberts, my father, the McCormacks, the Markhams, the Jenkinses, the Brownings. Several mayors are here, the district attorney the senator worked for, the newspaper owner, most of the town council from that era.” Frowning, she slowly paged through the book again. “Odd, though. Only the men are listed. It doesn’t say Phyllis and Jim Riordan—just Jim. Mark McCormack. Clyde Browning.”
“Maybe she was really old-fashioned or she associated status with the men rather than their wives.”
That fit with Kylie’s mother. She’d never missed a chance to refer to herself as Mrs. James Riordan…except on the occasions when his status wasn’t enough. Then she’d been Phyllis Colby Riordan.
“But presumably she was friends with the wives. I list my married friends in my address book as Jane and John Doe or just Jane Doe.” She turned to the Rs again and studied the entry for her father, and a chill shuddered through her, obvious enough for Jake to lay aside what he was looking at.
“What’s wrong?”
She shook her head, then flipped a few pages, then a few more. Her face growing hot, she closed the book and looked at him. “The number she had for my father is his private number at home. It rings only in his study. She also had Judge Markham’s private number. Tim Jenkins’s number, not for his office here in town but for the Tulsa office. Mark McCormack’s extension at work.”
“And you recognize these numbers because…?”
“I’m the senator’s aide. It’s my job to know how to reach his friends.”
Jake leaned against the chair at his back and rested one arm on his bent knee. “It may not mean anything.”
“Sure. A married woman has the private numbers of a bunch of married men in her private address book, but it doesn’t mean a thing.” Her voice was quivery but not with tears. She was afraid, disappointed and angry. If her father had had an affair with Jillian, she would…would…
Would never understand. She might forgive, but she would never forget. Marriages were sacred partnerships, and there was never any justification for one partner to turn to someone else. If he’d wanted to have an affair, he damn well should have divorced her mother first.
But he would have lost everything.
Hand shaking, she tossed the address book onto the table, then sifted through the folders for the one she’d found in Jillian’s closet. “You mentioned blackmail earlier. What would she be blackmailing them with? The affairs?”
Jake shrugged. “Some people get caught in affairs and it’s no big deal, like Paula McCormack’s husband. It took her thirty years to do something about it.”
She scowled at him. “Just for the record, one time is one too many for me. I believe in monogamy with a capital M.”
He grinned. “Just for the record, so do I. But…” He got to his feet with easy grace and dropped down on the couch beside her. “We may be the exceptions to the rule in this town. Jillian apparently found four men with too much to lose. Their wives, their kids, their reputations, their ambitions.”
And when it came to ambition, the senator topped the list.
“She was an equal-opportunity blackmailer.” He tapped the top bank statement. “Looks like she had a sliding scale based on their ability to pay.”
The deposit amounts were different: four thousand, twenty-five thousand, fifteen hundred and five hundred. “So we need to figure out which four men had the most to lose and could pay this kind of money every month for—” she flipped through the statements “—nearly three years.”
“Three years,” Jake repeated drily. “Gee, why does that sound significant?”
For a moment she didn’t understand what he meant, but when she thought back to the murders, several numbers came to mind. Twenty-two—how many years ago it had happened. Twelve—how many hours they estimated Therese had been alone with her dead parents. Three—Therese’s age at the time.
“Oh, God,” she muttered, sickened by the thought. “One of those men is Therese’s father? Maybe my father?”
Jake laid his hand over hers, his fingers warm and strong for her to cling to. “It’s a possibility, that’s all. Jillian could have blackmailed them with nothing more than the affairs. She may have told each man he was Therese’s father and one of them really was. She could have told them that knowing that Bert was really the father. Anything’s possible, Kylie. We don’t have enough evidence to lean toward any one theory. Hell, we don’t have any proof that an affair or blackmail ever took place.”
And no way to get it. If four of Riverview’s upstanding citizens had been blackmailed over their indiscretions, they certainly weren’t going to admit it now, when it had been buried with Jillian the past twenty-two years. Their consciences obviously weren’t going to nag them into confession at this late stage.
The only way to prove one of them guilty was with their cooperation-giving her and Jake access to their decades-old bank records, offering to take a polygraph exam or agreeing to donate DNA for a paternity test. And all that would prove them guilty of was having an affair and possibly fathering a child.
But if they’d had a lot to lose twenty-two years ago, they probably still did—maybe even more.
She didn’t even know which four she would approach if she could. Her father, definitely. Might as well put a few more rifts in their relationship. Probably Judge Markham. Like the senator, Markham had married into his money. As for the other two, any of the men in the book was as likely as the others.
Jake bumped his shoulder against hers. “Want to take a break?”
“Why? Are your eyes crossing?”
He looked at her with his eyes, indeed, crossed. When she burst out laughing, he pulled the folder from her hand, dropped it to the floor, then maneuvered until she was lying beneath him on the couch. “Actually…” He brushed a kiss to jaw. “I was thinking…” Another to her ear that made her shiver. “That we could do something…” The third kiss trailed along her jaw to the corner of her mouth. “That you’ve never done before…”
His tongue slid inside, parting her teeth, meeting her own tongue, and his fingers stroked deep into her hair. Heat stirred inside her, flaring to life, robbing her of breath, tightening her lungs. She raised her hands to his body, first his face, then his chest, his arms, his middle, unable to decide what she wanted. Finding warm, soft skin where his shirt had ridden up, she knew and slid both hands beneath the fabric, gliding them across his ribs, caressing muscles and nipples and making him gasp.
When he lifted his mouth for badly needed air, she gave him her sultriest smile. “What is it you think I’ve never done before?”
He blinked, clearing the haze from his eyes before he offered his own sultry smile. “Been to Buddy’s.”
It was her turn to blink a time or two before she laughed again. She’d never met a man who could turn her hot and needy with no more than a look and in the next minute make her laugh. It was a gift she appreciated. He was a gift she appreciated.
She thrust her hips against his, rubbing against the length of his erection. “You want t
o go to Buddy’s? Now?”
“Well…” When she rubbed again, his eyes damn near crossed for real. “I guess it could wait an hour…or three or five.”
He kissed her as if he had nothing else to do, nothing more on his mind—long, sweet, lazy kisses that heated her blood and made her nipples taut. Ache throbbed through her, causing her to move restlessly beneath him, to push halfheartedly at his clothes, wanting more, needing more…soon. For the moment it was enough to luxuriate in his kisses, his touches, his mouth trailing heat wherever it touched.
Her shirt was open, her bra unclasped, and he was sucking her nipple between his teeth when she murmured, “Do you have a condom with you?” Her stash—what was left of it—was in her room. She just wasn’t sure she could make it that far.
Bracing himself on one arm, he dug into his unusually tight jeans pocket to display one between two fingers. “I’m always prepared,” he said with a grin.
Always. Not just for her. He was a single man, free to have sex with every willing woman who came along, and he was prepared for it. She should be grateful—it showed he was careful, conscientious, not stupid. But she didn’t want to think about him with other women. She didn’t want to know that when he left Riverview he would be “always prepared” for someone else.
The condom disappeared inside his fist as he brushed his other hand across her hair. “Hey. For you,” he said quietly. “I don’t sleep around, Kylie. Only with a woman who matters, and you’re the only one who’s mattered in a long time.”
She smiled faintly. “I don’t have a claim on you.”
“The hell you don’t.” He bent, scowling, until his nose was millimeters from hers. “You’ve got a stronger claim on me than anyone I’ve ever known, and I’ve got the same claim on you.”
He sealed his words with a kiss, hot and hungry, demanding the same response from her, and she gave it willingly. They shed their clothes without stopping the kisses and caresses, positioned the condom without pulling apart and joined together there on the sofa…and again on the floor…and again in the bed…
The western sky was tinged pink and lavender when they finally left the house. Kylie noticed—with relief, she insisted, not guilt—that the Jag was still gone. Where had the senator been all day? At a war council with a few of his friends? Plotting to save his career?
Did any of his worries concern her? she wondered. Did he know he’d disappointed her? More importantly, did he care? Or, in his eyes, was this all about him?
Everything else in their lives had been. Why should this be different?
Buddy’s was located a half mile from the glass factory, a quarter mile from the truck stop just off the Turner Turnpike where Charley Baker’s wife had waited tables. Kylie had never been to either the bar or the truck stop and had set foot inside the glass factory only once, when her fourth-grade class had taken a field trip there.
Most of the faces inside Buddy’s were familiar, though she couldn’t put names to them. She’d seen them around town—at the gas station, at Wal-Mart or the grocery store. For the most part, they lived on the east and south sides of town, went to their own churches, frequented different restaurants.
The bartender was big, muscle gone to fat, with a gray ponytail hanging halfway down his back. Tattoos covered most of both arms, along with a snake that writhed up his neck toward his jaw, but the white T-shirt and apron he wore were impeccably clean. “Can I help you?”
“A Bud and…?” Jake glanced her way.
“Coke.”
The man filled their order, then studied them with a narrowed gaze. “You’re that writer,” he said after a moment. “And you’re the Colby girl.”
Conscious of her mother’s manners, she extended her hand. “Kylie Riordan.”
He looked around as if to make sure no one was watching, then shook it before turning his attention back to Jake. “You’re writing a book about Charley Baker.”
“Did you know him?”
“Sure. He come in here every other Friday night like clockwork. Payday, y’ know.”
“You’ve been working here that long?”
The man grinned. “I’ve been working here every damn day since I bought the place. Goin’ on thirty years now. My name’s Leonard Scott.”
“Not Buddy?” Kylie asked.
“Hell, Buddy’s been dead since I was a pup. His son and then his grandson ran the place before I took over.”
Jake shifted to sit on a stool. “You remember the trial?”
“Sure. Figured they’d call me to testify, seein’ that Charley was here at the time the sheriff claimed he killed them people, but they didn’t.”
“You remember him being here.”
Leonard nodded. “Like I said, every other Friday night like clockwork.”
“Who did you tell?”
Leonard excused himself to fill an order for the waitress, then returned with a damp cloth in hand, wiping the counter methodically. “Coy Roberts. He was a deputy back then. That lawyer fellow, Jenkins.” The wiping slowed, and his gaze darted sideways to Kylie. “And your father.”
She shouldn’t have been surprised. She’d received enough shocks regarding the senator in the past few days, but she still felt a jolt, still felt the impulsive need to defend him. Its death left a bitter taste in her mouth.
A prosecutor could not withhold from the jury information that might clear the defendant. It was unethical. If it could be proven that the senator, Roberts and Jenkins had conspired to hide Charley’s alibi, their actions would be criminal.
“I wasn’t the only one that told ’em,” Leonard went on. “The waitress back then—she was kind of sweet on Charley, not that she ever did anything about it—did, too. And a couple of old boys that he sometimes drank with. They’re all moved on, though. Patsy Sue took a job down in Texas. And them old boys were like Charley—they never stayed in one place long.”
Jake drained his beer, then shook his head when Leonard offered another. “Can you take a few minutes to write out what you just told me and sign it? Just so I can have it for my records.”
“I ain’t much for writing,” Leonard replied. “But if the Colby girl wants to write it for me, I’ll sign.”
Kylie smiled tautly in agreement, and Jake removed a pad and pen from his backpack. Sure, why shouldn’t she personally write out the statement that would put another nail in the senator’s coffin?
Jake was up to see the sunrise Saturday morning, but only because he hadn’t yet gone to bed. Kylie had nodded off sometime after midnight, curled on the sofa beneath a throw, wearing an old OSU Cowboys T-shirt and a sweet smile, and he’d sat on the floor sifting through more Franklin records, entering information—interviews, theories—into the computer and spending way too much time just watching her.
Now he was tired, his butt was numb and his back ached from the awkward position. Careful not to disturb her, he eased to his feet and stretched until his spine popped, then went to the kitchen.
She didn’t keep much food in the house, no ice cream, no cookies, no potato chips—three of the basic food groups as far as he was concerned. But he did find some packets of instant oatmeal and zapped the water in the microwave to stir up two. Bowl and spoon in hand, he undid the locks on the front door and stepped outside to watch the sky lighten in the east.
The air was chilly, the stone damp beneath his feet. The streetlights burned with a faint buzz, but there was no traffic, no sign of life anywhere.
Except on the opposite side of the parking court.
Jim Riordan was walking from the rear of the house toward the garage. He wore khaki trousers and an emerald-green polo shirt, the color a good match with his tanned skin and white hair. A bag of golf clubs was slung over one shoulder, and he carried a travel mug of coffee in one hand.
Jake would have recognized him anywhere. He’d found dozens of photos of the man—attending parties, accepting honors, holding press conferences, vacationing in exotic places. Living extravagantly while
Charley passed day after endless day in a one-hundred-and-ten-square-foot cell. Riordan had married well and made others pay the price for his sins. Life had been good to him.
When he saw Jake, Riordan came to an abrupt halt. Slowly he began moving again, closing the distance between them in a manner that was meant to intimidate. But Jake had faced stone-cold killers before. He wasn’t easily intimidated.
Or was that other stone-cold killers?
Stopping six feet away, Riordan looked him over from head to toe, and Jake knew what he saw looked bad. His hair stood on end, his shirt was unbuttoned and his feet were bare. As if the early hour wasn’t enough, he couldn’t make it any more obvious that he’d spent the night there if he’d tattooed it on his forehead.
Even though, ironically, he’d done nothing more than work…and watch Kylie sleep.
“Jake Norris.” Riordan’s tone was glacial as he eased the golf bag to the ground. “Why, you’ve just made yourself right at home, haven’t you?”
Refusing to respond, Jake scooped the last of the oatmeal from the bowl, then balanced it on the edge of the planter next to him. He was tempted to button his shirt and run his fingers through his hair, to make himself presentable—not for the senator but for Kylie’s father. He resisted the urge, though, shoved both hands into his hip pockets and waited for Riordan to go on.
“You look a hell of a lot like your father.”
Now the ice was Jake’s, spreading through him, turning his blood sluggish. Of all the things he might have expected Riordan to say, that wasn’t one of them. He tried to hide the fact that he was having trouble breathing, but the gleam in the bastard’s eyes showed he knew just how big a bombshell he’d dropped.
“You look surprised— What should I call you? Jake seems so deceptive. C.J.?” He chuckled. “I used to think that stood for Charley Junior, that coming up with something original was too taxing for your mother’s feeble mind. I never knew it was Charley Jacob until yesterday.” Then even the faintest hint of humor disappeared and everything about him turned hard. “Did you really think I wouldn’t investigate the man screwing with my career?”
More Than a Hero Page 16