Maybe not, but Valerie had her suspicions, and she knew Brant did, as well. Why else had he not reported the missing photos to his superiors? Why else had he not gone straight to Hugh Rawlins with the information?
Because he didn’t trust Rawlins, that was why. He might not be ready to admit it yet, but Valerie could tell Brant was beginning to have his doubts—not just about Rawlins but about his uncle and his father; about everyone who had been involved in the Kingsley investigation.
She wished she could take pleasure in the fact that a wedge of distrust had been driven between Judd Colter and his son, just as Judd Colter had done to her and her father thirty-one years ago.
But seeing the torment of doubt in Brant’s eyes, the growing suspicion that someone he knew, someone he cared about could have been involved in a cover-up, hit too close to home. Valerie knew only too well what he was experiencing. Soon the self-doubt would begin.
But Brant was a grown man. There was no reason to believe he would labor under the same self-loathing she had because of his father’s sins. She’d only been five years old when her father had been sent to prison—too young to rationalize that whatever he might have done had nothing to do with her.
Brant wouldn’t think that way. He was a cop. He would be able to handle whatever they found out, Valerie told herself; but an uneasiness began to grow inside her.
If she brought down Brant’s father, what would Brant think of her? Would he ever be able to forgive her?
* * *
AS BRANT SAT ACROSS from Valerie, he found himself growing angry with her. He wasn’t sure why, exactly. Maybe it was that flash of triumph he’d seen in her eyes when he’d told her about the missing photographs, and again when he’d admitted that only police personnel would have had access to the files.
She was enjoying this, damn her. She was enjoying the destruction of everything Brant had ever believed in.
He was being unfair and he knew it. She was a reporter hot after a sensational story, and he’d just given her new fodder. The knowledge of the missing photographs, coming as they did right after Naomi Gillum’s murder, was intriguing to him, as well. Brant had to admit that even he couldn’t let go of the investigation now, no matter where it led him. No matter who got hurt.
And if he were honest with himself, he would have to admit that maybe, just maybe, his anger with her stemmed more from her rejection of him last night than her reaction to the missing photographs. She was determined to fight the attraction between them, and even though Brant could rationalize that was probably for the best, a part of him still didn’t like it. A part of him still wanted her, maybe more now than ever.
For a moment, neither of them said anything. Valerie toyed with her salad, then glanced up, her gaze intent, as if she’d just come to some internal resolution. “Brant, do you know anyone in the FBI?”
“Why do you ask?”
She pushed aside her plate. The food had barely been touched. “Naomi Gillum told me there was an FBI officer working on the Kingsley case who came to see her after Cletus Brown was arrested. She said he didn’t believe Cletus Brown was guilty, that he thought someone was trying to frame him.” Valerie paused. “If he’s still alive, I’d love to talk to him. I’d like to know why he never came forward with the information about Naomi. His name was James Denver, and if you can locate him—”
Brant lifted his brows. “You’ll be forever in my debt?”
Valerie suppressed a smile, glad that his mood seemed to have lightened. “How about if I just buy your lunch instead?” She picked up the check before Brant could grab it.
“I suppose that’ll have to do,” he muttered. Then, as he took her elbow, he leaned down and whispered, “For now.”
* * *
A FEW PHONE CALLS and a few favors called in garnered the information Brant sought. Special Agent James Denver had retired from the Bureau with full benefits five years ago and was living in a small town called Paradise, in northeast Arkansas. When Brant called Valerie with the information, she wanted to leave immediately.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “I have other cases I’m working on. I can’t just pick up and leave.”
“You don’t have to,” Valerie replied. “I’ll go. I’ll let you know what he says. I’ll even tape the conversation if he’s agreeable.”
“No way,” Brant insisted. “I want to go with you. I have this weekend off. We can drive up on Saturday.”
“That’s two days away!”
“Have you already forgotten what happened to Naomi Gillum?” he asked bluntly. “I don’t want you to go by yourself, Valerie. Promise me you won’t.”
She hesitated, wanting to be annoyed by his highhandedness, but finding, instead, that she was grateful for his concern. Was it possible that he really cared about her?
Or did he want to see for himself what James Denver had to say? Did he want to make sure the retired FBI agent didn’t tell her something Brant and his father didn’t want her to know?
You’re being paranoid, Valerie scolded herself. What did the man have to do to earn her trust? He’d saved her life, bailed her out of a dicey situation in New Orleans, gotten access to the Kingsley file and now had located James Denver for her. What else could he do to convince her he was on her side?
Valerie took a deep breath. All that was true, of course, but she still couldn’t forget who his father was. She still couldn’t forget about the conversation she’d overheard at the Kingsley mansion. Brant was a cop and a Colter. It appeared that he was going out of his way to help her, but Valerie would be a fool to let down her guard completely.
“All right,” she said with reservation. “We’ll drive up on Saturday. But if anything happens to Denver in the meantime…”
“What?” Brant said wearily. “You’ll hold me responsible?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” She heard the resolve in his voice, and maybe a touch of anger. “But no matter what you think, I am on your side, Valerie. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you, I want the truth as much as you do.”
“I know.” But it was what he would do with that truth once they found it that worried Valerie.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE TWO DAYS went by faster than Valerie would have imagined. She updated her notes, wrote a piece about Naomi Gillum’s death and what her testimony would have meant to Cletus Brown’s case, then asked Harry Blackman to find out what he could on the off-duty police officers who had worked security for the Kingsleys the night little Adam had been kidnapped.
Surprisingly, Julian had been out of town when Valerie got back from New Orleans and hadn’t yet returned. No one in the office seemed to know where he’d gone off to. Although his absence was a little strange, Valerie hadn’t worked for the Journal long enough to pay it much mind. She had other things that concerned her more.
Like interviewing James Denver.
Shortly after seven o’clock on Saturday morning, Brant’s car pulled into Valerie’s driveway. After a short argument over whose car they would take, Brant finally agreed that Valerie’s Explorer might do better than his Camaro on the rural roads they would likely encounter.
Then another discussion ensued over who would drive first, and this time Brant prevailed. He knew the fastest way out of the city—or so he claimed—and so Valerie reluctantly handed over the keys.
Within twenty minutes, they were crossing the bridge into Arkansas, where they took Highway 64 heading due west, driving along an endless landscape of rice, cotton and soybean fields. Two hours later, they turned north, taking Highway 167 into Batesville, and from there passing through the quaint-sounding towns of Evening Shade, Horseshoe Bend, and finally, Paradise.
The town was lovely, with tree-lined streets and charming little houses that boasted overflowing flower boxes, pastel-colored shutters and porch swings that swayed in the breeze. They stopped at a gas station to fill up and buy soft drinks, and Brant asked directions to Denver�
�s place. The address he’d been given was a rural route, and so they’d assumed Denver didn’t live in the town proper, but somewhere on the outskirts.
The man behind the counter in the gas station took off his John Deere cap, scratched his head, and looked perplexed. “Donny,” he said to a man sitting behind the counter in a cane-seated chair that rested on two legs. “Ain’t that the guy who bought the old Sheridan place?”
Donny, a younger version of the man behind the counter, shoved back his own cap and let the chair plop forward on all four legs. “Yeah, that’s him. Came from up north somewhere. Fishes a lot. Probably find him out on the lake, this time of day.”
The man behind the counter nodded his agreement. He drew a little map on the back of a paper sack and handed it to Brant. “Your truck got four-wheel drive?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact it does,” Valerie said.
The man spared her a glance, then turned his attention back to Brant. “Them roads out there get pretty rugged this time of year. Supposed to rain later, a real gully-washer. The whole road could go. If you ain’t got four-wheel drive, you could get stuck out there for days.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Brant said. He paid for the drinks and the gas, and he and Valerie left.
“Did you see that?” she grumbled. “They wouldn’t even look at me. It was as if I wasn’t even there.”
“Maybe you intimidated them,” Brant teased. “A glamorous big-city girl like you.”
She gave him a sour look. “Yeah, right.” She hardly looked glamorous today, dressed in jeans, a Northwestern T-shirt and sneakers. Still, as Brant’s gaze roamed over her, Valerie felt a little tingle of satisfaction that he obviously approved of her appearance.
She waited until he had turned his attention to his driving, then she secretly gave him a once-over. He was wearing jeans, too, faded and snug, and a work shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
It was strange, she thought pensively. This man had saved her life once. He’d kissed her passionately twice. But she didn’t even know what kind of music he listened to, or what kind of books and movies he favored. What did he like to do on his days off?
She tried to tell herself it didn’t matter what kind of person he was, because once she found out the truth, once she’d freed her father from prison, she would never see Brant Colter again.
But that knowledge gave her no comfort. Far from it. She found herself wanting to know everything there was to know about him, every mundane detail, so she could save it up and have something to think about in the future, to remember and savor on those cold, lonely nights in Chicago.
Chicago. The place seemed a million miles away. In the back of Valerie’s mind, she’d always planned to go back once her mission was over. She’d always thought that she would pick up her old life right where she’d left off, but she realized now that that life was gone. Forever. She couldn’t go back, and with something of a shock, it came to her that she didn’t want to go back.
Then what do you want? she asked herself seriously as they bounced along a gravel road, heading toward the lake.
It was a question she couldn’t answer. Didn’t dare answer.
* * *
JAMES DENVER’S FISHING boat was hardly more than a dark speck on the horizon as Brant and Valerie stood on the wooden dock and waited. The sun had been shining for almost their entire trip, but just as the man at the gas station had predicted, rain clouds gathered in the east. The lake darkened, looking like yards and yards of undulating gray satin.
Valerie shivered as the wind picked up, whipping the reeds in the shallow water near the shore into a frenzy. The lake grew steadily darker, and the cypress knees protruding from the surface took on an ominous appearance, like wrinkled old gnomes rising from their watery lairs.
The speck on the horizon grew larger as James Denver headed his boat back to shore and to safety. The craft bobbed up and down in the churning water, like the cork on the end of a fishing line.
Finally they could hear the engine put-putting over the sound of the wind in the trees and the water lapping at the shore. Within moments, he pulled the boat alongside the wooden dock, and Brant leaned down to help him secure it.
“Much obliged,” Denver said as he lifted a string of perch from the boat.
“Nice catch,” Brant commented.
“Not bad. I’ve done worse.” Denver climbed from the boat onto the dock. He shoved his fishing hat back on his head, exposing a lock of white hair, and gave them a curious glance. “You folks waiting for me?”
He was tall and thin, with slightly stooped shoulders beneath the plaid shirt he wore. His eyes were blue, light and piercing. Valerie had the impression nothing much got past him.
“I’m Sergeant Brant Colter,” Brant said, extending his ID. “Memphis Police Department. And this is Valerie Snow.”
Denver’s blue eyes narrowed on her. “Have we met?”
“No, never,” Valerie replied quickly. “I’m a reporter working on a story about the Kingsley kidnapping.”
“The Kingsley kidnapping?” He pinned Valerie with a gaze so penetrating, she thought he must surely be able to read her mind. “That was a long time ago.”
Valerie could feel the wooden planks beneath her feet sway, and she grew slightly dizzy. “You were one of the special agents called in on the case,” she said.
“That’s right.” He turned suddenly to Brant. “There was a cop on that case, one of the local boys named Colter. Judd Colter. Any relation?”
“He’s my father,” Brant said, showing no emotion.
Denver nodded without comment. He stood silently for a moment, then motioned toward the house. “We’d better head on up. The weather’s likely to get nasty pretty fast.”
He started up the dirt path toward the house, and Valerie and Brant followed. Once they’d climbed the wooden steps to the porch, Denver said, “I’ll just put the fish on ice and be right back out.”
It seemed to Valerie that he pointedly did not invite them inside, and she wondered if it was because he was hoping to get rid of them quickly. In a few moments, he came back out, minus the hat and rubber boots, having replaced the latter with a pair of well-worn Reeboks. Taking out a pipe and pouch of tobacco, he lit up and sat down in a cane-seated rocker, the only chair on the porch.
Brant perched on the porch railing, and Valerie stood nearby, watching the two men warily and wondering what was going through each of their minds.
Fat raindrops splattered against the tin roof of the porch—a pleasant enough sound any other time, but Valerie found the noise oddly intrusive, as if the weather were trying to drown out what James Denver might have to say.
He took the pipe from his mouth and rocked slightly to and fro. “What, exactly, are you two after?”
“The truth,” Valerie said bluntly. “You didn’t believe Cletus Brown was guilty. I want to know why you never spoke out.”
His calm blue gaze took her measure. “I had no proof,” he said, without disputing her claim. “Just a gut feeling that the wrong man had been arrested.”
“You had Naomi Gillum’s statement,” Valerie countered. “You knew she had been with Cletus Brown on the night of the kidnapping. You knew he had an alibi.”
Denver’s eyes registered a mild surprise as he regarded her thoughtfully. “How did you find out about the Gillum woman?”
“I hired a private investigator to track her down,” Valerie replied, not telling him the whole story. “I talked to her a few nights ago in New Orleans, before she was murdered.”
His gaze sharpened on her. “Murdered?”
“That’s right,” Valerie said. “Murdered. But before she was killed, she told me that you had come to see her back then. She said you didn’t believe Cletus Brown was guilty, and you were conducting your own investigation and needed her help. But then she started getting threatening phone calls. She got scared and bolted.”
“I wondered what happened to her,” Denver said quietly. “I figured i
t was something like that.”
“Do you know who might have threatened her?” Valerie asked. She glanced at Brant, who had remained suspiciously quiet for several minutes.
“No,” Denver said, though his tone implied that he had his suspicions.
“Do you think it might have been someone in the police department?”
He shrugged. “The locals were under a lot of pressure with that investigation. They’d moved too quickly on the first ransom call, before we had time to get our people in place. And they bungled it, badly. They were taking a beating in the press, both locally and nationally. I was afraid they’d rushed to judgment on Cletus Brown just to save face. And then after the arrest, even after Naomi Gillum came forward, it was too late. To admit they’d made another huge mistake would have been disastrous for morale.”
Valerie looked at him in disbelief. “Are you condoning railroading an innocent man just to save face? Just to bolster morale?”
Denver glanced up at her. “I didn’t say that. I’m just trying to explain how things were back then.”
“You still haven’t explained why you never came forward,” Valerie said. “What happened to your own investigation?”
“Once Naomi Gillum disappeared, I didn’t have much to come forward with. Cletus Brown suddenly had a change of heart and decided to amend his statement. He claimed he was alone on the night of the kidnapping. He didn’t have an alibi.”
“Because someone got to him, too,” Valerie explained. “Someone was threatening his wife and child if he didn’t keep quiet about Naomi Gillum.”
“Maybe,” Denver said. “But there was little I could do after that, except to keep my eyes and ears open. Watch for other inconsistencies in the case.”
“And did you find any?”
He hesitated. A frown creased his brow as he brought his pipe up to his mouth and puffed pensively for a moment.
“Were you present at Adam Kingsley’s autopsy?” Brant asked abruptly.
Kingsley Baby Trilogy: The Hero's SonThe Brother's WifeThe Long-Lost Heir Page 14