by Lisa Jackson
The bartender swiped a white towel over the bar’s glossy surface. “He was in one other time and was all pissed off that the coverage was about the hurricane. Interrupting the sports on TV. Hell, I thought we were lucky to even be open, avoid being hit hard, y’know. No flooding except the back lot.” He tossed his towel into a bin of other wet rags.
Joe half turned on his stool and said to Nikki, “Hey, if you’re lookin’ fer him and find him, tell him he owes me a ten-spot for the Marlins game. Cheap ass is probably layin’ low to avoid payin’.” His attention back on the television, he said, “I could use another,” to the bartender.
Nikki walked back to her Honda and saw she was hemmed in, a blue Ford Escape backed in tight, its back end nearly touching the nose of her CR-V.
Irritating.
She’d have to jockey her way out of the tight space.
“Great,” she muttered, slipping into the warm interior. She started the engine and rolled down the windows to cool things off. Then, before trying to pull away from the curb, she slid her phone from her pocket to google the Braves’ schedule.
Sure enough, the Atlanta team had played the Miami Marlins at home on the night before the discovery of the bodies at the Beaumont estate.
Not really a surprise.
Bronco had been freaked.
And it was time to pay him a visit and find out what the hell he was doing in that basement and what he knew about Baxter Beaumont and Margaret Duval. Had they had an affair? Did it matter? Was it a reason for Harvey and Margaret divorcing? What had Andrea Clancy said? She dropped her phone into a cup holder.
She put her Honda into gear and inched backward, then forward, cranking the steering wheel, hoping to ease out of the space. Each time her back wheels hit the curb, she tried again, gaining inches and beginning to sweat. What kind of a jerk would pin her in like that? Backward. Forward. Backward again.
Finally, she thought she would clear the Escape.
Checking her side-view mirror before hitting the gas, she noticed someone lingering at the doorway of the bar, partially hidden by a lamppost. A man? A woman? She couldn’t tell as the sun was in her eyes.
So what if someone was looking?
Probably getting off on watching her frustration as she tried to maneuver into traffic.
Or maybe someone had overheard her talking to the bartender. She cranked on the steering wheel to get out of the tight space and hit the gas.
An angry honk blasted.
She hit the brakes, her car rocking to a stop as a BMW roared past her, the middle-aged driver raising an angry fist as the car, tires screeching, fishtailed into the oncoming lane, nearly swiping a minivan heading the opposite direction.
“Stupid bitch!” the driver yelled, speeding off.
Nikki’s heart jackhammered.
Several people smoking outside the bar were staring at her, and the figure hiding behind the lamppost?
Gone.
“It was nothing,” she told herself as she eased into the flow of traffic, her pulse still in the stratosphere, but she couldn’t shake the image of the person behind the lamppost surreptitiously watching her, and the memory of the intruder inside her home skittered through her brain.
“You’re being an idiot,” she said, and saw her worried eyes in her reflection in the rearview mirror. “Get over yourself.”
Traffic thinned as she eased out of the city and into farmland, where she spotted cattle grazing in lush fields, a tractor pulling a trailer toward a red barn, a few hazy clouds in a blue, blue sky. She told herself to calm down, to not let little things get to her, let the warmth of a lazy Georgia day settle over her. As she slowed to turn onto Settler’s Road, another vehicle, a delivery van, caught up to her and rather than slow, moved into the oncoming lane as she turned. Behind the van, a gray pickup with tinted windows, too, gave her wide berth and sped past.
Odd, she thought, but really not. Everyone was in a hurry.
As was she.
She hit the gas as the road wound along the banks of the river and using her GPS located the lane where several NO TRESPASSING signs had been posted.
“Too bad.” She ignored the warnings, her Honda bouncing a little on the rutted lane where little gravel had been spread. She drove through a thick stand of pine and maple trees that gave way to a small clearing and Bronco Cravens’s weathered cabin. A beat-up Ford Ranger was parked near a dilapidated garage.
He was home!
Good!
She pulled in behind the pickup and parked.
Bronco wouldn’t be thrilled to see her. She knew that. Obviously, he was avoiding her, not wanting to discuss his reasons for being at the Beaumont estate, but it was now or never.
Grabbing her phone and iPad, hoping Bronco would open up to her, she slid out of her Honda and headed to the front door.
It was open.
The screen door was unlatched and moving slightly in the slight breeze, the front door open wide.
She knocked and peered inside, where a television was tuned to the news, a lamp burning, nothing stirring, no noise from within. “Bronco?” she called through the screen. “Bronco?” She stepped inside and felt a little uneasy. “Hey, it’s Nikki Gillette. We met years ago. I’m a reporter for the Sentinel.” She stepped through the living room, noting the empty dog bed, sagging couch, full ashtray and a couple of empty beer bottles left on the coffee table. A rifle, too, had been left on the kitchen floor. Odd. Or was it? What did she really know about Bronco Cravens?
Not nearly enough.
“Bronco?” she yelled again, a little louder, her nerves beginning to tighten, the smell of stale smoke hanging in the air.
She sensed he wasn’t inside, that the house seemed devoid of life. Silent. Almost eerily so. Walking through his home seemed wrong.
“In for a penny . . .” she said under her breath as she stepped into the kitchen, where more empties littered the counter by the remains of a microwave meal near the sink, a fly buzzing near it. A dog’s water dish was half-full on the dirty floor near the open back door.
Maybe he just stepped outside for a second.
She heard the crunch of tires on gravel and glanced through a grimy kitchen window but couldn’t see the drive. It could be that Bronco and his dog had gone with a friend somewhere. And here she was basically trespassing inside his house. Locked door or no locked door, it would be hard to explain what she was doing poking around.
The engine died and a car door slammed.
Just one.
She started back to the living room, then thought better of it. Maybe she should just step onto the back porch and act as if she hadn’t been in the house and—
She saw the blood.
Thick red stains on the weed-choked grass and . . . Oh, God!
Her eyes landed on a body lying facedown in the backyard. A dark red stain had spread over the back of his T-shirt.
“No!” she screamed, racing outside, flying off the porch, whipping out her phone and already dialing 911. “No, no, no!” She slid on the bloody grass as she reached the man and knew before she tried to find a pulse.
Her stomach heaved and she had to fight the urge to throw up. She wanted to turn him over. To look at his face, but she knew better than to mess with the crime scene, so she stepped away as the operator answered, and said, “This is Nikki Gillette and I want to report a murder.” Her voice was strained, her insides shaking. “It’s Bronco—Bruno Cravens. I’m at his house out on Settler’s Road. Send someone. Send my husband! Pierce Reed!” She was yelling now, unable to hear the woman on the other end of the line. “Get someone out here!”
And then she heard the footsteps.
Heavy and moving through the house.
Getting closer.
Who?
She didn’t care. “Help!” she yelled over her shoulder. “I need help out here!” From the corner of her eye she saw a man appear in the door, a huge man, dressed in black, his expression hard, his gaze boring into her.
>
And he was carrying a long gun.
CHAPTER 23
“I don’t think she’s the real deal,” Delacroix told Reed when he reached the office. She was seated in what was now her chair and desk, in what he assumed was her usual attire: black on black, jacket, T-shirt and slacks. No jewelry. No frills.
“Why?”
“Too old, too . . . I don’t know. There’s a resemblance, of course, but I just have a feeling that she’s a fame whore.”
“Wow. At least you’re not biased,” he said, surprised at her reaction. “She’s in the interview room?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’ve already met her.”
“Briefly. A deputy took them into the room, but I caught a glimpse of her. She’s with an older dude, her husband.”
“But based on that meet and greet, you think she’s a ‘fame whore’?”
She slid him a glance. “You’ll see. Okay, I know it sounds a little harsh, but there’s a reason for it. It’s frustrating, you know, and I’m not getting my hopes up on this one. There are too many charlatans in the world and I’m just tired of us spinning our wheels.” She was scooping up her phone and iPad from her newly claimed desk.
“We’re making progress.”
“Are we?” she countered, heading for the door and the outer hallway, where there was a buzz of conversation. Already the news had spread in the department that the long-lost Duval sister might have been located. As soon as the information leaked to members of the press, including his wife, the phones would be ringing like mad, reporters wanting interviews, questions hurled at anyone associated with the case.
They were in the hallway outside the door, “Don’t you think it’s a little too convenient that after all these years, a woman comes forward? I mean, why wait? Why now?”
“Maybe she didn’t know what had happened to her sisters. She wasn’t quite five at the time and it’s been two decades. Maybe she was afraid to talk. Could be a lot of reasons.”
Delacroix shot him a disbelieving stance. “Sure,” she said, nodding her head, her voice filled with sarcasm. “That’s it.”
Fleetingly he wondered why she was so cynical at such a young age, but he didn’t have time to dwell on her attitude as they stepped into the interview room where a petite blond woman was waiting. Her hair was flaxen and long, one side clipped away from her face with a sparkly barrette. Her eyes a clear sky blue, her skin pale, her smile fragile. She looked to be around thirty, he’d guess, but could buy twenty-five. As Delacroix had mentioned, next to her was a man whose expression was stern, his skin swarthy, his short military-cut hair nearly silver. Fit and dressed in a trim navy-blue suit and tie, a Rolex watch or pretty good knockoff glinting beneath his left cuff, he stood and held out his hand.
“You’re Detective Reed,” he said. “I’ve seen you on TV. Herman Kemp.”
Reed took his hand and felt the guy’s firm grip. Strong to the point of punishing, a shake meant to state his authority, the alpha male in action. “Good to meet you,” Reed said by rote, all the while wondering what was going on. “My partner, Detective Jade Delacroix.”
Delacroix nodded, her expression thankfully noncommittal.
“We’ve met,” the woman said quietly. Dressed in a frothy pastel dress, she stood hesitantly and with a nod from the man next to her extended her hand. “Rose Duval.” Her tone was breathless, her handshake weak. But there was a resemblance to the computer-generated photo of what the missing twenty-five-year-old girl might look like. And there was something else about her. It was almost as if she were scared, or maybe just nervous.
“You’re Rose Duval?” Delacroix clarified.
“That’s right.” Her tone was pleasant and they all sat down with the Kemps on the far side of the table, where a recorder, as well as a box of tissues and several water bottles, rested. Delacroix reminded them that the interview was being recorded, then got right to it. “What’s your legal name?”
“Mrs. Herman Kemp,” the man answered for her. “Rose, here, is my wife.”
“Rose Kemp,” Delacroix clarified.
Kemp’s thin smile was a little patronizing, Reed thought.
Herman pinned her with his icy glare. “Rose Duval Kemp.”
“I was actually asking her,” Delacroix said, indicating the blonde.
“It’s all right.” Rose laid a hand on her husband’s arm, but her expression remained wary.
Reed suggested, “I think it would be best if we talked to Rose alone.” He stared at Herman.
“Oh. No!” Rose seemed flustered.
“The deputy who brought you in,” Delacroix cut in, “took your IDs. Both of them. Herman Ray Kemp and Greta May Smith Kemp. Nothing here about Rose Duval.” She was scanning information on her iPad.
“That’s before she realized who she was!” Herman insisted.
“Yes,” she agreed emphatically. “Before my memory came back.”
Reed held up a hand. “Okay. Mr. Kemp, if you’d step outside, a deputy will lead you to another room where you can wait for your turn.”
“No.” He was shaking his head, his color rising. “My wife is fragile. I need to be with her.”
“What you need to do is wait outside,” Reed insisted. “Detective Delacroix will escort you.”
“Oh, please.” Greta was shaking her head so emphatically her hair clip slid down the strands of hair it was supposed to contain. “I need my husband with me.”
Delacroix was on her feet. “Mr. Kemp, if you’ll come with me.” Then to Reed, “I’ll pick up a swab for a DNA sample.”
“A what?” Greta said, looking frantic.
“Honey, they can’t take one without your permission,” Herman insisted, not budging.
“Or a court order.” Delacroix was by the door. “Mr. Kemp. If you would come with me.”
“No!” Greta was on her feet in an instant. “No, he has to stay. I need him.”
Delacroix said, “If you really are Rose Duval, DNA will prove it.”
Greta looked about to faint. “Herman . . . ?”
“Don’t worry, honey. You have rights.” Glowering at Delacroix, he added, “We both have rights. I’m calling my attorney.”
“You do that,” Delacroix said. “Good idea.”
“And I’ve set up an interview with Kimberly Mason.”
Reed remembered the reporter who’d shown up at Margaret Le Roy’s house, the same one who had been leaving him messages. “Kimberly wants the story,” Herman said. “She’s with WKAM.”
“We’ve met,” Delacroix said dryly as she ushered him out of the room.
Greta sank back into her chair. She glanced at the recorder on the table, then the cameras mounted high in the corners of the room. “I don’t like this,” she muttered.
“Duly noted.” Reed suggested, “Why don’t you start at the beginning? Tell me what you remember or know about the Duval family and how you came to believe that you’re Rose.”
“I don’t know.” She looked at him skeptically and bit her lip. “I don’t feel comfortable without Herman here.”
“He’ll be back. In the meantime, can I get you anything?”
“No.” She wrapped her arms around her middle and elevated her chin.
“All right, then.” But he made a quick call on his cell. “Yeah, this is Reed in the interview room. Would you mind, I could use a cold drink? No, not coffee or sweet tea. Diet Pepsi? Sure.” He glanced at Greta, lifting his eyebrows. “So far just one . . .”
She didn’t take the bait.
“Make it two. Yeah, thanks.”
Clicking off, he leaned back in his chair.
“Now, your address is listed in Tampa and six months ago you were in Miami and the year before that—”
“I know where I lived!” she cut in. Then gathered herself and said a little more calmly, “What does where I lived have anything to do with this?”
“Just establishing some facts. But why don’t you just tell me why you think you’
re Rose Duval. Start from the beginning and then tell me why you’re coming forward now.”
“No, I’ll start with that,” she said, her color rising. “I came because I read about it in the papers and it triggered something in my mind.” She touched her temple. “I started remembering things from before.”
“Before?”
“Before the ‘accident,’ that’s what my mother called it. Car accident. I wasn’t in the car seat the right way and my mother rear-ended the car in front and I fell forward and hit my head. I-I was unconscious for a couple of days and then when I woke up I didn’t remember anything. And so my mom, she thought maybe that was for the best.”
“She told you that? What’s her name?”
Delacroix slid into the room. She was carrying three sodas.
“Where’s Herman?” Greta asked, obviously panicked.
“With another deputy.” She placed a can in front of Greta and one in front of Reed, then popped open the third and settled back into her seat.
“I said I don’t want this,” Greta said, pointing at the diet soda.
“Sorry.” Delacroix looked at Reed. “Just assumed.”
He said, “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay,” Greta said, her anger flaring a bit. “I don’t like this. I want Herman here, with me.” From the other side of the table Greta looked from Delacroix to the now-closed door. “This isn’t right.”
“You were telling me your mother’s name,” Reed reminded her.
“I’ve got that,” Delacroix said. “Beth Morgan Smith, she’s your mother, and your father is Ronald Smith. Right?” she asked.
Greta, appearing dumbstruck, nodded.
Apparently she didn’t realize how quickly the department could look up documents, court records or any violations anywhere in the country via the Internet.
“Yes,” she said, playing with her hair a bit. “Yes, that’s right. Ronald’s my dad.”
“So did they adopt you?” Delacroix asked.
“What?”
“Well, you call them ‘Mom’ and ‘Dad,’ but if you’re really Rose Duval, they would have to be your adoptive parents, right? Because Margaret and Harvey Duval would be your biological mother and father.”