Dark of the Night

by Dee Davis

  “No.” Leon kneaded the ball. “But Bill talked to Maudeen and everything went fine.”

  “Like father like daughter.” Carter smiled. “I knew she could handle it.”

  “It was a risk sending her into that kind of situation, Carter. The whole abortion issue is a powder keg waiting to blow.”

  “Which is why Riley was perfect for the rally. She never loses her cool, and she appeals to a broad base of constituents.”

  “And she’s Catholic.”

  “There is that.” Carter swatted at a nonexistent speck of dust on his sleeve. “The point is, she’s got the innocence and grace to pull off a speech on reproductive rights without seeming heavy-handed. Just what we needed.”

  “Yes. And according to Bill, she handled it all perfectly.”

  “Then why are you frowning?” Carter’s blue-eyed gaze met his, and Leon broke eye contact. The man simply saw too much.

  He sighed. “Nothing really. Bill said there was a reporter baiting her.”

  “Nothing new in that,” Carter said.

  “No. But there was just something about the way Bill said it.”

  “So who is this guy?”

  “An AJC reporter named Jake Mahoney.”

  “I thought Finley covered the political beat for them?”

  “Apparently not today. Mahoney usually covers crime. Bill thinks there was some sort of angle because of the clinic. I’m sure it was nothing, Carter. I just wanted you to know.”

  Carter nodded. “We’ll keep an eye on it. I don’t want anyone hounding my daughter.”

  “She can take care of herself.”

  “Well, as long as she’s got me, she doesn’t have to, does she?” Carter smiled, but the gesture didn’t reach his eyes. “Let’s make certain Mahoney doesn’t become a problem.”

  Leon almost felt sorry for Riley. Almost. At the end of the day the only thing that mattered was the campaign. And Riley at her father’s side was a crucial part of the package. “Push comes to shove, I’ll—”

  Carter cut him off with a wave of his hand. “I don’t want to know. You do what you have to do, but please, do not bring me in on any of your little espionages.”

  “Fine. I’ll keep you in the dark.” Leon dug his fingers into the ball, fighting his anger.

  Carter nodded absently, his mind already turning to other things. “So we’re clear for the next couple days?”

  Leon laid the ball next to the computer, drawing a cleansing breath. “We are.”

  “Great. I need the time to relax before we storm the Midwest.”

  “Well, I couldn’t justify three days of nothing, Carter. I scheduled the odd reception. But except for that, it’ll just be you and your daughter.”

  Carter’s smile was genuine. “That is something I can never get enough of. Just what the doctor ordered, Leon. Rivercrest, Riley, and my roses. The calm before the storm.”

  “Maybe not.” Bill Weasley, Carter’s personal secretary stood in the doorway, his face carefully neutral. A redhead, Bill worked hard to keep his emotions under lock and key, and for the most part managed to do a good job of it. But sometimes, like now, there was a hint of something beneath his seemingly calm exterior. “I just got finished talking to Maudeen. There was a bomb at the rally.”

  Carter’s face drained of color. “Is Riley all right?”

  Bill nodded. “She was there when it happened, but escaped with nothing more than scratches.”

  “Thank God.” Carter closed his eyes, relief blending with gratitude.

  “Was anyone else hurt?” Leon reached again for his ball.

  “No one. But it was evidently a close call. According to Maudeen, if it hadn’t been for Jake Mahoney, Riley would have been killed.”

  Leon nodded absently, his mind already trying to sort out the implications of what had happened. There was simply nothing easy about life. Nothing at all.

  “There’s got to be a way we can figure out who the hell the target was.” Jake ran a hand through his hair, frustration threatening to boil over. He glared at the police detective, willing the man to fork over answers.

  “I think we’ve already established that there are a number of possible scenarios and no way to narrow the options down without more information.” Riley sounded like a damn telephone recording. Or a primary school teacher.

  In the face of everything that had happened, she looked amazingly unaffected. A few scratches and a torn skirt did nothing to detract from the calm serenity she radiated.

  He wanted to shake her—among other things.

  He closed his eyes and then opened them again, rubbing his face wearily. “So we’re left with the fact that someone blew up my car, but we can’t say for sure whether it was really my car they meant to blow up.”

  “That’s about it.” Detective Ferguson looked faintly apologetic. “We’ll know more when ATF gets through with their investigation, but the truth is, even then we may never know why it happened.”

  “I think it’s pretty obvious why they did it.” Maudeen Drake studied the detective through narrowed eyes. “I mean, this is an abortion clinic, and there were protestors out front. Surely that’s motive enough. These people kill all the time for their cause.”

  “Surely if they’d planted the bomb they’d have given some sort of notice.” Riley stood up and walked to the window, the fading sunlight highlighting the gold in her hair. “Or taken credit for it or something. Isn’t that the way it works?” She waited expectantly, her attention focused on the detective.

  “Something like that. But there aren’t any rules, Ms. O’Brien. And the variables here confuse things. First off, there’s the possibility it was a random bombing. That would support your pro-lifer theory.” He glanced toward Maudeen, who nodded. “But there’s also the fact that the owner of the bombed car is an investigative reporter—”

  “And I suspect you have your fair share of enemies.” Riley shot Jake a telling look.

  “No more than a politician’s daughter.” He tried but couldn’t keep the ire out of his voice. How dare she look down her aristocratic nose at him?

  “Exactly.” Detective Ferguson smiled at them all as if they were prize pupils, totally missing the undercurrent. “Which leaves us nowhere.”

  “But not for long.” David Mackenna strode into the room, his presence dwarfing everyone else. “We found remnants of the bomb.” He was a hard-looking man, solid steel with flint for eyes, his straight black hair gleaming almost blue in the conference room’s fluorescent light.

  “Which means you can figure out who set it,” Jake said, studying his friend. The two men had met playing football at the University of Georgia, and been fast friends ever since. While Jake had pursued journalism, David bounced around law enforcement, finally finding his true calling working for the ATF.

  There wasn’t a bomb made that David couldn’t find and defuse, his talents taking on legendary proportions. But more important, Jake trusted him, and quite frankly, he didn’t trust a whole hell of a lot of people.

  “I don’t understand.” Riley turned to look at Mackenna, her gaze appraising.

  “There’s always a fingerprint.” David shrugged.

  “Fingerprint?” Riley’s brows drew together in confusion.

  “Not literally,” Detective Ferguson explained. “But in most bombings there’s something left behind that acts like a fingerprint.”

  “A signature of sorts?” Maudeen sat on the edge of the table, her interest obviously piqued.

  “Exactly,” David said. “Every bomber, just like an arsonist, has an M.O.—a preferred methodology. And with careful analysis of the scene, it’s usually possible to find something that will help identify the perpetrator. Sort of a calling card.”

  “And you think you can find this ‘calling card’ in what’s left of the bomb?” Riley sounded doubtful.

  “Mackenna is very good at what he does,” Ferguson said.

  “But in the meantime, you’re thinking that this was a
random act related to the clinic.” Maudeen shifted so she could see the detective.

  “I can’t say anything for certain, ma’am.” He looked to David for confirmation, and the big man nodded. “I don’t think you’re in any immediate danger, if that’s what you’re asking. Odds are, whoever did this has already hightailed it out of Atlanta. But you can never be too careful.”

  “But it was Mr. Mahoney’s car that was bombed.” Riley glared at him, stubborn lines settling around her mouth and eyes.

  “A car that just happens to be the spitting image of Maudeen’s car,” Jake spat out, glaring right back. “Not to mention the fact that my being here was a last minute thing. There’s no way anyone could have known I was coming in time to plan a bombing.”

  Riley continued to frown, but before she could say anything, Maudeen interrupted. “I’d say the best plan is for us all to be careful over the next few days. Until Mr. Mackenna can tell us something more definitive.”

  “We’ll find out who did this,” David said. “It’s just a matter of time. In the meanwhile, just lay low and watch your backs.”

  “Laying low is not exactly in the cards for me right now, Mr. Mackenna.” Riley’s eyebrows rose in wry amusement, almost as if she were laughing at the situation—or herself. Jake’s estimation of her rose slightly. Not that it meant he’d let himself be suckered in by a pretty face. He’d played that game before and was still paying for it.

  “Just do the best you can,” David said.

  Maudeen stood up with an authority that implied the interview was over. “It is all right for us to leave now?”

  Detective Ferguson rose too, holding a hand out to Maudeen. “We’re almost finished here. I see no reason for you to stay. If we have any more questions, we can contact you later.”

  “Fine.” Maudeen shook the detective’s hand then turned to Jake. “Thank you for what you did today. I know that Senator O’Brien will be eternally grateful.”

  Jake doubted O’Brien would be pinning any medals on him, but there was no sense in being rude to Maudeen. “I’m just glad I was there.”

  “Me too.” Riley’s voice teased his ear, and he turned to face her, surprised to see an impish quality to her smile. “You certainly know how to show a girl a good time.” Maybe there was more to Ms. O’Brien than he was willing to credit her.

  He took a step closer, his gaze locking with hers. “I aim to please.”

  The smile disappeared, and she sucked in an audible breath, her tongue moistening her lips. “I suspect you’re quite capable of fulfilling that promise Mr. Mahoney.” In one second her look changed from playful to haughty. The ice queen was back with a vengeance. “Unfortunately, it looks like my dance card is full.”

  He traced a hand along the line of her jaw, satisfied to see a flicker of reaction. “Pity.” Dropping his hand, he stepped back, then watched as she swept from the room, Maudeen and the detective following in her wake.

  “I know that look.” David Mackenna eyed him with an expression somewhere between amusement and exasperation.

  “What look? I was just saying good-bye.”

  “Right. And I’m a shrimpy little guy from Des Moines.” David disentangled his six-foot-four frame from the conference room chair, his look telling. “I think she’s a little out of your league, kimosabe.”

  “Maybe.” Jake stared at the closed door, his mind’s eye picturing blond hair and silvery eyes. “And then again, maybe not.”

  Fact was, he’d never been able to resist a challenge.

  “What’s the matter, pretty boy? Having a hard time with the washing?” The burly inmate poked a mop handle in Haywood Jameson’s face, making it impossible for him to reach the machine without losing an eye, or at least seriously damaging it.

  The man stepped closer, his stance menacing. Haywood sighed, wondering if there was ever going to be an end to the nightmare that had become his life. “Come on, Foster, I’ve got work to do.”

  “Yeah. But I ain’t certain I’m going to let you do it.” The man smiled, revealing a slew of missing teeth. Haywood suppressed a shudder. Nothing in his sheltered southern life had prepared him for men like Foster. Nothing at all. Still, the Jamesons were survivors, and if he wanted to make parole, he had to avoid any kind of disagreement.

  “Look, Foster, give me a break. I just want to get this laundry done and get out of here.”

  “So you can kiss some more shiny white ass?” Foster shoved the mop handle into the soft skin of his throat, and Haywood took an involuntary step backward. “Boy, the way you brown-nose, I’m surprised you ain’t covered in shit.”

  Actually, there was truth to that statement. Haywood wanted to stay alive. And to do that, a man needed protection. And to get that, he either had to make nice with the guards or make nice with the prisoners. And frankly, the way the prisoners made nice scared the bejeesus out of him. So guards it was.

  Unfortunately, at the moment there wasn’t a uniform in sight.

  “Back off, Foster.” Another inmate, a wiry black man, with chocolate eyes, laid a surprisingly gentle hand on Foster’s arm. “No use in starting trouble over that worthless piece of highfalutin trash. It’s not worth the risk. I mean, look at his bony ass. Nothing there anyway.”

  The big man lowered the mop and stepped away. “You right. Ain’t no time for trouble.” He blew a kiss in Haywood’s direction. “Maybe next time, pretty boy.” He sauntered off, and Haywood released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

  “You need to be more careful, Jameson. Foster’s not a man to be toying with. He’s in here for real murder, not some pansy-assed vehicular homicide. Christ, you can’t even murder anyone right.”

  Haywood flinched, but didn’t lower his eyes. There were rules in here, and by God, he didn’t have a Harvard degree for nothing. His learning curve was damn high. It had to be. Or he’d wind up queen for a day . . . or worse.

  “How much time you got left anyway?” Bryce Daniels was no slouch in the crime department either. He’d knocked over a convenience store a while back, leaving three of the employees dead in his wake. But for all that, he was an oddly peaceful man. A live and let live kind of guy. And for some unknown reason, he’d taken a shine to Haywood.

  “A year and some change. But the parole board is meeting in a couple of days.” He sounded like a school-boy hoping for a date to the dance. A fat one with pimples. As long as Douglas Michaels was the chief of the Atlanta Police Department, he didn’t have a chance in hell of ever getting out.

  Not that he deserved it.

  Daniels narrowed his eyes, seeing far more than Haywood wanted him to. “Who knows, maybe this time it’ll be different.”

  “Maybe so.” Haywood tried but couldn’t keep the resentment out of his voice. “You being considered this round?”

  “Yeah, for all the good it’ll do me.” If possible, Bryce sounded more desolate than Haywood.

  “But you’re practically a model prisoner.”

  “Doesn’t have anything to do with that, and you know it. Hell, it doesn’t even matter that I didn’t kill anyone. It’s all about who wants you to stay on the inside.” Daniels ground out the words.

  “But they told me . . .” Haywood frowned, trailing off, uncertain how to continue, not wanting to offend his only friend. And yet, with startling clarity, he realized how very little he really knew about the man.

  Daniels jerked his arm in the direction of the other inmates in the laundry. “They don’t know anything. I didn’t murder anyone. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” His words were bitter. “With the wrong color skin.”

  “So we’re both stuck here?”

  “Looks that way. Which means we best keep our heads down and not make any waves.”

  Haywood nodded, staring at the tops of his shoes. “I don’t know what I’d have done in here without you.” He looked up to meet the man’s liquid brown gaze.

  Daniels face softened, a hint of gentleness in his eyes. “
You’d have found your way with or without me.”

  “Maybe. But I still owe you a lot.”

  Daniels shrugged, the gentleness swallowed by something harder—almost dangerous. “Just watch yourself, Haywood. There’re folks in here who’d like nothing better than to chew you up and spit you out again.”

  Haywood shuddered, closing the washing machine lid and starting the monstrosity. “I’ll be careful. Truth be told, though,” his voice cracked with emotion and self-loathing, “there are days when I think I’d almost be better off dead.”

  Daniels shook his head, his eyes narrowing. “No you don’t, Haywood. Believe me, you don’t.”

  Chapter 3

  “I’M FINE, DADDY.” Riley twined the telephone cord around her finger, leaning back in her chair. “A few scratches here and there, but otherwise unscathed.”

  “I can be there in an hour, if you need me.”

  “I know. But there’s no point. Besides you’re scheduled to meet with Frederick Weatherby, aren’t you?”

  “It’s nothing I can’t cancel, darlin’. I don’t like the idea of your being there all alone with a bomber on the loose.”

  Riley laughed. “Hardly on the loose. In all likelihood he’s probably out celebrating somewhere, high-fiving with the other right-to-lifers, end of story.”

  “Honey, a bomb is nothing to be joking about. You could have been seriously hurt.”

  “But I wasn’t, Daddy. I told you, I’m fine. And I’m not alone. Maudeen hasn’t left yet, and Adelaide is here. Besides, I’m off to a meeting in just a little while.”

  “Probably do you good to keep busy. Something to do with the campaign?”

  “No, it’s for the mayor’s council on teen pregnancy. I told you about it.”

  “I remember.” His voice indicated he clearly did not. “So how did the rest of the event go?”

  Riley smiled. “Nothing to report at all. The speech went well. The press conference held no surprises. Mainly questions on reproductive rights. A few others. Mike Brewer asked a lot of questions about tax cuts, and Harvey Mann wanted to know if we were planning to revisit the issue of an equal rights amendment.”