by Debra Webb
Except it hadn’t been enough … . Emily hadn’t seen disaster coming. There hadn’t been any signs … other than that one ugly episode with Austin at the bowling alley. But that had been a whole week before. Clint Austin had waited for her outside the bowling alley. He’d teased and flirted the way he’d always done, but that time had been different. She’d still been stinging from the way he’d kissed her a few days before and then just walked away. She’d let him have it. Called him a thug and a few other choice words. He’d lashed out at her, and everyone in the parking lot had witnessed the scene.
She shouldn’t have antagonized him.
She shouldn’t have left her bedroom window unlocked.
She shouldn’t have let Heather stay in her place.
She should have been the one to die.
“You can’t blame yourself, Emily.” Justine reached out, gave her hand a quick squeeze, looked at her as if she feared Emily might be about to fly to pieces. “It wasn’t your fault he went crazy. God only knows what set him off. They talked about drugs. He may not have even known what planet he was on.”
But Emily did know what set him off. And they hadn’t been able to prove the drug theory.
“Hey, Ms. Mallory!”
Justine turned to greet the football team jogging by in a haphazard formation. “Morning, boys.”
A couple of the guys grabbed their chests dramatically at the idea that she’d even spoken. Wolf calls and flagrant gestures of adoration were showered on the school’s favorite teacher as the team shuffled past like misfit military recruits in boot camp. Justine Mallory had been and, evidently, still was every high school boy’s fantasy.
Justine waved off the last of the hoots and hollers. “Those boys. I swear, they never change.”
“I really have to go.” Emily couldn’t be here any longer. “It was good seeing you again, Justine.” Emily opened the car door, the panic threatening to swell again.
Justine touched Emily’s shoulder. “You stay away from him, Em. You’ve been through enough.”
Emily tensed. The breakdown had been kept a secret, but like everything else in this town, rumors got around. Folks still whispered behind their hands about her. She’d learned to hate that about Pine Bluff.
“I don’t mean to scare you,” Justine went on, “but he could still be dangerous. Maybe even more so now. It’s not safe to get too close.”
Emily introduced as much confusion as she could summon considering the realization that comment had prompted. “Why would you think I would do that?”
Had she really expected to be able to hide it? Some folks had nothing better to do. Gossip radars had likely gone up the moment she entered the city limits.
“Rumors get around.” Sympathy marred Justine’s remarkably unlined face. “There isn’t anything you can do, you know. You need to let this go. We all do. Did you see the paper?” She visibly bristled. “They’re even bringing up that nonsense about his so-called alibi. He lied then; he’ll lie now … or worse. Stay away from him, Em.”
Emily shook her head. She hadn’t seen the paper. “I appreciate your concern, Justine, but I’m fine. Really.” This time Emily got into the car. Her parents had the market cornered on concern for her. She didn’t need any more, not even from the teacher and the principal she’d always admired.
“You let me know if you need anything.”
Emily managed a wobbly “thank you” before starting the engine and backing out of the parking slot.
Waving, Justine watched her go.
Before Emily pulled out onto the street she glanced in her rearview mirror. Another woman had joined Justine. To get the latest gossip no doubt. Emily squinted to make out who she was. Haphazard ponytail, baggy clothes, a stark contrast to Justine’s model-perfect appearance. The other woman looked toward Emily’s car and waved. The odor of formaldehyde and mutilated frogs resurrected in her olfactory. Misty Briggs. Biology and chemistry. Batty Briggs. Emily waved back, then drove away.
The rumors were spreading.
Already all eyes were on her. Watching to see what she would do next … to see if she’d fall apart.
Poor Emily Wallace.
Everyone knew that Heather was dead because of her.
CHAPTER NINE
City Hall 11:30 A.M.
“Chief.”
Ray looked up from the report on an attempted robbery at the Sack&Go last week. His secretary hovered at his door. “What’s up, Mary Alice?”
“Granville Turner called. He’s headed over here. Says he needs to talk to you, that it can’t wait.”
“Send him on in when he gets here.”
Mary Alice Sullenger nodded and went back to her desk. She’d worked with Ray long enough to understand the visits he looked forward to and the ones he didn’t. Though he considered Granville Turner an ally in many ways, Ray also knew firsthand what a royal pain the man could be when he got a burr under his saddle.
Ray heaved a disgusted breath and moved on to the next report. He’d worry about Granville when he got here; until then Ray had a job to do.
At least the phone was quiet for a change. Mary Alice had fielded calls all morning from concerned citizens who wanted to know the real story on Clint’s release from prison.
Ray scowled at the copy of the Pine Bluff Sentinel lying on one corner of his desk. The picture Lassiter had taken in Brady’s office was front-page news. The article read like a political debate with Troy Baker and his devastated family at one podium and Ray at the other. The whole damn mess was ridiculous, a one-sided story of Clint’s upbringing. How his daddy had deserted Clint and his mother had been forced to work day and night to make ends meet, leaving him to his own devices. Every schoolyard scuffle and speeding ticket the man had ever gotten was laid out for the community to devour. If that wasn’t bad enough, Lassiter had related numerous details, some he’d obviously taken from hearsay, regarding the night of Heather Baker’s murder.
The entire page was dedicated to trying Clint Austin all over again. Ray had called Jacob Talbot, the other owner of the Sentinel, and told him how he felt about the smear campaign his paper appeared to be waging. Didn’t matter one bit. Talbot’s son had gone to school with Heather Baker.
Annoyed, Ray signed off on the report he’d just skimmed and reached for the next one. He could remember a time when the chief of police got a little respect around here. He wondered how Don Ledbetter would handle the situation if he were still alive and serving as chief.
Ray heard Granville Turner’s arrival well before he reached the door to his office. Granville had the kind of boisterous, self-important voice that carried across a room and demanded attention.
Pushing to his feet, Ray donned a patient, welcoming demeanor. “Good to see you, Granville. How’s Becky? Up and around by now, I hope.” Becky was the rich old bastard’s prized bluetick hound. He treated that dog better than some of his own kin. She’d had surgery recently to remove a small tumor that, thankfully, wasn’t malignant.
Granville reached across the desk and pumped Ray’s outstretched hand. “She’s doing just fine, Chief. Thanks for asking.” Without further ado, he settled into a chair.
Ray took his seat and got right to the point: “What can I do for you today, Granville?”
Mary Alice closed the door Ray’s visitor had left open. She knew from past experience that a meeting with this particular citizen could get sensitive and loud.
Granville Turner was past sixty years old, with the build of an athlete. His hair had grayed into that distinguished shade that spoke of power and means rather than age. His gray eyes were clear and likely as keen as they’d been forty years ago. He was highly intelligent and filthy rich. He’d inherited well and invested better and was of the widely proclaimed opinion that he owned this town. Ray was intimately familiar with the way Granville did business, having learned fast the pecking order for keeping folks happy. Granville Turner was at the very top of that list. Whatever he wanted he generally got.
<
br /> “I’d like to know what your plans are for getting Clint Austin the hell out of my town.”
No mincing of words there.
“I understand your misgivings, Granville,” Ray began, knowing he was wasting his breath. “But you have to understand that my hands are tied. Clint Austin served his time. Unless he breaks the law or the conditions of his parole, there isn’t a thing I can do about his decision to return to Pine Bluff.”
Granville Turner eased forward in his chair, his gaze narrowing. “If that boy even looks at anyone in this town crosseyed I want you to find a way to send him back to Holman. Do you hear me, Ray? You watch him like he’s your goddamned reflection.” Granville pointed a finger. “When I think about what that bastard could do to this town—to my son—it makes me want to tear him apart with my bare hands.”
Ray chose his words carefully. “Granville, you and Keith have nothing to be concerned about. I’ve got the Austin situation under control. We won’t have any trouble out of him.”
Granville held his gaze several drama-filled seconds before rising from his chair. “All right then.”
Ray joined him. If he got off this easy, he’d be tickled to death. But nothing with Granville was ever quite so easy.
“I know you possess the necessary talent to ensure this situation doesn’t get out of hand.” The older man’s gaze locked with Ray’s. “But you let that bastard cause any trouble and we’ll have a serious problem. I don’t want my son to suffer any more than he already has.”
Ray should have been mad as hell at the man’s audacity, but he and Ray had an understanding. If push came to shove, he knew the most direct route to Granville’s Achilles’ heel. That was something else Ray had learned early on. Always know your opponent’s secrets. The right one could make all the difference.
The intercom on Ray’s desk buzzed. He sat down and picked up the receiver, his head tilted to the left and his gaze still fixed on the man who’d walked out of Ray’s office only to pause at his secretary’s desk to chat or ask questions he more than likely had no business asking. “Yeah.”
“Line one for you, Chief.” Mary Alice didn’t give the name of the caller, since Granville lingered at her desk.
“Thanks.”
Ray stared down at the button blinking on his phone. He hoped like hell it wasn’t anybody else swearing that Clint Austin had peeked in their kitchen window or stolen some tool they couldn’t find in the garage. Ray blew out a burst of weary air. It was probably his wife making sure he planned to make lunch today. He’d missed more dates with her than he’d kept lately. He pressed the button and got it over with. “Ray Hale.”
“I love the way you say that. Hmmm. So sexy.”
His anger flared, but he refused to be baited. “What do you want?” He angled his head again to make sure Granville was gone.
A deep, sultry sigh intended to be sexy whispered across the line. Ray’s jaw clamped; he refused to let her get to him the way she’d once done so effortlessly.
“I think we have a problem, baby. I think there’s a meltdown coming our way and people are gonna get burned.”
A muscle started to twitch in his jaw from the hard set of his teeth. Bitch. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay out of this.”
“Is that a threat, Chief? You know how it turns me on when you talk rough to me.”
He almost hung up, but her next words stopped him cold.
“She’s close to the edge, Ray, real close. I’m afraid she’s going to blow that whole shoddy investigation your department conducted wide open before she’s finished.”
He would not listen to any of her bullshit. “Stay away from Emily Wallace and don’t call me again.” He slammed the phone down.
“Chief?”
Ray’s glare plowed across the room.
His secretary stood at the door looking ready to run for cover.
He reached for calm. “Yeah, Mary Alice.” Damn it all to hell, he shouldn’t let that woman get to him like this.
“I’m going to lunch now. You want me to forward your calls to the switchboard?”
He nodded. “Sure. I’m headed out myself.”
Mary Alice flashed him a smile that didn’t go anywhere near her eyes and then hurried away.
He felt like a horse’s ass for allowing his secretary to see how the call had affected him. The dead last thing the folks in this town needed was something else to talk about.
CHAPTER TEN
3:00 P.M.
Clint left work a little early. Cook hadn’t argued. Maybe he was impressed with the cleanup job Clint had done the evening before or maybe just didn’t want to cross him. Clint would bet his left nut the guy didn’t have an alibi for the night Heather Baker was murdered. Just one of many things Clint intended to learn about the good citizens of Pine Bluff.
That Emily Wallace wasn’t waiting outside to follow him home surprised Clint. Since he had an appointment, one only he knew about, he was glad. If she’d followed him he would have had to lose her.
He took a moment to check his vehicle, the hood, the trunk, and then the pavement beneath it. Clear. Then he settled behind the wheel and started her up. Considering the way people felt about him around here, he’d taken certain precautions. Like stretching a strip of cheap transparent tape across the gap between his hood and the fender on each side. He’d done the same at the trunk. If either were raised, the seal of the tape would be broken. Checking the pavement beneath his car for drained fluids would let him know if a brake line had been damaged and left to leak its essential contents.
He drove, enjoying the feel of the engine’s power and the wind whipping through the open windows. One neighborhood flowed into another until he slowed and made the right turn that would take him to the dead end of Red Bird Lane. The two acres of rolling green landscape with its fortresslike residence backed up to the forested land trust that surrounded the lake. Prime real estate owned by the biggest snake in the grass in the whole state, if not in the Southeast.
Six hundred and twelve Red Bird Lane, the property of Sylvester Fairgate.
Old man Fairgate was dead now. He’d died two years ago. Whatever the ailment that launched him to hell, it was no doubt prompted by the evil bastard’s rotten deeds. Despite his name, fair had never been a part of Sly’s way of doing business.
Sly had been a banker. Not your typical First National or City Trust. Sly Fairgate had lent money to those desperate enough to pay 200 percent interest, compounded weekly. He never carried a balance for more than thirty days. Anyone who couldn’t pay in cash in that time frame paid in other ways.
An eight-foot decorative iron fence bordered the property. A couple of Dobermans paced in front of the gate and barked at Clint’s Firebird. It would only take one glance for Sylvester’s only son, Sidney, Psycho Sid to those who knew him, to identify who was at his gate. The red Firebird was Clint’s calling card.
Sid was a different kind of bird, not cut from the same cloth as his father. Where Sly had been a balls-to-the-wall businessman, Sid preferred his games. The sadistic little prick liked nothing better than watching people squirm. Well, it was about time someone gave Sid something to squirm about.
Clint idled up to the ornate lamppost where the keypad and speaker box hung within easy reach. If he was privy to the right code as he used to be, he would simply enter it and the gate would open, but since he wasn’t he pressed the call button and waited for a response. He made sure he smiled for the camera strategically located on the massive pillar on the left side of the gate.
A full minute passed before the speaker crackled to life. “What the hell do you want?”
Psycho Sid. Clint’s lips tilted in satisfaction. He would know that voice anywhere. That the man sounded on edge made Clint all the happier.
“I have a bone to pick with your daddy.” Clint tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited for a reaction.
Another fifteen seconds expired before, “My father is dead,”
vibrated from the box. The words weren’t uttered like the guy cared that much that his daddy was dead. Sid sounded more pissed off at the intrusion than anything.
“I guess that means my beef is with you then.” No use beating around the bush.
Another half minute or so passed before the metal scrape of the lock disengaging sounded and the gate slowly slid aside.
Clint applied just enough pressure to the accelerator to have the car roll up the paved drive. He parked in front of the house and got out, a little surprised that there was no welcoming party. Sly Fairgate had always kept at least four bodyguards on duty at any given time.
Maybe business was slow for Sid. Or maybe he was just too stupid to be afraid. Too bad for him. The kind of desperation that fueled his primary business, assuming it was the same as his daddy’s, made for unstable customers.
Not that Clint gave one shit if the lowlife got himself blown away; he just preferred that it not be for a few days, since he had unfinished business with Sid and his dead daddy.
The one thing that could be counted on with men like the Fairgates was that they understood the value of information. All sorts of information. And none, no matter how damning to themselves, would ever be taken for granted. Whatever secrets old Sly had known he’d most assuredly passed along to his evil offspring before he died. Knowledge was power. It was a rule of survival for their kind.
Clint was counting on that solid practice.
The front door opened and bodyguard number one appeared. The big guy gestured to one of the towering columns that flanked the front of the grandiose house. “Spread ’em,” he ordered. He sported the traditional uniform, black suit, black tie, communication earpiece making him look a little like a Secret Service agent. Clint figured the costuming gave Fairgate a sense of importance.
Clint propped both hands against the column and spread his feet wide apart. He knew the drill. He’d watched others do it enough. The jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers he wore didn’t provide for any clever places of concealment, but that didn’t spare him a thorough search from his neck to his ankles.
