"His lawyer is currently engaged to the woman who was his girlfriend at the time of the murder," Shea snapped.
"So I understand," Luther said with a sigh.
"Besides, why would a man who's spent ten months in jail and then gets convicted of a crime he didn't commit trust the system?" She gave Luther her most determined glare.
"Because the system is all we've got."
Shea sighed in turn. Maybe talking to Luther wasn't such a good idea, after all. He was too darn stubborn.
"Where have you two been?" he asked.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the jar of jelly beans.
"You don't know?"
"I was blindfolded."
Luther reached into the jar of jelly beans and drew out a handful. She declined when he offered the colorful palmful to her. "I talked to Lenny," he said as he popped one into his mouth.
Her heart leaped. "Lenny who?"
Luther smiled. "He told me everything."
Shea sighed. "Why would you believe the ramblings of a half-blind old man—"
"How did you know he was a half-blind old man if you never met him?"
Shea bit back a curse and refused to answer. "Okay," Luther said casually. "Let's change the subject. Where is Taggert now?"
"I don't know."
"Which direction did he head in after he dropped you off?"
She didn't hesitate, since she'd anticipated this question. "He got back on the interstate and headed north. He mentioned an old army buddy who has a ranch in Montana. He might be headed there."
"Montana," Luther said lifelessly. "I don't suppose he mentioned this army buddy's name."
"No."
"What was he driving?"
"The truck he … he borrowed from Lenny. He painted the blue part white, though, so it would look different." Ha! Let them try to stop every old white truck on the highway! That would keep them all busy for a while.
Luther popped a red jelly bean into his mouth. "Have you been reading the papers? Surely you have. Surely you read that a state trooper saw you very willingly traveling with Taggert just hours after the kidnapping. He said that the two of you were very friendly. Shea, you're in a world of trouble."
She turned her most innocent gaze to him. "He's mistaken."
Luther did not believe her, but somehow she had to make him believe. If the cops stayed all over her, if she was subjected to days of questioning, how could she investigate the murder? "Taggert stole a truck, blindfolded me and took me to goodness knows where. He never threatened me, he never hurt me and I believe he's innocent of the crime he was convicted of."
"Shea, everyone in the country who owns a television has seen him threaten you," Luther said impatiently. "Have you forgotten that he dragged you off the courthouse steps at gunpoint?"
"No, I haven't forgotten," she whispered.
"Well, you'd better clear your head and start telling the truth."
No one would ever know the truth. Not all of it, anyway. "I am telling the truth."
Luther leaned in close, too close. He narrowed his dark, calculating eyes. "Why do I have the feeling that if you say he went north, he went south? That if you say he's driving a white truck he's driving a black car? Why is that, Shea?" He locked his dark eyes to hers. "Why do I have a feeling Taggert's around here somewhere, trying to find the evidence to prove himself innocent?"
Shea looked Luther in the eye, unflinching and brave. "He doesn't need to and he knows it. I'm going to prove Nick innocent myself."
"It's Nick now," Luther said softly.
Shea licked her lips. "Do you have any other questions? I'm tired and I'm hungry and I just want to go home."
Luther stepped back, away from her. "I'll drive you home. You can expect to see your brothers there in a couple of hours. I called Dean on his cell phone as soon as I found out you were here. They were talking to some old friends of yours in Mobile."
"How very thoughtful of you," she said, her heart in her throat. She was not looking forward to the coming confrontation!
"I'd like to be around when they start asking their questions," Luther said softly. He popped another jelly bean into his mouth and offered his candy-free hand to help her from the chair.
Like it or not, she needed the support.
* * *
Chapter 13
« ^ »
He didn't dare drive the Camaro into his own cul-de-sac, but from the street directly to the east he had a fairly good view of his old backyard. And Norman's. All appeared to be quiet there, but appearances could be deceptive. He knew that.
The car radio was tuned to a local rock station, the music turned low, but when the news came on he turned the volume up.
"Kidnap victim Shea Sinclair was released earlier today." The announcer had a down-home drawl and sounded as if he were talking casually to a group of friends. "You'll recall that one week ago today she was seized outside the Madison County Courthouse by fugitive Nicholas Taggert, a convicted murderer."
Convicted murderer. The newscaster said the words as if he relished the taste of them on his tongue, and Nick felt slightly ill. That label would follow him forever, even if he proved his innocence.
Pushing his sick self-pity aside, he turned his thoughts to the weathergirl. Lucky Shea, she was the number one story. Had he really known her only a week? It seemed like a lifetime ago that he had locked his eyes on her face, grabbed her in desperation and dragged her off the courthouse steps.
He pulled his car to a stop at the curb outside a neat little colonial house that had a For Sale sign in the front yard. The uncurtained windows marked it as empty.
"So far Miss Sinclair has refused all requests for interviews," the newscaster continued, "but a spokesman for the FBI says she has been cooperative."
Of course Shea was cooperative, but why was she turning down requests for interviews? Wasn't this what she wanted? The spotlight, her moment of glory. Ah, maybe she was waiting for something big. The network, CNN, her own show.
"Authorities have now shifted their search out of Alabama. Roads in Tennessee and north are being combed for any sign of the white truck Taggert is now driving. It's the same vehicle that was stolen hours after his escape, but it has recently been painted white. Taggert is apparently heading to Montana, where an old acquaintance resides."
Montana? Nick leaned closer to the radio. A white truck? What the hell was she doing? When the FBI and the local cops found out he was here in town—and they would eventually find out—Shea would be in deeper than before.
But if what he heard was true, the coverage in Huntsville had been cut in half. Agents were heading north, searching for a truck that was presently parked in a dilapidated barn in Marion, Alabama. Looking for a man who was right here in town.
Nick turned off the radio as the newscaster reminded his listeners that Nicholas Taggert was armed and dangerous and to "be on the lookout, you hear?"
What was Shea up to? After the way he'd dumped her this morning she should be angry, should be telling the cops everything she knew. Well, everything that wouldn't incriminate her.
Nick turned off the engine and left the car parked at the curb. It was late, but if anyone was watching they'd probably assume he was interested in the house for sale. He pulled the cap low over his eyes and took a flyer from the box near the sign, and pretended to study the stats by the light of the streetlamp. He approached the house, peering into the uncovered living room window.
When he walked around the house, his eyes shifted to the rear of Norman's residence.
Lights burned warmly, visible through the slats of the wooden fence that surrounded the backyard. He wondered if Lauren was there. If she'd moved in with her fiancé.
Nick vaulted over the fence, noting and cursing the pain and weakness in his injured leg when he hit the ground on both feet.
Shea thought Lauren might've killed Winkler. To keep him from talking about what had happened that night? Seemed extreme, especially since Nick had bee
n the one to discover them. What did it matter if anyone else knew?
Unless she and Norman had been involved even then. Unless she didn't want her married lover to know what she'd done. Norman was a snake, but he was an unforgiving reptile and would not have been happy to know the woman he was cheating on his wife with was as unfaithful as he.
Nick dropped down low and watched as Norman, dressed in a salmon-colored golf shirt, walked past the kitchen window. Sure enough, Lauren wasn't far behind, a smile on her face, her blond hair piled in an artfully careless way atop her head.
Had a woman he'd considered spending the rest of his life with killed a man to protect herself and then pinned the crime on him? Maybe so. Nick couldn't look at her right now and swear she wouldn't do it, much as he wanted to. His taste in women was worse than he'd imagined. First Lauren and then Shea.
After watching the house for a while, searching what he could see of the rest of the neighborhood for people and vehicles he didn't know, Nick spotted a car drive by slowly. He dropped to his haunches and watched as the police cruiser crept past, stopping in front of his house, which was also for sale, and shining a bright, wide-beamed flashlight across the front of the house and into the side yard. Seeing nothing suspicious, the officers drove on.
Nick left Norman's yard the way he'd entered, vaulting over the fence. His leg burned when he landed, and he limped back to the car. If there ever had been constant surveillance on his house it had been pulled, downgraded to a drive-by every now and then. He'd be back, when the residents of the cul-de-sac were fast asleep, to see how often the police car drove by, if there was a pattern he could work with.
And as he drove away he wondered again why Shea was not granting any interviews.
* * *
"I made your favorite," Shea said with a wide smile. "My tuna casserole."
Clint was good. He didn't so much as blink. "Great!"
Boone paced in her living room, as angry as she'd ever seen him as he took long strides across her beige carpet. "I'm not hungry."
Dean lowered himself to her sofa, leaned back in a falsely casual pose and gave her the eye. "I'd really rather talk about this situation some more before we even think about eating."
Shea rolled her eyes. "I've done nothing but talk all day. To the FBI, the local cops, my boss." Who wanted her to return to work immediately. He had been stunned when she'd told him she wasn't ready to go back to work. "I'm tired, I'm hungry, all I want is to eat and fall into my own bed for a good night's sleep. I might sleep for the rest of the week."
Shea pretended not to notice as the boys exchanged a cryptic glance that did not include her.
She knew getting rid of her brothers would not be easy. It might even be impossible. How could she do what needed to be done when they were dogging her all the time?
"Boone," she said sweetly as she piled Clint's plate high with tuna casserole, "didn't Mark ask you to investigate the Winkler murder for me?"
He gave her a murderous glare. "I didn't have time," he said in a low voice.
"Well, you have time now." She gave him a wide-eyed, innocent smile. "The only reason Taggert escaped was to prove himself innocent. I believe him…"
"He kidnapped you!" Boone said through gritted teeth.
"Only because he was desperate."
Dean rose from the couch. "Why do you insist on defending Taggert?" he asked calmly. "Is there something you're not telling us?"
Three brothers who were so protective they wouldn't even risk hurting her feelings by telling her they didn't like her casserole wouldn't understand that she cared about Nick, that she believed in him. That maybe she even loved him. But they all understood ambition.
"Think of what a great story it'll make," she said, putting a trace of excitement into her voice and her smile. "The station manager won't let the weatherman send me out to pose in front of a tornado if I can make a name for myself as a real reporter."
Boone took a threatening step toward her. "He put you in front of a tornado?"
Shea scooped up another healthy serving of tuna casserole. "Yes. I can't tell you how many times last spring I had to go out in storms actually searching for funnel clouds. The station meteorologist was always quite disappointed when I didn't find one."
"And what's his name?" Clint asked as he shoveled in a mouthful of tuna and noodles.
Shea smiled. "Never you mind. If I can find out who really killed Gary Winkler, I won't ever have to do it again."
She spooned another serving of tuna casserole onto a plate and held it high for Dean. "Here you go. If you're going to help Boone you'll need your strength."
With a sigh, Dean stood and walked toward her. "Who said I was going to help Boone? I plan to stay right here and keep a close eye on you, in case Taggert decides to come back."
She lowered her eyes and fixed her own, smaller serving. "He won't."
"How can you be so sure?" Clint asked.
Shea sat down and stared at her plate. "I didn't escape, he let me go." Forced her to go would be more like it, but she couldn't tell them that. "He's long gone."
Where was he sleeping tonight? How was his leg? She felt like a complete sap for worrying about him, even now. How could she have been so wrong about Nick and the way he felt?
"I had Grace give Luther all the information she gathered for me, but I'm sure he wouldn't mind sharing it with you three."
"Two," Clint said. "I'm no lawman. Never have been, never will be."
Shea smiled wanly. "I'm sure they miss you at the rodeo. When are you going back?"
His gaze was penetrating. "When Taggert is captured."
"That's very sweet, but it's not—"
"Oh yes it is," he interrupted.
She adored her brothers, even when she was annoyed with them. Their parents had always been distant, not uncaring but living in another world at times. The four of them had compensated for that distance by being there for one another. The boys had come to Shea's school plays when her father had a golf tournament and her mother was busy with one women's club or another. Her brothers had been the ones to bandage her scraped knees and take care of her when she got up in the night, sick.
Even now… Shea had talked to her mother on the phone earlier this evening, and Patsy Sinclair had been relieved to hear that her daughter was safe and well, but didn't even ask about coming down to stay for a while. Apparently there was a fund-raiser coming up this weekend, and she was swamped.
How many times had Shea wished for a mother and father like Irene and Henry? Caring, warm people who loved their children to distraction and smiled a lot and didn't mind making fools of themselves now and then, in the name of fun or love.
But it didn't matter. She had Dean and Boone and Clint. She loved them dearly, and now she had to get rid of them.
"Where are you boys staying tonight?"
"Right here," Dean said, in a voice that held no room for argument.
"I only have the one bed," she protested.
"You have a couch and a whole lot of floor," Boone said. "That'll do us just fine."
If she tried to kick them out, it would only raise their suspicions. Getting past them was going to be difficult enough. "Well, I hope I have enough pillows and blankets to go around."
"We'll do fine," Dean said in his most matter-of-fact voice.
They all ate every bite of their tuna casserole.
* * *
It was after two in the morning before she felt confident enough to slip out of bed, place her note on the pillow and grab her duffel bag. It was the same bag she'd carried as Nick sped away in Maude's Camaro, only now it was full with not only the borrowed clothes, but a number of her own things. She wasn't sure how long she'd be gone.
She opened the sliding glass door slowly, noiselessly, hoping the boys were as exhausted as they'd seemed to be after dinner. They should all three be sound asleep by now.
Her steps onto the balcony were carefully measured, since it had a tendency to squeak in
certain spots. She knew those spots well, though, and avoided them as she made her way to the railing.
Tossing the bag to the ground would make too much noise, so she placed the strap over her shoulder and carried it with her as she held on to the railing and lowered herself carefully over and down. Since her apartment building was built on a slope, there was an easy three-foot drop.
She glanced back twice, but saw no one burst onto the balcony, heard no one call her name.
Oh, the boys were going to be so angry when they found that note! She silently and fervently apologized to them in advance. But what choice did she have?
It was just over a mile to Mark's apartment. All was quiet, the apartments dark and the street deserted, but for one car. She stepped off the sidewalk and into the cover of brush as it passed. Couldn't be too careful.
He wasn't expecting her, so she had to knock several times before she heard his sleepy "just a minute" and the shuffle of feet. A light came on, and a shadow passed in front of the peephole in his door.
The door flew open to reveal a just-from-the-bed Mark, complete with stand-up red hair and baggy pajama bottoms and faded T-shirt. "Shea!" He grabbed her arm and pulled her inside, closing the door behind her. He gave her a big hug and grinned as he set her back to look at her. "I was so worried."
"I told you I was fine," she said with a smile.
"Yeah, but…" He ran his hand through unruly hair. "It's good to see you." His smile faded. "What's wrong? Why are you here so late?" He glanced at her bag. "And why are you carrying that duffel bag?"
She didn't want to tell him more than he needed to know. The boys would do their best to get it out of him, and it might not take long. Mark was a sweetheart, but bravery wasn't high on his list of attributes. Still, who else could she trust?
"I need a ride."
She waited patiently in the living room while Mark dressed. This was what she had to do. For the story, for herself. Most of all for Nick.
For Nick. What would he do when his name was cleared and he was a free man? Call her for a date. Tell her to get lost. Disappear. She had been so sure, twenty-four hours ago, that what they had would last. Right now she couldn't be sure of anything.
HOT ON HIS TRAIL Page 14
