Tempting the Devil

by Potter, Patricia;

  He’d been way too long without a woman if he was attracted to a reporter, for God’s sake. She wasn’t anything close to the type of woman who usually attracted him. He’d always been drawn to small, dark-haired women. This one, as well as being blond and blue-eyed, was tall and nicely rounded rather than slender.

  And what in the hell did it matter? He had no use for reporters. Vultures, mostly, who fed off tragedy.

  He pressed his foot down on the gas pedal. He had half the day left. A movie? A good meal?

  None of it appealed to him.

  His computer. Maybe it would tell him more about the history of this county, and the families who ruled it. There were always families like that. Then he would check real estate records. Who owned property around the scene of the killing?

  It was a start. Maybe a piece of a puzzle. And puzzles had always intrigued him. Eventually the FBI would be called in. He had little doubt of it. He would have a head start.

  Sandy woke to see his son, Mark, standing at the side of his bed.

  He looked at the clock. It was four p.m. His wife would be home soon, and he would have a few minutes with her before going back to work. All deputies were on double shifts now.

  “Mark?”

  “I wanted to see you …”

  Alive.

  The word wasn’t said but it lingered in the air.

  Sandy sat up, then stood and hugged his son. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that. Men in his family didn’t do that. His father had never shown outward affection, though Sandy had known he cared. But in the Harris family, open affection was a sign of weakness. So was sparing the rod.

  But now the uncertainty and fear in Mark’s eyes reminded him of his own when his father had nearly died on a domestic call while with the sheriff’s department twenty years ago. He remembered looking at his father in the hospital, tubes coming out of every orifice. His father had survived but been badly crippled. The sheriff had given him a desk job, but his father was embittered by his disabilities until the day he died.

  Still, the family had been grateful that he had a job, and there had never been any question that Sandy—Hugh Harris Jr.—would join the sheriff’s department. He’d practically grown up inside it. The former sheriff had been his godfather and the current one had been a friend of his father’s.

  “What about tossing a few?” he asked Mark, and guilt plunged through him as he saw the surprise in his son’s eyes.

  “Don’t you have to go to work?”

  “Not for another couple of hours.”

  A slow grin crossed his son’s face, and Sandy realized how many Little League games he’d missed. He had to remedy that.

  He pulled jeans over the briefs he’d slept in.

  Mark disappeared and reappeared with a ball, bat, and glove.

  The sight of his son’s eager face almost, but not quite, took some of the worry from him. Perhaps a game of catch would replace the words that kept running through his mind. The words he’d heard the night before the murders.

  He was making too much of them. But damn, he’d recalled them at the scene of the murders. They’d struck him like a sledgehammer.

  “Come on, Dad,” Mark said anxiously.

  He followed Mark outside and paced off twenty feet. He pitched the ball several times, impressed at the sureness with which Mark caught the ball and the force with which he tossed it back. Mark was a natural pitcher, just as he’d been as a kid. He’d never done anything with it. His father thought baseball a waste of time. They’d owned a small farm, too small to support a family, which was why his father had been a deputy sheriff. It was large enough, though, to provide endless chores for a boy.

  But Mark … maybe he was good enough to get a scholarship. The first Harris to go to college.

  His cell phone rang, and he saw the disappointment in Mark’s face.

  This time he would let it ring. He waited until it stopped, then turned it off.

  His kid deserved this time.

  Jesse’s kid did, too. And Zack’s two teenagers.

  He shut their image from his mind. He would think about them later. And the words that continued to nag at him.

  Later.

  Robin sat at her desk and stared at the computer, trying desperately to put more life into the story.

  There was precious little new with the investigation. She reported the facts from the press conference, fully realizing they were on all the evening newscasts. Despite the police chief’s statement that they had “leads,” she knew from other sources that there were few or none.

  She added personal vignettes of the three officers, as told by their fellow cops, and she did a community reaction sidebar. Crime coming to Mayberry.

  That made her wonder about this more modern version of Mayberry. She went into the files to learn all she could about Meredith County. She’d done some background research when she was first assigned the beat, but now she planned to probe far deeper. She wanted to read everything she could about the police department, the sheriff’s department, and the politicos that controlled the county.

  Robin hadn’t met the victims’ families yet. Someone else from the paper was doing those stories. But she’d read about Jesse Carroll’s Sarah and his son, about Zack and his teenage daughters, and young Kell who’d just gotten married. They were becoming real people to her now, and their deaths more personal.

  She still remembered the phone call when her father was killed in Iraq. It had devastated the family, especially Robin’s mother, who had hated every moment of his military career. She’d been full of anger at the injustice of losing him. It would be so much worse to know that bad guys—and even someone the victims knew—had killed a husband or father.

  She’d never had the chance to say good-bye to either of her parents before they died. Neither had the families of those officers.

  She shook away the memories and thought again about the story. After talking to Godwin, she’d listened to the gossip at the courthouse and later at police headquarters, all off the record, about various reasons for the killings. They ranged from a personal vendetta against one of the officers to stumbling on a chop shop. She’d also heard even more about the contentious nature between the sheriff’s deputies and the county police department.

  She planned to write a story about the two agencies, and the fact that some residents were questioning the need for two law enforcement entities that basically did the same job. By state statute, the sheriff controlled the jail and served papers. Succeeding sheriffs had steadily expanded the size and scope of the department to include road patrols and a special drug unit which directly competed with the county police.

  The county commission controlled the budget, but Will Sammons was popular, one of the last “good ole boys” who’d ruled southern counties like their own fiefdoms for years. His support usually meant victory or defeat for county commissioners, and thus he usually got what he wanted.

  She’d recognized affection for Will Sammons in Sandy’s voice when she had first ridden with him in his squad car. She recognized it in other voices yesterday when she asked questions.

  She hadn’t heard the same affection in the voices of the county police officers. One officer, off the record, said the police no longer informed the sheriff’s department of raids for moonshine stills, which still flourished in some parts of the county. Many times when they informed the sheriff’s office, they found the evidence gone when they arrived.

  She hated not being able to use that tidbit, though she intended to find other sources to back it up.

  She wondered how much Sandy knew about that particular rumor about his department.

  Robin looked at her watch. After five thirty. Sandy had said he went to work at seven. She itched to call him again, still had to respect his reluctance about talking to her, even on his cell phone. She knew how easy it was for law enforcement to get phone records. Persistent calls from the paper to his home or cell phone could be noted.

&nb
sp; After turning off her computer, she went to Wade’s desk.

  “I’m leaving.”

  “Should’ve left long time ago,” he mumbled, as he was wont to do. “But damn good job. You up to keep covering the story?”

  Satisfaction flooded her. “Yes.”

  “What about the funerals?”

  “They’re the day after tomorrow.”

  “You want to cover them?”

  She did and she didn’t. She hated funerals, but if she let go of this part of the story, she might well lose it. She couldn’t show weakness.

  She nodded.

  “Your leg holding up?”

  “You forgot. I have the bionic leg. Plenty of good metal. Better than ever.”

  He looked at her dubiously. “No story’s worth hurting that leg again.”

  His concern warmed her. It also worried her. She had been fighting that concern for a year, even before she came back. No matter how much the city editor, even the managing editor, might want to keep her, she knew the corporate mentality. She knew about insurance and worries about workmen’s compensation and things that had nothing to do with her competence.

  “Okay. Don’t bother to come to the office tomorrow. Just go straight to Meredith and call in.”

  She tried to minimize her limp as she left the office and headed for her car, then changed her mind and went in the opposite direction. Two blocks away was Charlie’s, a pub patronized mostly by the press. She’d been there only a few times since the accident. Usually by the end of the day, she was too tired for the walk, but she used to haunt the place. She’d loved the comaraderie of those who loved news as she did.

  On the way, she went inside a building and used the pay phone. She called Sandy’s cell phone.

  He answered.

  “This is Robin. I’m calling from a pay phone,” she added hurriedly.

  “I’ve said everything I’m going to say.”

  “You said some interesting stuff.”

  “I was tired.”

  “I just need to verify some stuff I’ve discovered.”

  “Can’t do it. I told you the sheriff—”

  “It’s about the sheriff,” she said.

  A silence. Then, “We have orders not to talk to reporters.”

  “Just background stuff.”

  “The sheriff’s a good man.”

  “I didn’t say he wasn’t.”

  “Damn it, Robin, I can’t be seen with you.”

  “What about tomorrow?”

  “I work until eight a.m. Then I go back on duty again at eight tomorrow night. I have to get some sleep and see my kid.”

  “What about meeting me just before you go back on duty?”

  “You never give up, do you?”

  “I can’t stop thinking about those three officers,” she said simply. “And their families.”

  He paused, then said wearily, “You know where Montcrest School is?”

  “I’ll find it.”

  “Be at the back of the parking lot at seven.”

  She hesitated. She didn’t hesitate often. But it was Sandy. It would still be daylight. But she didn’t like the cloak-and-dagger stuff.

  “I may be late. I may not even be there,” he added.

  Then he hung up.

  She didn’t like the fear she thought she’d heard in Sandy’s voice.

  She didn’t like the prickling down her spine.

  There was no reason for it. This was a story like any other story. She was an observer, not a participant. But she knew that thought for the lie it was. It wasn’t just a story to her. Not anymore. Not after seeing the three men through the eyes of people who worked with them.

  Or, she was honest with herself, knowing what it could do for her career.

  She wanted to know what happened two nights ago.

  And why.

  Curiosity killed the cat. Her mother’s words echoed in her head.

  She dismissed them. She was just a reporter, after all.

  She only reported what other people told her. What she saw. What she felt.

  She felt this story deeply.

  She would keep picking at it.

  She would meet Sandy.

  In the meantime, she would stop at the pub. Perhaps the enigmatic man from the news conference would be there. He had remained in her thoughts all day, though she knew it was folly. He probably didn’t even have anything to do with reporting, though he’d been no casual onlooker. She had become more and more certain about that. He’d been far too intent on the speakers, on those in the crowd, to be a mere curiosity seeker.

  Did he have something to do with the story? He’d disappeared quickly enough.

  She still felt a jolt down her spine at the memory of the way their eyes had locked, at the visual contact that had conveyed a momentary connection.

  Nonsense. Imagination. He was probably married with eight children and, if not, why did she think he would be attracted to her? Males in her life had always considered her a buddy more than a date. She’d never been a beauty, and her ambition had driven her life. She hadn’t had time to nurture relationships.

  Still, the image of the dark-haired man lingered as she made her way to Charlie’s. It was her darn curiosity again.

  Nothing more.

  chapter five

  The pub was full. She made her way to a table surrounded by Observer reporters, her eyes looking for the dark-haired man who’d stood behind her earlier.

  He wasn’t in the bar.

  She recognized everyone at the table but a very good-looking man with sandy hair and quick smile he flashed as she neared.

  She thrust out her hand. “I don’t know you. You must be new at the paper. I’m Robin Stuart.”

  A sheepish look replaced the quick smile. “Afraid I’m not with the paper. I’m an interloper.”

  “A would-be reporter turned accountant,” Bill Nugent, a features writer, said. “Smart man.”

  “Couldn’t get a job,” the man said. “Luckily I minored in accounting.” A wry smile, then, “I’m Michael Caldwell. I’m auditing a company across the street and someone told me about this place. Bill invited me to join the table. We went to college together. Same dorm.”

  “He sprang for a pitcher of beer,” Bill said.

  Enough said. Bill was the biggest drinker at the paper, as well as the biggest freeloader for drinks. But his writing was sheer brilliance and it was impossible not to like him.

  Michael Caldwell stood up and pulled out a chair for her, something the reporters never did.

  Mama, the waitress who had been there forty years and knew everyone, greeted her with a chilled glass and the usual smile, and Michael filled it from the pitcher of beer on the table.

  Robin took a sip and put it down. “You said you were auditing. Are you based here in Atlanta?”

  He nodded.

  “What company do you work with?”

  He mentioned one she didn’t know, but then she didn’t know much about accounting and auditing firms.

  He leaned over the table toward her. “I liked your story this morning,” he said. “You really made those officers come to life.”

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “What do you think happened?” he asked.

  “I wish I knew.”

  He had one of the nicest smiles she’d seen. That alone drew her to him. His dark blue eyes were an extra. “Did you major in journalism?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “And minored in accounting? An odd combination.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve always been good with numbers. It was my fail safe option. Turned out to be a good one. Only job I was offered in journalism was with a weekly that didn’t pay a living wage.”

  She sympathized. She knew how hard it was to get a decent-paying job, especially in print journalism. Too many papers had folded, too many others had merged with their competition.

  He was well dressed, especially next to Bill, who loved to pretend he lived in a 1940s
city room. He came into the office in an unpressed suit, a tie with the knot halfway down his chest, and a frayed white shirt. He’d been known to take people in off the street to stay in his apartment. He was also known to lose everything he owned in doing so.

  “How long have you been with the paper?” Michael Caldwell asked.

  “Nine years, including a two-year interlude,” she said.

  “Robin thought her car could fly,” Bill said.

  “It did,” she said. “It just didn’t have a good landing. The result is a bionic leg.”

  “Must have been difficult,” Caldwell said, his eyes glancing down at her empty ring finger. Or did she imagine that?

  “It had its good points. I stayed with my sister for part of the time. We became close.”

  “Must be a good sister.”

  “I’m lucky. I have two of them.”

  He lifted his glass. “To luck.”

  She lifted her own glass in response. She liked him. There was something inherently nice about Michael Caldwell.

  She listened to the conversation for several moments, then stood. “I have to go.”

  Caldwell stood as well. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said, dismissing his offer. “I walk alone all the time.”

  “Her father taught her self-defense,” Bill chimed in. “You don’t want to fool with her.”

  Michael grinned. “I’ll remember that. Anyway I’m ready to go as well. Two beers are my limit when I’m driving.”

  She didn’t know how to say no. In fact, she didn’t want to say no. She needed the company right now. Her emotions were still veering widely between the adrenaline of the story and the tragedy behind it.

  He followed her out of the pub, his hand lightly touching her back as he opened the door. A courtesy, nothing more, but the human contact made her feel better.

  She felt awkward with her leg, as she always did when she met someone, but he measured his pace to hers and seemed comfortable. “Are you from Atlanta?” he asked.

  “No. My dad was military. Wasn’t really from anywhere but army bases both here and overseas. What about you?”

  “Born here. Went to school here. Then the University of Georgia.”

  Small talk. What new acquaintances did. But right now it warmed the cold parts of her.