Tempting the Devil

by Potter, Patricia;

  He had been a damn fool caring in any way but professional. He’d lost his wife to ambition. He wasn’t about to let his heart get involved again.

  Holland continued to blister him with his eyes. “I thought you might be getting through to her.”

  “She thinks she’s doing the right thing.”

  “You said her family has been threatened. Any leverage there?”

  “She doesn’t respond well to leverage.”

  “Assistance then.”

  “Assistance might help.”

  “Do what you can to help. Call the bureau offices in those cities.”

  Ben nodded.

  “You tell her. You can be the hero.”

  “I’ll try.” He wasn’t going to say he didn’t seem to be her hero last night. Not with the suspicion he’d thought he saw in her eyes.

  “Also explain to her what jail means,” Holland continued.

  “I imagine her attorney is doing that.”

  Holland turned to the others. “Okay, what do we have on members of the sheriff’s department? Deputies living beyond their means, et cetera?”

  “We don’t have much,” one of the other agents said. “We’re halfway through the list. No big expenditures or change of lifestyles on any of them.”

  “The sheriff appears clean?”

  “Lives in the same farmhouse where he was born. Drives a five-year-old pickup. Kids going to county schools. Vacations are mostly hunting or fishing trips.”

  “Keep trying. What about ownership of the property where the cops were killed?”

  “The trail starts with the Somerville Corporation and ends in an offshore island. We’ve had Washington trying to hack into government files there. Also the banks. No luck.”

  “Okay, keep working on the sheriff’s department. Nothing on the murdered cops?”

  “Nope,” said a woman who was with the DEA. “Same as the sheriff. Looks like they were just struggling to get by.”

  “What about the deputy who was just killed?”

  “Nothing again,” Mahoney said. “Recently divorced and lived in a small rental house. A few days late on two credit card payments. Certainly doesn’t live beyond his means.”

  “Check the divorce settlement and talk to the ex-wife,” Holland said.

  “Ex-wife moved away, but I’ll call her,” Mahoney answered.

  Holland tapped his fingers on the desk. “So all we really have is one reporter and her informant.”

  “One stubborn reporter,” Mahoney interjected.

  Holland looked toward Ben. “Maybe faced with the subpoena she’ll listen. Try again. She called you from the hospital. She obviously trusts you.”

  She had. He would have sworn that. But early this morning he had more than a few doubts. Was it that explosive anger he’d displayed? Or something else? In any event, he doubted that the subpoena would help the trust level.

  But Holland rarely changed his mind, and Ben wasn’t about to voice the reasons he knew would separate him from this case. He’d learned last night how much he was beginning to care for her. He’d have to learn now to damn well control those feelings.

  chapter twenty

  The day passed rapidly once she arrived at the paper.

  First the meeting with the attorney.

  Together they forged a strategy for the next day. It was short. Asked to reveal her source, she would plead First Amendment rights. If the judge rejected it, then Mason would announce intent to appeal and ask for a stay of any contempt of court judgment.

  Failing a favorable ruling, he would go directly to the Court of Appeals.

  Neither of them were optimistic of the outcome. Recent decisions were not favorable.

  After that demoralizing meeting, she and Bob Greene met to do the story on her attack.

  “A bit late,” he said.

  “Mason wanted to read it before it goes.”

  “They really threatened you, those deputies?”

  “A little more subtle than that.”

  “Have you considered giving up the source?”

  “Hah. Many times.” She looked at him. “What would you do?” she asked him.

  “I would like to say I would do what you’re doing,” he said. “But I’m not sure I would go to jail for someone who doesn’t have the guts to come forward himself.”

  “It’s not that simple,” she said. “He didn’t have to say anything at all. He’s scared to death for his family.”

  “It still isn’t right to make you pay.”

  They went back to the story. He did the actual writing, but she described the experience. It all came back in the telling. The face. The threat. Then the flames. The helplessness.

  Bob called the sheriff’s office about the attack and was told officially that the department had found nothing to indicate an attack. No witnesses. No physical evidence. The incident was being filed as an accident. Blood tests had been taken. Charges might be filed against Ms. Stuart.

  After he’d finished the story, which included the official pronouncements, a number of Observer staffers asked that she join them at Charlie’s for—in their gallows humor—a wake for her. Just in case she went to jail the next day.

  She agreed. She needed to relax. More than she’d realized. Especially with people who understood.

  It may be the last time she could do that for a while.

  Some staffers had left the newsroom earlier; several others waited to go with her, and they walked together. Their intent was clearly support, and she needed it. When she arrived, she saw Jack Ross as well as some other former reporters who’d left the paper. Jack gave her an okay sign as an Observer reporter pulled out a chair for her with a flourish. “The seat of honor. The only Observer reporter ever to go to jail.”

  “Lord, I hope not,” she said to laughter.

  “You got guts,” the city hall reporter said. “Don’t know if I would risk jail.”

  “You would,” she assured him.

  He didn’t look convinced.

  Then Michael walked in, greeted the reporters he knew, and was introduced to others. He took a seat on the fringes. “Bob told me about the party. Hope you don’t mind.”

  Robin suddenly realized she’d had a tentative date with Michael. He’d even left a message at the city desk and she had forgotten about it.

  Filled with remorse, she shook her head. “I’m sorry, Michael. I should have called you. The day has been … crazy,” she paused, “but the flowers were lovely, and I needed them right then. Thanks.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said with a smile. “After hearing about the subpoena, I figured that you wouldn’t have much time.”

  “Thanks. I don’t. I just came here for a few moments,” she said, trying to explain how she had time for a beer at Charlie’s and not enough to call him.

  “Just promise me a subpoena check,” he said. “Rather than a rain check.”

  “You have it. Unless I’m in jail.”

  “Anytime,” he said, and she thought again how easy he was to be with. Nothing like Ben Taylor.

  Michael’s eyes twinkled. He was all charm, and she had never trusted charm, but there was something impishly attractive about him that made her smile.

  She needed a smile.

  She mentally compared it to Ben’s glower, then decided to enjoy the party. One glass of beer from the pitcher. No more. She had to keep her wits about her. So much to do tonight. So much to do tomorrow if she wasn’t in jail.

  She wanted to investigate the leads Sandy had given her, and she wanted to do it alone. She hadn’t told Wade about the possibility that the FBI might be involved, nor had she told him about the boat. Then she would have to admit she’d met with Sandy, and she knew what he would think of that. She could lose her job for withholding the information.

  She’d promised herself that if there was any hint that her family was in continuing danger she would tell both her editor and the federal authorities everything. But she hoped her silence wou
ld ensure the safety of her family, and herself. In the meantime she might be able to unravel pieces of the puzzle. But tonight … tonight she wanted to spend an hour or so with friends, with fellow journalists who understood what she was doing and why she was doing it. Despite what Bob said, she suspected most of those here would protect a source all the way.

  She finished her one glass of beer, then announced she had to go.

  Jack looked at her. “Do you need a ride?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll have Charlie call a cab.”

  Michael stood. “I’d be happy to drive you home.”

  She hesitated.

  “I won’t ask to stay.”

  She nodded. It was just a ride. And she needed one. She really didn’t want to call her bodyguards, who were watching her house. Better there to make sure no one got in again. And Michael was safe.

  “Thanks.”

  Ten minutes later they were on the road. He kept darting looks at her. “You would really go to jail?”

  “If I have to.”

  “It could be dangerous.”

  “Right now, Meredith County is probably more dangerous.”

  “You think they really meant to kill you?”

  “Yes,” she said shortly.

  His jaw set. “Bastards.”

  “Apt description.”

  “You shouldn’t be alone.”

  “I’m not. I have a couple of watchdogs, courtesy of the newspaper.”

  “I would think the FBI would provide protection.”

  “I haven’t asked for it. I can’t work smothered by agents.”

  He took his eyes from the road long enough for a quick glance. There was respect in them, something that had eluded Ben Taylor.

  Then his gaze returned to the street ahead as she gave him directions. The bodyguards were there waiting in the same car that had taken her to the office.

  She didn’t wait for Michael to go around and open the door, but got out herself. He was instantly at her side.

  One of the private guards came over. “You going to be here tonight?” he asked.

  “Yes. And I promise to let you know next time I leave.”

  “We’d appreciate that.”

  Michael followed her to the door.

  She suddenly didn’t want to be alone. “Coffee?”

  “I would like that.”

  She opened the door to him and went inside. Daisy was there immediately, rubbing against her ankles.

  He followed, and she noticed him glancing around the living room, at the overstuffed furniture and bookcases, the table loaded with books. “I like it,” he said.

  She went into the kitchen, got Daisy some cat food, then prepared the coffee. Almost immediately she wished she hadn’t invited him inside. He wasn’t Ben. Damn it.

  “Milk or sugar?” she asked him.

  “Both.”

  Ben took it black. Like she did.

  “Wish I could help in some way,” he said.

  “Just being here is a help.”

  He sipped the coffee. Ben had gulped it.

  Don’t make comparisons.

  Michael leaned down and scratched Daisy’s ear. To her surprise, Daisy allowed it, even purred. A plus for him.

  He straightened and took another sip of coffee before setting it down. “Thanks for the coffee. I promised not to stay.” His gaze held hers steadily. “I’ll be rooting for you tomorrow,” he said softly. “Maybe when this is over …” She liked that. No demands.

  “Call me,” she said.

  He left, the scent of a very sexy aftershave lingering in the house.

  She closed the door behind him.

  She’d started for her office when the phone rang. Her stomach clenched. She hurried to the nearest phone and looked at the caller ID. Unknown.

  Reluctantly, she picked it up. Before she could say anything, the menacing metallic voice came over the line.

  “Did you have a good time at Charlie’s tonight?” the voice asked.

  “Yes,” she said defiantly.

  “I wonder if your sisters are having as good a time.”

  Did he know they had left, or were leaving? No indication. She was being followed, but did they really have the resources to do the same to her family?

  “I’m glad you called,” she said. “I have a message for you.”

  “The name we want?”

  “A warning. I know about the boat in Brunswick. I know who went. I know who owns it,” she bluffed. “I know a great deal more than that, and I think the federal government would love that information. Public corruption is very big with them.”

  A silence met her declaration. Had she really taken them by surprise?

  “It’s stalemate now,” she continued. “I won’t say anything about what I’ve learned to the paper or the feds if you don’t hurt my family. But if anything, anything at all, goes wrong and one of them is hurt in any way, I’ll have statements sent to Washington. Not the local FBI. Not the local police. I’ve already mailed three packages to people who will forward them to various agencies if anything happens to me or mine.”

  A metallic laugh. “You’re bluffing.”

  “Try me.” She slammed the phone down so hard she hoped she injured an ear.

  It was risky, she realized. More than risky. But it was the only card she had. The phone didn’t ring again. Had she won this round? Or had she made them more persistent in tracking her and those she cared for?

  She wished fervently she could call Ben, tell him what she’d done, but she dared not.

  The phone rang again. Her hand inched toward it, drew back, then grabbed the receiver. The only ID information was “private number.”

  That was also what showed when Ben Taylor called.

  She didn’t trust herself to answer. Sandy’s warnings kept echoing in her head. Was Ben a mole, or was it one of his friends? Or in the office hierarchy?

  The phone continued to ring.

  She punched the “talk” button.

  “Robin?”

  Heat crept in her at the sound of his voice. “Yes.”

  “I overreacted last night,” Ben said. “I want to apologize.”

  “I accept.”

  “Can I come over?”

  “Because your superiors want you to?” she asked.

  “Because I want to see you.”

  “I’m really tired.”

  “I’m close by.”

  “Now why am I not surprised by that?” She wanted to keep him at arm’s length. No, much farther than arm’s length. Arm’s length, and she was a goner.

  “I don’t know. Why aren’t you?”

  “Because every time anything happens you’re there.” Even she heard the hard note that had crept into her voice.

  “That’s bad?”

  “Convenient.”

  A short silence, then, “Good night, Robin,” and the signal went dead.

  She put the receiver down. His voice had grown cool, even cold.

  Her soul turned even colder. There was no one she could trust now, except herself.

  Ben turned off his cell phone from the vantage point of the attic of a house five doors down from her own. Earlier in the day, the FBI had convinced the salesman who lived here alone to move in with a friend for a few days.

  He shouldn’t even be here. He was not part of the surveillance team, but he’d stopped by and offered to fill in for an hour or so while one of them went for take-out. Something had happened yesterday that affected the way Robin thought of him, and he wanted to know what—or who—had caused it.

  His foot crunched on an empty bag of potato chips that the previous watcher had used as he scanned the area around the house. Robin’s rental car was still parked in front. He knew that the bodyguards had taken her in to work.

  He also knew from an agent following her that she’d left the paper and stopped at a pub named Charlie’s, then left with someone. Twenty minutes later, a tall, well-dressed man accompanied Robin Stuart to her door
and went inside. Feeling like a voyeur, he watched a light go on in the kitchen. He was stunned at the jealousy that knotted in his gut.

  It had seemed like hours, but the visitor left within thirty minutes, and a light went on in her office.

  He scanned the two yards. He saw the private bodyguard’s car in front. He knew another private detective was at the back of the house. He shifted his glance over to Mrs. Jeffers’s house. Why, he didn’t know. Just instinct.

  He saw a flicker of a flame in back.

  He didn’t wait. He started running down the stairs and yelled at the other agent in the house to call the fire department. Then he raced out of the house and down the street to Mrs. Jeffers’s house. Flames rose into the sky.

  The men guarding Robin’s house joined him. He reached the porch and rang the doorbell, even as he used his foot to try to break the door down. No luck. Then two other men were there. Between them they broke the door, and he rushed in.

  The back of the house was in flames and smoke filled the interior. He heard frantic barking from upstairs and took the stairs two at a time. Mrs. Jeffers was on the bed. He tore a piece of cloth from a sheet and wrapped it around her nose and mouth, then another around his own. Then he scooped her up and told one of the men following him to take Damien, who still barked madly.

  They both raced for the stairs. The house was rapidly becoming engulfed. Fire licked at the bottom of the stairs. It had been only minutes since he’d seen the first flicker of flames. Something was feeding the fire.

  Heat embraced him. Heat and smoke. His feet felt as if they were burning.

  Outside. He was outside. He lay Mrs. Jeffers on the ground, then collapsed. His chest gasped for oxygen and he was aware of someone breathing air into his mouth. He tried to focus. Robin Stuart.

  He shook her away.

  “Mrs. Jeffers?” he asked.

  “Someone is giving her CPR,” she said. She looked anguished against the wall of flames behind her.

  The high-pitched wail of sirens came first from a distance, then neared. The street filled with flashing lights as firemen spilled out from trucks and manned their hoses. He struggled to sit up while a team of paramedics approached him. “Mrs. Jeffers first,” he rasped, pointing to the woman. One paramedic went to her, and the other approached him.

  Then several more appeared. One pulled an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, and Ben took deep breaths, his lungs filling with air. Robin sat next to him, her bad leg spread out on the ground. No brace. She wore a robe over a T-shirt.