“The evidence against him was all circumstantial,” Valerie said.
“Circumstantial or not, it was pretty convincing as I recall. His own brother-in-law testified against him.”
“Yes, because he hated him,” Valerie blurted. Then, when she saw Brant looking at her curiously, she tempered her words. “It was no secret. The two of them didn’t get along. Odell Campbell worked for the Kingsleys as a chauffeur, and he used to throw Cletus Brown some repair work occasionally, but only because Cletus was married to his sister. He said so under oath. He claimed Cletus had been around a few days before the kidnapping, wanting to borrow money, then asking all kinds of questions about the big fund-raiser Iris Kingsley was throwing for her son, wanting to know about the mansion’s security and all that. But it was always his word against Cletus’s. No one else heard the conversation.”
“But why would he lie?” Brant challenged. “Why would he want to send his own sister’s husband to prison?”
He was still looking at her strangely, and Valerie realized how close she’d come to blowing her cover. She would have to be a lot more careful from now on, especially around Brant Colter. She couldn’t afford to arouse his suspicions any more than they already were.
“Two reasons,” she forced herself to say evenly. “He never thought Cletus was good enough for his sister, and since she wouldn’t divorce him, this was a good way to get rid of him.”
A dark brow lifted in skepticism. “And the other reason?”
“He was paid to lie. He quit his job with the Kingsleys several months after Cletus Brown was convicted and sent to prison. He turned up driving a new car, wearing new clothes, apparently having money to burn. Where did he get it?”
Brant frowned. “How do you know all this?”
“I’m a reporter. I’m paid to dig up this kind of information. Just like cops are—or should be.”
Their gazes clashed again, and beyond the icy surface, Valerie saw smoldering animosity in Brant’s dark eyes. Animosity and something else that made her wonder how she could ever have thought him without emotion.
“What about the ransom money that was found in the trunk of Cletus Brown’s car?” he demanded. “That’s hardly circumstantial.”
Valerie folded her arms across her chest. “Why would someone smart enough to kidnap one of the Kingsley twins from his room while an important fund-raiser was going on downstairs be stupid enough to leave fifteen thousand dollars of the ransom money in the trunk of his own car? And what happened to the other four hundred and eighty-five thousand? It never turned up.
“Your father was the only one who knew about that money in Cletus Brown’s car. According to his testimony, he received an anonymous tip that led him to Cletus Brown, but the fact was, the two of them already knew each other.” Valerie saw surprise flash in Brant’s dark eyes before he could hide it, and she smiled in satisfaction. “You didn’t know that, did you?”
“Cletus Brown had a prior,” Brant said. “My father had arrested him before.”
It was Valerie’s turn to be surprised. “You knew about that?”
“It was a guess,” he admitted. “But I’m right, aren’t I? That’s why he was a suspect to begin with.”
Valerie nodded grudgingly. “He was arrested for petty theft a few months before the kidnapping. He stole ten dollars from the cash register in a gas station to buy his daughter a birthday present. He’d gone in trying to find work. He was desperate.”
“Desperation doesn’t justify theft, Ms. Snow.”
“I didn’t say it did,” she snapped. “I’m just trying to explain his motivation.”
“Why does this case mean so much to you?” Brant asked suddenly. “You’re obviously very emotional about it. But a thirty-year-old kidnapping is hardly newsworthy.”
Valerie cursed herself for her lack of control. What was it about Brant Colter that made her want to lash out at him? Made her want to scream at him who she really was and then watch his face register the revelation?
Would he be surprised? Undoubtedly. Stunned, would be more like it. They would all be shocked, and not a little horrified, to learn that Cletus Brown’s daughter was living among them.
She took a long breath, giving herself a moment to regain her composure. “Anything involving the Kingsleys is always news, and besides, the kidnapping never goes away. Just like the Lindbergh case, people are still fascinated by the story, and everyone has his or her own theory as to what happened back then. Me, I think an innocent man was sent to prison. I think Cletus Brown was framed.”
“You’re forgetting one little thing, aren’t you?” Brant asked impatiently. “Where was the motive? What did my father and the others have to gain by framing Cletus Brown?”
Valerie shrugged. “I explained all that in the article. They’d been humiliated by the press and by the FBI. They’d already botched the ransom drop, and the local media crucified them. The only way to redeem themselves was to make an arrest. And don’t forget,” she added. “Whoever solved that case would become an instant hero. His career and reputation would be made.”
“So where and when did Cletus Brown come into the picture? Did they just pull his name from a hat?” Brant asked facetiously.
“He fit the profile,” Valerie said. “He’d been out of work for months. His family was practically destitute, and he and his wife were having problems. And he had a record. But most important of all, he had a tie to the Kingsleys through his brother-in-law, who was more than willing to testify against him.”
“Well, I have to say,” Brant said with something that might have been grudging admiration, “you appear to have thought this out fairly well. There’s only one problem with your theory. You have no proof.”
Valerie looked up at him. “Not yet.”
“Meaning?”
“That article is just the beginning. I won’t give up until I get that proof.”
Brant’s gaze hardened on her. “And in the meantime, you’re perfectly willing to ruin three good men’s reputations for the sake of a headline.”
“Those three good men once craved headlines.”
“The Constitution says a man is innocent until proven guilty. Cletus Brown was found guilty in a court of law. You’re trying my father in the pages of a sleazy tabloid,” Brant accused.
“If your father is innocent, he has nothing to worry about from me,” Valerie said. “And neither do you.”
“Who says I’m worried?” But the edge in his voice betrayed him. He was as angry as she was—maybe more so. Valerie shivered, wondering if she had awakened the proverbial sleeping giant. She had a feeling she didn’t want to be around if and when Brant Colter ever lost his temper completely. He was cold on the outside, but she’d glimpsed a fire inside.
He rose to leave. “I’ll get a statement typed up for you to sign as soon as possible. In the meantime, if you think of anything else, give me a call at headquarters.”
“Sergeant Colter?”
He paused at the door and glanced back at her.
“If you’re not worried, why don’t you ask your father about Naomi Gillum?”
His gaze narrowed on her. “What?”
“Ask him about Naomi Gillum. Ask him what happened to her.”
* * *
THE PRESS CONFERENCE, which had started late, was winding up by the time Brant got to city hall. He stopped at the edge of the crowd, watching his cousin at a podium that had been moved outside, to the top of the building’s steps.
“So you’re saying there is absolutely no truth to the allegations that appeared in yesterday’s Journal?” a reporter shouted.
Brant watched as his cousin fielded the question with expert aplomb. “That’s exactly what I’ve been saying since the start of this press conference. I think we’re all familiar with the Journal’s reputation, gentlemen. And ladies,” he added with a smile for the three women reporters in the group. Then his expression turned earnest again. “Just as we’re familiar with the reputat
ions of the three men targeted in that article. My father, Raymond Colter, was a policeman for nearly ten years before a bullet in the leg took him off active duty. But did he sit around feeling sorry for himself? He did not. He started a security business, parlaying his expertise in law enforcement into a thriving, successful concern, and he has shared his success with the less fortunate among us, funding community centers and midnight basketball for our inner-city kids.
“Captain Hugh Rawlins, a very close friend of my family’s and one of our city’s finest and most decorated police officers, has devoted more than forty years of his life to law enforcement.
“And is there anyone among us who hasn’t heard of my uncle, Judd Colter, one of the most famous policemen this city, indeed this country, has ever produced? Judd Colter’s name is legendary in the ranks of law enforcement everywhere.
“He, along with my father and Hugh Rawlins, has done more to fight crime in this city, more to prevent crime, than any three men I can think of, and I have been proud to continue their tradition in the district attorney’s office, garnering the highest conviction rate of any prosecutor in the state.”
His cousin was a consummate politician, Brant had to admit. Austin had managed to turn what could have been a hostile press conference into a rousing campaign speech.
Contrary to what he’d implied earlier, Brant hadn’t even known about the press conference until Valerie Snow had mentioned it. He’d tried not to act surprised because he didn’t want her to think the Colters were anything less than unified. But the truth was, he and Austin hadn’t been close for a long time. They’d been friends as kids, had gone to Memphis State together, and had graduated from law school the same year. But then a woman had come between them, and they’d never reconciled. They’d gone in completely different directions, both professionally and personally.
Austin had married the woman and gone to work in the D.A.’s office, refining his skills for the political career he’d always dreamed of. And Brant had entered the police academy, much to the chagrin of his father.
Brant grimaced, thinking about the arguments he and his father had had over Brant’s decision to become a police officer. Though he hadn’t come right out and said it, Brant knew the reason his father hadn’t wanted him on the force was because he’d thought Brant didn’t have what it took to become a cop.
But Hugh Rawlins had. Hugh was the one who had had faith in Brant. Hugh was the one who had taken him under his wing in the department, shown him the ropes and made sure Brant was eventually welcomed into the Brotherhood. The fact was, Hugh Rawlins had been more of a father to Brant than Judd Colter ever was.
But in spite of everything, Brant knew his father had been a good cop—the best—and he couldn’t believe the things Valerie Snow had written about him. Or about any of them.
The problem was she seemed convinced of her own story.
And someone had pushed her in front of a bus this afternoon.
The press conference ended, and Austin’s wife, Kristin, joined him at the podium. They made a striking couple—Austin with the Colter dark hair and dark eyes, and Kristin, a beautiful, blue-eyed blonde. No one would have guessed that two months ago, the two had been separated, and that Kristin had called Brant night and day, trying to worm her way back into his good graces.
And into his bed.
As Brant turned away, he saw Hugh Rawlins standing at the fringes of the crowd. He was in uniform, his hat pulled low over his eyes, so that he wouldn’t be recognized. Brant walked over to him.
“Some show, huh?” Hugh clapped a hand on Brant’s shoulder. “Austin’s going to make a helluva congressman.”
“A helluva politician, anyway,” Brant conceded. “What are you doing here?”
Hugh shrugged. He wasn’t a tall man, nor was he particularly muscular. Rather he was of average height and average weight, his appearance completely nondescript except for one distinguishing feature—a jagged scar ran the length of the right side of his face, from his temple to his chin, turning what otherwise would have been a pleasant face into one that looked faintly menacing.
His hand tightened on Brant’s shoulder. “Let’s walk,” he said.
They headed toward Main Street, which in the seventies had become the Mid-America Mall in an attempt to revitalize downtown. Hugh stopped at a stone bench and propped one foot on the seat. He leaned his arms across his leg, gazing at the pigeons who were busily pecking at a bag of popcorn someone had thrown at a trash bin.
“I was still at headquarters when you called in earlier,” Hugh said. “I heard about the Snow woman. How bad was it?”
“Not as bad as it could have been,” Brant told him. “A few cuts and bruises. Nothing too serious.”
“What happened?”
“She says she was pushed in front of a bus.”
Hugh turned to Brant. “Think she’s lying?”
Brant bent to pick up a stray popcorn kernel and tossed it at the pigeons. “As a matter of fact, I’m inclined to believe her. She definitely fell in front of that bus, and she doesn’t strike me as the clumsy or careless type.”
“Did she give you any idea who might want to harm her?”
Brant thought about what she’d said. If you really want to find out who pushed me in front of that bus, why don’t you start with the three people I mentioned in that article? Including your own father, Sergeant Colter.
“Not really,” he said.
“Did you see anything?” It might have been Brant’s imagination, but he thought Hugh looked a little anxious.
The strain was probably getting to him, Brant decided. Scandal in the police force was nothing new, but as far as Brant could remember, no dirt had ever touched Hugh’s name. He was a cop’s cop, having started on the street and risen through the ranks the hard way. While Judd Colter had commanded respect and admiration, even awe at times, from his fellow officers, Hugh Rawlins was a man they could like. A man just like themselves.
“I’m not sure,” Brant said. “Do you remember a snitch named Remy Devereaux? Dad used him on occasion.”
Hugh looked surprised. “Remy Devereaux? He left town years ago. Why do you ask?”
“I thought I saw him on that street corner,” Brant said grimly.
Hugh turned back to the pigeons. “I doubt that. Word had it that the reason he left town was because he got into some trouble with the Mob. I don’t think he’d come back to Memphis.”
“You’re probably right. But it sure did look like him,” Brant said.
Hugh, still not looking up, asked, “What were you doing on that street corner, Brant?”
For a moment, Brant thought about telling him what Valerie Snow had assumed—that he’d been going to Austin’s press conference. But then he shrugged and said, “I was following her.”
“Why?”
“I guess I wanted to see if she was the monster everyone seems to think she is.”
Hugh straightened from the bench and turned to face him. “How did you know who she was?”
“I called the Journal’s offices from my cell phone. They said she was just leaving the building. Two women came out, and—don’t ask me how—I knew immediately which one was her.” The truth was, he’d known the moment he’d laid eyes on Valerie Snow that she meant trouble.
“Did she have horns sprouting from her head or something?” Hugh joked.
Brant grinned. “Hardly. I guess I figured eventually to catch up with her and ask her a few questions, but then all hell broke loose.”
“Yeah,” was Hugh’s only comment.
“Anyway,” Brant continued, “I’d like to stay on this case.”
Hugh frowned. “That might constitute conflict of interest.”
“She didn’t seem overly concerned about that,” Brant said. “I’d really like to follow up on this.”
“I’ll talk to Lieutenant Bermann,” Hugh offered, referring to Brant’s immediate superior in Robbery and Homicide. “We’ll see what he says.”
“Thanks.”
“You know, I’m glad the woman wasn’t seriously hurt,” Hugh said slowly. “But maybe this’ll put an end to her accusations. Maybe she’ll be frightened enough to want to drop the whole thing.”
“I don’t think so,” Brant replied, troubled by Hugh’s comments. “She’s determined to find proof that will clear Cletus Brown.”
Hugh glanced at him in alarm. “Proof? What the hell kind of proof could she find?”
“Have you ever heard of a woman named Naomi Gillum?”
Something flashed in Hugh’s eyes before he quickly looked away. His gaze scoured the street in front of them. “No, can’t say as I have. Why?”
“Valerie Snow mentioned her.”
Hugh shrugged. “Name doesn’t ring a bell.”
His response sounded convincing enough, but just before he’d voiced the denial, Brant could have sworn that what he’d seen in Hugh Rawlins’s eyes was fear.
CHAPTER THREE
“WHAT ARE YOU SAYING, exactly? That someone tried to kill you? Murder you, for God’s sake?” Julian Temple’s eyes gleamed gleefully at the prospect.
“That’s what I’m saying.” Valerie tried not to be offended by her boss’s reaction as she sat across from his desk the next day. She supposed she could hardly expect less from the “King of Sleaze.” At the age of forty, the owner and editor-in-chief of the Journal thrived on sensationalism and scandal, the uglier the better.
It was for that reason that Valerie, with her graduate degree in journalism from Northwestern and her years of serious reporting with the Sun-Times, had been squeamish about joining a tabloid-style paper like the Journal.
But it was also for that reason that she’d sought out Julian when she’d first arrived in Memphis. She’d known that no reputable paper would touch the story she wanted to write, not with the limited amount of evidence—mostly from undocumented sources—that she’d been able to gather so far.
The story she wanted to tell about the Kingsley kidnapping was just the sort of thing Julian Temple loved. In fact, he’d practically been salivating after that first meeting, when she’d outlined for him what she wanted to do. He’d loved the prospect of implicating a few of the old-guard police force—not to mention a local entrepreneur and philanthropist.
Kingsley Baby Trilogy: The Hero's SonThe Brother's WifeThe Long-Lost Heir Page 3
