When he thought he’d lost her, he almost relaxed. But in a troubling sense, he could not put distance between her and himself. She stayed with him—or he couldn’t let her go.
He knew that the body has memories, just as the mind does. The physical memory of her was so keen it hurt. He remembered the feel of her, small and vibrant, in his arms. She had fit against him as perfectly as if he had been destined to hold her.
The memory of her kiss pulsed in his blood. Her mouth had been warm, pliant, and giving. She hadn’t resisted. After the first split second of surprise, she’d been caught in the same dizzying sensual spell as he.
He had more than just wanted her; he’d wanted her beyond reason. And she had wanted him back, he knew it. Crazy. But true.
The ring of his cell phone jangled his nerves and made him drop back into reality. “Hello,” he snapped. “Mel Belyle here.”
“Mel Belyle, God’s greatest gift to models since the cat-walk?” The voice, deep and irreverent, belonged to DeJames.
“Ah,” Mel sighed in resignation. “It’s you. How are things at the National Sarcasm Institute?”
“We’re all crying because you’re gone. Listen. Fabian didn’t like your news about Cal McKinney being back. This partnership he’s in—Three Amigos?”
Mel frowned. “Yeah?”
“It’s something new. McKinney just joined up with them. These guys he’s with? They’re smart, they’re connected—and they’re mavericks.”
“Mavericks? How so?”
“They just stalled a monster condo deal in Hawaii. Now they’ve got the property themselves. Claim they’re going to do some wussy ‘environmentally friendly’ developing.”
Mel wasn’t impressed. “So they say. Who are they?”
“Jocks. Outdoorsmen. One’s a rodeo rider turned stunt-man turned investor. The other’s got a wilderness gear company.”
DeJames told him their names. Mel had never heard of them, so still wasn’t impressed. “They sound bush league—amateurs.”
“They’ve got great lawyers. And Fabian thinks Cal McKinney’s sniffing after his land down there.”
Mel sneered. “If McKinney mortgaged everything he owned, he couldn’t afford a third of that land.”
“That’s what people said about the other two guys in Hawaii. But they did it. It’s a nuisance. Fabian doesn’t like it.”
“DeJames, I’ve got two things to do down here,” Mel said. “One, I try to buy land. Two, I try to turn public opinion in Fabian’s favor. I’ve got my hands full. What more does he want?”
“Dirt on McKinney and his clan, for one thing.”
Mel tensed. “What kind of dirt?”
“The kind that can make tabloid headlines. Fabian says he’s tired of these people. That maybe they’d like to take on a couple of national scandal sheets.”
Mel didn’t like it. “Even Fabian’s never sunk to that level.”
“Who says he will? Anyway, I’ve got a possible lead for you. A woman named Trina Gilroy. She wrote a few weeks back. Claims to know a lot about the McKinneys, especially Cal. She’s married to a lawman, and she’ll talk—for money. She sounds like she’s got a grudge. A big, nasty one.”
“Where do you find these people?” Mel asked in distaste.
“I picked up a rock. I looked under it. Something wiggled. It was her.”
Mel glanced in the rearview mirror. The road behind him was empty. He said, “Any more on Kitt Mitchell?”
“I’m working on it,” DeJames said. “In the meantime, call this Gilroy woman. Before she changes her mind.”
KITT SAT in Martin Avery’s private office. Her pen hovered in frustration over a virginal page of her notebook.
Lawyers, she thought in exasperation. There’ve been too many lawyers in my life today.
Like Mel Belyle, Martin Avery gave few straightforward answers.
Kitt tried to bait him with the Phase One page of the brochure. “Phase One implies Phase Two is coming. Some people think the Fabian forces are going to make a move soon. A big one. What do you think?”
Martin shook his head. “Anything I’d say at this point would be mere speculation.” His smile was kindly, but not encouraging.
She tried again. “If Fabian becomes more aggressive, are the Concerned Citizens ready to do the same?”
Martin made a vague gesture, palms up. “What can I tell you? We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it.”
How did attorneys do it? Each morning did they gulp down magic pills to prevent them from saying simple things like yes or no or we’ll sue their pants off?
Yet, to be fair, Martin was a far cry from Mel Belyle. He was amiable and courteous, soft-spoken to a fault. He had an air of old-fashioned chivalry, a quaint formality.
Kitt remembered Martin from her childhood. Even in middle age, his hair had been snow white. He had always radiated civility, but never aggression—or sexuality. That lack of raw vigor and sexuality was completely different from Mel Belyle.
“I wish I could tell you more, Kitt,” Martin said.
So do I, she thought, and took another run at breaking down his defenses. “Fabian’s got another lawyer in town, Mel Belyle. Why do you think he’s here?”
Martin’s left eyebrow made a decorous arch. “A good question. I don’t know the answer.”
“Some people think there are going to be more offers made for land. What do you think?”
He shook his silvery head. “Anything I say would be a guess.”
She persisted. “He’s here for some reason. Is his purpose to read people, see what it takes to lure them into the Fabian camp?”
“It’s possible,” he said with his impeccable vagueness.
She fought back a sigh. “There are already people in his camp, right?”
“Some might put it that way,” Martin said.
“Like Ralph and Gloria Wall?” she asked.
“You’d have to ask Ralph and Gloria about that.”
She touched her fingertips to her brow, where a tension headache had started to throb. “Martin, I understand your position. I really do.”
“I’m glad,” he said. “Could I get you a cup of coffee? Tea? A cold soft drink? Anything?”
The world’s biggest aspirin, she thought. And a crowbar to get answers out of guys like you.
“No thanks,” she said. “Tell me. Will you try to talk to Mel Belyle? Has he tried to make an appointment to talk to you?”
For the first time, Martin looked troubled. But he quickly recovered his polite blandness. “Talk? We may at some point.”
She clapped shut her notebook, shoved her pen back into her vest pocket. “Let me ask you something off the record. May I?”
He laced his manicured fingers together. “You may. I may not be able to answer.”
She blew a wayward strand of hair from her eyes and slouched in her chair, giving him her best gunslinger’s stare. “I’m not going to get any straight answers out of you, am I?”
He met her stare as coolly as she gave it. “No,” he said.
She tapped the arm of her chair. “So if somebody in town would give me straight answers—really straight, objective answers—who would it be?”
He thought for a moment. “Reverend Blake. He’s as fair and forthright a man as you’ll find in this town.”
Kitt’s muscles tensed. She’d known it was inevitable she would have to face Howard Blake. She’d hoped to postpone it as long as possible. But she took a deep breath and said, “How soon do you think he’d see me?”
Martin glanced at his desk calendar. “He’s been out of town. He’ll be back this afternoon. He might see you this evening. I’ll give you his cell phone number.”
“Great,” she said, forcing a smile.
“I don’t want to get your hopes up,” Martin said, neatly writing a phone number on his memo pad. “Howard may not want to be quoted. He’s an honest man, but discreet.”
Kitt kept her artificial smile in place. Oh, I know
. Howard Blake’s discreet. He can keep a secret. For all these years, he’s kept mine.
TRINA GILROY’S HOUSE was on the outskirts of a little town named Bee Tree. Mel sat in her living room. It was shabby and cluttered.
The Gilroy woman settled back in an easy chair with flowered upholstery, her slippered feet on a plaid hassock. She wore a pink muumuu, her hair was in yellow curlers, and an evil-looking Chihuahua lay in her lap.
She had on no makeup except a slash of scarlet lipstick, carelessly applied. Charming this woman would be like charming an asp.
“You want to hear about Cal McKinney?” she asked.
“That’s why I came,” Mel said.
“You’re recordin’ this, ain’t you?” She had a sly crook to her mouth.
He only smiled. She was right, of course. A small tape recorder was running in his pocket. In Texas it was legal for him to tape a conversation without consent. As a lawman’s wife, she must know it.
“I want a thousand dollars,” she said.
He kept his smile and tried to make it as sympathetic as possible. “I’d be a fool to pay before I’ve heard anything.”
“And I’d be a damn fool to talk before I got any money.” She blew out a stream of blue smoke that swirled into a shifting cloud between them.
Mel had stopped at the bank in Johnson City, the last city of any size before Bee Tree. From his pocket he drew an envelope. He took out two fifty-dollar bills.
“Let’s do this by installments,” he said. “You said this was about the McKinneys. Particularly Cal. What do you know?”
Her eyes stroked the money. “There’s a death that people say was accidental. Gordon Jones. J.T.’s son and foreman were involved. Cal McKinney and Ken Slattery. There was a cover-up.”
She held out her hand, but Mel pulled the money back slightly. He’d already heard that rumor from Gloria Wall. “Sorry,” he said. “That’s not news. It’s not worth a hundred.”
Her hard face went even harder. “Gordon’s wife, Nora, divorced him. She was chasing Ken Slattery. Gordon went after both of them with a gun. Cal McKinney got mixed up in it. He had a gun, too. Cal got shot, and Gordon ended up dead—‘accidentally.’”
Mel raised an eyebrow. “You’re saying McKinney killed him?”
“I’m saying he’s dead. Shot by McKinney’s gun. That was never in the papers. Nobody printed Cal got shot, neither. My Len was one of the first men on the scene that night. My Len knows what happened.”
Mel studied her. She stared back with absolute confidence. “Gordon Jones was shot,” she said. “But the McKinneys covered it up. Paid off the law. And Ken married Nora so she wouldn’t talk.”
“Are you saying she blackmailed him into it?”
“Oh, the McKinneys made it worth his while. Bought him a new pickup truck. She got what she wanted—him—and she kept their dirty secrets. Cal got off scot-free. Money buys you anything.”
He didn’t believe her story, but he laid the two fifties on the hassock and drew out another two. He held them up. “Will it buy me more information?”
She scooped up the first two bills and stuffed them inside her robe. Mel had a glimpse of the top of a grimy brassiere. She shut the robe and took another drag of her cigarette.
“You want to know another thing about Cal? That reporter who showed up here? That Mitchell girl? She’s a relative of Nora’s—and not one bit better. Cal got her pregnant when she was sixteen. Marry her? Hell, no. The McKinneys sent her off that summer to have the baby, then paid her way to that fancy school so she’d stay away and keep her mouth shut.”
Mel’s face stiffened in disbelief. “How do you know this?”
“Before I married Len, I was a nurse in Dallas. I was there when she had that baby. I held it myself. It looked just like Cal McKinney. The spitting image. She gave it away. It was a little boy.”
The woman talked on. She talked and talked. Her stories grew wilder, and everything she said was ugly and hurtful. It was the sort of thing that, if made public, would cause damage whether true or not.
He paid her only two hundred dollars, which made her swear at him and order him to leave. He was glad to go. It was like escaping the untidy web of a spider whose fangs dripped venom.
MEL DROVE BACK to Crystal Creek in a black mood. Much of what the woman said was preposterous, and he didn’t want to believe any of it. But he was worried. Fabian had never stooped to planting stories in the tabloids. If he couldn’t find a damaging truth about the McKinneys, would he settle for a damaging rumor?
Mel had a sudden, almost irresistible urge to smash the damn cassette and throw it out the window. He didn’t. He kept it in its case, safely tucked into the car’s glove box.
He phoned DeJames, he said, “The Gilroy woman? She’s lying through her teeth. But I want you to check out some things for me. First, death reports on a Gordon Jones. I’ve heard twice that Cal McKinney’s implicated. Get me everything on it you can.”
He said, “Second, check out Trina Gilroy herself. Get her background. I especially want to know if she was a nurse in Dallas twelve years ago.”
He squared his jaw. “And you’re not getting me enough on Kitt Mitchell. I want to know when she left Crystal Creek and started Stobbart.”
“I’ve already got the last for you,” said DeJames. “I tracked down a teacher from Stobbart. Mitchell went there in the middle of September, three weeks into the fall semester.”
Mel’s heart missed a beat. “You mean she went straight from one school to the other, no break in between?” No time to have a baby. Gilroy had lied.
“Right,” said DeJames. “The second week of September she was in the Crystal Creek paper for being made captain of the girls’ gymnastic team. The next week she was in Stobbart. Boom.”
Mel heard the rustle of paper. “Let’s see,” DeJames said. “She got sidelined in gymnastics a month later with a broken wrist. Began to seriously concentrate on track. She stayed with a family named—Coolidge.”
“Were they relatives?”
“No. They were both teachers at Stobbart. From time to time they’d take in a kid from a troubled home. That’s the scuttlebutt I got on Mitchell. Her home situation wasn’t good. I can’t get anything more concrete than that. Did Trina Gilroy say anything about her?”
“No,” Mel said, realizing this was the first time he’d ever lied to DeJames. “Keep trying for details on Mitchell.”
“Will do.”
Mel hung up and frowned. DeJames’s news seemed to knock Trina Gilroy’s story into a cocked hat. DeJames, on the other hand, was nearly infallible. The real reason Kitt left must have been her family. But why?
MEL DROVE to Bluebonnet Meadows to look at the controversial dam.
Kitt was still on his mind as he walked the same road he’d tried to run yesterday. He didn’t believe the Gilroy woman’s story about her, but Gloria Wall had also hinted of something dark in Kitt’s past.
And Trina Gilroy puzzled him. Was the woman simply vicious? Had everything she’d said been a lie? Or was there, somewhere, a grain of truth in her tales?
It was hot, humid, and starting to drizzle when Mel reached Fabian’s man-made lake. It was nameless, at this point called only Lake Number One. Its water was dark and lifeless except for a coating of sickly green scum.
Number One covered almost twenty acres. It was protected from overflowing downstream into its old creek bed by a crude dam. In truth, it was more an earthwork or levee than dam, and sloppily built, at that.
It was a makeshift thing, an embankment formed by the piles of limestone and dirt gouged out when the lake bed was dug. Stone and gritty soil had been bulldozed into a thick wall to hold the water in place.
He knew that the levee had been meant to be a temporary impoundment, in place only until a permanent dam could be erected. Nobody had meant for the thing to serve all summer and into the autumn.
And the water was dangerously high. It lapped within a few feet of the levee’s top. How
many more days of rain could this thing withstand?
The original engineers must have seen the impoundment was unstable. They had started to erect a second levee downstream in the dry creek bed in case water should seep through the first. And water was seeping.
Only a trickle, here and there, but it was dribbling into the old creek bed, which already held half a foot of standing rainwater.
Mel swore. No wonder this thing spooked people. Fabian needed to reinforce it, no matter what the court order said about no more work.
HE WENT BACK to the hotel to change out of his damp clothes. The drizzle stopped, started, stopped and started again. He thought about every drop that hit the unnamed lake, raising its level higher and higher. It made an uneasy feeling creep along his backbone.
He was putting on a fresh shirt when DeJames called. “My man,” he said jovially, “pull up your e-mail. I’ve got a pot of gold for you. The medical examiner’s report on Gordon Jones. Claro County doesn’t have its own medical examiner. Jones’s body had to be taken to Austin.”
“So give me a summary,” Mel said.
“Okay. Ken Slattery and Nora Jones were at the McKinneys’ lake house. Gordon Jones was high as a kite on pills and came after them. He had a gun. Cal McKinney tried to warn them. He gave Slattery a gun. Jones started shooting, and Slattery shot him in the right hand. Clearly self-defense. When Jones heard sirens coming, he bolted. Got killed by a police car. Hell of an ironic way to die, if you ask me.”
“That’s official? He got shot only in the hand? The car killed him?”
“That’s official. There wasn’t much news coverage at the time. Gordon was linked to a federal case, and Feds took over the investigation. A couple of months later, they busted some gun runners. I talked to one of the ATF agents myself.”
Mel grinned. “You’re a genius.”
“Yes, I am. The agent said Gordon took a potshot, but only grazed Cal McKinney. The ATF kept a lid on most of the information at the time. You know the Feds.”
DeJames sighed. “McKinney’s clean. No dirt there. Not a speck. Fabian’s going to be so-o-o disappointed. Can’t you find something else on the guy?”
A Little Town in Texas Page 14
