by Kylie Brant
Thirty minutes later that fish had been joined by two others, and the man down river disgustedly reeled in his empty line, packed up his tackle box and began making his way to a new spot, one a great deal closer to hers.
"Looks like you found yourself a hot spot here."
"Caught three beauts and haven't even been here an hour," she said casually. "This is my first time fishing in this area. Is it always this good?"
Halloway wiped his brow, then adjusted the brim of the straw hat he wore. "Not for me. Not today, anyways."
"Well, you're welcome to try your luck here."
It was the only invitation he needed. Minutes later he had his equipment situated and was settled in a portable folding chair. He cast his line and it fell soundlessly into the river. "You're not from these parts."
"New Orleans." Tori leaned back in the grass, propped on her elbows and toed off her sandals. "Every day off I get I head to new fishing spots." She shot him a sideways glance, a bit concerned at his flushed expression. The sun was searing overhead, though it wasn't yet noon. For the first time she thought he might have been equally attracted by the shade nearby as he was by her fishing success. "Guess you must spend your free time same as me."
He grunted, reeled in his empty line and rummaged in his tackle box to choose a different lure. "I got nothing but days like these. I been retired now near 'bout seven years."
There was a tug on her line. Tori pretended not to notice, although the fact hadn't escaped Halloway. "I'm figuring you must live around here."
"How you figure that?"
"No lunch with you." She smiled easily and pointed to the small basket she'd packed. "I came ready to make a day of it."
"Born and raised 'round these parts," he admitted. "Gal, you got something bitin' at your line, there."
"So I do." With a nonchalance that seemed to set the man's teeth on edge, she straightened, cocked her wrist back and reeled in her fourth and biggest catch of the day.
"Well, if you aren't having Sam's own luck," the man muttered, narrowed gaze envious. "What're you using there?"
She added the fish to her pail, and held the lure up for him to see. "Something my dad used to make himself. Sunfish go wild for it. What do you use?"
"Straight fly lure. Ain't seeing the kind of luck you're having, though."
Seizing the opportunity, Tori reached into her tackle box. "You're welcome to try one, if you'd like." She held out one of the neon lures and it took only a moment before Halloway pushed himself from his chair and came to get it. "I always put a bit of bacon on mine."
"Always use grubs for sunfish, myself." Nevertheless, he accepted the piece of bacon she offered and gave her a smile before lumbering back to his chair.
"So, what'd you retire from?"
"Used to be sheriff of this parish. Got myself elected unopposed every term but two, and neither of them elections was close. Don't know if that means most folks got more sense, or that I got the job done right, but put twenty years in office."
"People must have been satisfied," she said, with an obvious stroke to his ego. "I suppose things stay pretty quiet around these parts, though. Not like in the cities."
"You'd be surprised. Just a couple years ago, Cooter Beecham shot his wife, Emma, stone cold after being married thirty years. That got the parish buzzing, I can tell you."
"I'll bet." Although Tori could care less about Cooter or his questionable ancestry, which Halloway described at some length, she let the man talk. And when he pulled in a sunfish a good foot long, he got even more expansive. "'Course no one was surprised overmuch," he concluded, his story winding down. "Got himself drunker 'n Bessy Bug most Saturdays. Went home after he'd tied one on and thought he saw a ghost standing in his doorway. Ran to get his shotgun from his truck and squeezed off three shots afore he figured out it was Emma in her nightdress."
She took advantage of his pause for breath to say, "I'll bet that created some excitement around here. Did it bring all the reporters in from the city to interview you?"
He looked a little crestfallen at that. "Well no, just the reporter for the local paper. But," his face brightened as he recast his line, "I was on WDSU once, you know the New Orleans channel? Near 'bout twenty years ago, it was. Everybody wanted to talk about that case, yes sirree. There was a mite more interest in the Tremaine family than in Cooter's."
"I think I remember that. It was a car accident, wasn't it?" Tori nodded, her nonchalant manner at odds with the jitter in her pulse. "I'll bet that did bring the reporters crawling."
"Reporters, photographers and more gawkers than a body could shake a stick at. Gruesome scene, it was," he said, shaking his head. "By the time I arrived there was nothing to be done for any of the passengers. Car ran off the road, over an embankment and landed fifteen feet below. Terrible sight." He looked, Tori thought, just a little green at the retelling. "The Tremaines have done a lot for folks 'round these parts. The tragedy was talked about for years. But an accident's all it was, just like I told 'em, and despite all the digging by journalists and P.I.s, that's all they came up with, too."
Since she'd spent the better part of the night reading the reports in the file, Tori was well aware of the conclusions drawn. "They didn't discover anything wrong with the car?" she asked.
"Not a thing, and I had Harris DuBlass look it over special. At that time there wasn't a finer hand with a car than his, and he said it was clean as a whistle. Not much left of it, of course, smashed up as it was. You'll still hear some folks 'round these parts talk about sabotage or some such thing, but I'm here to tell you, the steering and brakes looked just fine. Accident went in the books as plain, old DE."
It took a moment for Tori to follow his meaning. "Driver error."
"That's right. The road had just been reopened after road crews had worked on it for months. There was interest for a while to straighten out that curve, make the road into four lanes, but folks got upset about cutting down the big ol' trees along one side. In the end they just widened it. Most likely Joseph Tremaine took that curve too fast. Only idea I ever come up with. If it happened in these times, they'd probably all survive, what with the shoulder harnesses and air bags. But back then with just the lap belt." The older man shook his head. "Didn't none of 'em stand a chance of living through it."
"Didn't that surprise you, though?" Tori asked. "I mean, he must have been familiar with the area."
He let out a crow of delight as another tug on his line brought him to his feet. "I think I got me a big one here." He let the line play out a little before reeling it in slowly, watching the fish on the other end thrash. "Sure he knew the roads like the back of his hand," he continued his earlier thread seamlessly, "but like I said, that road had been changed some. And there's not a one among us that don't get behind the wheel when our mind isn't totally on driving. That's why they call them accidents."
"I guess there were no witnesses to help clear up any questions."
"Nope. Just a couple of Bernie Glasser's cows that musta got out and come downriver, and they weren't talking. Leastways, that's the story Glasser gave. Like nobody knew he brung them down regular every morning to avoid the cost of watering 'em. Used to tromp 'em across Cooter Beecham's property like clockwork, and didn't that make the old guy cuss a blue streak. Had a mouth on him, old Cooter did, and he didn't need to be liquored up to let loose, no sirree. Why I remember a time…"
Tori let the man ramble and her mind drift. Ex-Sheriff Halloway's retelling of the accident was different from his report only in the colorful details. Doubt about the cause of the accident hadn't lingered long in his mind, if at all.
If he was right, his conclusion would mirror her dad's. His report had been included in the file, as well, and she'd pored over it with particular attention. Just reading it, imagining him sitting at his battered desk painstakingly typing his findings, had summoned a lump to her throat that appeared only too easily these days.
For the first time she considered the fact that if she arrive
d at a different conclusion from his, it would mean he'd been wrong. That he'd overlooked something, or been too careless in his investigation. Neither of the possibilities seemed likely. Rob Landry had been meticulous about his work and his reputation. If there had been something to find twenty years earlier, something to support James's fear that the accident had been deliberate, he would have found it. Reported it. And remained on the case until the wrongdoer was brought to justice.
She let out a sigh, only half aware that Halloway had fallen silent. It was highly probable that there was nothing to the claims in those messages about Tremaine's parents. They'd likely been sent to distract him at a time when he most needed to focus his attention on his work.
But the conclusion didn't make her breathe any easier. She couldn't dismiss the threats in the notes as easily as James did. Even if the car wreck all those years ago had been an accident, he could still have a target on his back. Either way, this investigation could well prove dangerous to him. And if she was honest, the fear that followed that thought was more than just a professional one.
* * *
Chapter 4
« ^ »
James peered at the screen, tapping in commands rapidly. "I'm still not satisfied with the speed of the file-wiping function of the software. For optional utility, the task needs to be accomplished twice as quickly."
Marcus Rappaport, Vice President of Production and James's right hand in the company, shook his head. Bracing his hands on the table beside James, he leaned closer to the computer. "Figured you'd raise a breeze about it. But if you're bent on overwriting the data a dozen times in the wipe, it's going to take more time. We can speed it up by doing a sextuple overwrite, which still is twice as often as conventional methods, but…"
James lifted a brow, "Did you actually mention conventional methods in my presence?"
The man straightened, raising his hands in mock surrender. "What was I thinking? But it's getting pretty close to deadline to do more than fine-tune any aspect of the system. Maybe we should just…"
"Adjust the algorithm, compress the oppositional system and, if that doesn't work, see what our new supersonic chip would do to the speed."
Rappaport gaped at him. "Do you know how that would impact the cost?"
James pushed away from the computer table. He assumed the question was rhetorical. There was no one in his company as well versed as he in the profit/loss margin of every contract he undertook. "I have a general idea, yes. It's a last option, but if it comes to that, I'd rather shave our profit than put a product out there that doesn't perform exactly as I envisioned it."
Marcus stared at him a moment longer, then began jotting notes on a pad of paper. "This perfectionist trait of yours may be the death of this company yet."
James was too used to the man's pessimistic nature to take offense. He smiled and rose, clapping him on the shoulder. "I'm not a perfectionist, Marcus, just fussy. Give the job to Analiese and tell her none of us think it can be done. You know how she responds to a challenge."
The man visibly brightened. He'd always had a soft spot for James's little sister. "I'll do that, although your brother-in-law may not thank you if she starts putting in overtime to accomplish it."
"I'll let her manage Jones." Although his sister's husband was overprotective enough to meet with even her brothers' approval, Ana had a gift for wrapping the toughest man around her little finger. James daily counted himself lucky that the lion's share of responsibility for her could now be shared.
"What's the latest on the arrangements for the Technology Expo?"
"I've turned over the final details to Tucker." Tucker
Rappaport, the man's son, interned with their company during summers and college vacations. He had one semester left before earning his M.A. When he was finished, James hoped to hire him for good. It wasn't only friendship and loyalty that had him making a place for the young man at his company. The kid was brilliant, with a mind for cryptography that was staggering in one his age.
"Have him coordinate with Jones. I've put him in charge of securing the physical grounds. Better yet, get a meeting set up for the three of us." Regardless of the questions that the anonymous notes elicited, nothing would distract him from business. Projects could be delegated, but his stamp would be all over them, down to the last detail. When he'd picked up the reins of his father's company, with the ink still fresh on his master's degree from M.I.T., he'd also donned a heavy mantle of responsibility, vowing to stay true to his father's vision for the business. In that way, at least, he hadn't failed him.
But now it was the failure of a far different kind that haunted. If there was any truth to the last couple notes, he'd allowed three people's deaths to go unchallenged. He'd let down his brothers. His sister. Not to mention the man standing next to him.
Truth wasn't often delivered anonymously, he reminded himself, jaw tightening. The messages were the mark of a coward, one who wished to inflict pain while staying in the shadows. No one had ever been allowed to strike at the Tremaines without certain reprisal. The sender would learn that all too soon.
James checked his watch, shifting his thoughts firmly back to business. "What about the Micro Secure? Everything set to showcase it at the expo?"
Rappaport nodded. "Corley and Soulieu have been running it on mobile phones, PDAs and wireless equipment, and haven't hit a glitch yet. I think it's going to generate a lot of interest when we unveil it."
"It should do that." In fact, James was counting on it. The specially engineered tool kit they'd developed provided the strongest security available in constrained environments. The advanced safeguards it incorporated would bring a measure of privacy previously unrealized in the area. It would be debuted at the expo, then introduced to the market six months later. The time lag would give their PR department an opportunity to orchestrate the necessary media promotion to whet demand.
Marcus reached for the phone. "You'll want to check on the Micro Secure yourself. I'll tell Corley and Soulieu to wait for you."
As James nodded, his cell phone began to ring. Striding across the room, he took out his cell, checked the caller ID. Then, pulse quickening, he flipped it open and answered. "Tori. I've been waiting to hear from you." It was, he recognized, truer than he'd like to admit. Even as he'd tended to business throughout the day, thoughts of her, and the job he'd hired her for, refused to be banished from his mind.
"Hi. I talked to your ex-sheriff today, who's convinced the accident was just…" Static interrupted her next few words. It sounded as if she was in her car. "…pictures, and I'm on my way to a guy I know, an accident reconstruction engineer. I'll let you know what I find out."
"No. Wait." Aware that his sharp tone had aroused Marcus's interest, he deliberately softened it. "I don't want you to do that alone. I'll go with you."
Annoyance laced her voice, although it remained civil enough. "That's really not necessary. I'll call you as soon as I know something."
"It's no problem." He checked his watch. "Where should I meet you?"
There was a pause, as if she were reaching for patience. "I'm heading to a bar called Juicy's on the corner of France and LaSalle. But believe me, it's not your type of place."
"Are you calling me a snob?" he asked with genuine amusement. He could almost hear her mental gears grinding. Or maybe that was her teeth.
"Not at all. There's just no need for you to feel uncomfortable. And why come all this way when I can call you with the outcome?"
Since Marcus had ended his conversation, James hastened to do the same. "Because I want to be with you." His words, as well as the deliberately intimate tone of his voice would have his co-worker drawing his own conclusions about his call. "Does this establishment of yours serve food?"
There was an audible sigh, then the blare of horns. He hoped her frustration hadn't caused her to swerve into traffic. "I believe there's a loophole in the Department of Health guidelines that still allows them to refer to it as food, yes."
"Great. We can eat together while we wait."
"Suit yourself." From the abrupt end of her call it was obvious that his insistence hadn't set well with her.
"I told Corley and Soulieu to expect you. Should I reschedule?"
Belatedly, he looked up, saw Rappaport's quizzical look. With a glance at his watch, he mentally calculated the time it would take him to change and drive to New
Orleans. "Set it for 7:00 a.m. tomorrow. I'll meet with Tucker and Jones immediately after."
Marcus nodded approvingly. "Won't hurt you a bit to get out and socialize a little. Celia's always saying that you work too hard."
Celia had been his father's secretary before she'd become his. She regulated his office schedule with dragon like ferocity, and lent the same zeal to her interest in his social life.
James strode toward the door. "Well, considering that I'm about to make Celia a very happy lady, I'll let you inform her about the changes to my schedule tomorrow." He turned his head just enough to catch the stark terror on the man's face, saw the protest forming on his lips. Marcus's reaction had him grinning, but it didn't account for the warm pool of anticipation pooling in his belly.
No, that was elicited by the upcoming meeting with Tori Corbett.
Tori took out her frustration with Tremaine on the pool hustlers at Juicy's. Although they'd seen her play often enough to know better, most of them had more ego than sense. She was up fifty bucks, and her mood had improved accordingly.
Circling the table, she studied the possible plays.
"She's gonna clear the table again."
"No, she ain't. Ain't possible."
"How easily they forget," Tori muttered under her breath. She bent, lined up her shot and banked the six ball off the opposite side to roll directly into the side pocket. Straightening, she observed, "One would think I didn't have your ten in my pocket by doing that very thing, Skeeter."
Skeeter shrugged his nearly seven-foot frame that was at least half as wide as a pool cue and muttered aggrievedly, "Just ain't right, letting a woman play, anyways. How's a man supposed to concentrate when you're all bent over like that?"
