Touch of Evil (24 page)

“You son of a bitch,” she muttered as more photos slid out of the packet. Photos of her and Ross
inside
a motel room. Pictures of the two of them—

“Shit, Roger,” she hissed through clenched teeth, wishing he were alive so she could kill him. “Why on earth…?”

Had he thought to blackmail her? To threaten to expose her—quite literally—if she would not step down from office? If so, why hadn’t he tried?

Maybe he ran out of time, or more likely guessed I’d turn it around on him.
Because Roger knew her well enough to figure she’d tough things out to spite him. And if he made good on his threat, exposed illegally acquired photos of perfectly legal adult activity, his career would much more surely be taken down the tubes than hers. He might even be the one who ended up behind bars.

Still, Justine prayed that neither Phil Savoy nor his mother had looked at these photos. She wondered for an instant about Calvin, and then dismissed the notion. If he’d come across the revealing pictures, Justine felt certain he would have spontaneously combusted from embarrassment while handing them over to her.

Unable to bear the sight of them, Justine sat at her desk and jammed the disturbing photos into the back of a drawer. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, she then fanned out the file’s remaining notes. On one sheet he’d listed a number of prominent business owners in town, all of whom had contributed significantly to Justine’s campaign.

Several of whom had been willing to go to extraordinary
lengths to ensure that the blunt, hardheaded Roger Savoy would never be Preston County’s sheriff. Justine’s stomach tightened, for this was far more dangerous territory than the photos. And if Roger had come up with what the Texas Rangers hadn’t, some connection between this small group and the ridiculously named Sunrise Happy Doodle International that had placed forty thousand dollars in Lou’s and her joint account, her career was toast.

And probably her freedom, for no judge or jury would believe she hadn’t known. And lately, both seemed inclined to make examples of public officials caught up in corruption.

Digging through the papers, Justine searched frantically for the proof, flipping through notes on past sales calls from Hal Smithfield of CorrecTex and Erik Whatley of Southern Humane Detention. Her heart pounding, her mind strayed to the paper shredder she had in the corner. The shredder that could still save her if she dared to use it.

If she’d become the kind of person who would.

Her outside line rang, jolting her out of temptation. Sucking in a deep breath, Justine closed her eyes against a whirl of nausea.

“Wofford here,” she answered, forcing herself to feign a calm she didn’t feel.

“It was Roger,” her father said without warning. “Roger Savoy put that noose around your boy’s neck.”

“What?”
she asked, thinking of the similarity of the noose found on Roger. “Where’s Noah? Did he tell you? Is he all right?”

“He’s right here and fine as frog’s hair. Conked out on the rug, curled up with the puppy, both of ’em worn out from playing. The thing is, I picked up his little digital recorder, where it fell out of his pocket. Started playin’ with the darned thing, and you would not believe what that boy’s got recorded.”

Justine felt the prickling of the flesh behind her neck. “You
mean…he recorded the person who snatched him from the school?”

“Damn straight, he did. Whoever said that boy doesn’t have the smarts to go into police work? Takes after his ol’ grandpa, I’d say.”

Justine rolled her eyes before getting back on track. “So you think it was Roger’s voice on the recording?”

“When I recognized it, I-I wanted to…” Her father’s voice was filled with white-hot fury. “I went from wanting to kill that bastard to remembering someone else had beat me to it…You didn’t know about this, Justine? You didn’t figure out that it was Roger?”

Justine sucked in a breath, understanding that her father was wondering if he’d just discovered the motive for Savoy’s murder. Wondering if she had killed him after all.

If she said yes, would her dad defend her? Or would he finally turn his back on her forever?

“Of course I didn’t know,” she snapped. “And you shouldn’t have to ask that. You should know I’d never—”

“It makes sense about the school, though,” said her father, as impervious as ever to her feelings. “That must be why Noah’s teacher thought you were the one picking him up that afternoon. I’m bettin’ she caught sight of a sheriff’s department truck in line and figured it for yours.”

“You’re probably right about that.”

“Hold still, you little freak, or I swear to God I’ll—”

Justine jumped to hear the harshness of the recorded voice as her father played it in the phone for her to hear. Fury pounded at her temples as she imagined that tone, those words used on Noah, and her vision filled with the crime scene snapshot of fingerprint bruises on his skinny arm, of the thin crescent cuts made by a man’s nails.

That son of a bitch.
“Is that it, Dad?” she made herself ask. “Is there any more to it?”

“No more,” said her father. “But I was right, don’t you think? That was Savoy’s voice, wasn’t it?”

“You know what?” Justine hesitated for a moment, her stomach swirling as her gaze drifted over Roger’s notes on her desk, the aggressive, choppy strokes of his handwriting. The words Sunrise Happy Doodle. Angry as she was with Roger, she still wasn’t certain, though the accent sounded local. “Maybe not. Play it again for me.”

When her father did, she forced herself out of mom mode and into cop to really listen. “I’m pretty sure you’re wrong about the voice.” Understandable, since her father barely knew Roger. “That’s not Savoy. Definitely not…But it—I could swear the voice is familiar. Someone I’ve heard before. Someone…I should know this, damn it.”

But no matter how hard she struggled for it, the name still wouldn’t come. “Play it one more time. Please.”

Once he had done so, she said, “I can’t…I’m not quite sure. He sounds so angry; maybe that’s it.” Had she heard that voice, that tone, when she’d been laid out on the ground near the LeJeune place? But that was impossible, wasn’t it? Caleb’s oldest had told her siblings
she’d
hit Justine with the golf club.

Or had that just been wishful thinking, something Tara LeJeune had bragged to her sister and brother about because she’d fantasized that she had been the one to do it? Justine had seen adults do the same thing, giving false confessions, and the behavior was even more likely in a child.

“Why don’t you go back to whatever you were doing?” her father suggested. “Chances are, when you quit trying so hard, it’ll pop right into your head. Or you can listen to the recording later in person, soon as you get the chance.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” Justine told him. “Meanwhile, whatever you do, don’t let Noah out of your sight.”

Helpless and overwrought, she would fasten the rope-noose about the beam above her bride-couch and tie it to her white throat…

—Hilda Doolittle, from “Hippolytus”

“Whose car is that?” Gwen asked as she parked her blue BMW in front of Trudy’s house. A large, slate-colored Jaguar claimed the spot where Trudy’s husband normally parked his pickup. Bearing a vanity plate that read MRMUZK, the expensive import gleamed, pristine but for a K
EEP
A
USTIN
W
EIRD
bumper sticker.

“Gotta be Simon Cordero’s,” Ross told her. “The band’s agent. I guess Laney decided to talk to him after all.”

Gwen groaned, shaking her head. “I’m not really up for Trudy, the kids, and a lot of chitchat with some stranger.”

“Sure.” Ross smiled. “Grill me mercilessly about my love life, and then go home to spend Sunday with your sundae.”

Judging from her expression, his attempt at humor bombed. “It’s all right, Gwen,” he added quickly. “I really do appreciate the lift.”

Nodding, she kept her gaze fixed forward, the trembling of her lower lip letting Ross know she was more upset than she’d let on.

“I’ll call you later, kiddo,” he said. “Do an emergency run if
you need it, for maraschino cherries and some chopped nuts.”

Her smile sad, she raised an eyebrow. “Only if they’re Erik’s.”

Ross chuckled, thinking that Whatley, who had clearly used his sister, had it coming. He kissed her cheek and went to the door, where Trudy let him in.

Casting her eyes toward the kitchen, Trudy stage-whispered, “They’re talking M-O-N-E-Y—some kind of recording offer on the table.” Worry pulled her scant brows together; Trudy had earlier confided her hope that, costly as it had proven, Laney’s fame fixation had been laid to rest with her band.

“Uncle Ross,” shrilled a high voice, followed by another.

Grinning, Ross hoisted up his cousin’s daughters, one in each arm. “Ahoy, monsters,” he said, to their squeals of laughter.

“Not so loud, girls,” warned Trudy, “and Ross, you really shouldn’t—”

She piped down when he swung a warning look in her direction, but her attention was soon commandeered by Cousin Itt, who raced out leaping and barking and eager to begin the games.

“Can you please quiet it down?” called Laney from the kitchen doorway. “We’re trying to talk business.”

Behind her stood the bald, suit-clad Simon Cordero, looking far more amused than she did. “It’s fine,” he said with a flourish of a manicured hand. “There’s no music as sweet as the sounds of children’s laughter. If Serafina and I had ever been so blessed—”

Laney’s troubled glance flicked from her agent to catch Ross’s eye, and in that look, Ross knew she was thinking of the baby she still carried, at least for the time being.

He sobered in an instant. “Sorry we disturbed you.”

Dissolving into tears, Laney turned away.

“Laney?” Ross said. “Laney, honey, I’m sorry if I—”

“Let me get the mutt and heathens outside,” Trudy suggested as she wrested the girls away from Ross. “C’mon, girls, let’s take Cousin Itt to the park.” She grabbed a house key, leash, and tennis ball from the drawer of a nearby entry table before herding her family out the door.

“It’s all right, Laney,” Cordero rubbed her upper arm, looking at her with fatherly concern. “The deal’s not going to evaporate if you take a little time to think it over. But not too long. I hate saying this—I don’t want to come across as crass—but there’s a window of opportunity that’s opened. An amazing chance to break out ‘Last Stop’ high on the charts if we move quickly.”

“Last Stop Till Eternity,”
thought Ross, his skin prickling with a memory of the song’s haunting lyrics.

Laney threw herself into her agent’s arms, holding on to him with the desperation of a drowning swimmer. “Thank you, Simon. Thank you so much. It’s everything we worked for. Everything we ever dreamed of. But how can I do this without Jake? How can I play without all of them behind me?”

He patted her hair, smoothing a stray curl off of her cheek. “We can work all that out later. Just think about it, little girl. And ask yourself whether they would’ve wanted you to go forward in their place or give up now. Whether they would have trusted me to look after you in this.”

Again, she looked toward Ross, then pulled herself away from Cordero. With an audible breath, she straightened, coming to her full height, a fraction over five feet.

“I don’t need looking after. I’m not a child anymore. I-I’m going to be a mother soon. So I have more to think of than Jake and Hart and Caleb. I have to think about what’s best for this baby, too—and I haven’t begun to wrap my head around the idea.”

“You…you’re pregnant?” Simon swiftly drew the curtains
on his shock. “Congratulations, Laney, and of course, you’ll want to consider all the angles. Including your best means of providing for this child—”

“That’s not going to be an issue for her,” Ross put in. “Laney, you don’t need to let money decide this.”

Ignoring Cordero’s look of irritation, Ross continued, “You choose—and take your time doing it. You’ve been through way too much lately to make any snap decisions.”

Laney nodded. “I’m sorry, Simon, but I can barely think now. There’s just too much going on.”

Ross approached, thrusting a hand toward Cordero. “Thanks for driving all the way back here from Austin again to see Laney—and for everything you’ve done to help the band and her career. Right now, she needs her family, but we’ll be sure to call you as soon as she’s ready to talk more about this.”

There was the slightest hesitation before Cordero accepted the handshake. “Look after her well,” he said before nodding toward Laney. “Call me any time of day or night. You have all my numbers.”

As Justine continued digging through the contents of Roger’s files, a call came through on her cell phone.

“It’s Larry,” her new second in command said when Justine picked up. “I need you to meet me over at Kenneth Fleming’s house in a hurry.”

“Fleming’s house?” No way did the timing add up. “You couldn’t have gotten the search warrant signed that fast.”

“I was on the way out to Judge Moore’s when a call came through dispatch. Dr. Fleming’s holed up in his house—armed and threatening to shoot himself.”

Justine’s stomach dropped. “You’re on the scene?” And why hadn’t the dispatcher let her know, too? Hadn’t Rose heard her come in?

“Miller and I both are,” Larry explained. “We’re setting a
perimeter, keeping our distance for the time being, and trying to open a line of communication. From what the neighbors told us, there was some kind of altercation. Dr. Fleming stumbled out of the house screaming at some kids playing soccer in the cul-de-sac. When they laughed and pointed at him—the guy was wearing an untied pink robe with nothing underneath it—he came outside crying and waving around a handgun.”

“Whoa, boy. That’s sure to rile the neighbors,” Justine said, thinking that Kenneth had clearly fallen off the wagon in a big way. Had it been the pressure of waiting for the DNA results to come back that cracked him? Or the knowledge that he’d be linked with Roger Savoy’s killing—or possibly the three other deaths surrounding Laney Thibodeaux?

Larry grunted. “One of the neighborhood mamas has already assured me she’ll look the other way if Fleming ‘happens’ to get in the way of our bullets.”

“See that he doesn’t.” With one last glance at her shredder, Justine reached for her keys and locked Roger’s files, along with the photos of her and Ross, in her desk. “At least, not before I get some answers out of him. This is really, really important, Larry. Talk to Paul, too, and make sure he understands.”

Miller was just the type to try to goad what he considered an undesirable into taking his own life. She could all too easily imagine the muscle-bound deputy taunting,
You don’t have the balls to do it.

“You tell him his job’s on the line if he screws this up,” she emphasized, knowing this would be another test for Larry.

“I’ll get it through that thick head,” he promised.

“You said you’re trying to establish communication. Have you talked to Fleming at all?” Justine asked.

“If you could call it that. He shouted out his front door when he saw us talking to the neighbors. Screamed that they were liars and threatened to blow his head off. We asked him
if he could hold off a little bit, if there was anybody he wanted to talk to, anybody we could get for him. He wanted his wife. Connie’s her name, I understand.”

“Good strategy, and she’s his ex-wife,” Justine corrected. “You find a number for her?”

“One of the neighbors had one. Paul’s trying her right now. But even if Mrs. Fleming’s willing, the lady’s in Fort Worth, so it would take hours—”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Justine said, “and I’ll see if I can bring a friend of Fleming’s, or a coworker at least. Meanwhile, try to talk those neighbors back inside their houses. Convince ’em it’s a safety issue.”

It was, she thought, though mostly for Kenneth Fleming, who might become sufficiently upset by their presence to make good on his threats. But she couldn’t discount the fact that he owned at least two weapons.

Justine disconnected, then reached for the phone to call Ross. But her phone rang first, showing a number she immediately recognized as Erik Whatley’s. No way was she picking up that hot potato. After thanking them for their time, she’d already told both him and Hal Smithfield that the jail privatization plan had officially been nixed. Smithfield had reacted angrily, hurling furious accusations that she and the county commissioners had led him on, wasting his time. Whatley, on the other hand, had started pleading, sounding so weak and pitiful, she’d cringed to hear his desperation.

As soon as the call rolled back to Rose, who was undoubtedly sick of taking Whatley’s messages, Justine phoned Ross.

He must have caller ID, too, for he started out, “Listen, Justine, about the way I let you leave here—”

“Kenneth Fleming’s barricaded in his house and threatening to shoot himself. Is there someone local, someone close to him I should be calling? Or would you be willing to try to help us talk him out of it so we can get some answers?”

“Kenneth?”
There was no mistaking the shock in Ross’s voice. “He’s…You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack.” Kicking herself for her choice of words, she asked, “So do you know anyone he’d trust?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Then what about you?” she asked, though she wished there were someone else. “Would you help out, for your cousin? Because if we get a confession, that’s going to be a whole lot simpler—especially if he can tell us he drugged Laney, that she had nothing to do with—”

“I’ll be there quick as I can. I’ll go straight to Fleming’s house.”

Justine hung up and headed for the door. She almost made it out before she stopped in her tracks, then deliberately strode back to her desk. Unlocking the drawer, she drew out a single photo, the only photo in which Ross’s face was clearly visible.

After securing the remaining evidence, she shredded that one picture. Because if she went down, she’d be damned if she would dirty his name, too.