grimaced, thinking about the article that had appeared in the Journal yesterday. According to Valerie Snow, the wrong man had been sent to prison thirty-one years ago for little Adam Kingsley’s kidnapping and murder, a crime that was almost as famous as the Lindbergh case.
She claimed that the three detectives who had made the arrest—Judd Colter, Raymond Colter and Hugh Rawlins—had planted evidence to frame Cletus Brown and had then suppressed witnesses who could have cleared him.
In short, Valerie Snow alleged that one or all of them had concocted an elaborate conspiracy comparable only to the Kennedy assassination, and all because of their pride; their “hubris,” she called it. They had been humiliated by the press and by the FBI, and were desperate for an arrest. Desperate to become heroes. And they had become heroes, Brant thought. The three of them were almost legendary in the department—his father, his uncle and his mentor. The three men who had probably influenced Brant’s life the most.
But it wasn’t just Valerie Snow’s outlandish accusations that were so troublesome. The timing of the article couldn’t have been worse. Brant’s father was recovering from a stroke; Raymond’s son, Austin, had just announced his intention of running for Congress; and Hugh Rawlins, the only one of the three still on the police force, was retiring in another month with full honors and benefits. The last thing any of them needed was to have their names dragged through the mud by some reporter out to make a name for herself.
The two women stopped in front of an expensive boutique and stared at the window display. Brant stepped into a shoe store next door, not wanting to take a chance on being spotted. It was cool inside, and he stood for a moment, enjoying the respite from the sultry humidity.
A middle-aged clerk wearing a bad toupee sauntered up to him. “May I help you?”
“Just browsing,” Brant muttered, waving the man away.
From his vantage point inside the store, Brant could see Valerie Snow clearly. She was still looking at the window display as she chatted with her companion, and Brant took the opportunity to study her.
She wasn’t at all what he’d expected. After reading her article, he’d pictured her as a militant-looking woman with combat boots and chopped-off hair, but she was nothing like that. Tall and thin, with the toned body of a runner, she had legs that went on forever and long, dark hair that shone like polished ebony in the late-afternoon sunlight.
Even standing still, she looked restless. Energy seemed to radiate from her lithe body, making Brant wonder what her temper might be like. She wore a dark blue suit with a fitted jacket and a short, slim skirt. Her nails were unpainted, as was her mouth, but he figured the latter was because she’d chewed off all her lipstick and hadn’t had the patience to freshen it.
By comparison, the woman beside her looked cool and serene in a yellow sundress that reminded Brant of a frosted glass of lemonade. Her unhurried movements were that of a true Southern belle. She was the type of woman Brant had always been attracted to, but it was Valerie Snow who drew his gaze now. Valerie Snow who held his undivided attention.
Brant wasn’t sure what his original intention had been when he’d followed her from the Journal’s offices. He supposed at some point he would catch up with her, introduce himself, and ask her what the hell she thought she was doing.
Not in an official capacity, of course. She hadn’t broken any laws that he was aware of, but still…. He’d always been of the mind that it was wise to seek out your enemies. Get to know them. Find out their weaknesses.
She left her friend at the boutique and started down the street alone. Brant exited the shoe store and fell in behind her. The five o’clock pedestrian traffic was heavy, with people streaming out of the downtown office buildings in a hurry to get home.
As they rounded a corner, Brant almost lost her in the crowd, but then he caught sight of her dark hair in the group of people standing at the intersection, waiting for the light to change. He hung back, not wanting to get too close. But as if sensing his scrutiny, she turned her head, her eyes scouring the crowd, and Brant thought for a moment she’d spotted him. Then she turned and faced the street again.
More and more people joined the throng waiting at the light. Valerie was up front, near the street. Brant kept his eyes fastened on her, but his peripheral vision caught a movement in the crowd. His gaze shifted, and for just a split second, he thought he saw a familiar face—an informant his father had once used. A man who would sell his mother’s soul for a quick buck.
Remy Devereaux had disappeared a long time ago, and if he was still alive, which Brant seriously doubted, he would be getting on in years. He wasn’t likely to still be out hustling in the streets.
But if he was, what the hell kind of coincidence had brought him here, to the very street corner where Valerie Snow stood waiting for the light to change?
A bus lumbered down the street, and the crowd automatically stepped back from the curb. Brant lost sight of the man, and when he tried to spot Valerie Snow, he realized he’d lost her, too.
And then someone screamed.
Brant reacted instantly. As he leaped forward, the mass of people seemed to part, and he caught a quick glimpse of dark hair and blue fabric. She lay sprawled on the street, directly in front of the oncoming bus.
With a spurt of adrenaline, Brant lunged forward again. But the crowd, which had parted a second earlier, now closed in on him. He couldn’t move.
“Police!” he shouted, flashing his badge. “Move back!”
Everyone did as they were told, but by the time Brant made his way through to the street, the bus had sped by. Someone screamed again, and with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, Brant gazed down at Valerie Snow’s crumpled body.
Someone had pulled her out of the way in the nick of time. She lay on her back on the sidewalk, her eyes closed, her hair fanned about her face like a dark halo.
He didn’t think she was dead, but he had no idea how badly she might be hurt. Flashing his badge again to ward off the crowd, he knelt beside her and felt for a pulse.
“Is she going to be all right?” a woman asked anxiously.
Instead of answering her, Brant said, “Call 911. We need an ambulance.”
“Oh, God, is she—”
“Just make the call. Now!”
The woman’s face paled, and her hands trembled as she opened her purse and pulled out a cell phone.
Brant heard someone in the crowd say, “Man, did you see what happened? She just jumped in front of that bus! Must have a death wish or something.”
The stunned rumblings went on and on, but Brant tuned them out. He turned his attention to the woman lying on the sidewalk, so still and silent. A sprinkling of freckles across her nose stood out starkly against her pale skin.
She should have looked vulnerable, but didn’t. Somehow, even in repose, she managed to appear strong and intelligent. A woman perfectly capable of pissing off some pretty powerful people in this town.
She stirred and moaned.
“Take it easy,” Brant said. “The ambulance is on its way.”
Her lids fluttered, and then her eyes opened. They were gray, the color of rain clouds.
“What happened?” She tried to sit up, but Brant pushed her gently back to the street.
“You were almost hit by a bus,” someone in the crowd told her.
For the first time, she trained her gaze on Brant, and her eyes widened in shock. Or was it fear? Her lips moved frantically, but Brant couldn’t understand what she was saying. He leaned closer to her and got a whiff of an expensive perfume, something as deep and sultry as a hot Southern night.
She tried to shrink away from him. “It’s okay,” Brant said gently. “I’m not going to hurt you. You fell in front