The Hero’s Son
Amanda Stevens

www.millsandboon.co.uk

AMANDA STEVENS

is a bestselling author of more than thirty novels of romantic suspense. In addition to being a Romance Writers of America RITA® Award finalist, she is also a recipient of awards for Career Achievement in Romantic Mystery and Career Achievement in Romantic Suspense from RT Book Reviews magazine. She currently resides in Texas. To find out more about past, present and future projects, please visit her website at www.amandastevens.com.

This book is dedicated to my editor, Huntley Fitzpatrick.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

PROLOGUE

THE BANGING ON THE front door awakened five-year-old Violet from a deep sleep. Frightened, she called out. Mommy and Daddy were in the next room, watching TV. Why didn’t they come?

Her heart pounding, Violet got out of bed and crept to her bedroom door. Mommy and Daddy were standing in the living room, and for a moment, Violet felt safe. Then she saw their faces. They looked the way she felt when she’d had a really bad dream. Or seen something scary on TV. But mommies and daddies weren’t supposed to get scared, were they?

The banging at the door sounded again, and someone shouted, “Police! Open up!”

Mommy grabbed Daddy’s arm. “Cletus, my God, what’s going on?”

Daddy’s face was white. He looked sick. “I don’t know. I’d better let them in.”

But before he could open the door, it burst open, shattering the wood frame. Mommy screamed as three men rushed in and grabbed Daddy. “Don’t move,” one of the men said. “Or we’ll blow your head off.”

Hiding behind her bedroom door, Violet shoved a fist against her mouth to keep from crying. She’d never been so scared. Mommy had always told her if she were ever lost or in trouble to look for a policeman. He would help her. But these men didn’t have on uniforms, like Mommy had shown her, and they didn’t have the pretty shiny badges that Violet liked so much, either. All they had were guns. And Violet knew guns were bad. Very bad.

All three of the men were scary, but it was the big man with the dark hair that frightened Violet the most. She’d learned about the devil in Sunday-school class, had even seen a picture of him in a book, and that was who she thought of now. The big man didn’t have horns or a tail, but her Sunday-school teacher had said the devil could disguise himself in many ways. Even as a policeman.

Help us, Violet prayed. Please help us.

The television Mommy and Daddy had been watching was still on, and Violet could hear bits of a news broadcast, something about the little boy who had been kidnapped. His picture was all over the news. Violet saw it every time she turned on the TV to watch her favorite shows. She didn’t want to think about what was happening, how scared she was, so she tried instead to remember the kidnapped boy’s name.

And then she heard someone say it. Adam Kingsley. Yes, that was it. Adam Kingsley had been kidnapped from his bedroom, and no one knew where he was or what had happened to him. Mommy said everyone in Memphis was looking for him.

Violet had been so frightened when she first heard about the kidnapping. What if someone kidnapped her? She could think of nothing scarier than to be taken from her mommy and daddy, but then Mommy had told her that Adam Kingsley had been kidnapped because his parents were rich. His father was an important man. Violet had nothing to worry about. Her daddy was just an out-of-work auto mechanic.

Violet heard Adam Kingsley’s name again, and she thought it must be coming from the TV. Then she realized the big man was saying the little boy’s name. Saying it over and over as he grabbed Daddy and shouted, “Where is he? Where is he, you piece of scum?”

Daddy’s hands were fastened behind his back, like Violet had seen policemen on TV do to bad men. The big man shoved Daddy, and he fell backward, hitting his head against the corner of the coffee table.

Blood ran from the cut on his head, and Mommy screamed. She tried to run to him, but the big man pushed her away. She fell, too, and Violet’s heart began to pound, not just in fear, but because she was angry. She ran out of her room as fast as she could.

“Don’t hurt my mommy!” she screamed. “Don’t you hurt my mommy!”

She tried to grab the big man’s arm, but he just pushed her away and turned back to Daddy, who had been pulled to his feet by the other two men.

Blood ran down Daddy’s face as he looked at Violet and Mommy. “I’m innocent, Grace. You have to believe me. They’re setting me up—”

“Shut up!” the big man yelled.

The men dragged Daddy across the room. One of them opened the front door, and for the first time, Violet realized there was a crowd outside. The tiny front yard was filled with people, and in the street, lights flashed on top of police cars.

Mommy got up off the floor and ran outside. Violet didn’t know what else to do but follow. But there was so much noise outside. So many people. Violet started to cry. She saw some of their neighbors in the front yard, and they were shouting bad words at Daddy. A bottle shattered against the house, and Mommy began to cry, too.

Violet tried to run to Daddy, but the big man caught her. He knelt and looked into her eyes. Violet began to shake, she was so scared. What if he really was the devil, come to take her to hell?

He reached out for her, and Violet tried to pull away. Somewhere near them, a bright light flashed in her face, and she blinked. She heard an excited voice yell, “Did you get that shot?”

The big man patted her head. In a soft voice, he told her everything would be all right. But his eyes—eyes that looked like the picture in the Sunday-school book—told her something else, and Violet backed away from him, away from his touch.

Another man came up beside him. He was dressed in a uniform like Mommy had shown her, and Violet thought he would make the big man go away. That he would help her. But instead, he said, “We found part of the ransom money in the trunk of his car. Just where you said it would be, Sergeant Colter.”

The big man stood and walked away from Violet, but the fear didn’t leave her. She knew who he was now, and she knew she would never forget him for as long as she lived.

The devil’s name was Sergeant Colter.

CHAPTER ONE

THIRTY-ONE YEARS LATER…Sergeant Brant Colter caught sight of the tall brunette in the crowd ahead and quickened his steps, trying not to lose her. Another woman, a petite blonde, walked beside her, but Brant had no interest in her. It was the dark-haired woman he wanted.

He knew very little about her, except that her name was Valerie Snow, she worked as an investigative reporter for the Memphis Journal, and she seemed hell-bent on destroying Brant’s family.

He 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 of a bus, but someone pulled you out of the way in time. You’ll be fine.”

She shook her head and mouthed, “No.” She trembled all over, and for a moment, Brant thought she must have gone into shock.

“You’ll be fine,” he repeated, whipping off his sport coat to spread over her. “Just hang in there.”

“I didn’t fall,” she whispered, shaking uncontrollably.

“What?”

Her gaze locked onto his. Fear deepened in her gray eyes. “I didn’t fall,” she said. “I was pushed.”

VALERIE SAT ON THE BED in the emergency room at Mercy General Hospital and tried to corral her racing thoughts.

No way could he have been the same man.

No way could he have remained unchanged after thirty-one years.

And yet she’d seen him with her own eyes!

Her heart had almost stopped when she’d looked up into those black eyes. Eyes just as cold and dark as the ones she remembered.

“Devil eyes,” she’d always called them.

She shivered, just thinking about him. “I have to get out of here.”

“What’s your hurry?” Dr. Allen asked her. He was a young, good-looking resident who wore faded jeans and scuffed Nikes and made Valerie feel about a hundred and two. “You just got here.”

“I don’t like hospitals,” she muttered.

He looked down at her with a wounded look. “I’m hurt. Truly hurt by that remark.”

“Nothing personal.” She’d been trying to ignore his flirting ever since she’d been brought in, but it wasn’t easy. Dr. Allen was nothing if not charming.

“So what’s the verdict?” she asked wearily.

“A few cuts and bruises. You’re going to be pretty sore for a few days. I’m still waiting to have a look at your X rays, but I don’t expect to find any broken bones. You’re one lucky young lady, from everything I’ve heard.”

Valerie supposed it wasn’t every day one got pushed in front of a city bus and survived. If she closed her eyes, she could still feel herself pitching forward into the street, could still feel that moment of terror when she’d looked up to see the bus racing toward her like some huge steel monster. She could actually feel the heat from its engine, like the hot breath of death.

She put a quivering hand to her forehead. She had to get out of here. Find out what was going on.

Find out who wanted to kill her.

“Look, I’m perfectly fine,” she insisted. “Good as new. And I really do have to be going. There’s a press conference I have to get to.” She tried to hop down from the bed, but every bone in her body screamed in protest. She groaned and offered only a token struggle when the doctor eased her back down. “I can’t stay here,” she whispered, as a wave of dizziness swept over her.

Dr. Allen said sternly, “I’m afraid the press conference will just have to wait. At least until I get those X rays.”

“How long?”

“We’re a little short-staffed this afternoon. Could take a while.”

Valerie suppressed another groan. The antiseptic smell of the hospital made her nauseous, and for a moment, she thought she might actually pass out. Not just from the scent, but from the memories. She hadn’t been in a hospital since those long, lonely nights six weeks ago, when she’d kept vigil over her mother, waiting for her to die.

Dr. Allen patted her hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you sprung as soon as I can. In the meantime, try to enjoy our hospitality. I’ve given you a mild painkiller to make you a little more comfortable. Relax and let the medication take effect. Doctor’s orders. You look as if you could use a little downtime.”

Downtime? Valerie wasn’t even sure she remembered what that was. She’d been operating on nervous energy and caffeine for so long, she was afraid to stop, afraid that if she did, she might never get going again.

But in spite of her determination to get out of there as quickly as possible, the medication made her feel a bit woozy, and she knew there was no way she could get herself home, let alone to Austin Colter’s press conference.

Maybe I should call Julian, she thought, but even that task seemed too great.

Besides, she didn’t feel like dealing with her boss at the moment. He would be more interested in getting a good story than in her welfare, and Valerie wasn’t up to any questions. She first wanted to sort out what had happened for herself, but she couldn’t seem to stay focused. Her mind began to drift as the drug took effect, and suddenly she was back in the little house in a Chicago suburb where she’d grown up, going through her mother’s personal belongings the day after the funeral.

Valerie had wanted to get the painful job over with as quickly as possible. But that afternoon, she’d found more than just possessions in her mother’s house. More than just memories. She’d found a truth so devastating, her life had been changed forever.

For over thirty years, Valerie had believed her father guilty of the heinous crime for which he had been convicted. Why else had she and her mother been called such vile and vicious names after her father’s arrest? Why else had their home been targeted for terrorism? And more important, why else had she and her mother fled town in the middle of the night? Why had her mother changed their names, hidden their true identities, if not to escape the stigma of being the wife and daughter of a child-killer?

For over thirty years, Valerie had tried to hide from her past; from the shame and self-doubt that were almost consuming at times. She was the daughter of an infamous kidnapper who had taken the life of a child. What did that make her? Cletus Brown’s blood ran in her veins. Was she like him in any way? Was she, herself, capable of violence?

For over thirty years, Valerie had never allowed herself to become close to anyone. She’d never had any friends to speak of, had never gotten involved in a serious relationship. She’d told herself it was because she was too busy building a career, but deep down, she’d always known it was because she was afraid that the terrible names people had called her in the past—the awful things they’d screamed at her when her father had been arrested—were true. That she was tainted, the offspring of a monster.

Only in her dreams had her father remained an innocent man. Only in her dreams was the real villain the man with the cold, black eyes. A man Valerie had never been able to forget.

For over thirty years, Sergeant Colter had haunted her sleep.

But it wasn’t until after her mother’s death, when Valerie had found her mother’s diary hidden away among a cache of newspaper clippings and books about the Kingsley kidnapping, along with mementos from their former life, that Valerie had finally understood why she’d never been able to forget Sergeant Colter.

Her instincts about him had been right. He was an evil man who had set her father up. He’d made her father take the fall for a crime he hadn’t committed. Cletus Brown was an innocent man.

Valerie’s mother had gone to her grave still believing in him. They hadn’t left Memphis because Grace Brown thought her husband guilty, but because she was afraid for her daughter’s safety. There were men in Memphis, powerful men, who were willing to kill to keep Cletus Brown behind bars. To keep the truth from coming out.

And so Violet and Grace Brown had disappeared, and Cletus had gone silently to prison where he had remained for the past thirty-one years.

As Valerie had read her mother’s diary that afternoon, it had become crystal clear to her what she must do. She would prove to the world that her father was innocent. She would free him from prison, and in so doing, free herself from the awful burden of guilt she had carried with her for almost her entire life.

The very next day, Valerie had quit her job at the Chicago Sun-Times, sent her résumé to the Memphis Journal, packed up a few of her belongings, along with her mother’s diary and the box of mementos, and headed for Memphis, her birthplace, searching for truth, justice, and maybe, if she were honest with herself, a little revenge.

And now it’s come to this, she thought, still trying to fight the hold the drug had on her.

She’d known from the first that the series of articles she’d planned about the Kingsley kidnapping wouldn’t go over well with a lot of powerful people in this city. The reputations of three well-respected men were all at stake, and she’d known they wouldn’t take her accusations lying down.

The Kingsley kidnapping had affected a lot of people, and when the truth finally came out, lives would be ruined.

But one life would be saved.

And that was the only one that could be allowed to matter, Valerie thought, as she closed her eyes and finally succumbed to the medication.

THE DREAM WAS ALWAYS the same. Her name was Violet again, and she was back in that tiny house in southeast Memphis, watching through the crack in her bedroom door. She heard her mother scream, saw her father collapse to the floor, and then the big man turned and looked at Violet. Looked at her with those cold, black eyes.

The devil’s eyes.

Violet tried to scream, but no sound came out. She tried to shrink away, but couldn’t move. She was trapped, mesmerized by a gaze so dark and evil, she felt herself sinking into those bottomless depths from which she knew there would be no escape.

But she had to try. She had to try and save herself. She had to try and save her father.

Because if she didn’t, no one else would.

Violet fought her way up from the black pit. She struggled to free herself from the terror that claimed her, night after night.

As she finally reached the surface, the terror gave way to confusion, and Violet slowly became Valerie. But then she opened her eyes to find the devil himself staring down at her.

CHAPTER TWO

VALERIE GASPED and sprang up in bed.

“Take it easy. I didn’t mean to startle you.” His voice was deep and rich, not in the least threatening, but shivers scurried up Valerie’s spine. He reached out to ease her back against the pillows, but Valerie shrank away from him. “I’m Sergeant Colter,” he said.

What did one say to one’s nightmare?

“Valerie Snow,” she managed, clutching the sheet to her breast.

After her initial shock began to subside, Valerie realized who he must be. Why hadn’t she thought of it earlier? He had to be Judd Colter’s son because he was the spitting image of his father as he had looked thirty-one years ago when he’d stormed into a tiny home in southeast Memphis and changed three lives forever.

The resemblance almost took Valerie’s breath away.

She found herself staring up at him, studying his face longer than she should have, trying to analyze him with a reporter’s eye for detail.

There were subtle differences, she decided. He wasn’t exactly like his father. At least, not physically.

He was just as tall, but leaner than Judd Colter had been. His hair was just as dark, but he didn’t wear it in a military style like his father had. The thick strands brushed against his shirt collar, gleaming blue-black in the harsh fluorescent lighting.

His features were more even than his father’s. And more handsome, Valerie thought, startled to feel the quiver of butterflies in her stomach.

Oh, yes, there were definitely differences, but one thing remained the same: his eyes were just as dark and just as cold as his father’s.

Valerie shivered and tried to look away. “What do you want?”

“I need to talk to you.”

Reluctantly she met his gaze. “What about?”

One dark brow rose in surprise. Or was it condescension? “You’ve made a pretty serious accusation, Ms. Snow. Or have you forgotten?”

At first, she thought he was talking about her article, then she realized he meant the incident with the bus. “You mean when I said someone tried to kill me?”

Something flashed in his dark eyes. Something Valerie couldn’t quite define. “You didn’t say that exactly. You said you were pushed.”

She forced a harsh laugh. “Semantics, Sergeant Colter.”

“Hardly. Even if you were pushed, it could have been an accident.”

“Even if?” Valerie glared up at him. “I said I was pushed, and I was. And I think it was very deliberate.”

He took out a pen and notebook and pulled up a chair. “Why don’t we get the paperwork out of the way first, and then you can tell me what you think happened. What’s your full name?” When she hesitated, he glanced up. “Is that question too difficult for you?”

There was enough arrogance in his voice to stir her temper. Yes, and you have no idea why, she thought bitterly. “Is this going to take long?” Maybe if she stalled him, he would give up and go away. What was he going to do, anyway? Go looking for someone who had a reason to push her in front of a bus?

Well, he didn’t have far to look, did he?

“That depends on you,” he said.

She shrugged. “Guess I’m not going anywhere for a while.” That’s it, she thought. Tough it out. Don’t let him get to you.

After all, she was good at pretending, wasn’t she? She’d learned a long time ago not to let anyone see the real person, the real emotions, behind her hardened veneer.

“Your name,” he repeated, his pen poised over his notebook. His hands were large and well shaped, Valerie noticed. And ringless. He wasn’t married. She wondered why.

“Valerie Anne Snow.”

He started scribbling. “Address?”

She rattled off her street address and he wrote it down.

“All right,” he said, glancing up at her. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

“Just the facts, ma’am. Right?” When he didn’t respond to her sarcasm, Valerie shrugged and said, “Angie and I had just left work—”

“Angie?”

“Angela Casey. She writes an advice column for the Journal. That’s where I work,” she added, trying to gauge his reaction.

There was none. He appeared to be made of ice. “Go on.”

“She was meeting someone for an early dinner, and so I left her on Front Street and headed for city hall, for Austin Colter’s press conference. I wanted to get there early, before anyone else showed up—” She stopped short, wondering if that was why Sergeant Colter had arrived on the scene so quickly. Had he been headed for his cousin’s press conference, as well?

Or had his reasons been more sinister than that?

She suppressed another shiver. “I stopped at the intersection, waiting for a light. There was some kind of commotion in the crowd. Someone dropped something, I think, and while everyone was looking down, someone pushed me into the street. Pushed me hard,” she added. “Hard enough to make me fall down. It wasn’t an accident.”

“You didn’t see who it was?”

She shook her head.

“You didn’t recognize anyone in the crowd?”

“No.”

His dark, probing gaze took her measure. “How long have you been in town, Ms. Snow?”

“How do you know I wasn’t born here?” she challenged, flirting with danger.

“You may have been born here, but you haven’t lived here in several years. Your accent is, what? Midwestern? Chicago?”

“All right, you caught me,” she conceded. “I’ve only been in Memphis for six weeks.”

“What brought you here?”

“I got a job with the Journal. I’m a reporter.”

His dark eyes met hers. “Made any enemies since you’ve been here?”

Besides you and your father, you mean? “Reporters always make enemies,” she said. “We wouldn’t be doing our job if we didn’t.”

He gave her a disparaging glance. “What about your private life?”

“Are you asking if I have any jilted lovers lurking about in the bushes?”

He smiled slightly. “Something like that. Jealousy and rejection are powerful motivations. They rank right up there with revenge.”

Their gazes collided, and something jolted inside Valerie. Something she wanted to deny, but couldn’t.

What is going on here? This man is your enemy, remember?

Or at least, he was the son of her enemy. And if she forgot that fact, all she had to do was look into his eyes.

The devil’s eyes…

Must be the painkiller, she decided. The drug had dulled her senses. She’d better get rid of him.

“Look, why don’t we cut to the chase here, shall we? You asked if I’d made any enemies since I’ve been in town. We both know that I have.” She ran a tired hand through her tangled hair. “You’re Judd Colter’s son, aren’t you?”

“That’s right.” His eyes still gave away nothing.

Valerie shrugged. “Then you must know about the article I wrote for the Journal. The one about the Kingsley kidnapping. If you really want to find out who pushed me in front of that bus, maybe you should start with the three people I mentioned in that article. Including your own father, Sergeant Colter.”

A tiny spark of anger ignited in his eyes, the first emotion he’d shown since he’d walked into her room. “Are you accusing my father of attempted murder, Ms. Snow?”

When she didn’t reply, he said, “It might interest you to know that he recently suffered a stroke. He’s a very sick man. He’s hardly capable of dressing himself, much less pushing someone in front of a bus.”

An image flashed in Valerie’s mind of the way Judd Colter had looked that night all those years ago. He’d been a vigorous man, tall and muscular, at the peak of physical conditioning. For a moment she felt… what? Surely not sympathy at the thought of such a man being crippled by a stroke. She remembered her own father and why he had been sent to prison, and she lifted her chin.

“He wouldn’t have to do it himself, and in any case, there were others mentioned in the article besides Judd Colter. Your uncle, for instance. Raymond Colter was involved in the Kingsley kidnapping investigation, too, as was Captain Rawlins, an old family friend, I believe. Any one of them could have hired someone to follow me.” Her eyes narrowed as she gazed up at him. “As a matter of fact, I can’t help wondering what you were doing on that street corner, Sergeant Colter.”

He cocked his head slightly. “Is that a question or an accusation?”

Valerie shrugged.

“As you said, my cousin is holding a press conference this afternoon. I guess it was just luck that put me at the right place at the right time.”

Valerie wasn’t sure if there was sarcasm in his voice or not. She gave him a long, hard stare. “Whatever your reason for being there, the fact remains that someone tried to kill me, and I want to know what you’re going to do about it.”

“I’ll file a report as soon as I get back to headquarters.”

She looked at him incredulously. “That’s it?”

“There’ll be an investigation, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” Valerie retorted cynically. “And I’m sure no stone will be left unturned.”

He flipped his notebook closed and put it away. “You don’t like cops much, do you?”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

An ironic smile touched his lips. “Your article, for one thing.”

“Then you did read it.”

“Oh, I read it, all right.”

“And what did you think?”

It was his turn to shrug. “I guess it made me wonder what it is you really want.”

“That’s easy,” Valerie told him. “I want justice.”

“For whom?”

“Cletus Brown.”

He looked at her in disgust. “Cletus Brown kidnapped and murdered a three-year-old boy. Justice was served when my father arrested him. Justice was served when Brown was convicted by a jury of his peers and the judge sentenced him to life in prison without parole.”

“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 reputations 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.

And the Kingsleys, with their money and power and political clout, were a tabloid’s gold mine, from the tragic kidnapping thirty-one years ago, to Edward Kingsley’s rise and fall in politics, to the exploits of his son, Andrew, the surviving Kingsley twin.

The Kingsleys were the stuff headlines and scandal were made of, and Julian had given Valerie carte blanche from the moment he’d hired her.

It was ironic, Valerie thought, because with his blond hair and movie-star good looks, Julian hardly looked the part of gossipmonger. And he certainly didn’t have that kind of background. He was from a very wealthy, old-money Nashville family who had bought him the Journal as a graduation present when he’d left Harvard, expecting him to turn it into a daily that would compete with the Press Scimitar and the Commercial Appeal.

Julian, however, had had other ideas, and while his family might not agree with his methods, they could hardly argue with his success.

He grinned at Valerie, not bothering to conceal his relish for what she had just told him. “Well, well, well. I’d say your little article has hit a nerve, Val.”

“To say the least,” she agreed. “And I’m fine, thank you. The bus didn’t touch me.”

“Oh, sorry.” Julian waved an impatient hand. “But that’s obvious, isn’t it? You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“I did go to the emergency room,” she reminded him. “Where I was interrogated by Judd Colter’s son, I might add.”

Julian’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding. What was he doing there?”

“That’s what I’d like to know. He says he was going to his cousin’s press conference, but I’m not so sure. I mean, he was right there. His was the first face I saw when I came to.” Valerie shivered in spite of herself, thinking about those black eyes staring down at her.

She’d even dreamed about him last night, a disturbing turn of events. The nightmares she’d had about his father were one thing, but the dream she’d had about Brant Colter was something else entirely.

The erotic images swept through her mind now, causing her face to heat unexpectedly. She fervently hoped Julian wouldn’t notice, but she needn’t have worried. His mind was off on a different tangent altogether. “You think he could have been the one to push you in front of that bus? You know…acting on his father’s behalf, or something? I hear Judd Colter’s been ill recently.”

“He had a stroke,” Valerie said.

“Whatever. In any case, you’ve got the makings of a real headliner here. Distraught Son Tries to Protect Dying Father’s Reputation. Cop’s Outrage Turns Deadly. Something like that. You get my drift.”

Loud and clear, Valerie thought. She rubbed her throbbing temples with her fingertips. Julian always gave her a headache.

He snapped his fingers suddenly and rummaged through the pile of papers on his desk. “I almost forgot,” he said, handing her a pink message slip. “Blackman called.”

Harry Blackman was a local P.I. Julian had suggested she use. Valerie had been skeptical at first, wondering if anyone Julian recommended could be trusted, but so far, Harry Blackman had proved to be reliable as well as resourceful.

“What did he say?” Valerie asked, glancing down at the paper.

“He’s got something for you. He wants to meet with you tonight in his office.”

Valerie’s initial excitement vanished. “Tonight? Why not sooner? I’m not exactly crazy about going into his neighborhood after dark.”

“Has to be tonight. He’s out of the office all day, on some Motel Eight surveillance job or something. His associate doesn’t spell him until seven.”

“All right,” Valerie said. “If that’s the way it has to be.”

“Look, I’d go with you,” Julian said, “but I’ve already made plans for tonight. Tomorrow night, however, I’m free as a bird, and I’d like for you to accompany me to Austin Colter’s fund-raiser at the Kingsley mansion.” He dangled two tickets in front of her, and Valerie reached across the desk to snatch them out of his hand.

“How did you get these? The Journal is definitely persona non grata in his campaign camp right now.”

Julian shrugged. “My family still has some pretty important contacts in the state. I had my old man call in a few favors. Besides, at five thousand bucks a ticket, they can’t afford to be choosy. I’ll pick you up at eight. It’s black tie, by the way.”

“Should be a night to remember,” she said, wondering if Brant would be there. Somehow a black-tie fund-raiser hardly seemed his scene, but then, what did she really know about Judd Colter’s son?

AT SEVEN O’CLOCK that evening, Valerie left the Journal’s offices, climbed into her dark blue Ford Explorer and headed toward the river.

Brant pulled into traffic behind her, keeping enough distance between her Explorer and his city vehicle—a beige, nondescript sedan—so he wouldn’t be detected. He had no idea what her destination might be, but he knew that, one way or another, she was headed for trouble.

It was ironic. She’d written an article trying to destroy his father’s reputation, and now he’d been put in the precarious position of trying to protect her.

Fate, he reflected, could sure as hell play some bad jokes.

She was a good driver, he noted as she wove in and out of traffic like a pro. On first glance, he would have pegged her as the sports-car type, in something sleek and red, something fast and dangerous; but then, when he’d seen her climb into the Explorer, he’d decided that maybe she had a practical side after all.

He hoped to hell he could appeal to that practical side now, make her see reason. If someone was trying to kill her, she didn’t appear to be taking any precautions.

Instead, she turned toward the river, heading for a section of downtown that no one, least of all a woman, should be going to alone. It would be dark soon. She should be home, safe and sound, watching television or reading a good book. Not traipsing about in a dangerous part of town.

But then, he had to admit, a part of him was glad that she was. A part of him was as intrigued as hell by Valerie Snow’s daring.

She pulled into a parking lot, paid the attendant, then headed across the street to a dingy office building that had once been a cotton warehouse. Some of the warehouses along the river had been turned into posh professional buildings and studio apartments, but no one had bothered to renovate the ones in this area. They didn’t have views of the river, but were bordered by alleys that led to more warehouses at the back.

She entered the building, and Brant quickly parked and followed her inside. The elevator door was closing as he walked into the dim, unattended lobby. A bank of mailboxes lined a wall across from a wooden stairway that led to the upper floors. Brant checked the boxes, looking for a name he might recognize. Blackman Security, on the fifth floor, caught his attention.

Harry Blackman was a security expert who used to work for his uncle Raymond. According to Raymond, Harry Blackman had once been the best in the business, but a drinking problem had led to his downfall, and Raymond had had to fire him. Their relationship had ended with bad feelings all around, and since then, Harry had become a small-time P.I., sometimes con man, hustling work wherever he could get it. He’d had run-ins with the police department more than once.

Brant checked the other businesses in the building, but none of them—independent insurance agents and accountants, for the most part—seemed likely prospects. If Valerie was mixed up with the likes of Harry Blackman, she didn’t know what she was getting herself into.

Brant started up the stairs, but a shadow moved by one of the grimy windows, drawing his attention. Probably a vagrant, he decided, or someone who worked in one of the warehouses at the back, but still, it wouldn’t hurt to check it out. Valerie was upstairs and would likely be there for several more minutes.

Brant hurried outside and entered the alley. Though darkness fell late in July, the street was full of shadows. Most of the evening traffic had long since disappeared from this part of town. Only the homeless and druggies looking for a fix would be caught out after dark down here.

And cops following beautiful women, Brant thought, hugging the warehouse as he made his way to the back of the building.

He stood still for a moment, listening to the darkness. A faint clanging sound came to him, drawing his attention upward. A metal fire escape led to the upper floors, and he thought he detected a movement on one of the landings.

Without a second thought, Brant started climbing.

HARRY BLACKMAN was probably the most formidable-looking man Valerie had ever met. It wasn’t just the fact that he was huge—well over six feet and at least two hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle—nor the fact that his head was completely bald with a dagger tattooed at the back.

What Valerie found so intimidating was the fact that he always wore a weapon, a .357 Colt Python strapped to his side, in plain view. She had no idea if he carried the weapon on the street or not, or whether he even had a permit for it. She’d never met him any place other than his office, and the gun was always there, like a crucial appendage he couldn’t live without.

Valerie supposed it was the nature of his occupation, or perhaps the location of his office, that made Harry overly cautious, but whatever the case, she found it hard to keep her mind—and her eyes—off that gun.

“All right, here’s the deal,” he said, in a voice that sounded like two sheets of sandpaper being rubbed together. “I’ve located the woman you’re after. She’s in New Orleans.”

Valerie’s heart quickened. “Is? That means she’s still alive?”

He nodded. “She’s going by the name Marie LaPierre. Has been for over twenty-five years. She owns a voodoo shop in the Quarter.”

A voodoo shop? Somehow that seemed appropriate to Valerie. There were so many strange things about her father’s case.

“Here’s the address.” Harry shoved a crumpled piece of paper across the desk toward her. Valerie noticed, as she had before, the tiny tattoos on each of his knuckles, but she’d never been able to tell what the images were.

“The guy you’re looking for. This Odell Campbell. He’s in a nursing home in Madison, a small town fifty miles north of here. He’s suffering from Alzheimer’s, the advanced stages, so I doubt he’ll be able to tell you much.”

Valerie’s heart sank at that news. She’d hoped to be able to convince her uncle to tell the truth after all these years. He was her mother’s brother, so he had to have some goodness in him. But now it looked as if it didn’t matter whether he did or not. Odell would, in all likelihood, be of no use to her.

Still, Valerie took the address of the nursing home from Harry. She knew she would pay her uncle a visit for one simple reason: other than her father, he was the only living relative she had left on this earth.

“What was that?” Harry said.

“What was what?” So lost in thought had Valerie been, she had no idea what he was talking about.

Harry stood and drew his weapon. Valerie gasped, but he motioned for silence just as the window behind him shattered.

“Get down!” he shouted, plastering himself against the wall.

He didn’t have to tell her twice. Valerie hit the floor behind Harry’s desk as he reached over and turned off the light. The office fell into darkness, but enough illumination filtered in through the broken window that Valerie could see Harry silhouetted against the wall. He was moving toward the window, but another shot rang out, and he fell back for just a split second, then sprang forward, firing through the broken glass.

Valerie huddled against the desk, her hands over her ears, her heart pounding in terror. She looked up to see Harry heading toward the door.

“Harry!”

“Stay there,” he ordered. “He’s going in through a window. I’m going after him.”

“But—”

Harry disappeared through the door, and Valerie was left alone in the darkness. She wondered what she should do. Harry had told her to stay put, but she didn’t like the idea of remaining here in the dark, all by herself, while someone who had been shooting at either Harry or her or both of them roamed the building.

She would make a run for it, Valerie decided. Get to her car.

No, maybe she should use the phone. Call the police. But then, she didn’t exactly trust the police, did she?

All right, then, she would run for it. Done.

She edged to the end of the desk and peered around, toward the window. Someone was easing over the ledge, and for a moment, relief surged through her. “Harry,” she whispered. Then the man straightened, and she realized he was as tall as Harry, but not nearly as bulky.

The man stood for a moment, looking around, getting his bearings. Then, very deliberately, he moved toward the door. Valerie flattened herself against the desk, praying he wouldn’t see her.

As he passed by her, something triggered a flash of recognition inside Valerie. Suddenly she knew the man inside the office with her was Brant Colter. For a moment, she started to call out, but then she realized that his movements were suspect, to say the least. What was he doing here, in Harry Blackman’s office, moments after she’d been shot at?

He opened the door into the hallway, looked out, and then, in a heartbeat, was gone. Valerie sat huddled on the floor, her heart beating a rapid staccato inside her.

Brant Colter was here. Just like he’d been on the scene the day she’d been pushed in front of the bus. Had he been the one shooting into the office just minutes ago?

She got to her feet and stood in the darkness. She had to get out of here. Now. Her every instinct screamed in warning, and Valerie wasn’t one to ignore them. Crossing the floor to the door, she peered into the corridor. It was empty. The doors that opened to the other offices were all closed, and only a dim light near the elevator illuminated the gloomy hallway.

She started down the corridor when she heard the unmistakable clang of the elevator, and saw the Up arrow lit. Someone was heading up to the fifth floor. But who? Harry? Brant Colter coming back? Or was there a third person in the building? The gunman?

Valerie whirled and ran down the hallway toward Harry’s office. She vaguely recalled seeing the stairwell door somewhere off to her left, and she tried all the doors along the way until she found one that was unlocked. She pushed it open just as the elevator came to a halt and the doors slid open.

Trying not to make a sound, Valerie stood just inside the stairwell, leaving the door opened a crack so that she could look out. Someone hurried down the corridor. As he drew even with Harry’s door, he paused for a moment, and Valerie held her breath, wondering if he had heard the pounding of her heart in the darkness of the stairwell.

She didn’t recognize the man. He kept his face averted, so that she couldn’t see his features, but Valerie had the distinct impression from the way he stood that he was a good deal older than either Brant or Harry.

He carried a gun, and as Valerie stood watching him, she saw him check the clip with a smooth, practiced motion that made her wonder how often he’d done that very same thing in the past. Could he be a professional hit man? Hired to get rid of her?

The thought was almost her undoing. Her hand, sweaty with fear, slipped on the doorknob, and the door clicked shut. Even as slight as it was, there was no mistaking the sound, and Valerie knew she’d given herself away. She turned and headed for the stairs, slipping off her shoes as she ran.

Instead of going down, she went up. The gunman would expect her to try and reach the street, wouldn’t he? By going up, she hoped she could lose him.

In stocking feet, she flew up the stairs and pulled open the door to the roof. It was hot and muggy outside. The low-hanging clouds over the river were heavy with moisture. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Valerie knew there would be rain soon. She wondered if that would help or hinder her escape. She wondered where Harry was. And Brant Colter. Was he working with the gunman? Were the two of them stalking her together?

Valerie didn’t dare stop to think about her predicament. She had to concentrate on finding a way out of here.

She hurried to the side of the building and looked over. The wall was smooth and sheer, five stories to the ground. There had to be a fire escape around here somewhere, she thought. Another warehouse backed up against this one, and an eight-foot gulf separated the two roofs. For a moment, Valerie contemplated jumping across, but even though she’d never been afraid of heights, the gap looked wider by the moment.

She turned and started toward the other side just as the roof door opened. The opening lay in shadow, but she saw the gunman standing in the doorway. She couldn’t see his face, but she saw him lift his hand as he spotted her.

Valerie heard a soft, spitting sound as a silenced bullet whizzed by her ear like a bee. She turned and charged back to the edge of the roof. There was no other way, no time to warn herself she might not be able to make it. She caught her breath, and before she had time to think, she was flying through space as the wall of the second building rushed to meet her.

If she hadn’t panicked at the last second, she would have cleared the space with room to spare. As it was, she began to reach for a handhold before she’d made it across. Her momentum slowed, and Valerie grabbed desperately for the edge of the roof.

And missed.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE IMPACT JARRED her body as she slammed into the wall. She screamed and closed her eyes as her arms flailed wildly for purchase.

Then, miraculously, someone grabbed her. A hand closed around one of her wrists like a vise, and Valerie dangled in midair. Her head spun dizzily as she heard a familiar voice say, “Don’t look down. I’ve got you.”

Valerie looked up. She couldn’t see his face in the darkness, but she knew who he was. Brant Colter had saved her life.

Or had he? How much longer would he hold on to her?

With her other arm, Valerie reached out and grabbed a drainpipe.

“Let go,” Brant said. “I’ll pull you up.”

Let go? Not in this lifetime. Valerie closed her eyes, willing her strength. Her arms were on fire. She knew she wouldn’t be able to hang on much longer. In fact, if it weren’t for Brant’s grip on her wrist, she might already have plunged to her death.

But still, something wouldn’t let her release the drainpipe. Something wouldn’t let her trust Brant Colter.

“We can’t stay out here like this all night,” he said impatiently. “In case you hadn’t noticed, someone was shooting at you a minute ago.”

“Was it you?” Valerie gasped.

“Yeah, that makes sense.” His breath was beginning to tell from the strain. “I shoot at you one minute, and the next, I’m trying to keep you from falling off a roof. Now, turn loose before we both hit the pavement.”

In spite of herself, Valerie glanced down. She couldn’t help herself. The ground seemed a million miles away. “How do I know you won’t drop me?” she asked desperately.

“I guess you’ll just have to trust me, won’t you?”

Valerie’s fingers slipped on the drainpipe. She was hanging on by hardly more than her imagination. “I’m falling,” she whispered. “Oh, God—”

Just as her fingers slid from the pipe, Brant grabbed her other wrist, gave a mighty heave, and pulled her to safety. Valerie scrambled over the edge of the building and collapsed, panting from exertion and terror.

“Come on,” Brant said, tugging her to her feet. “It’s not a good idea for us to stay out here in the open.”

“I don’t hear any gunshots,” Valerie said weakly, allowing herself to be pulled up and along the roof toward the opposite side. “Maybe he gave up and left.”

“Maybe,” Brant said, but he didn’t sound too confident. “There should be a fire escape around here somewhere. Let’s find it before he does.”

“Who’s ‘he’?”

There was a slight hesitation before Brant said, “I was hoping you could tell me.”

“You’re the cop. I’m just a reporter.” A very frightened reporter.

“You don’t have any idea who might want you dead?”

“I’ve already told you what I think,” Valerie said. Brant located the fire escape and started over the side of the building, but her words stopped him. A break in the clouds allowed enough moonlight to filter through so that she could see his face. His eyes.

She shivered.

“I can assure you it wasn’t my father chasing you over that roof. He can hardly walk across a room without a cane these days.”

“Yes, but as I pointed out yesterday,” Valerie replied, trying to ignore the coldness in his dark gaze, “he wouldn’t have to do it himself, would he? Your father must have a lot of contacts, on both sides of the law.”

She could sense his anger in the darkness. It was almost a tangible thing, and yet there was another emotion that was perhaps even stronger. Valerie would almost have named it doubt—or even fear—if she didn’t know better. “We obviously aren’t going to come to any agreement on this subject tonight, so why don’t we concentrate on getting out of here in one piece? Agreed?”

Valerie took a deep breath. “Agreed.”

He extended his hand. “Come on, then.”

Reluctantly, she reached out and took his hand. At the very moment her fingers touched his, a clap of thunder rolled across the heavens as the storm neared downtown. Valerie jumped back, as if she’d been burned.

“It was just thunder,” Brant said, obviously mistaking her reaction for fear.

“I—I’m glad it wasn’t a gunshot,” Valerie muttered. She ignored Brant’s offer of help and grabbed the ladder, stepping cautiously onto the first rung. The metal stair was fastened directly into the brick wall and looked as old as the building itself. Valerie fervently hoped the fasteners would hold. It had probably been years since the ladder had taken any weight.

The metal creaked and moaned as they descended. Valerie was very aware of Brant, going down the steps in front of her. If he looked up, he would have an unobstructed view of her legs. For some reason, the thought made shivers run up and down her spine.

When they neared the ground, Brant jumped from the ladder, then placed his hands around her waist and lifted her down, holding her for a fraction longer than was necessary. Valerie turned in his arms and looked up at him.

A flash of lightning illuminated his face briefly, so that Valerie could see the distinct angles and planes of his features, the tiny cleft in his chin, the darkness of his eyes. She’d seen that face in her nightmares for more than thirty years, but it had never frightened her more than it did at this moment.

She had the wildest notion that he was going to try and kiss her, and wondered what she would do if he did. Push him away? She wanted to believe that she would, but at the moment, that didn’t seem a likely prospect. Not with her heart pounding away inside her. Not with her skin tingling in awareness where he touched her.

“We shouldn’t be here like this,” he said softly. “It’s too dangerous.”

“I know.” Her teeth chattered in spite of the heat. He wasn’t talking about the gunman, and they both knew it. But he took her arm anyway, and pulled her into the deeper shadows of the building. As quietly as they could, they made their way around to the street.

“Where do you think Harry is?” Valerie whispered.

Brant shrugged. “Harry Blackman can take care of himself. Right now, we have to get you out of here.”

“How do you know Harry?” she asked in surprise.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he said dryly. “But another time. Come on.”

He pulled her out of the shadows, and they ran across the street to the parking lot. Valerie dug her keys out of her purse and used the remote to unlock her car. Brant opened the door for her, and she slid in.

“Aren’t you coming?” she asked in alarm.

“Not yet.” When she hesitated he said, “Get out of here. Hurry.”

“But—”

“Go.” He slammed the door and stepped back. Valerie started the engine and peeled out of the parking lot. In her rearview mirror, she saw Brant run across the street, heading back to the warehouse.

Was he searching for the gunman? she wondered. Or meeting an accomplice?

BRANT DREW HIS GUN and entered the building through the front door. He paused at the foot of the stairs, listening for sounds of the intruder, but all he heard was the dull hum of the air-conditioning system. He started up, watching the shadowy corners and crevices above him. When he got to the fifth floor, he pushed open the stairwell door and peered out into the deserted hallway.

As he stood listening, faint sounds came to him from the end of the corridor. Shuffling papers. A voice muttering an oath. Brant stepped cautiously out of the stairwell and made his way down the hall to the open door of Harry Blackman’s office.

Blackman stood behind his desk, cursing a blue streak as he flung files around the office helter-skelter. A small trickle of blood oozed down the side of his face unnoticed.

For a moment, Brant went unnoticed, too. Then Blackman looked up and saw his gun.

“Well, hell,” he said and sat down heavily in his chair. “Who are you?”

“Police officer,” Brant replied, flashing his badge.

“Who the hell called the cops?” Blackman demanded. “The chick? Where is she?”

“Safe, for the moment. And no one called me,” Brant said. “I was in the area and heard shots.”

Blackman gave him a skeptical look. “No cop is ever in this area unless he has extracurricular business to attend to.” His gaze narrowed. “Wait a minute. Wait just a damned minute. I know you.”

“Sergeant Brant Colter. Memphis Police Department.”

“Colter. I knew it.” A string of expletives burst from Blackman’s mouth. He looked at Brant in disgust. “You wouldn’t happen to be Raymond Colter’s boy, would you?”

“Nephew.” Brant put away his gun and walked into the office, stopping just short of Blackman’s desk, which was littered with papers and files.

Blackman sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “That’s right,” he mused. “Raymond’s boy is some kind of hotshot D.A. or something. I read about him in the paper the other day. Said he’s running for Congress. Who would have thought a little snot-nosed brat like him would have ever amounted to a hill of beans? But then, that kid had the makings of a politician, even back when I worked for Raymond. Always real devious-like. Always snooping around in other people’s business.”

If Blackman expected Brant to come to his cousin’s defense, he was in for a big surprise. “Looks like you took a pretty mean hit,” he said grimly. “Mind telling me what happened here?”

“You know as much as I do,” Blackman growled. “You heard the shots. Someone fired into my window. I went after him, he coldcocked me and got away. End of story. At least until I get my hands on the slimy little bas—”

“Did you get a look at him?”

Blackman shook his head. “Hell, no. Sucker jumped me from behind. Hit me in the back of the head.”

“Then how did you cut your forehead.”

Blackman’s expression grew even darker. “I was standing at the top of the stairs when he jumped me. Damned lucky I didn’t break my neck.” He wiped a sleeve across the cut without flinching.

Blackman was tough, no question. At least two hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle. Taking him out, even from behind and in darkness, would have been no mean feat. It would have been easier just to shoot him, but obviously, he hadn’t been the target.

Which meant Valerie had been.

“What kind of work are you doing for Valerie Snow?” Brant asked.

“That’s privileged information.”

“This is a police investigation. Valerie Snow’s life is in danger, and I’d appreciate your cooperation. In fact, I’m going to have to demand it.”

“That so?” Blackman leaned forward, his eyes flashing fire. “All right, let me level with you, then. Valerie Snow has a thing about the police. She doesn’t trust cops, especially ones named Colter, and neither do I. Your uncle did a real number on me, and I haven’t forgotten. You’re the last person I’d tell squat to.”

Brant could feel his own temper rising, but he tried to hold it in check. “You may not have a choice. I could get a warrant to search your office, seize your files, shut you down indefinitely. In short, I could make your life miserable, Blackman, if I’ve a mind to.”

Blackman cocked a dark brow. “Yeah? Well, what else is new. The cops have been harassing me for years, ever since Raymond fired me. If you’ve got questions, you go to my client for answers. But I doubt she’ll tell you anything.”

Brant doubted it, too. Blackman was right. Valerie Snow didn’t trust him, and for one simple reason: he was Judd Colter’s son.

He had a sudden flash of the way she’d looked earlier, gazing up at him. The way she’d felt in his arms. He’d wanted to kiss her. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted to kiss a woman so badly. She was beautiful and mysterious and tough as nails. A potentially lethal combination if Brant had ever seen one, but that knowledge didn’t lessen his attraction for her. Just the opposite, in fact.

Who was she? he wondered again. Who was she, really?

Brant started to question Blackman further, but then he spotted the corner of a file jutting out from beneath Blackman’s desk. Brant stooped and picked it up, glancing at the handwritten label on the folder. Naomi Gillum.

He handed the folder to Blackman. “This what you’re looking for?”

Blackman grabbed the file and opened it. The contents, whatever they had been, were missing, and with another explosion of expletives, Blackman flung the empty folder to the floor.

VALERIE LET HERSELF into her duplex and turned off the alarm system, thankful she’d had the presence of mind to have one installed when she’d first moved in. Her apartment had been broken into numerous times in Chicago, and she’d learned the hard way that a good security system could save a lot of wear and tear on her nerves.

Well, her nerves had certainly taken a beating tonight, she thought wearily, slipping out of her shoes as she headed for the kitchen. Someone had shot into Harry Blackman’s office while she’d been inside. There was a chance, of course, that Harry had been the target, but she didn’t think that was likely. Not after the bus incident yesterday.

Twice. Twice in two days her life had been threatened.

Or maybe someone was just trying to scare her. When she thought about it, that seemed the more reasonable possibility. After all, she lived alone. Other than the alarm system, she took no particular safety precautions. If someone really wanted to kill her, would it be all that difficult to do?

Valerie shivered. In fact, it would be quite easy. She was all alone. She could go missing for days, and there wouldn’t be a single, solitary soul to look for her. To ask questions. To worry and wonder about her whereabouts.

The only person who had ever really cared about her was her mother, and she was gone now. Valerie had no one.

No, that wasn’t really true, she thought, as she poured herself a glass of wine. Her father cared about her. At least, he once had. Maybe he would again if she were to free him from prison.

Is that the real reason why you’re doing this? she asked herself grimly, pausing to stare at her reflection in the window above the sink. So you won’t be alone?

Valerie wanted to believe her motives were completely altruistic: that she was working to free her father because he was an innocent man. Truth to be told, however, she knew her reasoning was a lot more complicated than that. She knew that freeing her father was a way of freeing herself—from the feelings of guilt and unworthiness that had followed her throughout her entire life.

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