Kingsley Baby Trilogy: The Hero's Son\The Brother's Wife\The Long-Lost Heir (11 page)

She drew another long breath, trying to clear her thoughts. “That was how the police were able to buy Cletus's silence, too. He was told that if he talked, his wife and child would be killed. Besides, who would have believed him anyway? He was a convicted child-killer who would say anything to save his own skin.”

“And he's been in prison all these years,” Naomi said quietly.

“For a crime he didn't commit.” Valerie's voice lowered urgently. “Tell me about that night. Tell me what happened. Please. I have to know.”

If Naomi thought Valerie's urgency odd, she didn't comment. She crushed out her cigarette and lit up another. “Cletus and I met in a bar that night. He was down on his luck, couldn't find work, and he and his wife were having problems. He needed someone to talk to, and I was lonely and had a sympathetic ear. One thing led to another.” She paused. “It was just a one-night stand. It didn't mean anything. We were supposed to go our separate ways the next morning and never see each other again.”

“Did you? See each other again, I mean.”

Naomi shook her head. “No. The funny thing is, I can barely remember what he looked like. But I've never had a moment's peace since that night.”

She lifted her gaze, and Valerie thought she hadn't seen a more haunted expression since the night she'd looked into her mother's dying eyes.

“Were you threatened, Miss Gillum? Is that why you ran?”

“I knew if I stayed, I'd be killed.”

“By whom? Who threatened you?”

Naomi shook her head. “He was never anything more than a voice on the phone. But I believed him. I've never heard such evil in any man's voice.”

Judd Colter, Valerie thought, shivering. Who else could it be? “Did you ever tell anyone about that night?”

“There was one man. He came to see me a few days after Cletus was arrested. It was before I got the first threatening phone call. He wanted me to corroborate Cletus's story.”

“Who was he?”

“An FBI agent named Denver. James Denver. I don't think he trusted the local police. I don't think he believed Cletus was guilty. He said he was conducting his own investigation, but I don't know whatever became of him, because that night, I got the first phone call, and the next day, I skipped town.”

“Did you follow the trial in the papers?”

“No. I tried to block that night from my mind.”

“But you couldn't, could you? That night has haunted you all these years, hasn't it?”

Naomi met her gaze. “Why are you doing this? Why are you dredging all this up now?”

“Because Cletus Brown is still in prison. Because I don't want him to die in that place for something he didn't do.”

Naomi's faded eyes studied her intently. “Why do you care so much?”

“If I don't care, who will?” Valerie spread her hands in supplication. “Will you help me, Miss Gillum? Will you come forward and make things right?”

“This is not a decision I can make lightly.” The fear
Valerie had witnessed earlier settled over the woman's worn features like a death mask. “I'll need time to think.”

“Cletus Brown may not have much time,” Valerie pressed. “His youth has already been stolen from him. Don't let him die in that terrible place.”

She rose to leave, but Naomi said, “Wait.” As Valerie watched, she reached forward and flipped over another card. “
La Lune
signifies danger,” she said, slipping back into her Marie LaPierre personality. Her voice dropped mysteriously. “Someone wishes you harm. A man.”

Valerie's heart accelerated in spite of herself. “Who is he?”

Naomi didn't look up at her. Her hands were busy with the cards. She flipped over another. “
La Roue de Fortune.
Your destiny is tied to him.”

Valerie watched, mesmerized, as Naomi revealed a new card. “
La Maison de Dieu.
He will deceive you.”

“Who is this man?” Valerie demanded.

Naomi turned over the last card. “
Diable.
The devil.”

* * *

B
RANT WATCHED THE
building from the shadows across the street, wondering impatiently what was going on inside. Surely Valerie hadn't come all the way to New Orleans to get her palm read. What the hell was she doing in a voodoo shop?

A shadow moved in front of the window in the apartment upstairs. Brant couldn't be sure, but he thought it was Valerie. For a moment, she stood silhouetted against the light, her slim, womanly form causing a tightening of awareness inside him. She lifted a hand to shove back
her luminous cascade of hair, and Brant thought he'd never seen a movement so sensual. So arousing.

Why couldn't he get her out of his head? Why did he think about her night and day? What was it about her that had gotten to him in a way no woman had in years?

Maybe ever.

Maybe never would again.

He cursed softly, forcing his mind back to the business at hand. He hadn't followed Valerie all the way to New Orleans just to lust after her. He wanted to know what she was doing here, what she was after.

And he wanted to make sure she stayed safe.

A shudder of dread swept through him as he thought about last night. Someone had been at the Kingsley mansion who hadn't wanted to be seen. That same someone had cracked Brant over the head in the woods, then dragged him back into the garden.

And there had been mud and pine needles on shoes stuffed under his father's bed.

There had to be a plausible explanation for that, Brant thought. Maybe his father had taken a walk in the backyard before turning in. He'd made quite a lot of progress with his physical therapy in the past several months, but none of the reports had indicated that he was well enough to be traipsing about the Kingsley gardens, or that he was strong enough or agile enough to take out a man half his age. Not to mention his own son.

His father couldn't have been the man in the garden, Brant thought. But who had it been? What had he been up to? And why had none of the guards—all off-duty police officers—seen him?

After a moment, Valerie walked away from the
window and Brant could no longer see her. He stood in the sultry darkness and wondered why she had come all the way to New Orleans to find a woman, a fortune-teller, named Marie LaPierre.

He walked across the street and tried the front door of the shop, but it was bolted. His gaze lifted to the balcony that jutted over the sidewalk where he stood. The window was open, and he could hear soft voices coming from inside the apartment, but he couldn't make out what they were saying.

It would be easy enough to swing himself up to the balcony and listen at the door, but he couldn't guarantee silence. If he were caught, Valerie would know he'd followed her here, and then he wouldn't be able to learn a damn thing.

Entering a narrow alley at the side of the building, Brant found himself in a tiny brick courtyard at the rear. There was a back door to the building, and a metal fire escape that led up to a second-floor window. As he stood gazing up at the window, the light in the apartment went out.

He hurried back around to the front of the building. Within moments, the door to the shop opened, and Valerie stepped out. She looked up and down the street, as if to make sure the coast was clear, and Brant stepped back into the shadows of the building.

Seemingly satisfied, Valerie turned and said something over her shoulder. Then the door closed, and she took off walking down the street, back toward her hotel.

Brant waited until she'd rounded a corner and was out of sight before easing himself out of the shadows. This
time when he tried the front door, he found it unlocked. He let himself into the shop and stood gazing around.

“Hello?” he called. “Anyone here?”

There was no answer, but the flames of the candles danced wildly, as if the air had been stirred somewhere inside the building. Brant walked over and parted the beaded curtain, staring down a shadowy hallway. He could see the back door at the end of the corridor and the narrow stairway that led to the apartment. He called out again, but there was still no answer.

He started up the stairs. Something wasn't right, here. His instincts were on full alert.

He drew his gun and knocked on the apartment door.

* * *

V
ALERIE HAD ONLY BEEN
walking for a few minutes when she realized she'd left her purse in Naomi's apartment. Not only was the key to her room in her bag, but so were her credit cards and money, and more important, her mother's diary. No way could she wait until morning to retrieve it. If anything happened to that diary, Valerie would never forgive herself. It was her last tie to her mother, but more than that, the diary held proof—precious proof—that her father was innocent.

Valerie turned and retraced her steps. As she rounded a corner, nearing the shop, she saw a man coming toward her in the darkness. A shiver of fear slid up Valerie's spine. For a moment, she considered turning and running in the opposite direction.

Then she scolded herself for being paranoid. The two of them weren't the only ones on the street. There were several people about, and the man was probably just a harmless tourist.

But he seemed to be staring at her so intently. And in spite of the heat, he wore a trench coat. His hands were burrowed deep in his pockets, and a hat was pulled low over his face, obscuring his expression. As they passed each other, Valerie heard him murmur, “Good evening,” in a voice that sent more shivers up her spine.

She nodded and hurried on her way, glancing back once when she reached Naomi's door. The man crossed the street and entered an alley. The darkness eagerly swallowed him, and with a sigh of relief, Valerie opened the door and stepped inside the shop.

Something was different, she thought. Somehow the atmosphere had changed since she had been in there a few moments ago. The candles still flickered. The scent of spices still clung to the air, but added to it now was a more subtle fragrance. A scent that seemed both familiar and ominous.

She didn't call out. She wasn't sure why, but suddenly it seemed important that she not make a sound. That she alert no one, not even Naomi, to her presence.

Cautiously, Valerie made her way through the beaded curtain and down the hallway to the stairs. She climbed to the top. The door to the apartment stood ajar, and Valerie pushed it open with the toe of her shoe.

The door swung inward without a sound, and she stepped inside. The apartment lay in darkness, except for the flicker of candlelight in the living room. Following the beacon, Valerie crossed the floor and stood in the doorway.

The candles cast giant shadows across the room, and for a moment, she didn't see the woman lying on the floor, nor the man who knelt over her. Valerie reached for the light switch just as she saw them, but it was too
late. She'd already flipped the switch, and light flooded the room, giving her presence away.

Naomi Gillum lay on the floor between the sofa and coffee table, blood gushing from the slit in her throat.

Brant Colter knelt beside her, his hands covered in blood.

V
ALERIE WHIRLED AND RAN
.
She heard Brant call her name, but she didn't take time to wait. All she knew was that the one woman who could have cleared her father lay dead or dying on the floor, and the man whose own father she might have implicated had blood all over his hands.

Valerie hadn't trusted him to begin with. In spite of her attraction to him, in spite of her reaction to his kiss, she'd known he had a dark side. She'd suspected he had his own secrets to hide, but she'd never wanted to believe him capable of murder. Not even now, in the face of so much evidence against him.

She stumbled down the narrow stairway and fled through the curtain, into the shop. The beads clicked behind her. The flames of the candles danced wildly as she flew across the room and opened the door.

She heard him clambering down the stairs behind her, but she didn't take time to look back. She raced out the door into the darkness, heedless of her direction.

“Valerie!”

He was still behind her, outside now, racing down the street after her. Her feet pounding against the sidewalk, Valerie gasped for breath, unwilling to let herself give up. She was in good shape. She could outrun him. She
could.

He caught her arm and brought her to an abrupt halt, whirling her around to face him. Valerie looked up into those dark eyes and shivered. Then her gaze fell to his bloodstained hands—hands that were holding her against her will.

“Let me go!” she said wildly. “I'll scream. I'll—”

“I didn't kill her,” Brant said sharply, his grip tightening on her arms. “And I'm not going to hurt you.”

Valerie wrenched away from him, but for some reason she couldn't begin to understand, she didn't run. She stood facing him, fear clogging her throat, but she didn't move. Instead she stared up at him, seeing the darkness in his eyes, feeling drawn to him in spite of what had happened. “You were
there,
” she whispered desperately. “I
saw
you. No one else would have had time to come in after I left.”

He glared down at her. “Obviously, someone else did come in. It would only take a second, especially if someone was already inside the apartment.”

Valerie caught her breath. “Already inside…” Could someone have been in the apartment the entire time she had been there? Had he heard everything she and Naomi had talked about? Had he killed Naomi to keep her silent?

Valerie shook her head, as if trying to clear her dazed thoughts. She had to think rationally. She had to remember that Brant Colter had been the first one to her side the day she'd been shoved in front of a bus. He'd been at Harry Blackman's office when someone had fired shots inside. And now here he was, on the scene of a murder.

He took a step toward her, and Valerie backed away. “Don't come near me,” she warned. “Don't touch me.”

“For God's sake,” he said in exasperation. “You don't really think I killed her, do you? What possible motive could I have? I didn't even know that woman.”

“Then what were you doing here?” Valerie challenged. “Why were you following me?”

A look of guilt flashed in his eyes before he glanced back at the shop. “Look,” he said. “We have to get back there. I have to call the police.”

“You do that,” Valerie retorted. “But I'm not going back in there. I'm not going anywhere with you until you explain to me what you're doing here in New Orleans.”

“This is ridiculous. How are you going to explain to the police why you fled a murder scene? How do you think that's going to look? You were the last one to see that woman alive.”

“That's a lie!” Valerie accused. “She was still alive when I left her.
You
were the last one to see her alive.”

“She was dead when I found her. Who do you think the police are going to believe? A fellow officer or…you?”

Valerie gasped, in outrage and fear. It could happen and she knew it. Innocent people went to prison all the time. “What are you trying to pull?” she cried, trying to mask her fear behind anger.

He gazed down at her with those dark, unreadable eyes. Devil eyes. Valerie thought about the last card Naomi had turned over.
Diable.

A man would deceive her.

A man's whose destiny was tied to hers.

Valerie shivered violently, not wanting to believe
in anything as capricious as Tarot-card readings, but unable to deny the inevitable. She was tied to Brant Colter in ways she couldn't begin to understand. In ways she didn't want to understand.

He saw her shaking, and his voice calmed. “Look, I'm not trying to pull anything. I'm trying to make you see how it would look to the authorities if you run. Let's go back to the shop and talk about this rationally.”

“I don't want to go back in there,” Valerie said stubbornly. She had a feeling that if she walked back into Naomi's shop with Brant Colter, her life would never be the same. She wasn't sure if that was good or bad, but right now, she didn't think she wanted to take the chance.

“We can't keep doing this,” he said.

“Doing what?”

“Pointing the finger at each other. I know you didn't kill that woman, and deep down, you don't believe I did, either. Do you?” His gaze locked with hers, and as badly as she wanted to, Valerie couldn't look away. His dark eyes held her enthralled, mesmerized, a prisoner of her own desires.

She wanted him, and she knew it. Even now, with death and danger so nearby, she wanted him to take her in his arms, hold her close, whisper to her that everything was going to be all right.

And then later, when she was comforted…when her fears had all vanished, his whispers would speak of different things….

“I don't think you killed her,” she admitted grudgingly. “But who did?”

“That's what we have to find out.” He looked up, his gaze scouring the street, probing the shadows.

“We?” Valerie asked breathlessly.

His gaze met hers again. “Yes, we. Like it or not, we're in this together, Valerie. We have to cooperate with each other.”

Valerie glanced up at him sharply. “What exactly are you proposing?”

He smiled. “Nothing drastic. You're investigating a thirty-one-year-old kidnapping, and I'm investigating attempted murder. Yours. It's possible, probable even, that the two crimes are related.”

“I don't get this,” Valerie said slowly. “You're tied to that kidnapping in a thousand different ways. I find it very difficult to believe you would be willing to help me pursue an investigation that might end up implicating the people closest to you.”

“Or might end up clearing them,” he said quietly.

So that was his angle. If she allowed him to help her, he would be able to protect his own interests.

As if reading her thoughts, he said, “You can trust me. I give you my word I won't do anything to impede your investigation.”

“What do I get out of it?”

“You get my protection,” he said. “You get my expertise. Not to mention my access to police files.”

It was like dangling candy in front of a baby. Valerie couldn't resist the lure, even though she recognized a bribe when she saw one. “You could get the file on the Kingsley kidnapping?”

He shrugged. “I don't see why not. Call it an act of good faith on my part. I want the truth as much as you do. But in the meantime, we have work to do here.”

Valerie turned her gaze back to the shop. It seemed an eternity that they'd been standing on the street,
but in actuality, only a few minutes had passed since she'd seen Brant kneeling over Naomi Gillum's body. Valerie had thought him a killer at that moment, and now, only a short while later, she'd agreed to work with him. To allow him to help her investigate the Kingsley kidnapping.

Was she out of her mind?

* * *

V
ALERIE SAT IN A CHAIR
, trying not to squirm, as the Crime Scene Unit pored over every inch of Naomi Gillum's apartment. Two uniforms had answered the call first, followed by a detective named Melmer, a bald, middle-aged man wearing thick wire-rimmed glasses and an ill-fitting gray suit.

He'd spoken with Brant at length, the two of them talking in low tones and glancing at Valerie so often she'd begun to grow nervous. What if Brant was selling her out? How far could she trust this new alliance of theirs?

Valerie shuddered as she watched Naomi Gillum's body, now encased in a black body bag, being carried from the room. Because of her, that poor woman was dead. If Valerie had never come to New Orleans, if she hadn't been seeking the truth about the night Adam Kingsley was kidnapped, in all probability Naomi Gillum would still be alive.

Naomi's earlier prophesy came back to haunt Valerie now.
Someone wishes you harm.
But it was Naomi herself who had been harmed. Killed because she was the one woman who could have cleared Valerie's father.

“Miss Snow?”

She looked up to find Melmer standing in front of
her. From behind the thick glasses, his gray eyes probed her face, looking, she thought, for her weaknesses.

“I've spoken to Sergeant Colter. He tells me you're a reporter out of Memphis. He also tells me you visited Marie LaPierre here in her apartment, just minutes before she was killed.”

Valerie nodded, meeting Brant's dark gaze. “Yes, I did. But she was alive when I left her.”

“Did you happen to notice the time when you left?”

“No, but it couldn't have been much later than ten. I left my hotel around nine. It probably took me twenty minutes or so to get here, and then our meeting lasted maybe another twenty minutes.”

Melmer sat down in a chair facing Valerie and took out a notebook and pen. The action reminded Valerie of the first time she met Brant, when he'd come to question her in the hospital. Had that only been three days ago?

“What did you come to see her about?” Melmer questioned.

“I wanted to interview her for a story I'm working on.”

“What story would that be?”

Valerie hesitated. “The Kingsley kidnapping.”

Melmer's thick eyebrows soared. “That had to have been, what? Thirty years ago?”

“Thirty-one,” Valerie corrected.

“What was Marie LaPierre's connection?”

Again Valerie hesitated. Was it her imagination, or had Brant leaned slightly forward, as if to hear her more clearly? Even though they'd agreed to cooperate with each other, Valerie still felt uneasy sharing her secrets
with him. She still wasn't sure how far she was willing to trust him.

However, she had little choice in the matter now. She was the subject of an official police investigation, and if she wanted to eliminate herself as a suspect, she had to come clean. At least as far as her visit here tonight was concerned.

“Marie LaPierre's real name was Naomi Gillum,” she explained, avoiding Brant's deep gaze. “She lived in Memphis thirty-one years ago. I had reason to believe she might have been with Cletus Brown the night Adam Kingsley was kidnapped.”

Melmer's gaze snapped up. “Cletus Brown. If memory serves, he was convicted for kidnapping and murdering that little boy. He got life in prison.”

“That's right,” Valerie said.

“Scumbag should have gotten the chair,” Melmer said passionately. His gaze turned steely. “You aren't one of those bleeding-heart liberals trying to free the vermin we work our butts off to put behind bars, are you?”

“I'm just after the truth,” Valerie carefully replied, not wanting to make another enemy, especially one who, at the moment, had the power to make her life decidedly uncomfortable.

“Yeah, well, that's what they all say, isn't it? The creeps in prison are the poor, misguided victims of society, and the cops are always the bad guys.” He looked at her in disgust. “Lady, you aren't apt to make many friends around here, I can tell you.”

“So what else is new?” Valerie mumbled.

Brant said, “We're missing the point here, aren't we? A woman was murdered tonight, and there may be a connection to Valerie's investigation.”

Melmer glanced up at Brant.
“Colter,”
he said, as if suddenly making the connection. “If memory serves, the cop who busted Cletus Brown was named Colter. Judd Colter. You related?”

“He's my father,” Brant said.

Melmer settled in his chair, his gaze going back and forth between Brant and Valerie. “What the hell are the two of you doing down here together?”

“We're not together,” Brant said quickly, as if to distance himself from Valerie. She wondered why she resented that so much. “I'm pursuing my own investigation.”

“Into the kidnapping?”

“No. There've been two attempts on Miss Snow's life. I'm trying to find the person or persons responsible.”

Melmer drew a long, weary breath. “Damn,” he said. “I had to be the one who got dragged out on this one. Are you telling me that a fortune-teller got her throat slit tonight because she knew something about a thirty-one-year-old kidnapping and murder, and that someone tried to whack Miss Snow here because she's investigating said crime?”

“I'm saying it's possible,” Brant replied.

Melmer's eyes narrowed. “You got any suspects?”

Brant paused, long enough to start Valerie wondering. Was he holding back? Did he know something? She glared up at him, but he avoided her gaze. “I don't have any suspects at the moment, but I'll keep you informed.”

“You do that,” Melmer advised, turning his attention back to Valerie. “Just a few more questions, and then you'll be free to go. Oh, and by the way, where can I
reach you tonight if I need to? I assume you'll be staying in town?”

His meaning was not lost on Valerie. Her movements, at least for the next few hours, would be closely monitored by the New Orleans Police Department. She would be wise not to leave town suddenly, without telling them. She would be wise not to do anything that would cast suspicion upon her, because she had a feeling Melmer would like nothing better than to have an excuse to throw her in jail, with the rest of the “vermin” he so despised.