Kingsley Baby Trilogy: The Hero's Son\The Brother's Wife\The Long-Lost Heir (13 page)

“All right,” she said with reservation. “We'll drive up on Saturday. But if anything happens to Denver in the meantime…”

“What?” Brant said wearily. “You'll hold me responsible?”

“I didn't say that.”

“You didn't have to.” She heard the resolve in his voice, and maybe a touch of anger. “But no matter what you think, I am on your side, Valerie. I don't know how many times I have to tell you, I want the truth as much as you do.”

“I know.” But it was what he would do with that truth once they found it that worried Valerie.

T
HE TWO DAYS
went by faster than Valerie would have imagined. She updated her notes, wrote a piece about Naomi Gillum's death and what her testimony would have meant to Cletus Brown's case, then asked Harry Blackman to find out what he could on the off-duty police officers who had worked security for the Kingsleys the night little Adam had been kidnapped.

Surprisingly, Julian had been out of town when Valerie got back from New Orleans and hadn't yet returned. No one in the office seemed to know where he'd gone off to. Although his absence was a little strange, Valerie hadn't worked for the
Journal
long enough to pay it much mind. She had other things that concerned her more.

Like interviewing James Denver.

Shortly after seven o'clock on Saturday morning, Brant's car pulled into Valerie's driveway. After a short argument over whose car they would take, Brant finally agreed that Valerie's Explorer might do better than his Camaro on the rural roads they would likely encounter.

Then another discussion ensued over who would drive first, and this time Brant prevailed. He knew the fastest way out of the city—or so he claimed—and so Valerie reluctantly handed over the keys.

Within twenty minutes, they were crossing the bridge into Arkansas, where they took Highway 64 heading due west, driving along an endless landscape of rice, cotton and soybean fields. Two hours later, they turned north, taking Highway 167 into Batesville, and from there passing through the quaint-sounding towns of Evening Shade, Horseshoe Bend, and finally, Paradise.

The town was lovely, with tree-lined streets and charming little houses that boasted overflowing flower boxes, pastel-colored shutters and porch swings that swayed in the breeze. They stopped at a gas station to fill up and buy soft drinks, and Brant asked directions to Denver's place. The address he'd been given was a rural route, and so they'd assumed Denver didn't live in the town proper, but somewhere on the outskirts.

The man behind the counter in the gas station took off his John Deere cap, scratched his head, and looked perplexed. “Donny,” he said to a man sitting behind the counter in a cane-seated chair that rested on two legs. “Ain't that the guy who bought the old Sheridan place?”

Donny, a younger version of the man behind the counter, shoved back his own cap and let the chair plop forward on all four legs. “Yeah, that's him. Came from up north somewhere. Fishes a lot. Probably find him out on the lake, this time of day.”

The man behind the counter nodded his agreement. He drew a little map on the back of a paper sack and handed it to Brant. “Your truck got four-wheel drive?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact it does,” Valerie said.

The man spared her a glance, then turned his attention back to Brant. “Them roads out there get pretty rugged this time of year. Supposed to rain later, a real
gully-washer. The whole road could go. If you ain't got four-wheel drive, you could get stuck out there for days.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Brant said. He paid for the drinks and the gas, and he and Valerie left.

“Did you see that?” she grumbled. “They wouldn't even look at me. It was as if I wasn't even there.”

“Maybe you intimidated them,” Brant teased. “A glamorous big-city girl like you.”

She gave him a sour look. “Yeah, right.” She hardly looked glamorous today, dressed in jeans, a Northwestern T-shirt and sneakers. Still, as Brant's gaze roamed over her, Valerie felt a little tingle of satisfaction that he obviously approved of her appearance.

She waited until he had turned his attention to his driving, then she secretly gave him a once-over. He was wearing jeans, too, faded and snug, and a work shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

It was strange, she thought pensively. This man had saved her life once. He'd kissed her passionately twice. But she didn't even know what kind of music he listened to, or what kind of books and movies he favored. What did he like to do on his days off?

She tried to tell herself it didn't matter what kind of person he was, because once she found out the truth, once she'd freed her father from prison, she would never see Brant Colter again.

But that knowledge gave her no comfort. Far from it. She found herself wanting to know everything there was to know about him, every mundane detail, so she could save it up and have something to think about in the future, to remember and savor on those cold, lonely nights in Chicago.

Chicago. The place seemed a million miles away. In the back of Valerie's mind, she'd always planned to go back once her mission was over. She'd always thought that she would pick up her old life right where she'd left off, but she realized now that that life was gone. Forever. She couldn't go back, and with something of a shock, it came to her that she didn't want to go back.

Then what
do
you want?
she asked herself seriously as they bounced along a gravel road, heading toward the lake.

It was a question she couldn't answer. Didn't dare answer.

* * *

J
AMES
D
ENVER'S FISHING
boat was hardly more than a dark speck on the horizon as Brant and Valerie stood on the wooden dock and waited. The sun had been shining for almost their entire trip, but just as the man at the gas station had predicted, rain clouds gathered in the east. The lake darkened, looking like yards and yards of undulating gray satin.

Valerie shivered as the wind picked up, whipping the reeds in the shallow water near the shore into a frenzy. The lake grew steadily darker, and the cypress knees protruding from the surface took on an ominous appearance, like wrinkled old gnomes rising from their watery lairs.

The speck on the horizon grew larger as James Denver headed his boat back to shore and to safety. The craft bobbed up and down in the churning water, like the cork on the end of a fishing line.

Finally they could hear the engine put-putting over the sound of the wind in the trees and the water lapping at the shore. Within moments, he pulled the boat
alongside the wooden dock, and Brant leaned down to help him secure it.

“Much obliged,” Denver said as he lifted a string of perch from the boat.

“Nice catch,” Brant commented.

“Not bad. I've done worse.” Denver climbed from the boat onto the dock. He shoved his fishing hat back on his head, exposing a lock of white hair, and gave them a curious glance. “You folks waiting for me?”

He was tall and thin, with slightly stooped shoulders beneath the plaid shirt he wore. His eyes were blue, light and piercing. Valerie had the impression nothing much got past him.

“I'm Sergeant Brant Colter,” Brant said, extending his ID. “Memphis Police Department. And this is Valerie Snow.”

Denver's blue eyes narrowed on her. “Have we met?”

“No, never,” Valerie replied quickly. “I'm a reporter working on a story about the Kingsley kidnapping.”

“The Kingsley kidnapping?” He pinned Valerie with a gaze so penetrating, she thought he must surely be able to read her mind. “That was a long time ago.”

Valerie could feel the wooden planks beneath her feet sway, and she grew slightly dizzy. “You were one of the special agents called in on the case,” she said.

“That's right.” He turned suddenly to Brant. “There was a cop on that case, one of the local boys named Colter. Judd Colter. Any relation?”

“He's my father,” Brant said, showing no emotion.

Denver nodded without comment. He stood silently for a moment, then motioned toward the house. “We'd
better head on up. The weather's likely to get nasty pretty fast.”

He started up the dirt path toward the house, and Valerie and Brant followed. Once they'd climbed the wooden steps to the porch, Denver said, “I'll just put the fish on ice and be right back out.”

It seemed to Valerie that he pointedly did not invite them inside, and she wondered if it was because he was hoping to get rid of them quickly. In a few moments, he came back out, minus the hat and rubber boots, having replaced the latter with a pair of well-worn Reeboks. Taking out a pipe and pouch of tobacco, he lit up and sat down in a cane-seated rocker, the only chair on the porch.

Brant perched on the porch railing, and Valerie stood nearby, watching the two men warily and wondering what was going through each of their minds.

Fat raindrops splattered against the tin roof of the porch—a pleasant enough sound any other time, but Valerie found the noise oddly intrusive, as if the weather were trying to drown out what James Denver might have to say.

He took the pipe from his mouth and rocked slightly to and fro. “What, exactly, are you two after?”

“The truth,” Valerie said bluntly. “You didn't believe Cletus Brown was guilty. I want to know why you never spoke out.”

His calm blue gaze took her measure. “I had no proof,” he said, without disputing her claim. “Just a gut feeling that the wrong man had been arrested.”

“You had Naomi Gillum's statement,” Valerie countered. “You knew she had been with Cletus Brown on the night of the kidnapping. You knew he had an alibi.”

Denver's eyes registered a mild surprise as he regarded her thoughtfully. “How did you find out about the Gillum woman?”

“I hired a private investigator to track her down,” Valerie replied, not telling him the whole story. “I talked to her a few nights ago in New Orleans, before she was murdered.”

His gaze sharpened on her. “Murdered?”

“That's right,” Valerie said. “Murdered. But before she was killed, she told me that you had come to see her back then. She said you didn't believe Cletus Brown was guilty, and you were conducting your own investigation and needed her help. But then she started getting threatening phone calls. She got scared and bolted.”

“I wondered what happened to her,” Denver said quietly. “I figured it was something like that.”

“Do you know who might have threatened her?” Valerie asked. She glanced at Brant, who had remained suspiciously quiet for several minutes.

“No,” Denver said, though his tone implied that he had his suspicions.

“Do you think it might have been someone in the police department?”

He shrugged. “The locals were under a lot of pressure with that investigation. They'd moved too quickly on the first ransom call, before we had time to get our people in place. And they bungled it, badly. They were taking a beating in the press, both locally and nationally. I was afraid they'd rushed to judgment on Cletus Brown just to save face. And then after the arrest, even after Naomi Gillum came forward, it was too late. To admit they'd made another huge mistake would have been disastrous for morale.”

Valerie looked at him in disbelief. “Are you condoning railroading an innocent man just to save face? Just to bolster morale?”

Denver glanced up at her. “I didn't say that. I'm just trying to explain how things were back then.”

“You still haven't explained why you never came forward,” Valerie said. “What happened to your own investigation?”

“Once Naomi Gillum disappeared, I didn't have much to come forward with. Cletus Brown suddenly had a change of heart and decided to amend his statement. He claimed he was alone on the night of the kidnapping. He didn't have an alibi.”

“Because someone got to him, too,” Valerie explained. “Someone was threatening his wife and child if he didn't keep quiet about Naomi Gillum.”

“Maybe,” Denver said. “But there was little I could do after that, except to keep my eyes and ears open. Watch for other inconsistencies in the case.”

“And did you find any?”

He hesitated. A frown creased his brow as he brought his pipe up to his mouth and puffed pensively for a moment.

“Were you present at Adam Kingsley's autopsy?” Brant asked abruptly.

Denver didn't seem as surprised by the question as Valerie was. He removed the pipe from his mouth and set it aside, then turned back to Brant. “I suspect you have a reason for asking that question.”

Brant nodded. “I recently took a look at the case file. There were no pictures of Adam Kingsley's body at the time of recovery, nor were there any autopsy photos. And the autopsy report was missing, as well.”

Denver released a long breath. He looked neither at Brant nor at Valerie, but stared out at the rain-splattered lake. “The autopsy was rushed,” he said. “The boy's body was found at around seven o'clock in the evening. The medical examiner performed the autopsy that same night.”

“Was the family called in to make an identification?” Brant asked.

Denver shook his head. “Not that I was aware of. The body was badly decomposed. Physical evidence found on the body and in the grave were used to make the identification. The boy was dressed in the same pajamas Adam Kingsley had been wearing the night he was kidnapped. There was also a blanket that the boy always slept with in the grave with him. Given the location of the grave, just two miles away from the Kingsley estate, and the stage of decomposition, it was a foregone conclusion the body was that of Adam Kingsley.”

“But what about the autopsy?” Brant asked. “Surely an attempt was made to match fingerprints, blood type and so forth.”

“To my knowledge,” Denver said slowly, “the autopsy was used to determine cause of death.”

Brant looked at him incredulously. “You've got to be kidding. There was never a positive identification made of the body buried in Adam Kingsley's grave?”

The significance of the conversation had been lost on Valerie until that moment. Her mind had been busy assimilating the previous information Denver had given them, but now Brant's last question jolted her with shock. She gazed up at Brant in horror. “Are you saying the
wrong
body may be in that grave?”

“I'm saying it's highly irregular to use clothing as a
positive means of identification. It's not only irregular, it's downright negligent.”