Читать книгу Night Fever - Diana Palmer - Страница 12

Chapter Four

It was a beautiful spring morning. Kilpatrick stared out the window of his elegant brick home on one of the quieter streets of Curry Station, feeling a little guilty about spending a Saturday morning in his house, instead of at the office. But Gus needed some exercise and Kilpatrick had just shaken a bad headache. No wonder, because he’d had a late night going over briefs for upcoming trials.

Gus barked. Kilpatrick reached down to ruffle the big German shepherd’s silver-and-black fur.

“Impatient, are you?” he asked. “We’ll walk. Let me get dressed.”

He was in jeans and barefoot, his hair-covered chest and stomach bare. He’d just finished a Diet Coke and a stale doughnut for breakfast. Sometimes he wished he’d kept Matilda on, instead of giving his former housekeeper notice when she’d started leaking news out of his office to the press. She was the best cook and the worst gossip he’d ever known. The house was very quiet without her, and his own cooking was going to kill him one day.

He slipped on a white sweatshirt, socks and his sneakers, and ran a comb through his thick black hair. He stared at the reflection in the mirror with a raised eyebrow. No Mr. America there, he thought, but the body was holding its own. Not that it did him much good. Women were a luxury these days, with his job taking up every waking hour. He thought about Rebecca Cullen suddenly, and tried to picture her in his bed. Ridiculous. In the first place, she was almost certainly a virgin, and in the second, her family would come between her and any potential suitor. They had every reason not to want him around, too. No, she was off-limits. He was going to have to keep telling himself that.

He looked around at his elegant surroundings with a faint smile, thinking how odd it was that the illegitimate son of a socially prominent businessman and a Cherokee Indian woman should wind up with a house like this. Only someone as gutsy as his uncle, Sanderson Kilpatrick, would have had the nerve to push Rourke out into society and dare it to reject him.

Uncle Sanderson. He laughed in spite of himself. No one looking at the portrait over the fireplace of that staid, dignified old man would ever suspect him of having an outrageous sense of humor or a heart of pure marshmallow. But he’d taught Rourke everything he knew about being wanted and loved. His parents’ deaths had been traumatic for him. His childhood had been a kind of nightmare—school, especially. But his uncle had stood behind him, forced him to accept his heritage and be proud of it. He’d taught him a lot about courage and determination and honor. Uncle Sanderson was a judge’s judge, a shining example of the very best of the legal profession. It was his example that had sent Rourke to law school, and then catapulted him into the public eye as district attorney. Get out there and do some good, Uncle Sanderson had said. Money isn’t everything. Criminals are taking over. Do a job that needs doing.

Well, he was doing it. He hadn’t liked being a public figure, and the campaign after he’d served one year of his predecessor’s unexpired term had been hell. But he’d won, to his amazement, and he liked to think that since then he’d taken some of the worst criminals off the street. His pet peeve was drug trafficking, and he was meticulous in his preparation of a case. There were no loopholes in Kilpatrick’s briefs. His uncle had taught him the necessity of adequate preparation. He’d never forgotten, to the dismay of several haphazard public defenders and high-powered defense attorneys.

Uncle Sanderson had shocked Rourke by cultivating in him a sense of pride in his Cherokee ancestry. He’d made sure that Rourke never tried to hide it or disguise it. He’d pushed Rourke out into Atlanta society, and he’d discovered that most people found him interesting rather than an embarrassment. Not that it would have mattered either way. He had enough of Uncle Sanderson’s spunk not to take insults from anyone. He was good with his fists, and he’d used them a few times over the years.

As he grew older, he began to understand the proud old man a lot better. Sanderson Kilpatrick’s Irish grandfather had come to America penniless and his life had been one long series of disasters and tragedies. It had been the first-generation American, Tad, who’d opened the small specialty store that had become the beginning of the Kilpatrick convenience store chain. Sanderson had been one of only two surviving Kilpatrick children.

And then Sanderson had learned that he was sterile. It had been a killing blow to his pride. But at least his brother’s only son had produced an heir—Rourke. The convenience store chain had slowly gone bankrupt. Uncle Sanderson had squirreled enough away to leave Rourke well-fixed, but the Kilpatrick name and generations of respect were about the sum total of his inheritance. And since Rourke was closemouthed, that family secret didn’t get much airing. He made a comfortable living and he knew how to invest it, but he was no millionaire. Uncle Sanderson’s Mercedes-Benz and the elegant old family brick mansion, both unencumbered by debt, were the only holdovers from a more prosperous past.

Gus barked just before the doorbell rang. “Okay, hold your horses,” he said as he returned to the living room, his bare feet landing silently on the luxurious beige carpet.

Kilpatrick opened the front door to Dan Berry, who grinned at him through the screen. “Hi, boss,” his investigator said cheerily, flashing him a smile. “Got a minute?”

“Sure. Let me get Gus’s lead and we’ll walk and talk.” He glanced at the heavyset man. “A little exercise wouldn’t hurt you.”

Dan made a face. “I was afraid you’d say that. How’s the headache?”

“Better. Aspirin and cold compresses got rid of it.” He attached Gus to the lead and opened the door. Early mornings in the spring were cool, and Dan shivered. The trees still sported bare limbs that would be elegant bouquets of blossoms only a month or so from now.

Kilpatrick moved out to the sidewalk, letting Gus take the lead. “What’s up?” he asked when they were halfway down the block.

“Plenty. The sheriff’s office got a complaint this morning about Curry Station Elementary. One of the kids’ mothers called to report it. Her son saw one of the marijuana dealers having an argument with Bubba Harris at recess. It’s just been marijuana, so far—until now.”

Kilpatrick stopped dead, his dark eyes intent. “Are the Harrises trying to cut in on that territory with crack?”

“We think so,” Berry replied. “We don’t have anything, yet. But I’m going to work on some of the students and see what I can turn up. We’re organizing a locker search with the help of the local police, too. If we find crack, we’ll know who’s involved.”

“That will go over big with the parents,” he murmured.

“Yes, I know. But we’ll muddle through.” He glanced at Kilpatrick as they began to walk again. “That Cullen boy was seen with Son Harris at one of the dives in midtown Atlanta. They’re real thick.”

Kilpatrick’s face stiffened. “So I’ve heard.”

“I know you didn’t have enough evidence to go to trial,” Berry said. “But if I were you, I’d keep a close eye on that boy. He could lead us right to the Harrises, if we play our cards right.”

Kilpatrick was thinking about that. His dark eyes narrowed. If he got close to Becky, he could keep Clay Cullen in sight with ease. Was that it, he wondered, or was he rationalizing ways to see Becky? He had to think this through carefully before he made a decision.

“There’s another complication, too,” Berry went on, his hands in his pockets as he glanced up at Kilpatrick. “Your sparring partner’s getting ready to announce.”

“Davis?” he asked, because he’d heard rumors, too. Davis hadn’t said anything in court to him about it. That was like the big man, to pull rabbits out of hats at the most unexpected time. He grinned. “He’ll win, unless I miss my guess. There are plenty of contenders for my job, but Davis is pure shark.”

“He’ll be after your professional throat.”

“Only to make news,” Kilpatrick assured him. “I haven’t decided yet about running for a third term.” He stretched and yawned. “Let him do his worst. I don’t give a damn.”

“Want to round off your day?” Berry murmured with a dry glance. “One last tidbit of gossip. They’re releasing Harvey Blair on Monday.”

“Blair.” He scowled. “Yes, I remember. I sent him up for armed robbery six years ago. What the hell’s he doing out?”

“His lawyer got him a full pardon from the governor.” He held up his hand. “Don’t blame me. I don’t hide your mail. Your secretary is guilty as hell. She told me she forgot to mention it and you were too busy in court to read it.”

He bit off a curse. “Blair. Dammit. If ever a man deserved a pardon less...he was guilty as hell!”

“Of course he was.” Berry stopped walking, looking uncomfortable. “He threatened to kill you if he ever got out. You might keep your doors locked, just in case.”

“I’m not afraid of Blair,” Kilpatrick said, and his eyes narrowed. “Let him try, if he feels lucky. He won’t be the first.”

That was a fact. The D.A. had been the target of assassins twice, once from a gun by an angry defendant who’d been convicted by Kilpatrick’s expertise, and another time from a crazed defendant with a knife, right in court. Nobody present in the courtroom that day would ever forget the way Kilpatrick had met the knife attack. He had effortlessly parried the thrust and thrown his attacker over a table. Kilpatrick was ex-Special Forces, and as tough as they came. Berry secretly thought that his Indian ancestry didn’t hurt, either. Indians were formidable fighters. It was in the blood.

Kilpatrick waved Dan off and he and Gus continued on their daily one-mile walk. He was fit enough, physically. He worked out at the gym weekly and played racquetball. The walk was more for Gus’s sake than his own. Gus was ten years old and he had a sedentary lifestyle. With Kilpatrick away at the office six days out of seven—and occasionally, when the calendar was loaded in court, seven out of seven—he didn’t get a lot of exercise in his fenced-in enclosure out back.

He thought about what Dan had told him and grimaced. Blair was going to be back on the streets and gunning for him. That wasn’t surprising. Neither was the information about the Harris boys. A war over drug turf was just what he needed right now, with the Cullen boy in the middle. He remembered Cullen’s father—a surly, uncooperative man with cold eyes. Incredible, that he could have fathered a woman like Rebecca, with her warm heart and soft eyes. Even more incredible that he could have deserted her like that. He shook his dark head. One way or another, her life stood to get worse before it got better—especially with a brother like hers. He tugged at Gus’s lead and they turned back toward home.

* * *

It was midnight on Sunday, and Clay Cullen still wasn’t home. He and the Harris boys were talking money, big money, and he was in the clouds over how much he was going to make.

“It’s easy,” Son told him carelessly. “All you have to do is give a little away to some of the wealthier kids. They’ll get a taste of it and then they’ll pay anything for it. Simple.”

“Yeah, but how do I find the right ones? How do I pick kids who won’t turn me in?” Clay asked.

“You’ve got a kid brother in school at Curry Station Elementary. Ask him. We might even give him a cut,” Son said, grinning.

Clay felt uneasy about that, but he didn’t say so. The thought of all that easy money made him giddy. Francine had started paying attention to him since he’d become friendly with her cousins the Harrises. Francine, with her pretty black hair and sultry blue eyes, who could have her pick of the seniors. Clay liked her a lot—enough to do anything to get her to notice him. Drugs weren’t that bad, he told himself. After all, people who used would get the stuff from somebody else if not from him. If only he didn’t feel so guilty....

“I’ll ask Mack tomorrow,” Clay promised.

Son’s small eyes narrowed. “Just one thing. Make sure your sister doesn’t find out. She works for a bunch of lawyers, and the D.A.’s in the same building.”

“Becky won’t find out,” Clay assured him.

“Okay. See you tomorrow.”

Clay got out of the car. He’d kept his nose clean tonight so Becky wouldn’t get suspicious. He had to keep her in the dark. That shouldn’t be too hard, he reasoned. She loved him. That made her vulnerable.

The next morning, while Becky was upstairs dressing for work, Clay cornered Mack.

“You want to make some spending money?” he asked the younger boy with a calculating look.

“How?” Mack asked.

“Any of your friends do drugs?” Clay asked.

Mack hesitated. “Not really.”

“Oh.” Clay wondered if he should pursue it, but he heard Becky’s footsteps and clammed up. “We’ll talk about it some other time. Don’t mention this to Becky.”

Becky came in to find Mack glum and quiet and Clay looking nervous. She’d put on her blue jersey dress and her one pair of black patent leather high heels. She didn’t have a lot of clothes, but nobody at work mentioned that. They were a kind bunch of people, and she was neat and clean, even if she didn’t have the clothing budget that Maggie and Tess had.

She touched her tidy bun and finished fixing Mack’s lunch just in time to get him on the bus, frowning a little when Clay didn’t join him.

“How are you getting to school?” she asked Clay.

“Francine’s coming for me,” he said carelessly. “She drives a Corvette. Neat car—brand-new.”

She stared at him suspiciously. “Are you staying away from those Harris boys like I told you to?” she asked.

“Of course,” he replied innocently. Much easier to lie than to have a fight. Besides, she never seemed to know when he was lying.

She relaxed a little, even if she wasn’t wholly trusting of him these days. “And the counseling sessions?”

He glared at her. “I don’t need counseling.”

“I don’t care if you think you need it or not,” she said firmly. “Kilpatrick says you have to go.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Okay,” he said angrily. “I’ve got an appointment tomorrow with the psychologist. I’ll go.”

She sighed. “Good. That’s good, Clay.”

He narrowed his eyes and stared at her. “Just don’t throw any orders around, Becky. I’m a man, not a boy you can tell what to do.”

Before she could flare up at him, he went out the door in time to see the Corvette roar up. He got into it quickly and it sped off into the distance.

A few days later, Becky called the principal of Clay’s school to make sure he had been going. She was told that he had perfect attendance. He kept the counseling session, too, although Becky didn’t know that he ignored his psychologist’s advice. It had been three weeks since his arrest and he was apparently toeing the line. Thank God. She settled Granddad and went to work, her thoughts full of Kilpatrick.

She hadn’t run into him in the elevator lately. She wondered if he might have moved back to the courthouse until she glimpsed him at a dead run when she was on her way to lunch. Curious the way he moved, she thought wistfully, light on his feet and graceful as well. She loved to watch him move.

Kilpatrick was unaware of her studied scrutiny as he retrieved the blue Mercedes from the parking lot and drove himself to the garage that the elder Harris, C.T. by name, ran as a front for his drug operation. Everybody knew it, but proving it was the thing.

Harris was sixty, balding, and he had a beer belly. He never shaved. He had deep circles under his eyes and a big, perpetually red nose. He glared at Kilpatrick as the younger, taller man climbed out of his car at the curb.

“The big man himself,” Harris said with a surly grin. “Looking for something, prosecutor?”

“I wouldn’t find it,” Kilpatrick said. He paused in front of Harris and lit a cigar with slow, deliberate movements of his long fingers. “I’ve had my investigator checking out some rumors that I didn’t like. What he came up with, I didn’t like even more. So I thought I’d come and check it out personally.”

“What kind of rumors?”

“That you and Morrely are squaring off for a fight over territory. And that you’re moving on the kids at the local elementary school.”

“Who, me? Garbage! It’s garbage,” Harris said with mock indignation. “I don’t push to kids.”

“No, you don’t have to. Your sons do it for you.” He blew out a cloud of smoke, aiming it into the man’s face with cold intent. “So I came to tell you something. I’m watching the school, and I’m watching you. If one kid gets one spoon of coke, or one gram of crack, I’m going to nail you and your boys to the wall. Whatever it takes, whatever I have to do, I’ll get you. I wanted you to get that message in person.”

“Thanks for the warning, but you’re talking to the wrong guy. I’m just not into drugs. I run a garage here. I work on cars.” Harris peered past Kilpatrick to the Mercedes. “Nice job. I like foreign makes. I could fix it for you.”

“It doesn’t need fixing. But I’ll keep you in mind,” Kilpatrick said mockingly.

“You do that. Stop in any time.”

“Count on it.” Kilpatrick gave him a curt nod and climbed back into his car. Harris was glaring after him with a furious expression when he pulled out into traffic.

Later, Harris took his two sons aside. “Kilpatrick’s getting to me,” he said. “We can’t afford any slip-ups. Are you sure that Cullen boy’s dependable?”

“Sure he is!” Son said with a lazy grin. He was taller than his father, dark-haired and blue-eyed. Not a bad-looking boy, he outshone his chubby, red-faced younger brother.

“He’s going to be expendable if the D.A. comes too close,” the elder Harris said darkly. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“No problem,” Son said easily. “That’s why we let him get caught with his pockets full of crack. Even though they didn’t hold him, they’ll remember it. Next time we can put his neck in a noose if we need to.”

“They can’t use his record against him in juvenile court,” the youngest Harris reminded them.

“Listen,” the man told his sons. “If Kilpatrick gets his hands on that boy again, he’ll try him as an adult. Bet on it. Just make sure the Cullen boy stays in your pockets. Meanwhile,” he added thoughtfully, “I’ve got to get Kilpatrick out of mine. I think it might be worthwhile to float a contract, before he gets his teeth into us.”

“Mike down at the Hayloft would know somebody,” Son told his father with narrowed eyes.

“Good. Ask him. Do it tonight,” he added. “Kilpatrick’s term is up this year; he’ll have to run. He may use us as an example to win the election.”

“Cullen says he isn’t going to run again,” Son said.

The older Harris glared at him. “Everybody says that. I don’t buy it. How about the grammar school operation?”

“I’ve got it in the bag,” Son assured him. “We’re lining up Cullen for that. He’s got a younger brother who goes there.”

“But will the younger brother go along?”

Son looked up. “I’ve got an angle on that. We’re going to let Cullen go on a buy with us, so that the supplier gets a good look at him. After that, he’s mine.”

“Nice work,” the older man said, smiling. “You two could swear he was the brains of the outfit, and Kilpatrick would buy it. Get going, then.”

“Sure thing, Dad.”

* * *

One afternoon Becky noticed Clay talking earnestly to Mack as she walked in after work. Mack said something explosive and stomped off. Clay glanced at her and looked uncomfortable.

She wondered what it was all about. Probably another quarrel. The boys never seemed to get along these days. She started a load of clothes in the washing machine and cooked supper. In between, she daydreamed about the district attorney and wished that she was pretty and vivacious and rich.

“Got to go to the library, Becky!” Clay called on his way out the front door.

“Is it open this late...?” she began, but there was the slam of one door, then another, then a car roared away.

She ran to the window. The Harris boys, she thought, furious. He’d been told to stay away from them. Mr. Brady had warned him; so had she. But how could she keep Clay away unless she tied him up? She couldn’t tell Granddad. He’d had a bad day and had gone to bed early. If only she had someone to talk to!

Mack was doing his math homework at the kitchen table without an argument, strangely silent and uneasy.

“Anything I can help you with?” she asked, pausing beside him.

He looked up and then away, a little too quickly. “No. Just something Clay asked me to do and I said no.” He twirled his pencil. “Becky, if you know something bad’s going to happen, and you don’t tell anybody, does that make you guilty, too?”

“Such as?”

“Oh, I didn’t have anything in mind, really,” Mack said evasively.

Becky hesitated. “Well, if you know something wrong is being done, you should tell. I don’t believe in being a tattletale, but something dangerous should be reported.”

“I guess you’re right.” He went back to work, leaving Becky no wiser than before.

Clay went with the Harris boys to pick up their load of crack. In the past three weeks, he’d learned plenty about how to find customers for the Harrises. He knew the kids who were hassled at home, who were having trouble with schoolwork, who were mad for anything outside the law. He’d already made a sale or two and the money was incredible, even with a small commission. For the first time, he had money to flash and Francine was all over him. He’d bought himself a few new things, like some designer shirts and jeans. He was careful to keep them in his locker at school so that Becky wouldn’t know. Now he wanted a car. He just wasn’t sure how to keep Becky in the dark. Probably he could leave it with the Harris boys. Sure, that was a good move. Or with Francine.

He was still seething about Mack. He’d asked him to help him find customers at the elementary school, but Mack had gotten furious and told him he’d do no such thing! He threatened to tell Becky, too, but Clay had dared him. He knew things about Mack that he could tell—like about those girlie magazines Mack hid in his closet, and the butterfly knife he’d traded for at school that Becky didn’t know he had. Mack had backed down, but he’d gone off mad, and Clay was a little nervous. He didn’t think his brother would tell on him, but you never knew with kids.

They were at the pickup point, a deserted little diner out in the boonies, with two suppliers in a four-wheel-drive jeep. The Harris boys were acting odd, he thought, noticing the way their eyes shifted. They’d left the motor running in the car, too. Clay wondered if he was getting spooked.

“You go ahead with the money,” Son told Clay, patting him on the back. “Nothing to worry about. We’re always careful, just in case the law makes a try for us, but we’re in the clear tonight. Just walk down there and pass the money.”

Clay hesitated. Up until now, it had just been little amounts of coke. This would label him as a buyer and a dealer, and he could go up for years if he was caught. For a moment he panicked, trying to imagine how that would affect Becky and Granddad. Then he got himself under control and lifted the duffel bag containing the money. He wouldn’t get caught. The Harris boys knew their way around. It would be all right. And this supplier wouldn’t be too anxious to finger him, either, because Clay could return the favor.

By the time he got to the black-clad figure in the trendy sports coat, standing beside a high-class Mercedes-Benz, he was almost swaggering with confidence. He didn’t say two words to the supplier. He handed over the money, it was checked, and the coke, in another satchel, was given to him. He’d seen dealers on TV shows test the stuff, but apparently in real life the quality was assured. The Harris boys didn’t seem bothered at all. Clay took the goods, nodded at the dealer, and walked back to where Son and his brother were waiting, his heart going like a drum, his breath almost gasping out of his throat. It was an incredible high, just overcoming his own fear and doing something dangerous for a change. His eyes sparkled as he reached the car.

“Okay.” Son grinned. He took Clay by the shoulders and shook him. “Good man! Now you’re one of us.”

“I am?” Clay asked, hesitating.

“Sure. You’re a dealer, just like us. And if you don’t cooperate, Bubba and I will swear that you’re the brains of the outfit and that you set up this deal.”

“The supplier knows better,” Clay argued.

Son laughed. “He isn’t a supplier,” he said, studying his nails. “He’s one of Dad’s flunkies. Why do you think we didn’t test the stuff before you handed over the money?”

“If he’s just one of your father’s men...” Clay was trying to think it through.

“There was a surveillance unit across the street,” Son said easily. “They made you. They couldn’t pick you up because there wasn’t enough time to get a backup and they knew you’d run. But they’ve got a tape, and probably audio, and all they need is testimony from eyewitnesses to have an airtight case against you. You bought cocaine—a lot of cocaine. Dad’s flunky won’t mind doing the time, either, for what he’ll get paid. We can always buy him out later. You won’t get the same consideration, of course.”

Clay stiffened. “I thought you trusted me!”

“Just some insurance, pal,” Son assured him. “We want your little brother to do some scouting for us at the elementary school. If he cooperates, you don’t do time.”

“Mack said no. He already said no!” He was beginning to feel hysterical.

“Then you’d better make him change his mind, hadn’t you?” Son said, and his small eyes narrowed dangerously. “Or you’re going to end up in stir for a long, long time.”

And just that easily, they had him. He couldn’t know that the so-called surveillance people were just friends of the Harrises, not heat. Or that Francine was being persuaded to be nice to him to help keep him on the string. Yes, they had the poor fish doubly hooked, and he didn’t even know how caught he really was. Yet.