Читать книгу More Than a Hero - Marilyn Pappano - Страница 7

If Jake Norris had ever had a shy bone in his body, six years of interviewing people about traumatic events in their lives had chased it away. He was never at a loss for words and didn’t mind asking tough questions with tough answers. He was skilled at getting people who didn’t want to talk to do just that and he hadn’t yet met the person he couldn’t persuade to tell him something.

Until now. Who would have guessed that person would be a teenage girl whose chin barely topped his belly button?

“Look, I just want to talk to Senator Riordan for a couple minutes—five, tops.” That was probably about how long it would take Riordan to figure out who he was and throw him out of his office.

“You don’t have an appointment,” the girl said for the third time.

“I know. I didn’t know what time I’d be getting into town today.” First lie. He’d spent last night in a motel on the northeast side of Oklahoma City, slept in late and made the final hour’s drive into Riverview that afternoon. “But if the senator’s not busy—”

“The senator only sees people who have appointments.”

“Oh, come on. He’s a senator. If his constituents drop by to have a little chat, don’t tell me he turns them away.”

She fixed her gaze, enormous behind a pair of thicklensed glasses, on him. “You’re not one of his constituents.”

“No,” he agreed. “I’m not. But pretend I am. Does the senator have a few minutes to see me?”

“No. Not without an appointment.”

Was that Riordan’s usual policy? Or had it been instituted sometime in the past week—on Wednesday, maybe, right after Jake had tried to make an appointment with Harold Markham, retired judge and Riordan’s good friend? “Can I make an appointment?”

The girl pulled a business card from the holder on the desk and offered it to him. “Call that number anytime between eight and four.”

He glanced at the card. “This is the office number. It rings right here at your desk.”

She looked at the phone as if it might ring at any moment and prove him right. “I don’t do appointments. I’d better get…” Her voice trailed off as she scurried away from the desk. When she disappeared behind a door at the end of the hall, he sighed and turned away.

He’d driven from his home in Albuquerque to Riverview to conduct interviews, do research and take photos for his next book. He wrote true-crime books, and the subject he’d chosen for his sixth book was one of the town’s few claims to fame, along with Senator Riordan and the aforementioned Judge Markham. It was, no doubt, something most of the town would rather leave forgotten in the past—but they weren’t still paying for it every day of their lives.

Charley Baker, who woke up every morning behind the walls of the Oklahoma State Penitentiary in McAlester, was. He said he was innocent. Every inmate Jake had ever met said the same thing. But there was a difference: he believed Charley.

Charley didn’t have an affair with Jillian Franklin. Didn’t kill her. Didn’t kill her husband. Didn’t leave their three-year-old daughter alone in the house overnight with her parents’ bodies. Didn’t send his ten-year-old son in the next morning to “discover” them. Didn’t deserve to have spent twenty-two years in prison.

Despite his own bias, Jake’s plan for this project was to write an accurate account of the Franklin murders. He just wanted the facts. He wanted to study the details, to know that the authorities had done their jobs fairly, without any agendas of their own. Whatever the evidence told him, that was the story he would write.

If the evidence told him Charley hadn’t been wrongly convicted…

His fingers knotted into a fist.

“Can I help you?”

He turned to find himself facing the munchkin again. Standing beside her was a woman—make that a goddess—in blue. She was tall, slender, with blond hair pulled up and back in a kind of sensual mess, with pale golden skin, pink lips and brown eyes. He’d always had a weakness for blondes with brown eyes. Her dress was simple and elegant, her heels low and sensible, and her legs were damn fine.

And she had spoken to him.

“I was trying to get past your guard dog here—” he gestured toward the girl, and for an instant he would have sworn she’d bared her teeth “—to get a few minutes of the senator’s time.”

“We pay her to not let anyone past.” She sounded as good as she looked—a bit of an Oklahoma twang, feminine, firm. He wondered what her relationship with Riordan was. Purely business? Not likely.

“You’re getting your money’s worth.”

The blonde smiled coolly. “We always do. Lissa, you can get back to work.”

The girl returned to her desk, all of ten feet away, but made no secret of the fact that she was watching them.

“I’d like to see the senator.”

“He’s out.”

“When will he be back?”

“Next week.” Seeing his skepticism, the blonde went on. “He’s on a well-deserved vacation.”

“Let’s see…it’s too early for his annual ski trip to Aspen and not time yet for his annual hunting trip to Montana. Maybe his annual fishing trip to the Florida Keys?” Just how hard could the man work that he deserved three expensive vacations a year?

A muscle twitched in the blonde’s jaw, and steel underlay her voice. “That’s private. Can I ask what your business with him is?”

Rocking back on his heels, he grinned. “That’s private.”

“Well, Mr….”

“Norris. Jake Norris.” He extended his hand, and she shook it without so much as a hint that she’d rather not. Her skin was soft, her palm warm, her fingers quick to squeeze, then relax.

She didn’t recognize his name, which told him two things: she wasn’t a reader of true-crime books, and Riordan hadn’t mentioned him to her. Because he didn’t take Jake seriously? More likely because he thought he could handle Jake. Jim Riordan was accustomed to things going his way. Personally and professionally, he’d always gotten what he wanted. And he probably saw this situation as more of the same. He was in for a surprise.

“Well, Mr. Norris, if you won’t tell me what this is about, then I suggest you schedule an appointment with the senator after his return.”

“Yeah, right, like that’s going to work,” he muttered. He would get the same treatment Markham had given him—I’m not interested. Leave it alone. There’s nothing to discuss. He considered it a moment, then decided he had nothing to lose by telling her. Riverview was a small town. Everyone would know why he was there by noon the next day. “All right. I want to talk to him about Charley Baker.”

She glanced at Lissa, seated in front of the computer. With a flurry of keystrokes, the girl leaned closer to the screen, then began culling facts from the text there. “Charley Baker…tried and convicted in the murders of Bert and Jillian Franklin…the senator prosecuted the case…trial lasted two and a half days…jury deliberated twenty minutes…sentence was life in prison.”

“Lissa’s working on the senator’s biography.” The blonde smiled affectionately at her. “She knows everything.”

“Everything? How did Riverview get its name? No river, no view…”

Lissa pushed her glasses back into place. “The original town was called Ethelton, after the founder’s wife. But no one liked it, so after Ethel died they settled on Riverview. They thought it would attract people to at least visit and that some of them would stay even after finding out there wasn’t a river.”

She sounded so serious that Jake resisted the urge to grin. He simply nodded as the blonde turned back to him. “It sounds fairly cut-and-dried. What is your interest in Mr. Baker?”

“I’m working on his biography,” he retorted, then relented. “I’m researching a book about the Baker/Franklin case.”

“I can’t imagine there’s enough of an interest there to fill a book.”

“Then you should read more.”

The steeliness returned. “I can’t imagine anyone outside Riverview would be interested.”

“People are always interested in other people’s suffering.”

“And you exploit that.” This time she made no effort to hide what she thought.

“Oh, come on. You can’t look too far down on me. You work for Senator James Riordan, who buys, sells and trades influence just like the guy down the street does cars. He’d do anything for a vote. He had his fifteen-year-old daughter out on the campaign trail with him only a week after her mother died, parading this grief-stricken kid with puffy red eyes in front of the world so he could get the sympathy vote.”

It was too late when he became aware of the change in the air. He could actually feel the anger coming off her in waves. That muscle in her jaw twitched again, and her eyes chilled. She glared at him, her breathing shallow but even. Then, after a moment, utterly controlled, she turned away and walked to the desk. “Would you prefer a morning or afternoon appointment?”

“Afternoon. Late. I’m not a morning person.”

She made a note in the appointment book, then on the back of a business card, and handed the card to him. Thursday, 8:00 a.m.

“A little passive-aggressive, aren’t we?” he murmured as he slid the card into his hip pocket.

“Be on time, Mr. Norris. The senator doesn’t rearrange his schedule for people who can’t keep theirs.” Turning on her heel, she walked back down the hall and into her office and quietly closed the door.

Moving to the desk, he scanned the appointment book, still open to the next week. “What schedule?” His name was the only one on the calendar pages.

Lissa snatched the book away and closed it.

With a curt nod to the girl, he left the office and walked the half block to his truck. He’d been in town less than thirty minutes and he’d already pissed off Riordan’s receptionist and whoever the hell the blonde was. He was breaking his own record for bringing hostility in his subjects out into the open.

But he wasn’t writing this book to make friends. All he wanted was the truth—for Charley’s sake. For his.

Because he was Charley’s son. And he’d discovered the Franklins’ bodies.

Jake Norris was an arrogant, obnoxious, exploitive, bottom-feeding vulture.

He was also, according to the Internet, an acclaimed author in the true-crime genre. Heir to Ann Rule’s throne…nonfiction in his capable hands is every bit as captivating as the best thrillers…his page-turners set a high standard….

Kylie Riordan sat back in her chair and studied the photograph on the screen. Dark hair short enough to require a trim every few weeks. Eyes much darker than her own. Straight nose. Strong jaw. Nice mouth. His dark coloring hinted at Indian or Latino heritage, and his smile hinted at the arrogance she’d already experienced for herself.

The only bio she could find was short and told little: Jake Norris got his start in the newspaper business. The author of five books, he makes his home in New Mexico. A private man, apparently…who considered everyone else’s lives fair game for his books. Vulture.

Albeit a handsome one.

She signed off and picked up the notes she’d been working on earlier. Before she’d gotten her pen poised to continue, though, she set it and the pad down again and turned her chair to gaze out the window. At her father’s insistence, she had the best office in the building, because she spent more time there than he did. Dark wood and hunter-green walls, a sitting area with a fireplace and large windows that looked out on the courthouse square across the street—it was a pleasant place to work.

She could sit there all day watching people come and go and never see a face she didn’t recognize. As the senator’s daughter, it was her job to know everyone in his hometown; as his aide, it was her job to know everything about them.

She already knew more than enough about Jake Norris. He wanted to write a book about her father, whom he obviously didn’t hold in the highest regard. He profited from others’ suffering. He was smug. And handsome.

Not that she held looks against a man. She appreciated a handsome man, especially one whose black T-shirt tucked into his snug-fitting jeans to display impressive muscles. Who didn’t look as if he spent too much time at a desk. Who didn’t look as if he was always on in case someone happened to recognize him.

No, she was as susceptible to a handsome face as any woman, though she wasn’t always free to take advantage. From the time she was in the first grade her mother had repeatedly reminded her who she was—a representative of not only her father and her mother but also of the Riordan and Colby families. She’d lived her entire twenty-seven years thinking of reputations, considering consequences. As a result, Kylie Riordan had led a very dull life.

A man like Jake Norris could change that.

If he wiped that smug smile off his face.

There was a rap at the door, then Lissa came in. “I’m going home unless you need me to stay.”

Kylie glanced at her watch. Officially the office closed at four. Realistically it closed when Lissa left, usually sometime after five. Depending on the senator’s schedule—whether there was a dinner to attend, a speech to give, an interview to tape—Kylie called it a day around six. When he was out of town, her evenings were her own. Dinner alone. Television alone. Bed alone.

A very dull life.

“No, Lissa, go on. Have some fun.”

Lissa smiled as if she didn’t quite grasp the meaning of Kylie’s words, took a step back, then stopped. “That guy who was here today…what do you think about him writing a book about the senator?”

“I think he’s wasting his time.”

“He seems to sell a lot of books. His numbers on Amazon.com are really good, even for his older books. And in one of them—it came out last year—he found new evidence that got a convicted felon a new trial after fifteen years in prison, and he was acquitted.”

Kylie refused to admit she was impressed. “Was there ever any question of Charley Baker’s guilt?”

Lissa shook her head. “He was having an affair with Mrs. Franklin. He wanted her to leave her husband and daughter and run away with him. When she refused, he killed her, and when her husband walked in, he killed him, too. Thank God he let Therese live.”

Kylie blinked. She hadn’t made the connection earlier between the case and Therese Franklin, the shy young woman who lived down the street from her. Therese had been taken in by her grandparents after her parents’ deaths, and after they’d raised her into her teens, she’d begun caring for them in their declining years. Her grandfather had died just a few months ago, and Kylie had heard talk about her grandmother being placed in a nursing home.

“Perhaps after Mr. Norris learns about the story he’ll see it’s not worth his time.”

“But what if he doesn’t?” Lissa persisted. “The senator’s campaign for the governor’s office is just getting started. This could have a very negative impact.”

Rising from her chair, Kylie circled the desk and slid her arm around Lissa’s shoulders. “My father didn’t prosecute the wrong man,” she assured her as she eased her through the door and down the hall. “He didn’t send an innocent man to prison. We’ve got nothing to worry about.”

She wasn’t the only one who’d been ever conscious of reputation and consequences. Her father had known from the time he was ten years old that he wanted a career in politics. He’d never had more than one drink in public and never got behind the wheel of a car after that one drink. He’d never fudged a dime on his tax returns, never accepted money from special interest groups, never looked twice at another woman while his wife had still been alive. He’d lived above reproach as a father, a husband, a man and—despite Norris’s accusation to the contrary—a politician.

There was nothing Jake Norris could do to threaten her father’s career.

“Okay,” Lissa said when they reached the reception area. “I won’t worry…yet. See you tomorrow.”

Kylie waited for her to step outside, then turned the key in the lock. With a wave, she returned to her office, settled behind her desk and picked up her notes again. The senator was giving a speech to a veterans’ group in Oklahoma City two weeks after his vacation ended, and she had a rough outline sketched out. He’d done a tour in the Army after high school—because he was patriotic, because he’d needed the college tuition assistance and because he’d known it would come in handy down the road when he was seeking votes. No doubt Norris would see that as calculating, but Kylie defined it as smart. Without voters, no one would ever get the chance to make a difference in office—and the senator had made a difference.

But when forty-five minutes had passed while her thoughts roamed everywhere except the speech, Kylie put the pages in her bag, shut off the lights and left the office. For a moment she simply stood on the sidewalk out front, letting the evening’s warmth seep into her bones. It was the third week of October, and the weather was warm with just a hint of the chills to come. The leaves had started changing colors, and the occasional whiff of wood smoke in the air made her think of weenie roasts and campfires and burning piles of leaves.

She loved Riverview. “‘No river, no view,’” she mimicked as she started down the street. The rolling hills, pastures and cultivated fields provided plenty of great views. It was a lovely little town in a lovely part of the state, and if Norris didn’t like it, he was more than welcome to leave.

She doubted she would be that lucky. But handling nuisances was nothing new. That, too, was part of her job.

When she reached her car halfway down the block, she took a deep breath. The Tuesday dinner special at the Riverfront Grill was baby back ribs, rich, smoky and sticky with secret sauce. If she went home, she would have a salad or a frozen dinner in front of the television—probably better for her hips but not for her mental state. Turning away from the car, she covered the few remaining yards to the restaurant, greeted everyone by name and was shown to a booth at the front window.

No sooner had the waitress left after taking her order, a shadow fell across the table—no doubt one of her very popular father’s friends or acquaintances. She glanced up, first seeing a pair of jeans so faded that they were practically white, hugging a pair of narrow hips so snugly she couldn’t help but think for one instant about exactly what they cradled.

Heat seeping into her cheeks, she forced her gaze upward, across a simple belt—leather, brown, no tooling—and a T-shirt that could be had for six bucks at the local Wal-Mart. Half the men in town wore similar shirts every day. None of them looked half as good.

Jake Norris’s expression was a mix of chagrin and suspicion. “You should have told me you were his daughter.”

She unrolled the napkin in front of her, left the silverware on the table and spread the white linen across her lap. “When I asked your name, you should have shown a little interest in mine. Besides, you learn such interesting things when people are being honest rather than tactful.”

He took a drink from the frosted mug he held, the muscles in his arm flexing as he lifted, his throat working as he swallowed. Something about the action struck her as sensual, though she rejected the thought as soon as it popped into her head. He was drinking beer. Period. It was nothing to raise a woman’s temperature.

“I apologize if I offended you.”

“If?” she repeated mildly.

“But, in fairness, you accused me of exploiting other people’s suffering.”

“Isn’t that what you do? Dig into traumatic events, lay them out bare for everyone to see, then pocket their money?”

Without waiting for an invitation, he slid onto the opposite bench. “How many of my books have you read, Ms. Riordan?”

“None.”

“Then doesn’t it seem wise to withhold judgment until you know what you’re talking about?”

She smiled faintly at the waitress as she returned with a tall glass of iced tea. “Fine. I apologize for calling you a vulture.”

The insult brought a grin to the mouth she had inadequately described as “nice.” It was a great mouth—a really sexy mouth, especially with that bold, brash, amused grin. “You didn’t call me a vulture,” he pointed out. “At least not to my face. Were you and Lissa talking about me after I left?”

“No, of course not.” It wasn’t a total lie. Those few minutes of calming Lissa’s worries didn’t count.

“So you were talking to yourself when you called me a vulture. Some people consider that worrisome. Not me, though. I talk to myself a lot when I’m working.” He set the beer on the table and laced long, strong fingers around the stein. “What did you think of the reviews?”

“What reviews?”

He grinned again, and she had to admit that, arrogance aside, there was a certain charm to it. “Aw, come on. Don’t tell me that you or the munchkin didn’t go online as soon as I was gone to find out what you could about me.”

Rather than admit the truth, she frowned. “Don’t call Lissa that.”

“So…what did you think?” Norris prompted.

Kylie summoned a cool smile. “I think you’re smug and conceited, but I didn’t have to go to the Internet to learn that.”

“I’m not conceited. I’m confident. There’s a difference.”

“But you admit to being smug?”

He shrugged. “No one’s perfect.”

She liked his easy manner. Liked his grin. Was even starting to kind of like his smugness…until he went on.

“Including your father.”

Her spine stiffened. “You think the senator mishandled the Baker case.”

Another easy shrug rippled the fabric of his shirt. “I think Charley is innocent.”

“Why? Because he told you so?”

The easiness disappeared in a flash—no doubt chased away by her snide tone. “I’m not naive, Ms. Riordan. I’ve spent a lot of time with more convicted murderers than you can even name. They write me letters, call me, send me e-mails. They tell me things they’ve never told anyone else. Yes, Charley told me he’s innocent. My gut tells me he’s innocent. More importantly, the evidence raises reasonable doubt.”

Kylie leaned back, crossed her legs and folded her arms across her chest. A body-language expert would say her posture meant she was closed off, not open to hearing what Norris had to say, and he would be right. She knew her father—knew his morals, ethics and beliefs. He didn’t send the wrong man to prison. “Such as?”

“The whole basis for Charley’s arrest and conviction was his affair with Jillian Franklin, and yet there was no evidence that it ever happened. No one ever saw them together. His wife swears his time was pretty much accounted for—if he wasn’t at work, he was with her or their son. Jillian never mentioned him to any of her friends. His fingerprints weren’t found anywhere in the house. Nothing connects them.”

“Illicit affairs are generally conducted in secret.”

“This affair appears to have been fabricated to serve as a motive for Charley to kill Jillian.”

Anger swept through Kylie with a force that made her tremble. “My father never fabricated evidence.”

“I didn’t say he did. It could have been the sheriff’s department.”

“All you have is Charley Baker’s side of the story, and he’s in prison. He obviously can’t be trusted. You know nothing of the facts.”

He remained as calm as she wasn’t. “That’s what I’m here for. The facts—or an approximation thereof.”

“So you can include them in your book—or an approximation thereof,” she said sarcastically.

He merely smiled. “My books are as accurate as they can be under the circumstances. I rely on trial transcripts, newspaper accounts, public record, interviews, letters—whatever sources I can find. The most recent crime I’ve written about took place eleven years ago. Time affects people’s memories. They want to make themselves look better—or, on occasion, worse—than they really were. I present what I find and I let the readers draw their own conclusions.”

“And hope for a new trial to boost the sales of your book.”

His grin was unexpected and all the more powerful for it. “So you did look me up.”

She stared stonily at him. “You won’t get a new trial out of this one. If my father believed Charley Baker was guilty, he was guilty.”

They were sitting there staring at each other when the waitress approached with a platter of ribs, baked beans and coleslaw. “You planning to eat here or go back to your table?”

Norris held Kylie’s gaze a moment longer before turning to the waitress. “I’m going back to my table.” As she walked away, he slid to the edge of the bench, stood up, then grimly said, “No one’s father is infallible. Not mine, and sure as hell not yours. Enjoy your meal, Ms. Riordan. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around.”

She knew it was petty, but as he walked away she muttered, “Not if I see you first.”

Jake’s motel was about a mile from downtown, a small place that had started life as a motor court back in the heyday of getting your kicks on Route 66. Tiny stone buildings, each consisting of a bedroom and a bath, formed a semicircle around the office, disguised as a giant concrete tepee. It was tacky, but his room had a high-speed Internet connection and plenty of space to spread out. That—and running water—was all he needed.

He parked in the narrow space that separated his room from the next and climbed out of his truck as a white car slowed to a stop behind it. The seal of the Riverview Police Department decorated the door.

He took his duffel bag, an attaché and the backpack that held his computer from the passenger side, slung the straps over his shoulders, then stood a moment in the fading light, trading looks with the young officer behind the wheel. Jake didn’t speak, and neither did the cop, though he did make a show of calling in Jake’s tag number to the dispatcher.

Resisting a grin, Jake climbed the steps and let himself in, flipping on lights as he went. The chief criminal investigator for the Davis County Sheriff’s Department twenty-two years ago was Coy Roberts, currently Riverview police chief. If he thought Jake could be intimidated by a cop barely old enough to shave, he was mistaken.

He’d expected a lack of cooperation from the primary subjects in the case. He suspected they’d arrested, prosecuted and condemned the wrong man. If it was merely a mistake, they, like most people in authority, wouldn’t want to admit it. If it was deliberate, naturally they would want to hide it. After all, they had reputations, careers and freedom to protect.

Reputations and careers made off Charley’s case. Coy Roberts had been elected sheriff six weeks after Charley’s conviction. Jim Riordan had been elected to the district attorney’s office soon after. The case had been a boost to Judge Markham’s bid for a seat on the state supreme court, and Charley’s court-appointed lawyer, Tim Jenkins, had parlayed the media attention into a big-bucks criminal defense career.

Everyone had come out of Charley’s case better off than before. Except Charley.

Jake booted up the computer on the square table that served as a desk, then signed online. He checked his e-mail, then Googled Kylie Riordan.

He got a lot of hits, most of them having to do with her father. She worked for him and had since graduating from Oklahoma University and according to an article on old oil families, she still lived in the family mansion. That aside, he found only one entry of any real interest.

Senator’s Daughter to Wed, the headline read. There’d been no mention of a Riordan son-in-law in the search he’d done. She still used her maiden name and she’d worn no ring on her left hand. So what had happened to the wedding?.

The article was from the Riverview paper, three years old, and focused as much on the senator as on Kylie. The prospective groom was, at the time, a lawyer as well as a newly elected representative to the statehouse, one of the up-and-coming power players.

The photo that accompanied the article was…It seemed wrong for a writer to find himself at a loss for words, but Jake was. There was Kylie, in all her goddess beauty, wearing a smile that could make a man weak, looking beautiful. Sexy. Unattainable.

It was arresting. It would have caught his attention even if he hadn’t had two run-ins with her in the space of a few hours, even if he’d never had the good luck to see her in the delectable flesh.

What she didn’t look like, he thought, was a woman in love. Had she hidden it well? Or had her father arranged the match as some kind of political alliance? Who had called it off—the bride, the groom or the senator? Had she been relieved at her narrow escape or heartbroken by her loss?

He preferred to think relieved.

Without considering his reason, he saved the picture to a folder, then shut down the computer. It wasn’t even eight o’clock—far too early for bed—but he was too restless to work. Taking the computer and the attaché with him, he went back out to the truck, backed out of the parking space and pulled onto Main Street. In the rearview mirror he caught a glimpse of a white car pulling onto the street a hundred yards back. Chief Roberts’s flunky?

There was a lot about Riverview that Jake didn’t remember. He’d lived more places by the time he was ten than most people saw in a lifetime. His father had wanderlust, his mother had liked to say. For a time it had charmed her, but then she’d gotten tired of the moves, the new jobs, trying to make a place a home for a few weeks or a few months but never more than a year. Since the divorce, she’d lived in the same small town. She’d put down roots and nurtured them carefully.

Jake drove the length of Main Street, then Markham Avenue, the other primary thoroughfare. The school he’d attended for six or eight months was located two blocks off both streets, its red brick more familiar than any other place he’d seen. Sacred Heart Church was on the same corner as before, but the old building was gone, a newer, blander version in its place.

He located the courthouse and jail where Charley Baker had spent his last weeks in Riverview. Chief Roberts’s house, in the neighborhood where all of the town’s old money had settled. Tim Jenkins’s showplace where the new money lived. Judge Markham’s place, stately and impressive, and Senator Riordan’s home, even statelier and more impressive.

Riordan had lived in the house for more than thirty years, but everyone still called it the Colby mansion. He’d had dreams and determination but not much else when he’d married Phyllis Colby and her family fortune. Given her money and his ambition, the only surprise was that he hadn’t already moved into the governor’s office and used it as a springboard to get into politics on the national level.

Built of sandstone blocks, the house reached three stories and was surrounded by grounds that spread over an entire block. A wrought-iron fence kept the lush plantings in and the common folk out. Somewhere inside there Kylie Riordan was…doing what? Watching television? Working? Maybe thinking about Jake?

It would only be fair.

He drove past one other house, where Therese Franklin had lived with her grandparents since her parents’ deaths. It was in the old-money neighborhood, too, though nowhere near as fancy as the Riordan place. But then, nothing in Riverview was.

When he turned back onto Main Street, the same white car followed. It must be a slow night in town if Roberts could assign an officer to watch him.

Or was it a sign of how much Roberts and the others were worried about what Jake might find? If they didn’t have anything to hide, there would be nothing for him to find.

But Jake suspected—hoped?—that was a mighty big if.