Читать книгу More Than a Hero - Marilyn Pappano - Страница 8

Kylie’s college roommate had described her energy level before sunrise as obscene, and nothing had changed since then. By the time she parked outside the office downtown on Wednesday morning, she’d already run three miles, finished the senator’s veterans’ group speech, made a half dozen phone calls back east and sorted through all his e-mails as well as her own. She’d accomplished enough that she could have taken time for a leisurely breakfast at the tearoom two doors from the office, but instead she was going to have her usual—a protein drink and an orange at her desk.

She’d hardly settled in when the private line rang. Balancing the phone between her ear and shoulder while she peeled thick skin from the orange, she answered with, “Hello, sir.”

The senator chuckled. “How’d you know it was me? It could have been Vaughan.”

She rolled her eyes at the mention of the Speaker of the House, one of a half dozen friends who’d accompanied her father to the Keys. David Vaughan was handsome, charming and ambitious—a younger version of her father, except that while her father aspired only to the governor’s mansion, David’s eye was on the U.S. Senate and beyond. Neither of them made a secret of the fact that they thought she’d make a damn fine senator’s wife or even First Lady.

Not in this lifetime.

“Listen, honey, I wanted to tell you there’s this writer who’s supposed to come to town—”

“Jake Norris.”

Silence for a moment, then her father’s grim voice. “So he’s there. Have you met him?”

“He came by yesterday to see you. He has an appointment for a week from Thursday.”

“Damn. Maybe he’ll give up before then.”

She closed her eyes and an image of Norris appeared, dark and handsome, that whiskey-smooth voice of his saying, I’m not conceited. I’m confident. There’s a difference. He wasn’t going to give up and go away just because everyone wanted him to.

“He’s writing a book about Charley Baker,” she said, refocusing on the orange to get the image out of her mind. “Do you remember the case?”

“It was a double homicide—a death-penalty case. Of course I remember it.”

“Was there any doubt as to Baker’s guilt?”

“None.” The word was bitten off, the tone certain.

“Then why not go over the facts of the case with Norris and be done with it?”

The senator snorted. “The facts are the last thing he’s interested in. Have you read any of his books? He’s an opportunist. He takes things out of context, twists facts, sensationalizes everything. Hell, who’d pay good money to read about an open-and-shut case like Baker’s? There aren’t any unanswered questions. There isn’t any doubt about his guilt. The only one who says Charley Baker is innocent is Charley Baker. His own wife believed he did it. She didn’t even stick around for the trial. She took the kid and disappeared.”

Norris had mentioned a son at the restaurant the night before. Kylie wondered how old he’d been, if she’d seen him around town, spoken to him or played with him. Probably not. She’d been only five at the time of the murders, and her world had pretty much been limited to the few blocks surrounding her house. She hadn’t socialized with kids from the wrong part of town—defined by her mother as any part outside their small neighborhood.

“But, sir, if you talk to Norris, at least you’ll know you’ve given him the truth. What he does with it after that is on him.”

He exhaled loudly, a habit to show impatience with her. “We don’t need all this dragged out again, Kylie. It was an ugly time in our town’s history. It just casts Riverview in a bad light. And think of that poor Franklin girl…Pete died just a few months ago, and Miriam’s got to go into the nursing home. Therese is going to be all on her own. She lost her parents once. It’s not fair to make her go through it again just so Jake Norris can make some money.”

His first arguments didn’t carry much weight. Every town had its crime; no one was going to hold a twenty-year-old murder against Riverview. But Therese Franklin…she was such a fragile creature. Horrified by what had happened to her parents, her grandparents had cosseted and protected her to the point of suffocation. She’d had few friends, little freedom and not much of a life. With the current upheavals, how difficult would it be for her to have that old tragedy opened up again?

“She pleaded with me, Kylie,” her father went on. “She begged me to not let Norris do this, and I told her I would do my best to dissuade him. You know I’m a man of my word.”

“What do you want me to do, sir?”

“Stay away from Norris. Don’t talk to him. Discourage anyone else from talking to him.”

She could do that, could put out the word that her father didn’t want anyone cooperating with Norris, and most people in town would close the door in his face. The fact bothered her more than a little. The man wanted information about a case that was public knowledge—a case that was, according to the senator, open-and-shut. No questions, no doubt, no mystery. So why dissuade him from gathering information?

The town’s reputation and Therese’s state of mind aside, her father’s biggest motivation, she suspected, was his planned run for the governor’s mansion. He’d laid out a timetable for himself twenty-odd years ago, and the only deviation had been her mother’s unexpected death. It was his time to be governor, and no one was going to interfere, least of all a convicted murderer and the writer who thought he was innocent.

How much damage could they do? If her father was accurate in describing Norris’s style, a lot, especially when the Senator would face a popular incumbent. Even an unsubstantiated rumor of wrongdoing could upset a sure-to-be-close race.

“Listen, honey, I’ve got to go,” the senator said. “Just promise me you’ll do as I instructed. I’ll call you again later.”

He didn’t wait for her promise before he hung up. He just assumed, as he always did, that of course she would do as he instructed. After all, she always had, hadn’t she?

Slowly she replaced the receiver in its cradle, ate a segment of orange, then went online and ordered one copy of each of Norris’s books. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her father; she did implicitly. She just wanted to see for herself how Norris approached his stories.

That done, she forced her attention to work and succeeded for a time, until she raised her gaze to the window to give them a break from the dull text she was studying. A dusty red pickup had just pulled into the parking space directly in front of the window and Jake Norris climbed out.

His jeans weren’t so faded, his T-shirt was still tight and his boots were beyond scuffed. Dark glasses hid his eyes, though her interest was lower, on the muscles bunching as he swung an apparently heavy backpack over one shoulder. He slammed the door and locked it, then started across the street without so much as a glance in the direction of the office.

Had she wanted him to look? Wanted him to wonder about her? If she was working, if she was watching him, if she was thinking about him?

She would like to say of course not, but honesty wouldn’t let her. He was the sexiest guy she’d run across in ages, as well as the most annoying. Under different circumstances, she would certainly be interested in a discreet short-term fling with him. Under the current circumstances, that wasn’t an option, but even so, it would be nice to know that the interest wasn’t one-sided.

As Norris stepped onto the far curb, Derek West got out of his patrol car and, after waiting for a car to pass, trotted across the street. He went into the courthouse about twenty feet behind Norris. Coincidence? Or was this part of the dissuasion her father had promised Therese? Since he was out of town, he would have called one of his close friends—probably Coy Roberts—to make sure Norris kept his distance from Therese. A little police harassment seemed right up Roberts’s alley.

She sat there a moment, tapping one nail against her desk, before abruptly rising. “Lissa, I’m going to the courthouse,” she called as she passed through the reception area. The girl popped her head out of the file room in time to watch her leave.

She crossed the street and entered through the same side door Norris had gone through. There were any number of offices he could have gone to…but she wasn’t looking for him. She just wanted to see if Derek West was.

The officer was leaning against the wall outside the court clerk’s open door, a broad grin stretching across his face. Voices filtered through the door—Norris’s lower rumble, Martha Gordon’s nasal tones. He sounded angry. She sounded bored. She always did.

Giving Derek a stern look, Kylie entered the office, then closed the door behind her. Norris, leaning on the counter, glanced over his shoulder. For just a moment something flashed in his gaze. Appreciation? Pleasure? Then he turned back to Martha. “You didn’t even check.”

Martha quivered from the top of her gray bun all the way down to the sensible support shoes she always wore. “I don’t need to check.”

“Is there a problem?” Kylie asked, moving to stand a few feet down the counter from Norris.

“This—” Martha’s gaze traveled over what she could see of Norris, and her entire face tightened “—this person wants to see the trial transcript from the Charley Baker murder case. I told him it’s been checked out, but he doesn’t believe me.”

“I asked for the file, and she said it’s not here without even checking,” Norris said, his jaw clenched.

Martha’s face tightened more. If she got any sourer, she would look like a prune. “Why would I waste my time checking when there’s no need? How many requests do you think I get in this office for twenty-some-year-old cases? I can tell you—two. In all the years I’ve been working here.”

“Who checked it out?” Kylie asked.

Martha’s shoulders went back. “That’s private information.”

“Martha,” Kylie chided gently.

Her mouth pursed, Martha went to the card file on her desk, then returned with an index card, handing it to Kylie. Written there in the woman’s imperious hand was Judge Markham’s name, the date he took the file and the date it was due back—several days past. What was his sudden interest in the file?

“Have you called to remind him that it’s past due?” Kylie asked as she returned the card to the clerk.

Martha sniffed haughtily. “I will now that there’s been another request for it.”

“When you have an answer, will you please let me know?” With a polite smile, Kylie caught Norris’s arm and started toward the door.

He dug in his feet, pulling her to a stop. “These files are a matter of public record. You people can’t hide them just because you don’t want anyone else to see them.”

Instead of tugging harder, she squeezed his arm tighter, all too aware of the muscle beneath her fingers that didn’t yield to pressure. “She can’t give you what she doesn’t have,” she said quietly, warningly. “It’s best if you leave now.”

Throwing a dark look at Martha, who returned it balefully, he let Kylie lead him into the corridor. The instant she pushed the door open, Derek West jumped back a few feet, then tried for a show of nonchalance.

Norris let her pull him a few feet before jerking his arm free. She missed the contact immediately and at the same time was grateful for its cessation. She didn’t need to be thinking about the silky-coarse texture of his hair-roughened skin or how he radiated heat or how long it had been since she’d experienced the pure tactile pleasure of touching a man even in so casual a way. If she wanted to touch a man, she could find plenty of volunteers—men who didn’t care who her father was, who didn’t have an agenda, who weren’t her adversary. Who weren’t so complicated. So handsome. So sexy.

“Who has the damn file?” he demanded.

She glanced at Derek, pretending disinterest. “We’ll talk outside.”

He glanced that way, too, then grudgingly nodded. They’d reached the door before Derek pushed away from the wall, and had gone down the half dozen steps before he opened the door. Kylie turned to face him. “Don’t follow me.”

“I’m not following you.”

“Don’t follow him while he’s with me.”

“But—” Derek’s gaze shifted from her to Norris, then back again. Comprehension dawned, though he tried to hide it. “Oh. Okay. Not a problem.” With a nod, he returned inside the building.

Kylie exhaled as she glanced around. They could go to her office or take a seat on a bench in the square. Instead she gestured toward the street. “Let’s walk.”

They’d made it to the corner before Norris asked, “Are you going to report back to Chief Roberts on everything I say?”

“Apparently Derek thinks so.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

They crossed the street and started down the next block. “I don’t report to Chief Roberts.”

“No, you report to the senator, who shares information with the chief, the judge and the lawyer.”

She kept her gaze on the storefronts they passed, each smaller and shabbier the farther they got from the square. “I don’t tell the senator everything,” she said at last.

“But you told him about me.”

“He called this morning to warn me that you were in town. I told him we’d met.”

“And he told you…to stay away from me? Or to stay close enough to be able to track my activities?”

She tilted her head to one side to look up at him, and Jake forgot his question. She was so damn pretty—delicate in a strong sort of way. Her brown eyes were flecked with bits of gold, and she smelled of spices with just a hint of sweetness. If he’d met her at any other time in any other place…

She would still be Senator Riordan’s daughter. He would still be the enemy.

Sunlight glinted off the diamond studs in her lobes as she returned her gaze to the sidewalk ahead. She wore heels again today, but there was nothing low or sensible about them. They brought the top of her head close to his, close enough that if they stopped walking and he turned her to face him, it would take only an inch or two for his mouth to reach hers.

Prove it, one part of him challenged.

Don’t be a fool, another advised.

“The trial transcript was checked out by Judge Markham,” she said.

Jake knew it must have been one of the four. “He’s retired. Why is he still allowed to check out files?” He would have been allowed to look at it there in the court clerk’s office or to have a copy made, but he wouldn’t have been able to take it from the room. Lawyers could take them out, Martha had explained to him before she’d known which file in particular he wanted, but only for a few days.

“As long as his law license is active, he still has that privilege. As the senator’s assistant, I occasionally check out records for him. We can take them for forty-eight hours.”

“And Judge Markham’s had this file for…?”

She sighed. “It was due back last Friday.”

Jake’s smile was thin. He’d tried to set up an interview with the judge the previous Wednesday. The old goat had turned him down, then gotten possession of the transcript. And it was the only copy the court had. Martha had told him that, too.

“Maybe he wanted to refresh his memory before he talked to you. Surely you want to interview him as well as the senator.”

“Maybe. Except that he turned me down when I called him last week. Said he had nothing to say on the matter and hung up on me.”

“So that’s why you just showed up at the senator’s office,” Kylie murmured.

Jake kicked an acorn and sent it tumbling into the yellowing grass alongside the sidewalk. “Do you ever call him Dad?”

Kylie blinked.

“Most people call their fathers Dad or Pop or Father or even by their first names. What do you call yours besides ‘the senator’?”

“Sir,” she answered.

He would have laughed if she hadn’t been serious. That was some kind of warm, loving relationship they shared. What inspired her loyalty to him? It had to be more than just a paycheck.

“So…if I want to see the transcript, I’ve got to get it from Markham.”

She cleared her throat delicately. “It might be best if you let me get it.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because it’s a matter of public record. He doesn’t have the right to—to hide it.” She swallowed hard, obviously aware that she was implying wrongdoing on the judge’s behalf and not liking it.

And what if Markham was hiding the transcript on her father’s say-so? Riordan might be out of town, but he was obviously in touch. Someone was keeping him informed…and, possibly, taking orders from him.

“I’ll stop by Judge Markham’s house later today,” she went on. “I’ll—I’ll let you know if I get it.”

They came to a stop at an intersection. They’d left the businesses behind and were in a neighborhood of moderately priced houses. Most of them were old, a few with their original wood siding, the rest updated to aluminum. The yards were roomy, the trees mature, their leaves turning shades of yellow, red and purple. The best friend he’d had in his months there had lived in the middle of the block. Back then, Jake had envied his house, his bike, his roots…but now he couldn’t even remember his name.

“Does it bother you that everyone says this is an open-and-shut case,” he began conversationally, “and yet no one wants to talk about it?”

“A lot people believe the past belongs in the past.” Kylie started across the street to their left, and he followed. On the other side, she turned back in the direction they’d just come.

“Especially people running for governor.”

She gave him a sharp look but didn’t comment. “Just because you’re interested in what happened to Charley Baker doesn’t mean anyone else is.”

“My agent is. My editor. My publisher. I’m already under contract. I’m going to write the book regardless of what your father and his cronies want.”

“What about Therese Franklin? Doesn’t what she wants count?”

He called to mind Therese’s image as she’d been that September—three years old, a girlie girl, looking like an angel with silky brown curls, huge blue eyes, a Cupid’s-bow mouth. She’d been left alone with her parents’ lifeless bodies for at least twelve hours. When they were discovered the next morning, she was sitting next to her mother, blood staining her white nightgown, eyes red from crying.

Did she remember anything from that night? Probably not. Three was mercifully young. But it had changed her life forever. He knew her grandfather had died, knew the grandmother—the last family she had left in the world—had Alzheimer’s and was also dying. This wasn’t the best time to bring her parents’ murders back into the limelight…but there was no best time to relive something like that.

“I haven’t spoken to Therese yet,” he replied. “I don’t know what she wants.”

“The senator has. She doesn’t want you dredging all this up again. She pleaded with him to stop you.”

Guilt niggled down his spine. “I may not need to interview her. She was so young.”

“She’s still so young.”

“She’s twenty-five.”

“The youngest twenty-five you’ll ever meet. The best thing you could do for her is forget this and go away.”

Forget it. As if it could ever be that simple. From the time he’d started his first book, he’d wanted to write about Charley’s case, though he’d found reasons to put it off. He was already contracted for a different book. He was too close to the story. He needed more experience to do it justice. And the worst reason: he hadn’t been sure he could handle what he found out. But then the last book had come out, and the guy had gotten a new trial. Charley had pleaded with him, and he’d known it was time.

He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I can’t do that. I told you—I’m already under contract. Besides, I made a promise to Charley.”

“And you’d put a convicted murderer ahead of his only surviving victim?”

“You’re very good at thinking the worst of me, you know.”

A flush tinged her cheeks, but she said nothing.

“What if Charley’s telling the truth? What if he’s spent twenty-two years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit? If the real killer is walking around free, still living here in Riverview, still pretending to be an upstanding citizen?”

She shook her head, her diamond stud creating small sun flashes. “There was no other suspect.”

“Because they didn’t look for one.”

“They had no reason to.”

“They had no reason to suspect Charley except that he was convenient. He lived next door. Didn’t have any ties to the town. Didn’t have money for a lawyer. Didn’t have anyone who cared whether he was railroaded into prison.”

“What about his wife? The senator said she believed he was guilty.”

Jake scuffed his boots along the pavement. It was hard to say whether Angela Baker had really believed Charley was guilty. She’d been unhappy for a time before the killings. She’d wanted a different life, a better life, for herself and their son. She’d seen his arrest as the perfect opportunity to move away, change her name and start building that life.

But at one time she’d loved Charley. They’d been married fourteen years—had shared a lot. Today, on the rare occasion she talked about him, all she would say was, I don’t know. Mostly she liked to forget that he existed. Who she was at this moment in time—that was her only reality.

“Back then, she just wanted out,” Jake said. “Now she has doubts. For what it’s worth, his son never doubted him.”

“Children generally don’t doubt their parents.” Her voice was soft, her expression distant. Was she wondering if she was safe in blind loyalty to her father? Did she have even the slightest fear that Jake might uncover evidence that Riordan wasn’t the man she believed him to be?

Would she hate Jake if he did find such proof?

“I’d better get back to work.”

He glanced around and realized they were back where they’d started. The courthouse, tall and imposing, was across the street, the senator’s office a few doors down. The cop she’d called Derek was sitting in the shade near his patrol car, authoritatively watching everyone’s comings and goings. He perked up when he saw them.

“Will you have lunch with me?” Jake asked, turning his back on the cop.

“No. I can’t.”

“Come on. I don’t like eating alone, and you’re the only person I’ve met who doesn’t look at me like I have two heads.”

That earned him a hint of a smile. “Your book places us in an adversarial position, Mr. Norris. I think it’s best if we act as such.”

“The senator’s orders?” he asked while imagining a few other positions he’d rather be in with her.

“I prefer to think of it as advice—good advice.”

“You know I’m attracted to you.”

His candor surprised her. Given that she worked in politics, she probably wasn’t used to blunt honesty. On the heels of the surprise came a rosy flush that tinted her cheeks. “I—I—” She backed away a few steps. “I really need to get back to work.”

He chuckled as she closed the few yards to the office door. As she reached for the handle, he called, “See you around.”

This time, instead of a muttered Not if I see you first, her only response was a slight wave before she disappeared inside the building.

He went to his truck, tossed his backpack inside, then called, “Hey, Derek. You ready to go?”

Harold Markham was in his midseventies, round about the middle and white-haired. Through his religious pursuit of such activities as golf and fishing he maintained a year-round tan that made his eyes a more startling blue in comparison. Startling and suspicious as they fixed on Kylie’s face. “What do you mean you’re here for the transcript?”

Odd. She thought the request was self-explanatory. She’d debated how to approach Judge Markham—whether to be up front and tell him she was returning the file to the court clerk’s office so Norris could check it out, or to blur the truth a little. I told Martha I’d pick up the file and save you both a trip. Or even outright lie: The senator asked me to get the file from you for safekeeping. She’d settled on simply asking for it.

“You do have it, don’t you? Martha told me you checked it out last week. She said you should have brought it back last Friday.” She forced a friendly smile. “You know how she is with her records.”

The judge didn’t smile in return. He simply watched her stonily.

She sighed. Though it was only four o’clock, she’d had a long day filled with distractions. Correction: filled with one big distraction. If she wasn’t catching glimpses of Jake Norris as he drove by the square, she was thinking about him. About his book. The threat the senator presumed him to be. The questions he’d raised. That last comment he’d made.

You know I’m attracted to you. She’d heard a few clever lines and a lot that weren’t, but none had had the power of that simple statement. It had sent an icy shiver down her spine at the same time heat had curled through her belly. She’d wanted to admit that she felt the same, had wanted to agree to lunch, dinner, breakfast and anything—everything—in between. She’d wanted to be wild and wicked and wanton…. But in the end she’d simply been herself.

Kylie Riordan, living a very dull life.

It was for the best. He was a very determined man, and so was her father. Between them was no place to be stuck.

“Missy?”

She refocused on Judge Markham. When she was little, he’d called her Miss Kylie and treated her like a princess. Somewhere along the way he’d dropped the Kylie and switched to Missy, and what had begun as affection had come to feel like condescension. She used the annoyance it stirred to shield her from the guilt as she prepared to lie. “I’m sorry, Judge. The senator called this morning and mentioned the transcript. His message was, naturally, a little vague.”

Judge Markham nodded as if the senator being vague in a private phone call with his daughter made perfect sense.

“He mentioned you and the transcript. I thought he wanted me to take it for safekeeping.”

“What time this morning?”

“Shortly after I arrived at the office.”

He nodded as if that meant something. “Well, he called me this afternoon and told me to destroy it, and that’s what I did. Clearly he recognized the wisdom of my method of safekeeping.” Rising from his chair, he patted her shoulder on his way to the door. He didn’t seem to notice that, despite his clear invitation to leave, she was frozen in her seat.

Destroying court records—that was a felony. Her father couldn’t possibly have suggested…Judge Markham surely must have misunderstood…the senator never would have condoned…

Acid bubbled in her stomach, and her limbs were rigidly locked in place. When her brain finally gave the command to rise, she had to push to her feet, forcibly straightening her knees, mechanically lifting one foot, then the other, to walk across the judge’s library and into the marbled foyer.

“You forgot your bag, Missy.”

It took a moment for the words to clear the buzzing in her ears, for her mind to make sense of them. “My…bag?”

The judge disappeared into the library, then returned holding her purse at arm’s length as if carrying it properly might bring his manhood into question. He offered it to her, then, when she made no effort to take it, impatiently slid the strap over her limp arm to her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

She gave herself a mental shake. “Y-yes. Just a…a headache.”

“Nothing a shot of good whiskey wouldn’t cure, I bet.” In his world, there was nothing a shot of good whiskey couldn’t cure.

She smiled, hoping it looked halfway genuine. “I believe I’ll settle for aspirin. I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Judge.” She opened the door, gazed out at her car parked in the circular drive out front, then turned back. “I would appreciate it, sir, if you didn’t tell the senator about this. I would hate for him to think that I misunderstood his instructions.”

“Tell him about what?” Judge Markham grinned and winked as he lifted his own glass of whiskey in a salute. “Don’t you worry, Missy. It’s our secret.”

Our secret. She’d never kept secrets from her father, and wasn’t sure why she’d decided to start now. Because if he knew she knew the transcript had been destroyed, he might confess that he’d given the order?

No. She didn’t believe that—couldn’t believe it. Her father had devoted his entire life to public service. He was an honest, upright, moral person. He hadn’t told Judge Markham to destroy those records. He would be horrified when he found out what the judge had done.

But Judge Markham had devoted his entire life to public service, as well, a small voice that sounded a lot like Jake Norris whispered slyly. He was also an honest, upright, moral person…who hadn’t hesitated a moment before breaking the law.

You know nothing of the facts, she’d told Norris the evening before. She was beginning to fear that she was the one who needed an education.

She stopped at the street. If she turned right, she could be home in a matter of seconds…to do what? Fret? If she turned left, she could return to the office, where she could at least fret in an environment more conducive to work.

She chose left, driving the short distance downtown. She parked near the office but didn’t go inside. Instead, impulsively, she crossed the square to the redbrick building on the far side that housed the Joshua Colby Memorial Library. After climbing the broad granite steps, she went through the double doors and headed to the reference section.

The Riverview Journal had been online for five years. Any article from that time could be found in their online archives, along with anything from their first twenty years in business. The rest was being added slowly but was accessible in the meantime on microfilm.

Usually.

The microfilm inside the box labeled September from the year of the trial was blank. So were the films for August and October. Kylie took the boxes to the desk. After exchanging pleasantries with the librarian, she said, “There’s a problem with these films, Mary Anne. They’re blank.”

Mary Anne’s gaze flickered to the worn storage boxes before returning to the books she was sorting. “Really? Isn’t that odd?”

“Have they always been blank?”

“I wouldn’t know, Kylie.”

“Has anyone else looked at them lately?”

“I can’t say. They’re on the shelves. Anyone can use them. We don’t keep track.”

Kylie wanted to grab her, to make her stop what she was doing and look at her, but kept her hands at her sides. “Do you have a copy?”

“No. Afraid not. Sorry.” With an apologetic smile aimed in Kylie’s general direction the woman walked away from the counter, taking refuge in the small office behind her.

Puzzled, Kylie left the library. She’d known Mary Anne since first grade and she’d never seen her act quite so cavalierly. Mary Anne was generally as protective of her library materials as Martha was of her court records. Neither woman’s behavior that day had been typical. Nor had Judge Markham’s or the Senator’s.

And the one common denominator was the Baker case.

Grimly Kylie walked the block and a half to the Journal’s office. Does it bother you, Norris had asked, that everyone says this is an open-and-shut case, and yet no one wants to talk about it?

More and more every minute.

The newspaper office was small and dusty, but the staff put out a good paper given their resources. Words were usually spelled correctly, sentences usually punctuated properly. Dale Bayouth, the owner, publisher and Web master, was sitting at his desk, tinkering with the Web site, when she walked in. He greeted her with an easy smile. “Kylie. What can I do for you?”

She explained about the microfilm at the library, then asked, “Can I see your copies from that time period?”

He began shaking his head before she finished. “Sorry. They’re not available. I sent everything to my son down in Houston. He’s working on the website archives.”

How convenient. Frustration made her teeth grind, but she forced a smile. “It was worth a try. Thanks anyway.”

She left before she could find the courage to ask when he had sent the archives to his son and at whose suggestion. She doubted he would tell her, and if he would, she wasn’t sure she really wanted to know.

The answer might be more than she could bear.