Deception, page 5
The call was breaking up again, and Bri shook her head and then realized Gloria couldn’t see her. “She had an overcoat. It’s in the car.” But where were the keys? Think. Dani had them when she got out of the car.
She scanned the area in the dim light from overhead. Something glinted by the trash can, and Bri scrambled to the other side of the sidewalk and grabbed the keys and ran to the car for the heavier coat. A faint wail reached her ears as she laid Dani’s parka over her still body.
What if they think I shot her? Her hands curled. With her arrest record, that’s exactly what the police would think. Bri would rather die than go back to jail.
The siren drew closer. Help wasn’t far away . . . She stared at the keys in her hands and then at the Honda. Dani wouldn’t need her car, not until she was better and could tell the police what happened and that Bri hadn’t shot her. Thank goodness she hadn’t given the 911 operator her full name.
9
Clayton’s heart dipped as six-year-old Ava climbed out of her car seat and wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Fank you,” she whispered in his ear.
“You’re welcome.” He tried to keep his thoughts away from the laser surgery she faced to remove the birthmark on her cheek. Not that it would be anytime soon since Jen’s insurance had a ten thousand dollar deductible—if the procedure was even covered by her insurance. They would have to come up with the money first. Now that he had his gambling debts paid, he could start saving for her surgery.
“Yes, thank you,” Jen echoed, narrowing her eyes at Clayton. Probably for not correcting Ava when she regressed to her four-year-old speech pattern.
He didn’t care. The kid had enough going on with her father abandoning the family a year ago. It didn’t help that Jen worked long hours just to keep the power turned on because the man she’d married took what little savings they had and blew it on drugs before he walked out of their lives. “Mind your mom, and we’ll do this again soon.”
“Pwomis?” When he raised his eyebrows she said, “Promise?”
“Yes.”
Satisfied, Ava released him, and he set her on the drive. “Thanks for dinner,” Jen said as she took her daughter’s hand.
Clayton reached for the two hundred dollars he’d pocketed before he picked the two up and handed it to his sister.
Tears shone in her eyes. “Clayton, you don’t—”
“Indulge me.”
Her shoulders squared. “We’ll pay you back every penny you’ve given us.”
“Who’s keeping count?” he asked with a smile. The smile faded as they walked to the small bungalow next door to his mother’s craftsman house. He wished he could do more for Jen, but what she needed wasn’t so much money as answers, like why her husband skipped out without even a goodbye.
Once they were safely inside, he walked back to his truck and turned his phone on as he pulled away from the drive. It had been a good outing, made even better after he’d picked up the tab for Madison Thorn.
Clayton’s phone buzzed, breaking into his thoughts. “Bradshaw.”
“Oh, good. I’ve been trying to raise you on the radio, and you’re not answering your phone.”
He immediately recognized field ranger Brooke Danvers’s voice. Had to be something bad for her to call on his night off. “Sorry, I’m in my pickup. I took Jen and Ava out to eat and just now turned on my phone. What’s going on?”
“Dispatch notified me that we have a shooting at the Coles Creek rest area. I’m still about five minutes out and right behind the ambulance.”
Clayton groaned. Something like this happened every time he took a few hours off. “I’m on my way. Did you call Ritter?” Jesse Ritter was Clayton’s other field ranger.
“He’s up near Jackson, so it’ll be a while before he can get here.”
Brooke could handle this—she was a seasoned ranger and was always on top of everything. Her dad, Big John Danvers, had been one of the best district law enforcement rangers around and had trained Clayton. He was now trying to fill the legendary ranger’s shoes.
“I’ll be there ASAP.” Clayton pulled a portable emergency light from his console and popped it on his dash before he executed a U-turn and sped toward the Natchez Trace with the blue light flashing. Brooke was married to Luke Fereday, a ranger with the Investigative Services Branch, and it might not be a bad idea to pull him into the investigation. Except, he remembered Brooke saying Luke was in Washington for a conference.
Twenty minutes later, he pulled into the parking area at Coles Creek as paramedics hurried a gurney toward the ambulance. Brooke met him at his truck. “How bad?” he asked.
“Paramedics say it’ll be touch and go. Loss of blood, erratic pulse . . . She was shot in the back and shoulder area.”
“Has she said anything?”
“A couple of times she asked about somebody named Bri.”
He nodded and moved closer to the ambulance where he could see the victim’s face. For a second, he didn’t breathe. ISB special agent Madison Thorn? He’d paid for her dinner not an hour ago.
Could he be wrong? He stared at her. She wasn’t dressed the same as this morning, but it was the same blond hair and the same heart-shaped face with a slight cleft in her chin that he’d noticed at the restaurant.
Her eyes fluttered open, and she locked gazes with Clayton. Same blue eyes.
“Agent Thorn, did this Bri person shoot you?” Clayton asked.
She frowned. “Bri . . . you . . . find her.”
Her eyes closed, and for a second, she struggled to open them again.
“We’re ready to load,” the medic said, and Clayton stepped away from the gurney.
They slammed the doors to the ambulance shut. “Are you taking her to Merit?”
“Yeah. It’s the closest hospital. They’ll probably airlift her to Jackson if they get her stabilized.”
From his expression, the paramedic didn’t think she’d make it, and Clayton lifted a quick prayer heavenward before he turned to Brooke. From the look on her face, she’d done the same thing. He scanned the parking lot for the light-blue Chevy Impala he’d pulled over this morning. “Where’s her car and the girl?”
“What girl?” Brooke frowned. “And there was no car here when I arrived. Haven’t found a purse or a cell, either.”
“I saw the victim at the restaurant in the Guest House B&B around 6:45 with a female who looked like she might be in her late teens or early twenties.” He kicked himself for not going over and talking to her and finding out who the teenager was. But he had no way of knowing she would get shot.
Brooke tapped her iPad. “A female who gave her name as Bri called the shooting in to 911 at 7:30.”
“That’s the name the victim spoke.” Clayton rubbed his jaw as he did the math. Forty-five minutes. “Allowing fifteen minutes to get out of Natchez and on the Trace, and then the time to get here—they must have left soon after I did and didn’t make any stops.”
Brooke tilted her head toward him. “You know the victim?”
“I issued her a warning ticket for speeding, but there was no teenager with her,” he said. “She must’ve picked the girl up sometime between eight this morning and when I was with Jen and Ava at the restaurant.”
“So you have her tag number?” Brooke asked as the ambulance pulled out onto the Trace with red-and-white lights flashing.
“Yeah.” He started toward his pickup and turned back with a grimace. Since he only gave her a warning, he hadn’t entered it into his iPad. “The information is in the ticket book in my SUV.”
Clayton quickly called Sheriff Nate Rawlings to issue a BOLO for a late-model blue Chevy Impala with a rental license plate and a young adult female driving it.
“I’ll pass this along to the police chief and get him to issue a BOLO as well,” Rawlings said. “And I’ll send my chief deputy to help with the investigation.”
“Good. Once I reach my SUV and get a plate number, I’ll call you back.” After he disconnected, Clayton dialed Hugh Cortland’s number. When he’d talked to him earlier in the day, Cortland had indicated he was working with the ISB special agent. Maybe Cortland had her plate number. When the FBI agent answered, Clayton explained the situation.
“That’s impossible. Last time I talked to her, she planned to meet someone for lunch and then go to her grandfather’s house in Natchez and work. She was spending the night with him and she shouldn’t have even been on the Trace. Are you certain it’s Madison Thorn?”
“The victim’s car is missing with her personal effects, but I’m pretty sure it’s her. A woman who looks like Ms. Thorn leaves an impression.”
He pictured the woman at the restaurant with her blue eyes and blond hair in a ponytail. She’d been dressed in jeans and a pullover instead of the white blouse and slacks from earlier in the day. Could he be wrong? The image of the woman he’d given the ticket to had popped up in his mind all day, and he believed it was the woman who just left in an ambulance.
“I have her cell number—let me call her,” Hugh said. “If she doesn’t answer, I’ll make some calls and get the license plate number.” There was hesitation on the other end of the line. “You know if it is Madison, I’ll want the investigation,” Hugh said. “The FBI has more resources.”
Clayton straightened his shoulders. He was the law enforcement officer for the Natchez Trace, but the FBI had jurisdiction over criminal activity in a national park and they held a higher rank than he did. That meant if Cortland wanted it, he could take the lead since the Trace was a part of the National Park Service. “Yeah, I know, but we’ve always worked well together on cases in the past.” Clayton saw no reason they couldn’t in this matter.
“Absolutely.”
“I’ll be here at Coles Creek looking for spent slugs until my other field ranger or Rawlings’s chief deputy shows up,” he said. “Once you have that plate number, call it in to the sheriff.”
Clayton pocketed his phone and looked for Brooke. She had her high-beam flashlight out, sweeping it over the parking lot. “Find anything?” he asked when he reached her.
“No. Been thinking. Why would this girl call 911 if she intended to rob the victim and steal her car?”
“Good question.” An SUV with the Adams County Sheriff’s Department logo on the side pulled into the parking area. “I’m going to the hospital to see if I can get some answers.”
10
The clock on Judge William Anderson’s wall inched toward 8:15. He’d been sitting in his office almost three hours. His gaze was drawn to the headline again.
“Local Natchez Man Killed at Parchman.” William laid the paper on his desk and leaned back in his leather chair. He’d read and reread the article detailing how Blake Corbett had been found in his cell at Parchman Penitentiary, dead from a knife wound to the chest.
No one could find the prisoner’s brother, and the US Marshals office had already called to let him know the marshal assigned to him was outside his door and would escort him to his car and follow him home tonight.
The judge leaned forward, pressing his fingertips to his temples. He was getting too old for this job. So many times he had no choice in the sentences he imposed. The Corbett case had been one of them.
Corbett’s brother would take his death hard. Anderson had felt for the man during the trial. He’d totally believed in his brother’s innocence—so much so that he’d come unhinged when the jury returned their verdict, and had to be restrained. That potential existed again.
His cell phone chimed.
Where are you?
Madison. He’d completely forgotten she was at the house. He texted back.
On my way.
He stood and texted the marshal that he was leaving. The judge shoved his chair in place, and a thought rooted him to the floor. Could Corbett’s brother go after Madison for retribution?
11
Madison folded her cloth napkin and placed it beside her plate. “Thank you, Grandfather. That was very good,” she said.
It wasn’t really an untruth, but nine o’clock was way past when she normally ate a heavy meal like steak and potatoes. Usually if she ate this late, it was cottage cheese or something else light. She scooted her chair back to stand, wishing she could excuse herself and get ready for bed but knowing it wouldn’t be possible. Besides, her grandfather had been acting strangely ever since he arrived home, and she wanted to know why.
Her grandfather stood as well. “Nadine made her New Orleans bread pudding especially for you. I’ll have her bring it to the study.” He used his bench voice that brooked no argument.
She moaned. No matter what time it was or how full she was, Madison could never turn down Nadine’s bread pudding. The recipe had been handed down from her grandmother back in Jefferson Parish, Louisiana, and it was to die for. Besides, turning down her grandfather’s invitation to join him in his study would be tantamount to refusing an invitation from the king.
“While we eat, you can tell me what brought you to Natchez, and then, uh . . . I have a matter I want to discuss with you.”
Again the feeling that all was not well with him. She turned her phone from off to vibrate as she followed him out of the dining room. Taking a call during dinner was definitely a no-no here, but now that they were finished, she didn’t think Grandfather would mind if her phone buzzed.
“I apologize again for not being here when you arrived,” he said once they were seated in front of the fire. Ever so briefly, worry crossed his usually impassive face. “Something came up at the last minute.”
“It wasn’t a problem.” As a law enforcement officer, she knew how that went, and she’d used the time to study the invoices. More than once her thoughts had returned to her lunch meeting with Steven Turner. She’d enjoyed talking to him and was glad to see Noah was doing well, but there was something off about it.
Her grandfather sighed, and she turned to him. Something was bothering him, and she couldn’t help wondering if it was what had held him so late. Her grandfather, the Honorable William Anderson, rarely allowed a court session to go beyond five, and if court wasn’t in session, he was home early. Not only that, he’d been jumpy ever since he’d walked through the door. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” He ran his left hand through his thick white hair. “Did Nadine get you settled in the guest room?”
“She did.” It was the same room she’d stayed in when she and her mother visited in the summers.
After a light knock at the door, the housekeeper entered with a tray that she set on a table. The strong aroma of chicory filled the small room.
“The bread pudding is a little dried out,” Nadine said, self-reproach in her voice.
She had been with the family for as long as Madison could remember, living in a small apartment beside the garage. Though small in stature and just past her eightieth birthday, Nadine Broussard ran the judge’s house like a precision watch. She was probably the only person in the world who could boss her grandfather around.
“I apologize again for being late, but I’m sure it will be fine. And don’t hang around waiting for us to finish. I’ll bring the dishes to the kitchen,” her grandfather said and helped himself to a cup of coffee and a serving of dessert. “Coffee, Madison?”
“Not if I want to sleep tonight.” It wasn’t the chicory in Nadine’s coffee that would keep her awake, it was the naturally caffeine-rich Kenyan beans she used. Besides, Madison had tried chicory once and hadn’t liked the bitter taste.
Once Nadine left them, he stirred cream into his coffee. “So, when are you going to get married and give me great-grandchildren?”
She stared at him. That was the last thing she’d expected him to say. “What?”
“You heard me. All you ever do is work. I think it’s high time you got interested in someone and settled down, preferably here in Natchez.”
“Unfortunately, I haven’t found anyone as interesting as my job.” The one time she had, it’d turned into a disaster. Been there, done that, she wasn’t trying it again.
“Just consider it.” Her grandfather took a bite of the pudding. “Nadine was wrong,” he said. “This is not dry.”
Neither of them spoke as they enjoyed the sweet treat, then her grandfather set his half-eaten dessert on the table. “Speaking of your job, what brings you to Natchez?”
“A case involving theft and kickbacks.” She was glad to be off the subject of her matrimonial prospects, or rather her lack thereof. Not that she would be sharing any details of the case. “How about you? What happened today that made you late?” She took another bite of the bread pudding.
He studied her a minute. “You’re getting good at evading questions.”
“Comes with the territory.” She waited expectantly.
He picked up his coffee and sipped it before answering. “A man I sentenced to Parchman was killed there yesterday. Blake Corbett,” he said softly. “Always claimed he was innocent, even took a chance on a longer prison sentence rather than plead guilty.”
“I’m sorry.”
He continued like she hadn’t spoken. “The US Marshals notified me that he’d recently made more threats against me. His brother has, as well. I was late because I went over the transcript of his trial to make sure I’d made no errors.”
Madison could never be a judge, often deciding a person’s innocence or guilt and then their fate. “What was your conclusion?”
“The jury believed the prosecution’s case was stronger than the defense lawyer’s and found him guilty. With mandatory sentencing for his crime, I had no choice. According to the US Marshals, his brother, Aaron, doesn’t see it that way. I, as well as the members of the jury, have been notified of his death and advised to take precautions. A US Marshal followed me home and will arrive early tomorrow morning to accompany me to court.”
Madison frowned. “Shouldn’t there be someone here tonight?”
He shook his head. “This place is like a fortress, and I have my .38. I’ll be fine.”
