Tempting the Devil Page 9

  But she read the story with a jaundiced eye, wondering how she could have made it better. Too many unanswered questions.

  The phone rang and she picked it up. After several seconds of silence, the caller hung up.

  She checked the caller ID. It reported “unknown.”

  In disgust, she replaced it back in the cradle. It wouldn’t have been Sandy. He would have used her cell phone.

  The phone rang again. She waited until the ID reported another “unknown.”

  She picked up the phone and slammed it back down as loud as she could. She would buy a whistle later today.

  But that resolve didn’t quiet the sudden anxiety that knotted and writhed in her stomach.

  She quickly dressed, took one more slug of coffee, said good-bye to Daisy, who looked forlorn, and went to her car. She was to meet with Wade again this morning, along with two other reporters now assigned to work the story with her. One was Bob Greene, the police reporter, the other Cleve Andrews, an investigative reporter. They were to work as a team from now on, but she was to be the lead reporter.

  She was no longer the Outer Siberia reporter. She was back in the big time with a huge story that belonged to her.

  But she found herself looking in the rearview mirror as she drove, something she’d never done before.

  Had that black sedan been there four blocks back?

  She turned a corner, then another. She looked back again. No black sedan.

  She was becoming paranoid. The calls were obviously a wrong number, or a computerized sales pitch.

  Get over it. Sandy’s fear had infected her. Reporters weren’t harmed for reporting.

  Her cell phone rang.

  She hated that when in traffic.

  The light ahead was red. She looked at the number.

  The paper’s.

  She punched the talk button. “Wade?”

  “Are you on the way?”

  “Should be there in ten minutes or so, depending on traffic. The meeting’s at ten, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but there’s a complication.”

  She waited.

  “The FBI is here. They want to talk to you. I’ve contacted our attorney. We don’t want you to talk to them without him.”

  Her heart thumped unsteadily as she switched the phone off, and the traffic started moving again.

  Sandy had warned her this would probably happen. So had the company attorney.

  She looked down at her hand and saw it tremble slightly. Like most people, she found the idea of talking to the FBI a little off-putting, even as a reporter. It was one thing to ask questions, quite a different one to answer them. Or not answer them.

  Was she really ready for this?

  She had to be. She’d consciously grabbed the tiger’s tail, and now she would have to hold on till the end.

  chapter nine

  Robin sat in one of the private offices on the management floor of the paper and tried to ignore the nervous tingling in her chest. Not only were her editor and the newspaper’s attorney present, but also the executive editor of the paper.

  She’d received flowers from the latter immediately after the accident two years ago, but she’d never actually had a conversation with him.

  Richard Reese greeted her warmly, though, and she knew Wade must have already discussed the story with him.

  “You might be in for a hard time,” he said, “but the paper will stand behind you.”

  “Thank you.”

  The door opened, and two men were ushered in by Richard Reese’s secretary.

  Her gaze went immediately to the taller of the two, and her heart quickened. She’d been occupied since the funeral with the story, with meetings, but Ben Taylor had lurked in her thoughts.

  Taylor led the other man into the room. As on the day of the funeral, he wore a dark blue suit with a striped tie and his hair, which had been unruly that day, was neatly combed. The flinty look in his eyes was the same.

  He nodded at her, his gaze holding hers for a fleeting second. “Ms. Stuart.”

  Richard Reese was already standing. “You know Ms. Stuart?”

  He turned to Reese. “We met at one of the funerals. I’m Agent Ben Taylor. This is Agent Ellis Mahoney.”

  Reese introduced the others at the table. Wade. The attorney, Mason Parker.

  Ben Taylor frowned as his gaze moved from one to another. He was clearly displeased. “Gentlemen.”

  “Please sit,” Reese said.

  Taylor obviously didn’t want to do that but he chose a chair at the end of the table where he could see everyone’s faces. His partner sat next to him. Reese was at the other end, the attorney on his right side, and Robin had been placed on the attorney’s right side. Wade was seated across from her.

  Ben Taylor didn’t waste any words. “We want to know the name of your source for the story.” He addressed her directly.

  Mason Parker interrupted. “Is the FBI officially involved now? It’s my understanding that it’s not.”

  “Ms. Stuart’s story, if true, indicates official corruption as well as involvement by an organization that operates across state lines.” Taylor’s voice was clipped, with none of the southern drawl Robin had heard earlier.

  She felt heat rise in her cheeks at the “if true” in his statement. Mason Parker gave her the smallest shake of his head, as if warning her not to react.

  Taylor’s gaze didn’t leave her. The intensity she’d felt in him before had reached storm level. Storm, heck. Hurricane force.

  She started to answer when the attorney cut her off. “Until it’s an official federal case, Ms. Stuart is protected by the Georgia shield law.”

  Ben Taylor didn’t move his eyes from her. “You want murderers to go free?”

  “Her source wouldn’t have spoken if he, or she, had not been assured of privacy,” Mason Parker interjected.

  “The Georgia shield law isn’t absolute, and there is no federal shield statute,” Taylor said. “Ms. Stuart just gave us reason to enter the case.”

  Mason Parker shook his head. “Ms. Stuart is not obligated at this point to reveal her source.”

  “Then you will release it at some point?”

  “That’s up to Ms. Stuart.”

  “She can be subpoenaed.”

  “I think this conversation is over,” Mason Parker said as he stood.

  Taylor leveled a stare at her that would have frozen hell. “Murder. Drugs. Prostitution. Corruption. Do you really want to protect that?”

  “If I did, I wouldn’t have written the story,” she said, ignoring the attorney. Anger seethed deep inside.

  “Good intentions or not, you’re impeding an investigation,” Taylor said sharply. “Someone else might die because of it.”

  A suffocating sensation tightened her throat, but after a few seconds she defended herself. “There would have been no story if I had not promised,” she shot back. “Then you wouldn’t have what you might have now.”

  “Ms. Stuart,” the attorney cautioned.

  “If someone didn’t think they could hide behind you,” Taylor retorted, “they might have come to us.”

  That, too, could be true. She’d watched Sandy’s personal agony.

  “We’re through here,” Mason Parker said sharply. “If you have any more questions, bring them to me.”

  Robin saw the anger in Taylor’s face, the frustration. But he rose with his partner. “We’ll keep in touch.” Then he walked out with the easy grace she’d noticed before, a grace that made her feel that much more awkward.

  After the door closed, Richard Reese turned to her. “We’ll support you in whatever you decide, but I think they’ll try to compel you to talk. You could go to jail. Be aware of that. We wouldn’t be able to help you there except to continue your salary.”

  Mason Parker tapped his pencil on a notebook. “Try to get your source to come forward. Talk to the FBI about giving him protection.”

  “He already said that wasn’t an option.
He said the bad guys go after families, and both he and his wife have large extended families in the county.”

  “Ask him to think about it again.”

  She stood, her legs as unsteady as the first time she’d stood after the accident. Still, the adrenaline was back.

  “One more thing,” the attorney said. “We’ve been notified that the sheriff’s department might file suit against us. You are no longer welcome in their offices.”

  “They can’t ban me. It’s public space.”

  “You won’t get anything,” Reese broke in. “Wade, maybe you should put someone else with the sheriff’s department. Ms. Stuart can work the county police department and other aspects of the case.”

  “That’s giving in to them,” she protested. “They shouldn’t be able to decide what reporters—”

  “Perhaps not, but unlike Atlanta, where politicians worry about public reaction, I don’t think Meredith County people give a damn.” Reese shrugged. “I’ll leave it up to Wade.” He grinned conspiratorially. “I suspect most of them hate our guts already. The liberal Atlanta press. Might as well give them more heartburn.”

  Ben swore as he slammed down on the brake as the traffic light changed.

  “That went well,” Mahoney quipped. “What do we do now?”

  “Get her away from her minders.”

  “You think charm will do it? Then better me than you,” Mahoney said with a sly smile.

  “Holland indicated the same thing,” Ben said dryly. “I lost my temper. I’m so damned tired of reporters thinking they’re above the law. They twist what you say, they cast blame without knowing what the hell they’re talking about, then they sit snug and safe after they start their damn fires.”

  “She was right, though. We wouldn’t have even as little as we do without her story and anonymous source.”

  “It’s not enough. Her story doesn’t officially put us on the case. It could be nothing but one person’s suppositions or paranoia. Damn it, we need to interview that source to know whether the report is credible.”

  “I’ll start an extensive background check on her. Maybe our boss got the okay for a search warrant.”

  “I’m not sure the U.S. attorney has the balls to take on the press.”

  “He wants to take down Hydra as much as we do. It would be damned good for his career.” Mahoney didn’t have to add what they all knew: that Joseph Ames would do almost anything to promote his own career. And right now press credibility wasn’t that great.

  “She’s kinda pretty,” Mahoney added with a leer.

  “Haven’t noticed,” Ben lied. “Don’t forget you’re a married man.”

  “I’m thinking about you,” Mahoney countered. “It’s time you started thinking about women again.”

  “I do think about them, but I’m too poor to do anything about it,” Ben said. “Every extra penny I have goes for Dani.”

  “It’s not just that, and you know it. You shouldn’t feel so damned guilty.”

  Ben silenced him with a look. “I’m content as I am. And if I were inclined to seek female companionship, I sure as hell wouldn’t go after a reporter.”

  “She’s got a thing for you,” Mahoney said as the car slowed. “Betcha a beer.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “I know you hate the press, with good reason, but they’re not all like Ceci Walker.”

  “They’re all a bunch of jackals,” Ben replied.

  Mahoney grinned and spread his hands. “Okay. But you research her while I talk to U.S. Attorney Ames. He likes me better than you. We’ll compare notes tonight. Over a beer.”

  “Your wife approves?”

  “She understands,” Mahoney corrected.

  “Don’t ever believe that, pal. You think they do. They think they do. Then one day you wake up and realize it’s all been a myth.”

  After the meeting with Wade and the other reporters, Robin went into the restroom and splashed cold water on her face.

  The combativeness was gone. The adrenaline had faded. Mason had made it clear what she faced. And Ben Taylor’s anger left its mark. She resented the contempt in his voice, but it struck home. Was she really doing the right thing?

  She’d just defied the FBI. That was a big thing for the daughter of a man who lived for duty, honor, country. She didn’t think he would approve.

  Jack Ross would. She used her cell phone to call him.

  He picked up immediately.

  “Jack, this is Robin.”

  “Great stuff, kid,” he said.

  Some of the uncertainty left her. Jack Ross had been her mentor, a Pulitzer Prize winner, when she’d first joined the paper. He’d been the political editor and had taken her under his wing. It was one reason she’d moved up so quickly. It had been friendship only. She became part of his family, as close to his wife as she was to Jack.

  She’d learned writing, and reporting, and regret from him. Years earlier, he’d authored a series on prisons, using a number of anonymous sources. He gave one up, and that person was killed in prison. He’d never completely recovered from it, and he’d started drinking heavily, a habit that eventually forced him from the paper.

  “Whatever you do, kid,” he told her over and over again, “never give up your source. In this business, if you don’t have trust, you don’t have anything.”

  “They say they’re going to subpoena me,” she said.

  “They won’t keep you long. Public pressure’s too strong. Hang in there, Robin.”

  The words were a balm, an affirmation.

  “Another thing,” he said. “Make sure your notes are safe. That’s what got me.”

  After she ended the call, she weighed how to protect and preserve her notes and the tape she had. She considered destroying them, but if the paper were sued or she needed proof of the conversation for some reason …

  She couldn’t use a safe-deposit box. If she refused to answer questions, they might try to subpoena her notes. She couldn’t send them to one of her sisters, not without drawing them into this. Same thing, friends. She could try to bury them somewhere, but she didn’t like that idea, either.

  She compromised. She left the office and stopped at a pay phone in a convenience store. She called information and found the number of a former classmate and friend. A mutual acquaintance had told her he had a law practice in Santa Rosa, California.

  In minutes, she’d found him and even got him on the line.

  “Shelby, this is Robin Stuart.”

  “Robin—God, it’s been years. Where are you?”

  “Atlanta. The Observer.”

  “What you always wanted.”

  So he remembered. “Yes.”

  “Is this a hello call or something else?”

  “Something else. I would like to hire you.”

  “In California?”

  “Particularly in California.”

  “Okay,” he said softly. “Am I to ask any questions?”

  “No. But it’s nothing illegal. What would you suggest as a retainer?” A retainer would establish the attorney-client relationship.

  “What services do you need?” he replied cautiously.

  “To hold on to a package.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then five dollars will do. A bargain-basement price for you.”

  “Thanks. I’ll send the package along with a five-dollar bill.”

  “I’ll need your signature. I can e-mail you the document.”

  She thought about that for a moment. “Not here.”

  “Where?”

  She thought a moment. “I’ll call you back as to where to send it. What’s your address?”

  He gave it to her.

  “Keep it safe,” she said. “It could be important.”

  “It’s a pleasure serving you,” he said with mock humility. “When are you going to be in town?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Robin, it’s good to hear from you.
” His voice turned serious. “I don’t know what you’re involved with, but be careful.”

  She drove home, gathered her tapes and written notes, and put them into a large, padded envelope, adding a five-dollar bill. She carefully wrote Shelby Mann’s address on it. Then she erased every address from her computer address book, as well as most on her cell phone.

  On her way to the office, she slipped the envelope into a post office collection box. Once back at the office she started calling all her sources for the next day’s story. She quickly learned her earlier story had made an impression. The sheriff refused to take her call, as did every other source she tried. Some just hung up on her. Others explained they could no longer talk to her.

  Bob Greene was working all his police sources. The investigative reporter, Cleve Andrews, was trying to trace down the ownership of the land where the officers were killed.

  She wrapped up the report at six after being on the phone for four hours. She led with the blanket denial from the sheriff’s office that it had any connection to the shooting, or that any deputy was told not to go by the crime scene the night of the murders.

  Much of the rest was a retelling of facts.

  Her phone rang.

  “Hi, it’s Michael. We met a few nights ago at Charlie’s.”

  “I remember.”

  “I was hoping I could take you to dinner tonight. To celebrate the story.”

  Surprised, she considered the offer. She hadn’t had a real date in two years. Since she’d returned, she tired much too quickly at night.

  Michael Caldwell. She’d liked him. He hadn’t made her heart jump or raised the temperature when he was in close proximity, but she was comfortable with him.

  “Sorry,” she said with real regret. “I’m really beat.”

  “Tomorrow?” he asked hopefully.

  “I’m not sure. Depends on the story.”

  “I’ll check with you again soon.”

  She hung up. Part of her regretted the refusal. It would be nice to be normal. But she desperately needed some sleep. Perhaps tonight she wouldn’t see the bodies in her dreams, or nightmares.

  Bob Greene approached her desk. “Great job. What about a beer?”

  She stretched. “I’m heading home.”

  “This source,” he said, “you’re sure of him?”