The Hero's Son. Amanda Stevens

No one would have guessed that two months ago, the two had been separated, and that Kristin had called Brant night and day, trying to worm her way back into his good graces.

      And into his bed.

      As Brant turned away, he saw Hugh Rawlins standing at the fringes of the crowd. He was in uniform, his hat pulled low over his eyes, so that he wouldn’t be recognized. Brant walked over to him.

      “Some show, huh?” Hugh clapped a hand on Brant’s shoulder. “Austin’s going to make a helluva congressman.”

      “A helluva politician, anyway,” Brant conceded. “What are you doing here?”

      Hugh shrugged. He wasn’t a tall man, nor was he particularly muscular. Rather he was of average height and average weight, his appearance completely nondescript except for one distinguishing feature—a jagged scar ran the length of the right side of his face, from his temple to his chin, turning what otherwise would have been a pleasant face into one that looked faintly menacing.

      His hand tightened on Brant’s shoulder. “Let’s walk,” he said.

      They headed toward Main Street, which in the seventies had become the Mid-America Mall in an attempt to revitalize downtown. Hugh stopped at a stone bench and propped one foot on the seat. He leaned his arms across his leg, gazing at the pigeons who were busily pecking at a bag of popcorn someone had thrown at a trash bin.

      “I was still at headquarters when you called in earlier,” Hugh said. “I heard about the Snow woman. How bad was it?”

      “Not as bad as it could have been,” Brant told him. “A few cuts and bruises. Nothing too serious.”

      “What happened?”

      “She says she was pushed in front of a bus.”

      Hugh turned to Brant. “Think she’s lying?”

      Brant bent to pick up a stray popcorn kernel and tossed it at the pigeons. “As a matter of fact, I’m inclined to believe her. She definitely fell in front of that bus, and she doesn’t strike me as the clumsy or careless type.”

      “Did she give you any idea who might want to harm her?”

      Brant thought about what she’d said. If you really want to find out who pushed me in front of that bus, why don’t you start with the three people I mentioned in that article? Including your own father, Sergeant Colter.

      “Not really,” he said.

      “Did you see anything?” It might have been Brant’s imagination, but he thought Hugh looked a little anxious.

      The strain was probably getting to him, Brant decided. Scandal in the police force was nothing new, but as far as Brant could remember, no dirt had ever touched Hugh’s name. He was a cop’s cop, having started on the street and risen through the ranks the hard way. While Judd Colter had commanded respect and admiration, even awe at times, from his fellow officers, Hugh Rawlins was a man they could like. A man just like themselves.

      “I’m not sure,” Brant said. “Do you remember a snitch named Remy Devereaux? Dad used him on occasion.”

      Hugh looked surprised. “Remy Devereaux? He left town years ago. Why do you ask?”

      “I thought I saw him on that street corner,” Brant said grimly.

      Hugh turned back to the pigeons. “I doubt that. Word had it that the reason he left town was because he got into some trouble with the Mob. I don’t think he’d come back to Memphis.”

      “You’re probably right. But it sure did look like him,” Brant said.

      Hugh, still not looking up, asked, “What were you doing on that street corner, Brant?”

      For a moment, Brant thought about telling him what Valerie Snow had assumed—that he’d been going to Austin’s press conference. But then he shrugged and said, “I was following her.”

      “Why?”

      “I guess I wanted to see if she was the monster everyone seems to think she is.”

      Hugh straightened from the bench and turned to face him. “How did you know who she was?”

      “I called the Journal’s offices from my cell phone. They said she was just leaving the building. Two women came out, and—don’t ask me how—I knew immediately which one was her.” The truth was, he’d known the moment he’d laid eyes on Valerie Snow that she meant trouble.

      “Did she have horns sprouting from her head or something?” Hugh joked.

      Brant grinned. “Hardly. I guess I figured eventually to catch up with her and ask her a few questions, but then all hell broke loose.”

      “Yeah,” was Hugh’s only comment.

      “Anyway,” Brant continued, “I’d like to stay on this case.”

      Hugh frowned. “That might constitute conflict of interest.”

      “She didn’t seem overly concerned about that,” Brant said. “I’d really like to follow up on this.”

      “I’ll talk to Lieutenant Bermann,” Hugh offered, referring to Brant’s immediate superior in Robbery and Homicide. “We’ll see what he says.”

      “Thanks.”

      “You know, I’m glad the woman wasn’t seriously hurt,” Hugh said slowly. “But maybe this’ll put an end to her accusations. Maybe she’ll be frightened enough to want to drop the whole thing.”

      “I don’t think so,” Brant replied, troubled by Hugh’s comments. “She’s determined to find proof that will clear Cletus Brown.”

      Hugh glanced at him in alarm. “Proof? What the hell kind of proof could she find?”

      “Have you ever heard of a woman named Naomi Gillum?”

      Something flashed in Hugh’s eyes before he quickly looked away. His gaze scoured the street in front of them. “No, can’t say as I have. Why?”

      “Valerie Snow mentioned her.”

      Hugh shrugged. “Name doesn’t ring a bell.”

      His response sounded convincing enough, but just before he’d voiced the denial, Brant could have sworn that what he’d seen in Hugh Rawlins’s eyes was fear.

      CHAPTER THREE

      “WHAT ARE YOU SAYING, exactly? That someone tried to kill you? Murder you, for God’s sake?” Julian Temple’s eyes gleamed gleefully at the prospect.

      “That’s what I’m saying.” Valerie tried not to be offended by her boss’s reaction as she sat across from his desk the next day. She supposed she could hardly expect less from the “King of Sleaze.” At the age of forty, the owner and editor-in-chief of the Journal thrived on sensationalism and scandal, the uglier the better.

      It was for that reason that Valerie, with her graduate degree in journalism from Northwestern and her years of serious reporting with the Sun-Times, had been squeamish about joining a tabloid-style paper like the Journal.

      But it was also for that reason that she’d sought out Julian when she’d first arrived in Memphis. She’d known that no reputable paper would touch the story she wanted to write, not with the limited amount of evidence—mostly from undocumented sources—that she’d been able to gather so far.

      The story she wanted to tell about the Kingsley kidnapping was just the sort of thing Julian Temple loved. In fact, he’d practically been salivating after that first meeting, when she’d outlined for him what she wanted to do. He’d loved the prospect of implicating a few of the old-guard police force—not to mention a local entrepreneur and philanthropist.

      And the Kingsleys, with their money and power and political clout, were a tabloid’s gold mine, from the tragic kidnapping