Kingsley Baby Trilogy: The Hero's Son\The Brother's Wife\The Long-Lost Heir (16 page)

Brant couldn't help wondering if Raymond had dressed that way on purpose, if he had intended for the comparison to be made.

Across the room, Austin Colter, a younger version of his father, said, “Are you out of your mind? What the hell are you doing with that Snow woman?”

Brant spared him a glance. “I don't see how that's any of your damned business.”

“No,” Hugh said quietly. “But it is my business.”

Brant turned back to Hugh. “What's going on here?” he asked again. “What's this all about?”

Hugh looked down at his desk, as if he couldn't quite bring himself to meet Brant's eyes. “Are you involved with Valerie Snow?”

So that was what this was all about, Brant thought, his anger rising. “Define ‘involved.'”

“Dammit, you know what I mean,” Hugh said. “This is serious, Brant.”

Brant started to deny it, but then shrugged. “All right,” he conceded. “I might be.”

At the window, Austin cursed. Raymond shook his head sadly, but there was no expression at all on his father's face. He stared straight ahead, unblinking, but his eyes were bright and alert. He wasn't missing anything, Brant realized.

“I was afraid of that,” Hugh said wearily. “That's
why I'm asking Lieutenant Bermann to take you off her case.”

Brant leaned forward suddenly, planting his hands on the surface of Hugh's desk. “You can't do that. Someone's trying to kill her. If you take me off the case, she'll be a sitting duck.”

“I'll have Bermann assign someone else to her case,” Hugh said. His voice was soft and even, but his expression told Brant he'd made up his mind. There was no use arguing.

But Brant wasn't about to give up without a fight. “That'll take days, maybe even weeks, and you know it. Everyone in the division has a heavy caseload right now. No one's going to be willing to give this case the time and attention it needs.”

“Not like you, you mean,” said Austin. “Seems to me you were willing to give it plenty of time and attention.”

Brant straightened, his hands balling into fists at his sides. He glared down at Hugh. “This is just between you and me, Hugh. What are they doing here?”

“We're worried about you, Brant,” said Raymond.

“I'll just bet you are.”

“Calm down,” Hugh advised softly. “This is for your own good, Brant.”

“Is it?” He glared at Hugh, then shifted his focus to first his father, then Raymond and then Austin. “Someone tried to kill us both this weekend.” He gauged their expressions carefully. Both Raymond and Austin wore identical masks of shock and Hugh looked worried. Brant glanced at his father, but there was still no reaction.

Hugh said, “All the more reason you should be taken
off this case, Brant. You're too close to it. Too personally involved.”

“So I'm just supposed to let Valerie fend for herself to save my own skin, is that it?” he retorted angrily. “Or is there another reason you don't want me on this case? Maybe you think it'll be easier to get to her if I'm not around.”

“You're out of line, son,” said Raymond.

That last word sent Brant's temper almost to the boiling point. “I am
not
your son,” he said through clenched teeth. He glanced at his father and saw him blink once, very slowly, but whether or not there was any significance in the gesture, Brant had no idea.

“Do any of you remember a man named Remy Devereaux?” he asked.

“Devereaux?” Hugh repeated. “You mentioned him the other day. Said you thought you saw him on the street.”

“Yeah,” Brant said. “Turns out I was right. He tried to run Valerie and me off a mountain road this weekend. He tried to kill us, and I can't help wondering why. Remy was always available for hire, as I recall.” He paused, then added, “He's dead, by the way.”

Was it Brant's imagination or had his uncle breathed a sigh of relief? Had Hugh looked quickly away to avoid Brant's eyes? Had the smirk on his cousin's face deepened?

And what about his father? What was his reaction to the news of Remy Devereaux?

“What are you getting at?” Austin demanded.

“I think that's pretty clear,” Brant said. “Valerie Snow is trying to uncover the truth about what happened the
night Adam Kingsley was kidnapped. Remy Devereaux was hired to stop her.”

“Are you saying you think one of us had something to do with it?” Raymond asked in disbelief.

Brant shrugged. “I don't want to think that. And I wouldn't have, if not for this little ambush today. You're all acting guilty as hell.” He strode across the room, leaving dead silence in his wake. When he reached the door, he glanced back as Hugh called his name.

“No matter what you think about us, you're off the case, Brant. That's the end of it.”

“Is it?” Brant opened the door. “You seem to be forgetting that when I'm off duty, my time is my own.”

“I don't have to tell you what could happen if you interfere in someone else's case,” Hugh warned. “We're talking possible suspension.”

“We both know that's not going to happen,” Brant replied. “Because Valerie's case isn't going to be assigned to anyone else, is it?”

He strode out the door and was halfway down the hall when someone grabbed his arm from behind. Brant whirled, shaking off the hand. “Get your hand off me,” he said to his cousin.

Austin sneered. “Don't think I don't know what all this is about. Why you're so anxious to side with the enemy and make the rest of us look bad.”

“I don't know what the hell you're talking about,” Brand said. “Nor do I care.”

“This is about Kristin, isn't it?”

Brant just shook his head. “You don't know how far off the mark you are, Austin.”

Austin's eyes darkened with anger. “She told me, you know. She told me all about how you came sniffing
around when we were separated, begging her to take you back, trying to force yourself on her. It must have killed you when we got back together. It must have killed you that she chose me over you—not once, but twice.”

“Your ego is only exceeded by your stupidity,” Brant said. “I've had enough of this.” He turned to go, but Austin grabbed him again.

Brant glanced down at Austin's hand on his arm. Then slowly he lifted his gaze. “I'll only say this once more. Get your hand off me.”

Something in his face must have alarmed Austin, for he did as he was told. But he didn't back away. He glared at Brant defiantly. “You're trying to ruin me,” he accused. “You've always resented me because of Kristin. And because you know I'm the son
your
father always wanted. That's it, isn't it? You're siding with that woman to get back at me. To sabotage my campaign. Why don't you just tell the press you think our fathers are guilty? But then, you don't have to, do you? Your actions speak louder than words.”

“As usual, you're wrong on so many counts, I wouldn't know where to start to straighten you out,” Brant said coldly.

“I'm on to you,” Austin said. “This is all working out perfectly for you, isn't it? You get to ruin my career and discredit your father all at the same time. And the fact that you're taking down my father and Hugh Rawlins is just a minor detail, isn't it? Hell, you're even getting to sleep with the woman who's out to destroy us all—”

Brant slammed Austin up against the wall, his hands grabbing the lapels of Austin's expensive suit. “I advise you to shut your mouth,” he said almost calmly, “before I shut it for you.”

“Let him go,” ordered a slurred voice from down the hallway.

Brant turned to see his father walking toward them. His steps were slow and measured, but he was managing without a walker or a cane. For a moment, seeing his father looking almost like his old self threw Brant. He stared at him in shock.

“Let him go,” his father said again as he neared them. Even though his words were slurred, his voice was strong and deep, much as it had always been.

Brant turned to Austin. He released his suit coat and stepped back, gazing at his cousin in disgust.

Judd glared at both of them. “Look at the two of you. Acting like kids.”

“Tell him to stay away from my wife,” Austin said angrily.

Brant started to retort, but Judd pointed his finger at them. “Shut up,” he said. “Shut up, the both of you.” His gaze shifted to Austin. “Get out of here, Austin.”

“But—”

Judd Colter, even recovering from a stroke, was still a powerful presence. He said nothing, just glared at Austin, and with a sullen expression, Austin turned and disappeared down the hallway.

Brant turned back to his father. “It's not true. What he said about Kristin—”

His father cut him off with a snort. “Never thought it was. A she-devil like that would cause a man nothing but misery. You're better off without her.”

“I figured that out about two minutes after she broke our engagement,” Brant said. “But everyone in the family seems to think I've carried a torch for her all these years.”

“Fools,” Judd snapped. “The lot of them.”

Brant looked at him in surprise. He never thought he would see the day when his father would take his side over the rest of the family. “You've made a lot of progress,” he said. “I had no idea you could get around like this.”

“My physical therapist says I'm too ornery to keep down for long,” Judd replied.

Brant grimaced. He could believe that. “Do you need a ride home?”

“Raymond'll take me when I'm ready to go. He's been very…helpful these days.”

Something in his tone caused Brant to glance at him sharply. Had his father noticed his brother's solicitude toward Brant's mother?

“Let's walk outside,” he said to Brant. “I want to talk to you.”

They started down the hall to the elevators, Brant taking care to keep his own steps slow, matching his father's. Several officers stopped them on the way out to remark on Judd's recovery, and it was several minutes before they were able to leave the building. Judd pointed to a bench across the street. “I'm tuckered out,” he said. “Let's sit.”

They crossed the street and sat down on the bench. The July day was hot and humid, and it seemed even more so after having left an air-conditioned building. A light breeze drifted over the pavement, stirring the hot air and carrying the scent of the river.

Brant said, “What did you want to talk to me about?”

“What happened back there. It must have seemed like we were all ganging up on you.” The slur in his
words was more pronounced now, and Brant wondered if it was because his father was tired. Or had he been taking pains to hide it earlier because of his pride?

Brant thought about Valerie's accusation—that his father and his uncle and Hugh Rawlins had sent an innocent man to prison because their pride wouldn't allow them to admit they'd made a mistake.

“Hugh took you off the case because he didn't want this thing hurting your career.”

Brant glanced at him. “A woman could get killed. I'm not much worried about my career right now.”

“Maybe she's not in danger anymore. You said Remy Devereaux is dead.”

“Yes,” Brant said quietly. “But whoever hired him is still alive.”

His father turned to him. His eyes were clouded with what Brant could only assume was worry. “You're not going to give up on this, are you?”

Brant shrugged. “Would you?”

His father didn't answer. Instead he watched the traffic on the street and said, “Being a cop, especially a good one, is a hard way of life, Brant. I expect you've learned that by now. It's not only what you do, but who you are. People on the outside, they don't understand. Your mother never did.”

Was that wistfulness in his father's voice? Regret? Brant was hard-pressed to believe it, but how else to explain the quiver? The stroke? Fatigue?

Brant said, “Maybe if you'd talked to her the way you just did with me, she would have. Maybe she still would.”

His father shrugged. “I'm an old man, Brant. A tired, sick, old man. I don't have much to offer anymore. Hell,
I don't have anything to offer. Your mother's a fine woman, but it's too late for explanations.”

“It's never too late.”

His father turned to him, and their eyes met in understanding.
He knows,
Brant thought.
He knows what Raymond is up to.

Brant said almost fiercely, “She's still your wife.”

His father said nothing. He returned his gaze to the street. After a moment, Brant asked, “Why are you telling me all this? Why now?”

Judd drew a long, weary breath. “You're a good cop, Brant. A damned good cop. I expect I don't have much more time.”

“What are you talking about? Your recovery's been nothing short of miraculous. The doctors said it might take years—” He stopped short when he saw his father's expression. Somehow Brant knew he wasn't talking about his health.

“I expect I don't have much more time.”

Before the truth comes out,
Brant silently added.

Their gazes met for one last time. Tears shimmered in his father's eyes, and as Brant watched, one spilled over and ran down the old man's weathered face.

T
HE DAY HAD SLIPPED
away before Valerie was able to reach Brant on his cell phone.

“Where've you been?” she asked impatiently. “I've been trying to reach you for hours.”

“I do have other cases,” he snapped.

“Sorry,” Valerie murmured, stung by his retort.

She heard him sigh. “No, I'm sorry. It's been a bad day. I'll tell you about it when I see you. Where are you?”

“I'm at the main library,” she said, excitement creeping into her voice. “How soon can you get over here? I've found something.”

“I'm on my way.”

* * *

V
ALERIE SAT BEHIND
a monitor at the library, and Brant leaned over her. “What have you found?” he asked.

A delicious shiver coursed through her at his nearness. His warm breath fanned the back of her neck, and Valerie knew if she turned her head ever so slightly, she could touch her lips to his.

The desire to do so was almost overwhelming. But she could tell something was wrong. Brant didn't seem himself. His eyes were distant, his expression carefully blank.

She shifted in her chair, putting some distance
between them so that she could turn and look up at him without temptation. “What's wrong?”

He hesitated. “I've been taken off your case.”

Valerie stared at him in disbelief. “After what happened this weekend? Why?”

“My superiors seem to think I'm too personally involved. With you,” he added, his gaze meeting hers.

Valerie swallowed, her heart beating in her throat. “What did you tell them?”

“I told them I might be.” He lowered his head suddenly and kissed her, almost savagely, as if to convince himself whether he was or not.

He might still have doubts, Valerie thought dazedly. But she certainly didn't.

She'd fallen for Brant Colter in a big way, and he still had no earthly idea who she was.

The thought jarred her and she pulled back, glancing around to see if anyone had seen them. Her gaze returned to Brant. There was something in his eyes that made her uneasy. She said worriedly, “Something else happened, didn't it? You seem upset.”

He straightened. “You don't think getting removed from a case is reason enough to be upset?”

“Yes, of course, it is,” Valerie said. “But I get the feeling there's more to it than that.”

Brant shrugged. “It's no big deal. Show me what you've found.”

So that was that, Valerie thought, feeling oddly disappointed. Almost betrayed. He'd opened up to her to a certain point, but not beyond.

Well, what did you expect?
she asked herself angrily.
You haven't exactly been forthcoming with him, now have you?

She forced her attention back to the monitor, where she'd been scrolling through newspaper articles from thirty-one years ago. Backing up the pages, she located the one she wanted.

“Look.” She nodded toward the screen. Although her excitement was dampened by Brant's mood, she still felt a little quiver of nerves as she stared at the article and accompanying picture.

Valerie had already read the article so many times, she practically knew it by heart. She watched Brant's expression as he scanned the lines about a little boy named Johnny Wayne Tyler who had been missing for two days. The date of the article was one week to the day after Adam Kingsley had been kidnapped.

When Brant finished reading, he looked up. “I see what you're getting at,” he said. “The timing would have been about right. But it says here, this boy was five years old. Two years older than Adam Kingsley.”

“Yes, but look at his picture. You can tell he's small for his age. And remember what James Denver said about the autopsy. It was rushed, and since the body had already been identified, the M.E. would have only been concentrating on cause of death. Besides, forensic science wasn't nearly as sophisticated back then as it is now. He could have just missed it. Or maybe he didn't,” Valerie said. “Maybe he noted something in his report that was a cause of concern. Maybe that's why the autopsy report and pictures of the body are missing from the police file.”

“It says here that the boy's stepfather was the prime suspect in the disappearance. Child Welfare had been alerted to possible abuse in the home on two previous
occasions. The boy had sustained injuries before, serious enough to require medical treatment.”

Valerie nodded. “Yeah, I checked. No arrest was ever made because the boy's body was never found.”

Brant straightened and ran a tired hand through his hair. “So what do we have here? If Johnny Wayne Tyler was buried in Adam Kingsley's grave, that means someone who had access to Adam—or to his body—removed his personal effects and put them on Johnny. That's more than just a cover-up,” he said grimly. “We're talking about the kidnapping itself.”

Valerie had never seen his eyes look so haunted. She knew exactly what he was thinking. It was bad enough to consider the possibility that his father had been part of a conspiracy to send an innocent man to prison. But it was sheer agony to think that he could have been in on the kidnapping. The murder of little Adam Kingsley.

Probably no one in the world could understand what he was feeling at that moment better than Valerie.

She stood and put a hand on his arm, felt him stiffen beneath her touch. He didn't pull away, but the message was loud and clear.

Tears stung Valerie's eyes at his rejection. Dear God, she thought miserably. How had things gotten so complicated? They were getting so close to the truth, but the closer they got, the further away they would drift. And when Brant found out the truth about her—

He stared down at her, his eyes still distant, his expression resolved. “Where do we go from here?”

“I want to exhume the body,” Valerie said.

“You heard what Denver said. An exhumation won't be easy. We'll have to contact the Kingsleys—”

“I've already done that. Neither Edward nor Iris
would talk to me, but their attorney has agreed to see me this evening in his office. Will you come with me?” she asked hesitantly, not certain what to expect from him now.

His gaze never wavered from hers. “You couldn't keep me away.”

* * *

T
HE
K
INGSLEY FAMILY
attorney, Victor Northrup, was a tall, trim, taciturn man of about sixty. His silver hair and mustache contrasted dramatically with his deeply tanned skin and eyes so light a gray they almost appeared colorless. His direct, unwavering gaze was very unnerving.

Brant and Valerie sat across from his enormous desk as he studied them over the tips of his steepled fingers. Another man was also present, and Northrup introduced him as Jeremy Willows, an associate with the law firm of Northrup, Simmons and Fitzgerald. But Brant recognized him as Edward Kingsley's stepson.

He didn't join them at Northrup's desk, but remained standing across the room, one arm resting on the marble mantel of a fireplace. He, like Northrup, was dressed in a dark suit, white, starched shirt and conservative striped tie—the standard uniform of the upscale lawyer, although instead of wing tips, Brant noticed that Willows wore tasseled loafers.

Brant turned his attention back to Northrup, who was addressing Valerie in a manner that was icily condescending.

“That you would even suggest such a thing to my clients is inconceivable.”

Valerie sat forward, her expression earnest, but Brant saw her knuckles whiten where she clasped her purse
in her lap. “Did you read the information I faxed over to you? Did the Kingsleys even see it? Mr. Northrup, we've every reason to believe the body buried in that grave is not Adam Kingsley's. Surely your clients would want to know this.”

If possible, his voice grew even colder. “Adam Kingsley is dead, Ms. Snow. He has been for thirty-one years. His rest will not be disturbed so that you and your shoddy newspaper can have a new headline. Now, if you'll excuse me, I don't think there's anything further to discuss.”

Valerie stood to leave, but Brant wasn't quite finished. “We can get a court order if we have to,” he said. “We don't have to obtain your client's permission to exhume that body. We came here as a courtesy.”

Northrup smiled. “There isn't a court in this state that would grant you such permission, and if I were you, I would be careful with my threats, Sergeant Colter. You and I both know my client could have your badge with one phone call.”

“That may be,” Brant said. “But you can tell ‘your client,' this isn't over. The truth will come out, one way or another.”

* * *

“H
E'S RIGHT, YOU KNOW
,” Valerie said gloomily, as she and Brant stood beside his car in the parking garage. “We'll never get a court order to exhume that body.”

“Not without more proof,” Brant agreed. “But it's not like you to give up.”

“I'm not giving up,” Valerie said. “But even if we did exhume the body and even if we found out it isn't Adam Kingsley's, that still doesn't prove Cletus Brown's innocence.”

“No,” Brant agreed. “But it might be reason enough to petition for a retrial. He was convicted of Adam Kingsley's murder. Without a body, murder is pretty hard to prove.”

Valerie glanced up at him. “You sound as though you're beginning to believe Cletus Brown is innocent.”

Brant shrugged. “I don't know what I believe. But there are things about his conviction that bother me. At the very least, I think he deserves a new trial.”

The admission was so astonishing, Valerie didn't know what to say at first. And then it came to her what she had to say. What is was past time to say.

“You don't know how much it means to me to hear you say that,” she said softly. “There's something I have to tell you. Something I should have told you before, but—”

The sound of a car engine drowned out her words. Valerie stopped and glanced around as a bright red sports car came tearing through the parking garage and halted right beside them. The door opened, and Andrew Kingsley emerged.

“I thought I might find you here,” he said as he walked toward them.

Valerie made the introduction. The two men shook hands. “You're acquainted with my wife, I believe,” Andrew said to Brant.

Brant nodded. “Hope and I go way back.”

Andrew looked as if he wanted to comment, but changed his mind. He turned to Valerie instead and handed her a manila envelope. “I believe this is what you need.”

Valerie stared down at the envelope, then raised her gaze to Andrew's. “What is it?”

“A signed affidavit from my father, giving you permission to exhume Adam's body.”

Valerie's mouth dropped in shock. For a moment she gaped at him, then said, “How did you manage it?”

Andrew shrugged. “Don't ask. Suffice it to say, I have some information—never mind what kind—that I find useful once in a while in getting my old man to do things he wouldn't ordinarily be inclined to do. There are two conditions, however, that I must insist upon.”

“Such as?” Brant asked suspiciously.

“First, that a forensic expert of my choosing be allowed to conduct the autopsy. I've already contacted Dr. Henry Wu from Boston, and he's agreed to fly down here tonight. Arrangements have been made with Mercy General Hospital to use their facilities as soon as Dr. Wu arrives. I've also arranged for him to have Adam's medical records. Any objections so far?”

Valerie glanced at Brant. He shook his head. “I've heard of Dr. Wu's work. His credentials are impeccable.”

“The second condition?” Valerie asked.

“That whatever the findings, nothing will be made public until you contact me.”

Valerie nodded. “Agreed.”

“Then I guess that's that.”

He turned to leave, but Brant asked, “Why are you doing this?”

Andrew drew a long breath. “I think Ms. Snow can answer that question as well as I.”

Valerie smiled in understanding. “I don't know how I can thank you for this.”

“Find out what happened to Adam,” he said. “That's all the thanks I need.”

* * *

E
DWARD
K
INGSLEY'S
signature cut through an amazing amount of red tape. Valerie was astonished by how quickly everything was arranged. It was agreed that the body would be exhumed at night, with as few witnessess as was legally possible to prevent the story from being leaked to the press.

Within a matter of hours, the body had been transported to Mercy General Hospital where Dr. Henry Wu awaited to commence the autopsy.

Valerie and Brant waited in a small room outside the morgue. Brant paced nervously while Valerie sat and watched him. She thought about earlier, when she had tried to tell him who she was, but then Andrew Kingsley had arrived, and since then, things had been happening too quickly.

And somehow, now just didn't seem the right time. The body of a child lay beyond those double doors, and whether it was Adam Kingsley's or Johnny Wayne Tyler's, the fact remained that a child had been murdered thirty-one years ago. Valerie couldn't help thinking about what each of those poor little boys had gone through, the terror they had experienced before their tiny lives had been extinguished.

She glanced up as Dr. Wu came through the double doors. Valerie stood and walked over to him. “It's over?”

Dr. Wu shook his head. “No, but I do have some preliminary findings you might be interested in.”

Brant came up behind Valerie. “What is it?”

“First of all, the child in question wasn't three years old at the time of death. I'd put his age closer to five. Second of all, he had several bone fractures that had healed before time of death, including a broken leg and a broken arm. It's my guess he didn't receive proper medical treatment. The bone in his leg knitted badly. The child walked with a limp.”