The Rebel's Return (9 page)

“Then you've covered all your bases.”

“I think so.” Dylan lifted his gaze to Maddie's face. “I imagine the police have already asked—or if they haven't, they will—but I'd like to see the guest list for last night's Mystery Gala. Would that be possible?”

Maddie's expression sobered instantly. He noted a slight tension in her shoulders and a tightening in her jaw. “They haven't requested the list, but you're right, I'm sure they will.”

“Would you get in trouble if you let me take a look at the list?”

“I don't know.” Maddie eased up, went around her desk and sat, then placed her hands at the keyboard and began typing. “If you want to see it, here it is.” She motioned for him to come to her.

Dylan released a relieved sigh. He hadn't been sure Maddie would cooperate. He rounded her desk and stood behind her. Together they scanned the list of party attendees.

“All the movers and shakers in Mission Creek,” Dylan said. “Do you see anyone on that list who might have had reason to want my father dead?”

Maddie studied the names, putting faces and personal connections to each name. She knew these people. Some were friends; all were acquaintances. “All of these people knew your father and many were personal friends. I can't imagine anyone on this list being capable of murder. As a matter of fact, other than some of the criminals your father has sentenced, I can't think of anyone, except maybe the Mercado family, who might have had a grudge against Judge Bridges.”

“That's something that has me confused. I was too out of it to wonder this morning when you first told me about Dad taking on a case, but since my father was a circuit judge, how was it possible for him to take on a case as a defense lawyer?”

“Didn't he tell you that a few years ago he thought
he wanted to retire, so he didn't run for reelection? During that time, he taught some college classes and I believe he started writing a book. He defended the men charged with Haley Mercado's murder while he was campaigning for reelection. Actually after winning that case, he was a shoo-in. With both the Wainwrights and the Carsons backing him, how could he have lost?”

“There's still so much I don't know about my father's life. Things I should know.”

Just as Maddie lifted her hand and placed it on Dylan's arm, Alicia knocked on the door, then opened it and said, “Your lunch is here. Do you want the waitress to bring it in?”

“Wonderful,” Maddie said. “Yes, please, send her in.” Dylan stepped aside while Maddie cleared off a space on her desk.

The waitress entered with a large tray that held their lunch orders. “Where would you like this? On your desk?”

“Right here.” Maddie tapped the spot.

The waitress set down the tray, then glanced at Dylan. “You're Judge Bridges' son, aren't you?”

Dylan nodded. For a split second he wondered if this young woman was going to lambaste him for killing his father. But her warm smile reassured him that she wasn't.

“I'm very sorry about your father,” she said. “He seemed like a really nice man. He was one of my
favorite customers here at the club. He was always so friendly and…a very generous tipper.”

“Thank you, Miss…”

“Parker. Daisy Parker.” The waitress smiled shyly, then bowed her head and left hurriedly.

When Daisy closed the door behind her, Maddie said, “Let's eat.”

Dylan pulled up a chair to the desk and sat. They ate in relative silence. Then while they sipped on their colas and nibbled on the huge chocolate chip cookies Maddie had ordered for dessert, they discussed possibilities and narrowed their personal suspects list down to the Mercado family, particularly reputed mob boss Carmine Mercado and Haley's ex-fiancé, Frank Del Brio, who Maddie told Dylan was reportedly the first in line to succeed Carmine.

“Unless we find out that someone Dad sentenced to prison had a grudge against him, then we don't have much else to go on. Maybe Carmine or the Del Brio guy wanted to punish my father for getting off the men they believed killed Haley.”

“You do realize that you're talking about poking your nose into the mob, don't you?” Maddie shuddered. “I hear those people are bad news.”

“What about the local authorities? What's your take on their willingness to investigate the mob?”

“The mob had a stranglehold on the local police, but the department cleaned house a few months ago,” Maddie explained. “As far as I know, Burl Terry is a
straight-arrow kind of guy. And I know for a fact that Justin Wainwright isn't intimidated by anyone, mob connected or not.”

“If my father's murder was a professional hit, then tracking down the killer could get really nasty.” Dylan looked directly at Maddie. “Are you sure you want to—”

“I'm in this with you to the end,” she told him.

“Why?”

“Why? I—I'm not sure. Let's just say that I've learned how to be a better friend than I was when I was sixteen.”

“Is that all there is to it—friendship?” Dylan stood.

Maddie swallowed. “Friendship and…” Dylan rounded the desk, reached down and lifted her out of her chair.

“And?”

“And you and I are a lot alike. I think I understand you, Dylan Bridges. Besides, I've had the hots for you since I was a teenager,” she admitted, the words rushing out on one long breath. “Not very smart of me, I admit. But it's the truth.”

Damn! Of all the things he'd been expecting her to say, this wasn't it. Maddie had just told him that she had the hots for him. Hell, didn't she realize that he wanted her so much that he'd do just about anything to get her in his bed?

“I have no doubt that you'd be very good for me.” He pulled her into his arms. “The problem is, Maddie,
I wouldn't be good for you. My life is all messed up right now. I've taken a leave of absence from work and left behind a life I thought was just great, but now I'm beginning to realize I was missing a great deal. My father has been murdered, and I'm embarking on my own personal crusade to find his killer and nail the guy's ass to the barn wall. You don't want to go along for this ride with me.”

Maddie draped her arms around his neck. “Yes, I do.”

“You're crazy. You know that, don't you?”

“I know that you need at least one friend right now,” Maddie said, “one person on your side.”

“And you're that person.”

“If you'll let me be.”

“I know I shouldn't.” Dylan lowered his head until his lips were almost touching hers. “But, yeah, I could use a friend right about now.”

He kissed her. A strong, vital kiss that could easily have deepened and progressed to a more intimate level had someone not knocked on Maddie's office door.

“Damn,” Dylan cursed under his breath.

They broke apart as if they were guilty of a crime.

“Yes?” Maddie asked.

Alicia opened the door. “Detective O'Brien is here. He wants to take a look at the guest list for last night's Mystery Gala.”

F
ive days after his death, Carl Bridges' funeral was held at First Church, and it seemed that half the population of Mission Creek was either inside the building or outside lined up down the sidewalk. The church was filled to overflowing with floral arrangements. If Dylan hadn't already been well aware of the fact that his father was one of the most highly respected citizens of this town, today's turnout would have proven it to him.

Dylan wasn't sure how he would have gotten through these past few days without Maddie Delarue. He'd finally given up in his halfhearted attempts to warn her off. Despite her uncanny ability to see through his I-don't-need-anybody facade and despite the way she'd already gotten under his skin, he found he really didn't want to send her away. But his cautious nature warned him that she was in his life on a temporary basis, so he shouldn't get used to having her around.

They'd had dinner together every night at her condo, spending time getting to know each other while going over all the information they'd been able to
gather about his father's death and about his life during the past few years. The police had come up with very little, except that the ballistics report proved the bullets that killed Carl had indeed come from the gun found in the pond. A Sig Model P230. A stainless steel, twenty ounce 9mm that held seven rounds. Three had been fired into his father's chest. There were no fingerprints on the gun, which wasn't a surprise to anyone. A check on the weapon showed it belonged to a guy named Tom Smith from Laredo, who'd reported the Sig stolen from his Jeep two weeks ago. Smith was an upstanding citizen with no record. Another dead end.

Dylan stood to the side of his father's casket. Alone in a church filled with people, he tried to remain in control of his emotions as mourners descended on him, each person respectfully sympathetic when they spoke to him about his father. But he could see doubt and suspicion in several sets of eyes. People wondering if he was the murderer. Of course no one implied verbally what they were thinking. If ever he needed a shoulder to lean on, today was the day. He had no family, other than some distant cousins he didn't even know. His father had been an only child and his mother's only sibling, an older brother, had been killed in Vietnam back in the late sixties.

Dylan caught a whiff of Maddie's expensive floral perfume, a scent he'd grown accustomed to this past week. While shaking hands with one of his father's
lawyer cronies, he glanced over the man's shoulder and saw Maddie only a few feet away. She was regal and serene in her stylish black suit, tiny black hat and with black pearl earrings shimmering against her white earlobes. She hurried around the line of people waiting to view the deceased and came up beside Dylan.

“I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner.” She stood on tiptoe and whispered in his ear. “I had a minor emergency with Mother.”

“Is she all right?” he asked.

Maddie blew out an exasperated breath. “She's fine. Nothing to worry about.”

“She didn't want you to be here with me today, did she?”

“I've told you—I'm my own person,” Maddie said. “My mother doesn't run my life. She doesn't make my decisions for me.”

Dylan shook hands with and spoke to several people, each of whom eyed Maddie with surprise that quickly turned to speculation. God only knew what these good people would say behind Maddie's back.

“If you stay at my side today, what do you suppose people will think?” he asked.

“You know what?” Again, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “I don't give a damn.”

A great sense of appreciation swelled up inside Dylan. After today, he'd owe Maddie more than he could ever repay. Seventeen years ago, when they'd been
kids, she'd let him down and disappointed him in the worst way. But she had more than made up for the past. Today she'd tipped the scales.

Dylan recognized one of the two young women coming forward in the line. He couldn't remember the blonde's name, but she'd delivered lunch to Maddie's office the morning after his father's murder. She'd told him what a nice man his dad had been. The auburn-haired woman who was with her looked quite young, probably no more than twenty.

Maddie shook hands with both women. “Thank y'all for coming today.” She turned to Dylan. “This is Daisy Parker and Ginger Walton, two of our country club employees.”

“We're so sorry about Judge Bridges,” Ginger said. “Everybody who worked at the club liked him.”

As the minutes ticked by, the line of mourners began to seem endless. Maddie stood by Dylan as the line proceeded slowly to and then past him. Finally the bell tower struck the hour. Two o'clock. Time for the service to officially start. Maddie sat with him, holding his hand, right there in front of God and the entire assembly. The minister praised Carl Bridges as a man, as a judge, as a human being and as a fine Christian. He offered his condolences to Dylan and then asked the congregation to bow their heads in prayer. Somehow Dylan managed not to fall apart, at least not visibly. Inside he was dying.

Ford Carson gave the eulogy. When he said, “Carl
loved his son dearly and I know that his fondest wish was to be reunited with Dylan,” emotion lodged in Dylan's throat and unshed tears gathered in the corners of his eyes.

When soft murmurs rose from the crowd, Maddie squeezed Dylan's hand. He sensed her silent message. I believe in you. Together, we can get through this day. At least that was what he hoped and prayed she was telling him. Odd how that for a man who hadn't needed anybody in a long, long time, he suddenly found himself growing dependent on Maddie. God help him.

 

During the brief ceremony at the graveside, an army reserve unit gave a twenty-one-gun salute, then presented Dylan with an American flag. Bagpipers, brought in from San Antonio on Delarue, Inc.'s private jet, played the mournful “Amazing Grace.” Overhead the afternoon sun beamed brightly. Not a cloud in the sky. Even the weather paid tribute to Carl Bridges.

When the service ended, Dylan escorted Maddie toward the waiting limousine. Leaving his wife's side, Hart O'Brien caught up with Dylan and called out his name.

Dylan stopped and turned. While the small crowd that had assembled at the graveside dispersed, Hart said, “We need to talk.”

“Here?” Dylan asked.

“How about inside the limo? That would give us some privacy.”

“What's this all about?” Maddie inquired.

Hart motioned toward the open limousine door. Dylan waited for Maddie to slip inside, then followed her. Hart got in, closed the door and sat opposite them.

“I'm going by my gut instincts,” Hart said. “And by the fact that my wife says that if Maddie believes in you, then you're an okay guy.” A hint of a smile played at the corners of Hart's mouth. “I know you've been snooping around, asking questions. You need to let us, the police, handle things. You could get in over your head—” he glanced at Maddie “—and take Maddie with you, straight into some big trouble.”

“Y'all find my father's killer and I'll back off,” Dylan said. “Until then—”

“What if I keep you informed?” Hart asked. “What if you know what we know—would that satisfy you? Would you stop playing amateur detective then?”

“Are you making the offer?” Dylan looked Hart square in the eyes.

“I got an okay from Chief Terry to keep you posted,” Hart said.

“I'm no longer a suspect?”

“Not as far as the police are concerned.”

Dylan understood his meaning. The police had no real reason to suspect Dylan and no evidence of any
kind. But there would still be people in Mission Creek who'd think Dylan had murdered his own father.

“Bring me up to date and I'll consider your deal,” Dylan said.

Hart nodded. “Two things. One: Erica Clawson thinks she remembers seeing a man getting in a car parked in the front parking lot when she first went outside on her break, before she saw your father's body in the pond. Two: The murder weapon has disappeared from the crime lab.”

“Interesting.” Dylan absorbed the information. “Even if the gun is missing, does it really matter? Y'all identified it as the murder weapon and the forensic guys didn't lift any prints off the gun, right? So why would anybody bother stealing it? And if Erica Clawson can't identify the person she thinks she saw, then what good does that do us?”

“Erica might remember more,” Hart said. “She seemed awfully nervous when we questioned her.”

“The girl did find a dead body,” Maddie reminded him. “That's enough to make anybody nervous.”

Hart shrugged. “The missing weapon is what concerns us. We hadn't made public the fact that there were no fingerprints found on the gun, so if it was stolen, whoever took it might have known something only a few people knew, only we insiders knew—Chief Terry had requested the gun be tested more thoroughly, for the lab to look for a palm print. Finding
a palm print is always a long shot, but more than one criminal has been caught that way.”

“Are you saying that y'all believe somebody inside the police department took the gun?” Maddie asked.

Hart grunted. “Either the police department or the sheriff's department. Looks like when we cleaned house, one rat might have eluded our trap. Either that or some new recruit has been bought off.”

“Any ideas on who?” Dylan asked.

“Not a clue,” Hart said. “But if there's still one rotten apple in the barrel, I'll find him.”

“What about the palm print?” Dylan asked. “You said it was a long shot. Did—”

“Yeah, the lab lifted a palm print, but that will help us only if we bring in a suspect and can compare prints.”

Maddie nudged Dylan. “Why don't we tell Hart who we think might have been behind your father's murder?”

Dylan contemplated her suggestion. If Hart O'Brien could trust him, then he should be able to trust Hart. “We think it's possible that either Carmine Mercado or Frank Del Brio hired a hit man to kill my dad.”

Hart's eyes widened. “A mob hit?”

“A personal vendetta,” Dylan said. “Because my father defended the four men accused of killing Haley Mercado and got them acquitted.”

“I'd say we've come to the same conclusion—that it's a possibility one or both of those men were in
volved. And if our killer is a hit man, he's a sloppy one. I'd say he's some two-bit sleazeball hood.”

“A wannabe hit man?” Maddie asked.

“Yeah, something like that. The guy made too many mistakes to be a true professional. The scheme to kill the judge could have been a hasty decision, thus the use of a local wise guy.” Hart glanced at Dylan. “But without evidence, the police can't go pointing fingers at anyone in particular.”

“Well, I'm not hampered by your rules and regulations,” Dylan said. “I can—”

“You can wind up getting your butt put in jail, if somebody doesn't shoot you first.”

Dylan harrumphed.

“There are other possibilities,” Hart said. “We need to explore those before going off in the wrong direction.”

“And what would the right direction be?” Maddie asked.

“Judge Bridges was on the bench for quite a few years and he sentenced a lot of people to prison. Until we rule out every criminal who ever threatened the judge's life—”

“Do you have a list of those people?”

“We've got a list, but we haven't had time to check out everyone. Not yet.”

“Is that the only other possibility?” Dylan asked.

Hart shook his head. “A couple of months ago we had a baby left on the golf course, on the ninth tee.
Flynt and Josie Carson are foster parenting the child, a little girl named Lena.”

“What does this have to do with my father?”

“Maybe nothing,” Hart said. “But we've found out that Judge Bridges showed quite an interest in the child's welfare.”

“So?” Dylan stared quizzically at Hart.

“It may be only a coincidence, but three of the four men who found baby Lena were defendants in the Haley Mercado murder case. And the fourth defendant was supposed to have been playing with them that morning, but a last-minute substitute took his place when he had to go out of town.”

“You're stretching a little there, aren't you, Detective?” Dylan said.

“It's my job to consider every possibility. That way we make sure we're going after the right person.”

 

The moment they arrived at the Bridges house, Maddie spoke to the caterers she had hired. Dylan had given her free rein in organizing the post-funeral reception. She had not only arranged for the caterers, the fresh flowers and the string quartet, but she had made several phone calls to various friends letting them know how disappointed she'd be if they didn't stop by this evening. She'd be damned if she'd let anybody snub Dylan, regardless of their personal feelings or their suspicions about him. She had enough
clout so that just the threat of her displeasure would assemble a nice crowd at the Bridges home.

She'd also used a threat to keep her mother away—and to silence Nadine's incessant warnings about Dylan. She'd told her mother plainly that she could and would discontinue paying for the upkeep of the huge mansion in which she resided so comfortably. Her mother would sulk for days and probably take to her bed with a sick headache, but at least she'd give Maddie a breather.

Everyone who was anyone in Mission Creek put in an appearance, some staying for ten minutes, others for a couple of hours. Strange how the death of a friend or close acquaintance brought people together.

Even though she'd been dazed by grief and thankfully numb after her father's funeral, she remembered bits and pieces of that evening. Everyone who'd known Jock Delarue had had a story to tell, and listening to various people reminiscing about her father had been comforting. She hoped that hearing about his father's life, told in vivid terms by his oldest and dearest friends, helped Dylan deal with the judge's death. Hadn't some wise person once said that you were never truly gone as long as there was one person alive who remembered you?