Half Past Dead (3 page)

“The field agent who will handle you is with the bureau's office in Jackson. Contact him if you have anything to report. He'll give you another number. It belongs to an agent who's been working undercover in Twin Oaks. Don't call it unless there's an emergency.”

“Tell me what's really going on,” she demanded. “Will I be in danger?”

Harlan lifted his briefcase off the floor and stood up. “I don't have the details. I'm sure the agent who picks you up tomorrow will brief you.”

 

K
AT NEVER RETURNED
to the kitchen. Instead she went to her cell and stretched out on her bunk. The paperwork was complete, and she would be released first thing in the morning. The agent from the Mississippi Bureau of Investigation office in Jackson was scheduled to drive her to Twin Oaks. He would get her a car and arrange for a place for her to live.

Her mother had ovarian cancer.
Unbelievable. How long did she have to live? Would her mother want to see her? Kat thought about it and couldn't decide.

Her mother had barely tolerated Kat when she'd been growing up. She'd often wondered why her mother loved Tori but not her. She'd asked her father. He'd solemnly told her that it was his fault. Loretta Wells still loved Tori's father.

Being near death changed people, or so Kat had heard. Despite the way her mother deserted her, despite Kat's vow to never see her again. Kat knew she had to say goodbye.

“Hi,” Abby said when the guard opened the cell door for the redhead. “I've been assigned to latrine duty.”

“Newbies always get latrine duty. It makes everything after that look good.”

“Where are the latrines? We have our own john in here.”

“There are toilets by the showers, near the exercise yard, and at the guard station. They're the worst. Most of the guards are men with lousy aim.”

“Oh, yuck!” Abby climbed up to her bunk.

“Get to know Etta. She's one of the guards. Black hair in a long ponytail. She's in charge of job assignments.”

“I—I'm innocent. I shouldn't be here. You don't know what it's like to—”

“It doesn't matter. It is what it is—and then you deal with it. You have to learn to get along here. Even if you're innocent, it's going to take time to arrange for a new trial.”

Abby sniffled. “I'm scared. Really scared.”

Something about Abby's tone struck a chord in Kat. With a pang deep in her chest, she realized she'd been Abby once—a green newbie at the mercy of a cruel system. No one had clued her into the unspoken rules that inmates in the Graybar Hilton lived by. She'd had to learn the bitter lessons on her own.

Once the guards had it in for you, it was a one-way ticket to hell. It didn't take much to anger them. Kat had turned them against her when she complained about a guard fondling her breasts while supposedly searching for drugs.

“Weren't you frightened when you first arrived?” Abby asked.

“I'm still frightened. Everyone here is. They're lying if they say they're not.”

“You get used to prison. It gets better, right? This is a federal prison, not a jail loaded with killers.”

Kat couldn't bring herself to lie. “No. It doesn't get better. Don't kid yourself. Danville has just as many hardened criminals as other prisons.”

“I don't know what I'll do if my mother can't get me a new trial.”

Kat detected the threat of tears in Abby's voice. “How long is your sentence?”

The words hung in the air like a noxious cloud. Kat couldn't see Abby in the bunk above her, but she suspected the girl was crying.

Finally, Abby said, a quaver in her voice, “Fifty years.”

“What? Fifty years for robbing the post office?” Kat jumped to her feet so she could look up at the girl.

Abby let out a gulping sob, “Travis shot a customer who tried to stop him.”

“That explains it.” She could be wrong, but Kat thought the possibility of another trial was remote. Even if Harlan Westcott hadn't discovered the truth, Kat would have been up for parole next year. This poor kid would be a shriveled-up old crone by the time she came up for parole, her life over. Spent in hell on earth.

“I'm sure your mother will get you a new trial, but you're here until she does. I'm leaving in the morning.”

“How?” Abby sat bolt upright and swung around so her legs were dangling over the side of the bunk.

“I'm getting out on a work furlough for good behavior.”

Tears trickled down Abby's cheeks. “Th-that's great.”

“Come down here.” Kat sat on her bunk. “There are a few things I need to explain to you.”

J
USTIN STUDIED
the coroner's report on the body that had been discovered in the woods. Like many small towns, Twin Oaks did not have a full-time coroner. Autopsies were seldom necessary. When they were, a local mortician performed them. This autopsy did not reveal a cause of death.

Justin had arrived at the scene just before the woman's body had been removed. It was obvious the victim had been dumped in the heavy underbrush. She hadn't simply wandered off and died. It was murder. But what had killed her?

He'd instructed the coroner to take extensive photos and collect tissue samples. Now it was time to call in a favor. He phoned a guy in the New Orleans coroner's office.

By noon the samples and the body were being driven to New Orleans by one of his deputies. There was little else Justin could do for now. There had been nothing at the crime scene. Spring rains had washed away what trace evidence there might have been.

“Come on, boy,” he said to Redd.

The dog cautiously popped his head out from under the big wood desk that had belonged to Sheriff Parker for over thirty years. Redd had spent last night at the vet's and this morning at the Dog Spaw. Nothing could be done to save his fur. Redd's coat had been given a boot-camp cut. The groomer had been able to trim his ears so they were still a little fluffy, but his tail had to be shaved, too.

“You're a sight.” Justin stroked the dog's head, and Redd wagged his tail. “Come on. We're outta here.”

Redd trotted at his heels. He seemed to sense he was Justin's dog now.

“If you need me, call me on my cell,” he told Nora Adams.

“Yes, indeedy,” she replied.

Nora was older than the pharaohs and looked like one. She had dyed black hair pulled straight back into a golf-ball-sized bun that emphasized her thin face and taut skin. She'd been the receptionist/dispatcher since Justin had been a child.

With little crime and five deputies who did their best to raise revenue by catching speeders and writing up DUIs, Justin figured Nora pretty much ran the place. Well, hell, that was about to change. But he wasn't rattling her cage until he'd settled in.

“Do you want me to have Sheriff Parker's cruiser tuned up for you?”

“Good idea,” Justin said, and waved as he walked out the station's door.

He didn't plan to use the cruiser, but it wouldn't hurt to have another car in good repair. Something was always going wrong with patrol cars, and with the budget crunch in Twin Oaks, he wasn't likely to get any new equipment.

He opened the door to his pickup, saying, “Get in.”

Redd hopped in the passenger side. Justin walked around, opened his door, and lowered the window for Redd before he climbed in. Like all dogs, Redd loved to hang out the window, nose to the breeze.

He pulled out of the space marked Sheriff Parker. “I guess we'll have to find a house with a fenced yard for you.” He thought about it for a moment. He didn't like leaving a dog alone in a yard all day. There wasn't any reason he couldn't take Redd with him most of the time. “Deputy Dawg,” he told Redd, but the dog was too busy sniffing the fragrant honeysuckle in the air to pay attention.

Justin's cell rang. It was Mayor Peebles.

“Any news on the homicide?”

“No. I've sent the tissue samples and photographs to New Orleans along with the body. A friend owes me a favor.”

Peebles was uncharacteristically silent for a moment. Justin knew what he was thinking. The evidence was going to another state.

“He's going to rush it for me. You know the state crime lab takes forever.” Justin didn't add anything about how sloppy their work was.

“Have you ID'd her?”

“Not yet. The coroner thinks she was Hispanic. We'll see if my friend agrees.”

“We've got a lot of illegals these days that spilled out of Texas. Most of them work at the casino.”

“I'll ask around out there.”

“Okay. I called to give you a heads-up. David Noyes wants to interview you about the case and your new job.”

“He's a reporter at the
Trib?
”

“Nope. He's the new editor. Came here about a year ago from Boston. He won two Pulitzers while he was there.”

“You're saying Noyes will ask tough questions.”

“He could put on the heat. He did a whole series on how the casino was polluting the river. Stirred up a whole lot of folks around here. I don't want everyone going ballistic, thinking there's a killer on the loose.”

Justin smiled inwardly. Politicians. Weren't they a trip? “What are they supposed to think? A woman was murdered.”

“I'm guessing a transient or a tourist at the casino committed the crime. Someone long gone.”

“It's possible.” Justin got the message. He was supposed to tell Noyes this was his theory so it would appear in the paper and calm Twin Oaks.

“One other thing,” Peebles added. “Judge Kincaid wants to see you.”

“About what?”

“Didn't say, but he's not happy you're sheriff. He wants to have a special election now. I told him, no way. The city is too broke. You're acting sheriff until the next election.”

“What did he say?”

“He understood my reasons, but the judge is one tough dude. Don't rile him. You hear me, Radner?”

Cross my heart and hope to die.

Justin snapped his cell phone shut. Judge Kincaid was Buck Mason's best friend. Might as well take the bull by the horns, he decided.

Turner Kincaid like Buck Mason had old money, which in this neck of the woods meant their families had been plantation owners at one time. They socialized together and married each other. Even those who'd lost their money along the way were still part of the group. Ancestors were what mattered, what made you important and acceptable. In their eyes, he was poor white trash from the trailer park—and always would be.

Judge Kincaid's law offices were on Acorn Street just off the town square. Technically, a judge wasn't supposed to practice law when he had a position on the bench. Kincaid claimed his son did all the work, but everyone knew the judge still worked for friends.

Justin parked his Silverado in the shade and walked past Kincaid's black Cadillac. Every year Kincaid purchased a new Caddy from the dealership in Jackson. He looked down on foreign cars and made it a point to tell everyone his opinion. Justin doubted Kincaid did this out of patriotism. More likely, Kincaid thought this would enhance his political career. It was an open secret Judge Kincaid intended to run for Senator Foster's seat when the senator retired next year.

He walked into the oak-paneled office. Classical music played softly from speakers Justin couldn't see. Pictures of Kincaid with every political figure in the state and several past presidents paraded across the walls in silver frames.

He quickly glanced around. There wasn't a single photograph of Clay Kincaid. Go figure. The judge just had one child. You'd think there would be at least one picture, but you'd be wrong.

“Chief Radner to see the judge,” he informed a blond receptionist with Texas hair and enough makeup for a dozen porn stars. “I've got about two minutes for him.”

“I'll let him know.” The woman teetered off on spiked heels that matched her screaming red lipstick.

He wondered how much work the woman actually did. Kincaid's wife, May Ellen, had a reputation for popping pills and drinking too much. Rumor had it the judge kept a mistress in Jackson. Justin wondered if he even bothered to go that far.

The receptionist reappeared. “You may go in now. The door at the end of the hall.”

Justin walked down the hall, rapped his knuckles on the door, then opened it without waiting to be invited in. Kincaid was seated behind a desk the size of an aircraft carrier, with more pictures of himself with dignitaries on the wall behind him. Tall and patrician with a thick head of silver hair, Turner Kincaid looked like central casting's version of a judge—or a senator.

“I hear you're looking for me, Turner.” Justin deliberately used the judge's first name. He knew Kincaid liked everyone to call him “judge.”

“What in hell do you think you're doing by coming back to my town?”

“Last I heard it was still Twin Oaks, not Kincaidville. You may be a judge, but this town belongs to a whole lot of folks.”

“You were always a smart-ass. Clay said so way back.”

Justin had gone to school with Clay, the judge's son. He'd beaten him out for the quarterback position in junior high and Clay had never forgiven him. Not that he gave a rat's ass. He'd always found Clay to be a sneaky, self-centered rich kid.

“Get out of town.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It's a promise.”

Justin manufactured a smile. “And if I don't?”

“You're as good as dead.”

Justin pulled a miniature tape recorder out of his pocket. He'd used it when he'd been on the force in New Orleans. “I've recorded every word you said. I'm meeting with David Noyes. I'm sure the
Tribune
will be interested to hear your threats. It'll do wonders for your political career.”

Color leached from Kincaid's face, then it suddenly flushed plum-red. “You son of a bitch.”

Justin jammed the recorder into his pocket, then leaned across the desk and grabbed the prick by his gray silk tie. “Anything happens to me—
anything—
the press gets this.”

“I—I didn't mean I was going to kill you—”

“Save it. The recorder's off. Just be sure you and Buck and all of your buddies stay away from me.” He released the tie and left, slamming the door behind him so hard that one of the pictures fell off the wall. He could hear the glass shattering on the gleaming oak floor.

He was back in his car with Redd when his cell phone rang. It was Nora.

“An agent from the Mississippi Bureau of Investigation wants you to call him back on a secure line.”

He wrote down the number and hung up. What in hell could the bureau want? Maybe they'd ID'd the murder victim, but he doubted it. That wouldn't require a secure line.

He stopped at the Shop 'N Go and took Redd with him while he used a pay phone. An agent answered on the second ring, and Justin identified himself.

“The bureau is letting you know you're getting a felon on a work furlough at the local newspaper.”

“Okay,” Justin responded, not surprised. Work furloughs used to be rare, but now prisons were packed. With one in every one hundred and fifty people in the country behind bars, furloughs were becoming more common every day to make space. “What's his name?”

“Her. It's Kaitlin Wells. She stole money from the Mercury National Bank.”

He vaguely recalled his mother telling him about the case. “When's she coming?”

“She's on the way. We've arranged for housing, a job, a car. She'll report to us, of course, but keep an eye on her. If you spot anything strange, call me on a secure line.”

 

T
HE BELL ON
Crestwood Realty's door jingled, and Tori Wells looked up to see a hunk with long, khaki-clad legs, shoulders like a college jock, and killer blue eyes walk into the office. At his side was a copper-colored dog. The animal's coat appeared to have been shaved, making it look very funky. The guy seemed vaguely familiar, but she couldn't quite place him.

“Hi.” Tori flashed her megawatt smile. “May I help you?”

He held out his hand, and she reached for it. “Justin Radner.”

Tori felt her eyes widen as he clasped her hand in a death grip. Not Justin Radner. He'd been the star of Harrington High's football team, and he'd dated Verity Mason. Why would he be back here?

“I remember you from high school,” she said smoothly, gesturing toward the chair in front of her desk for him to sit. “I'm Victoria Wells. My friends call me Tori. I'm sure you don't remember me. I was two years younger.”

Justin nodded, but Tori couldn't tell if he was admitting he didn't remember her or that he did. She'd expected him to say he knew her. Tori had always been beautiful, with the kind of body men didn't ever forget.

“What brings you back here?” she asked, sitting down.

“I've been hired as sheriff.”

Tori forced herself not to gasp. The judge would have a conniption. He and Buck Mason were tighter than ticks. Buck hated Justin with a passion Tori found bizarre.

“I'd like to rent or lease a house—” he stroked the dog's head “—with a yard.”

“You've come to the right place,” Tori said in her cheeriest voice. “Crestwood Realty is Twin Oaks' leading realty.” She didn't add she was the top agent in town. Justin must have asked. That's why he'd come here.

“I'll need at least two bedrooms.”

Tori nodded, waiting for him to say more. She sneaked a quick glance at his left hand. No ring. That didn't necessarily mean he wasn't married.

When he didn't add another request, she said, “I have several properties that would be perfect for you. Let's do a virtual tour to eliminate some.”

Usually she would take the time to show a hunk like this each property, but she was having dinner with the Kincaids tonight. She wanted to get home and have plenty of time to shower, change and do her hair before Clay picked her up. After years of being together, he'd promised to announce their engagement tonight.

Tori clicked on her computer, then turned the monitor toward Justin. She let her long eyelashes flutter just slightly. The gesture always captivated men, but Justin didn't seem to notice. She took him for a virtual tour of several homes. He watched but didn't comment.

Tori suddenly had one of her brilliant ideas. There was a home in the unincorporated area that she'd been trying to lease for an absentee owner for over two years. Locals knew better than to take it. The next-door neighbors were notorious for their domestic fights and loud parties. The judge would hoot with laughter if she could pawn off the place on Justin.