Secrets and Lies: He's a Bad Boy\He's Just a Cowboy (25 page)

That old fear, cold as a knife, caused her bones to shiver a little. “I just told the truth, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”

“No, Ms. Tremont, what you did was dirty my son’s name. He was already gone, and you and Jackson Moore tried like hell to ruin his reputation, to put a black mark on my family. Do you have any idea what that did to my wife? To me? Or don’t you care?”

“I only told the truth, and my story, of your son’s attack, was corroborated by more people than Jackson. Several of the other kids came forward and recounted the fight and what they’d seen. That’s why the police suspected Jackson.”

“Bah—” He waved off her arguments and glanced pointedly at his watch. “What is it you want to know? I don’t have much time.”

The air was charged and she realized he didn’t trust her any more than she trusted him. She wanted to shake some sense into him, to tell him that he was blind as far as his firstborn was concerned, but she knew she was lucky to be interviewing him at all. She flipped through her notes, to the questions she’d already prepared and began asking him about the town and his position in it, about the people he hired and how he dealt with his employees as well as the union. She asked about the benefits of working for Fitzpatrick, Incorporated now as opposed to ten years ago. She brought up Monroe Sawmill again, owned by Garreth Monroe III, Thomas’s brother-in-law.

He answered succinctly, not giving any more information than the bare bones. He leaned back in his chair, tented his fingers and pondered each question, as if he were afraid of slipping up. He hadn’t even run for office yet and already he was acting like a politician.

Eventually she brought up his family, his notorious and nefarious ancestors, as well as his remaining son and daughter. Thomas was remarkably candid about his family’s history, but when Rachelle started asking questions about his personal life and his wife, his good humor fled and he was once again cautious.

“This isn’t an essay about me,” he said, resting the tips of his fingers against his lips. “I don’t think your readers want or need to know about my family.”

She wasn’t ready to give up yet. “It’s been rumored for years that you have political ambitions. How does your wife feel about your interest in a political career?”

He was wary. “My wife is very supportive, as always.”

“But if you enter politics, your entire life will be examined and Roy’s death will come up again.”

His jaw thrust forward a fraction. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment.” He stood up with a cold smile, but didn’t offer her his hand.

She had no choice but to follow suit. “Thank you for your time,” she said, but he didn’t respond. His features, as rugged as his wife’s were refined, were set in granite. He was truly a handsome man and his arrogance, his hard shell, reminded him of many men she’d known. In many ways, he wasn’t unlike Jackson. They were about of the same build and stature, their pride their flaw, the edges of their personalities honed sharp.

He escorted her to the door. “Don’t ever barge past my secretary again. She takes her job very seriously.”

As she walked through the outer reception area, Thomas closed the door behind her. Melanie, settled in front of her word processor, looked up, glanced at the closed door and ripped off the headgear of her Dictaphone.

“Can’t you leave Thomas alone?” she whispered as she fell into step with Rachelle. She shoved open the double doors and told Rita, “I’m taking a break. Handle everything.”

Rita, upon spying Rachelle, turned a shade of crimson.

“I’ll only be a couple of minutes,” Melanie said. They walked into the elevator together, Melanie tossing long curls over her shoulder, her mouth pinched in anger. She was a pretty girl with expressive dark eyes and a sleek figure. Her clothes were a cut above what most of the women in Gold Creek wore, more elegant. As beautiful as she was, Melanie could have walked off the pages of a fashion magazine. Her dress was silk, a deep royal blue, her black heels a soft calfskin. A thick gold necklace surrounded her throat and matched a bracelet and earrings that dangled nearly to her shoulders. She fairly reeked of money, much more money than she made as a secretary—or at least more money than Rachelle’s friends who were secretaries in San Francisco made.

Only when they were outside standing at the door of Rachelle’s car, did Melanie say anything. “Listen, Rachelle, I don’t know what you thought you’d accomplish by coming back here, but you’re only causing trouble. Whether you know it or not, lots of people are nervous—they don’t like the idea of their quiet little town being splashed all over the pages of national newspapers.”

Rachelle couldn’t help but smile. “You think I’m exploiting the citizens of Gold Creek?”

“Using them,” she replied. “To sell papers.”

“I just thought it would be an interesting series.”

“Oh, yeah, right. Like people in Chicago, or New York, or Washington, D.C., are going to give a rip about how this little town operates.” She shook her head and sighed. “Don’t give me any of that crap. I know better. You’re here because of Roy Fitzpatrick. That’s why you pushed your way past me to get to his dad, that’s why Jackson Moore decided to show up and that’s what’s turning this town inside out. It’s over, Rachelle, so forget it. A boy died. Period. End of story.”

“Is it?” Rachelle asked, studying the lines of Melanie’s pretty face.

“Absolutely. And if you don’t leave it alone, I’m afraid you might find yourself in big trouble.”

“You’re threatening me?” Rachelle laughed. “I can’t believe it. What do
you,
what does this town, have to hide?”

“Take my advice, Rachelle. Leave it alone.” She turned on her heel and half ran down along the path that led to the back door of the building.

Rachelle blew her bangs from her eyes and glanced up to the third floor. Her heart nearly stopped as she saw a flicker of movement at one of the windows. Thomas Fitzpatrick, his expression murderous, stared down at her.

So he’d witnessed her exchange with Melanie. So what? Though feeling as if he’d spied her doing something she shouldn’t have been, she waved to him and slid into the warm interior of her car. It was silly of her to take Melanie’s warning seriously, sillier still to be frightened of Thomas Fitzpatrick. From all accounts Fitzpatrick was a decent man, a philanthropist, for God’s sake. And he’d been more than civil during the interview.

So why did he, with a single look, cause her to grow cold inside? If only Jackson were still here, she thought, then jammed her key into the ignition. Jackson was long gone and she could handle everything herself. She didn’t need a man to lean on for God’s sake! But she couldn’t shake the cold dread that settled in her heart.

* * *

J
ACKSON LEANED OVER THE
desk of the private investigator and glared at the weasel-eyed man. “You’re telling me that there’s nothing new you can dig up on the Fitzpatrick murder?”

The man, Virgil Timms, held up his palms, showing off yellow stains on his fingers from the cigarettes he smoked one after another. A Winston cigarette was burning unattended in the ashtray on the desk. “Nothing significant. But I’m still working on it.”

“I’m paying you a lot of money to find out the truth,” Jackson said, pacing to the window and staring through the streaked glass to the bustling streets below where pedestrians, bicyclists and motorists vied for room. Timms worked in Chinatown in San Francisco, and the pace of the city seemed frenetic compared with Gold Creek.

“Hey, I’m doin’ my best.”

Was he? Jackson wasn’t convinced. He’d hired Timms on the advice of his partner. Boothe and Timms had served together in Vietnam, and Timms had gained a reputation, though the man seemed shady to Jackson. Not that it mattered. The shadier, the better in this case. “Did Fitzpatrick get to you?”

“What’d’ya mean?”

Jackson walked back to the desk. His muscles were tight and a knot was forming between his shoulders. “I mean, did he pay you to quit nosing around?”

Timms had the decency to look offended. “Hey,
you’re
my client.”

“Fitzpatrick has a lot of money. He’s used to spreading it around to get what he wants.”

“I didn’t sell you out, man. Take a look.” He shoved a file across the desk. The manila folder was marked Moore/Fitzpatrick.

Jackson rifled quickly through the pages, reading small biographies on each of the suspects in the Fitzpatrick case, including his own. No wonder the police hauled him in. Of all the potential murderers of Roy Fitzpatrick, Jackson had been the only one with a reputation for brushes with the law—even though they’d been minor.

“Is this mine?” he asked, his brows knitting as he began to digest some of the information.

“You paid for it. Hey—” Timms took a drag on his cigarette before crushing it in the ashtray already heaped with ashes and cigarette butts “—you still want me on the case?” He dumped the full ashtray into a wastebasket before lighting up again.

“I suppose,” Jackson agreed.

“Good. But let me clue you in on one thing. It’s not easy getting information out of that town. At the mention of the Fitzpatrick name, those people zip their lips like nobody’s business. And the police—forget them. It’s like the old man is some kind of god or somethin’.”

“Or something,” Jackson agreed dryly.

“He owns the whole damned town. Him and his relatives.”

“Garreth Monroe,” Jackson thought aloud. Brother-in-law to Thomas and a man who was just as greedy. He owned the place on the lake where Rachelle and he…

“Garreth Monroe III, mind you. Yep, unless you work for one of those two guys, you don’t have much of a chance in that town.”

“That, I already knew.”

Timms’s thin lips twisted into the semblance of a smile. “Well, there’s a lot you might not know in that folder—things people didn’t want me to find out. If I didn’t know better I’d swear Gold Creek should be named Peyton Place.” He laughed at his own joke and ended up in a coughing fit. “I gotta cut down,” he said, holding up his cigarette. “Now, listen, you want me to dig as deep as I can?”

“Deeper.”

“Even if you find out something you don’t want to know?”

The question jarred Jackson. His jaw slid to the side and he had to remind himself that Timms was on his side. “I don’t know what you’re insinuating, but as far as I’m concerned, I want you to turn that damned town upside down and shake it until all the secrets spill out. Got it?”

“If you’re sure.”

“Damn right, I’m sure.” Jackson grabbed the manila folder and tucked it under his arm. “I’ll call you when I get back from New York.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

“
M
AYBE HE’S GONE FOR
good,” Brian said, yanking off his tie and tossing it onto the back of the couch.

“I wouldn’t bet on it.” Thomas walked down the two steps to his son’s living room, a huge, spacious room decorated with stark white couches, white walls, white carpet and accented in red and black. The room reminded him of his daughter-in-law, who had overseen the decorating. Everything with Laura was black and white, no gray. “Jackson will come back to finish what he started.”

Brian threw open the French doors and stepped onto the veranda. “Why doesn’t he just crawl back under his rock in New York and leave us all the hell alone?” He leaned against the rail of the veranda and sighed heavily. Thomas noticed the beads of sweat that had collected on his son’s brow.

“He wants vindication.” Thomas stared over the grounds of Brian’s estate, past the tended grass and shrubbery to the forest that grew along the banks of Gold Creek. Leaning his elbows on the rail, he wished he didn’t have to ask the question that was foremost in his mind, a question that had nagged at him for years, but a question he’d managed to bury deep. Until Jackson Moore returned. “The night your brother died,” he said gently, “you can swear to me that no one but Jackson had words with him?”

Brian looked up sharply. “What is this? Are you asking me if
I
killed Roy?” A heartbeat passed and Brian trembled. “I don’t believe this. I friggin’ don’t believe this! You, my own father, can stand there and accuse me of murdering my own brother? But why? To inherit this?” He motioned toward the house dismissively. “Do you honestly think I would have done it?”

“I haven’t accused you of anything,” his father said softly. “But it’ll happen. The police are bound to be involved again—Jackson’s already hired a private detective. He means business.”

“Brian? Brian, are you home?” Laura’s voice sang softly through the rooms and out the open door. Carrying his tie and a bag from a boutique in Coleville, she joined them on the porch. “This doesn’t belong on the couch,” she chided gently, lifting the tie and wiggling it. She caught her husband and father-in-law’s somber expressions. “Is something wrong?”

“Moore’s poking around.”

The tie dropped from her fingers to coil at her feet on the bricks. “What now?” she asked, setting her shopping bag near the door.

“Jackson talked to Dad, and your friend, Rachelle, has spoken with both of us.”

“I remember seeing Rachelle at your office,” she said stonily.

Brian licked his lips nervously. “Dad’s afraid they won’t give up until they find out the truth.”

“But the truth is that Jackson killed Roy…” she started, then let her sentence drift away.

“Jackson doesn’t think so,” Thomas said slowly. “And I don’t want any surprises. I came over to talk to you so that you could refresh my memory of that night.”

“It was so long ago—”

“I know. But let’s go over it again. If either of you know anyone who had anything to do with Roy’s death, I want to know about it and I want to know about it now!”

“We would’ve told you then,” Laura insisted, and her clear blue eyes met his. However, her hand shook and she had to slip it quickly into the pocket of her skirt. She blinked hard and glanced at Brian. “This is crazy.”

Thomas wasn’t about to be put off. “Let’s just get a few things straight. I know about the problems you’ve been covering up at the logging company. Profits are way down and, say what you will, I can’t believe it’s all because of the environmentalists or the union.”