chapter nine

Robin sat in one of the private offices on the management floor of the paper and tried to ignore the nervous tingling in her chest. Not only were her editor and the newspaper’s attorney present, but also the executive editor of the paper.

She’d received flowers from the latter immediately after the accident two years ago, but she’d never actually had a conversation with him.

Richard Reese greeted her warmly, though, and she knew Wade must have already discussed the story with him.

“You might be in for a hard time,” he said, “but the paper will stand behind you.”

“Thank you.”

The door opened, and two men were ushered in by Richard Reese’s secretary.

Her gaze went immediately to the taller of the two, and her heart quickened. She’d been occupied since the funeral with the story, with meetings, but Ben Taylor had lurked in her thoughts.

Taylor led the other man into the room. As on the day of the funeral, he wore a dark blue suit with a striped tie and his hair, which had been unruly that day, was neatly combed. The flinty look in his eyes was the same.

He nodded at her, his gaze holding hers for a fleeting second. “Ms. Stuart.”

Richard Reese was already standing. “You know Ms. Stuart?”

He turned to Reese. “We met at one of the funerals. I’m Agent Ben Taylor. This is Agent Ellis Mahoney.”

Reese introduced the others at the table. Wade. The attorney, Mason Parker.

Ben Taylor frowned as his gaze moved from one to another. He was clearly displeased. “Gentlemen.”

“Please sit,” Reese said.

Taylor obviously didn’t want to do that but he chose a chair at the end of the table where he could see everyone’s faces. His partner sat next to him. Reese was at the other end, the attorney on his right side, and Robin had been placed on the attorney’s right side. Wade was seated across from her.

Ben Taylor didn’t waste any words. “We want to know the name of your source for the story.” He addressed her directly.

Mason Parker interrupted. “Is the FBI officially involved now? It’s my understanding that it’s not.”

“Ms. Stuart’s story, if true, indicates official corruption as well as involvement by an organization that operates across state lines.” Taylor’s voice was clipped, with none of the southern drawl Robin had heard earlier.

She felt heat rise in her cheeks at the “if true” in his statement. Mason Parker gave her the smallest shake of his head, as if warning her not to react.

Taylor’s gaze didn’t leave her. The intensity she’d felt in him before had reached storm level. Storm, heck. Hurricane force.

She started to answer when the attorney cut her off. “Until it’s an official federal case, Ms. Stuart is protected by the Georgia shield law.”

Ben Taylor didn’t move his eyes from her. “You want murderers to go free?”

“Her source wouldn’t have spoken if he, or she, had not been assured of privacy,” Mason Parker interjected.

“The Georgia shield law isn’t absolute, and there is no federal shield statute,” Taylor said. “Ms. Stuart just gave us reason to enter the case.”

Mason Parker shook his head. “Ms. Stuart is not obligated at this point to reveal her source.”

“Then you will release it at some point?”

“That’s up to Ms. Stuart.”

“She can be subpoenaed.”

“I think this conversation is over,” Mason Parker said as he stood.

Taylor leveled a stare at her that would have frozen hell. “Murder. Drugs. Prostitution. Corruption. Do you really want to protect that?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t have written the story,” she said, ignoring the attorney. Anger seethed deep inside.

“Good intentions or not, you’re impeding an investigation,” Taylor said sharply. “Someone else might die because of it.”

A suffocating sensation tightened her throat, but after a few seconds she defended herself. “There would have been no story if I had not promised,” she shot back. “Then you wouldn’t have what you might have now.”

“Ms. Stuart,” the attorney cautioned.

“If someone didn’t think they could hide behind you,” Taylor retorted, “they might have come to us.”

That, too, could be true. She’d watched Sandy’s personal agony.

“We’re through here,” Mason Parker said sharply. “If you have any more questions, bring them to me.”

Robin saw the anger in Taylor’s face, the frustration. But he rose with his partner. “We’ll keep in touch.” Then he walked out with the easy grace she’d noticed before, a grace that made her feel that much more awkward.

After the door closed, Richard Reese turned to her. “We’ll support you in whatever you decide, but I think they’ll try to compel you to talk. You could go to jail. Be aware of that. We wouldn’t be able to help you there except to continue your salary.”

Mason Parker tapped his pencil on a notebook. “Try to get your source to come forward. Talk to the FBI about giving him protection.”

“He already said that wasn’t an option. He said the bad guys go after families, and both he and his wife have large extended families in the county.”

“Ask him to think about it again.”

She stood, her legs as unsteady as the first time she’d stood after the accident. Still, the adrenaline was back.

“One more thing,” the attorney said. “We’ve been notified that the sheriff’s department might file suit against us. You are no longer welcome in their offices.”

“They can’t ban me. It’s public space.”

“You won’t get anything,” Reese broke in. “Wade, maybe you should put someone else with the sheriff’s department. Ms. Stuart can work the county police department and other aspects of the case.”

“That’s giving in to them,” she protested. “They shouldn’t be able to decide what reporters—”

“Perhaps not, but unlike Atlanta, where politicians worry about public reaction, I don’t think Meredith County people give a damn.” Reese shrugged. “I’ll leave it up to Wade.” He grinned conspiratorially. “I suspect most of them hate our guts already. The liberal Atlanta press. Might as well give them more heartburn.”

Ben swore as he slammed down on the brake as the traffic light changed.

“That went well,” Mahoney quipped. “What do we do now?”

“Get her away from her minders.”

“You think charm will do it? Then better me than you,” Mahoney said with a sly smile.

“Holland indicated the same thing,” Ben said dryly. “I lost my temper. I’m so damned tired of reporters thinking they’re above the law. They twist what you say, they cast blame without knowing what the hell they’re talking about, then they sit snug and safe after they start their damn fires.”

“She was right, though. We wouldn’t have even as little as we do without her story and anonymous source.”

“It’s not enough. Her story doesn’t officially put us on the case. It could be nothing but one person’s suppositions or paranoia. Damn it, we need to interview that source to know whether the report is credible.”

“I’ll start an extensive background check on her. Maybe our boss got the okay for a search warrant.”

“I’m not sure the U.S. attorney has the balls to take on the press.”

“He wants to take down Hydra as much as we do. It would be damned good for his career.” Mahoney didn’t have to add what they all knew: that Joseph Ames would do almost anything to promote his own career. And right now press credibility wasn’t that great.

“She’s kinda pretty,” Mahoney added with a leer.

“Haven’t noticed,” Ben lied. “Don’t forget you’re a married man.”

“I’m thinking about you,” Mahoney countered. “It’s time you started thinking about women again.”

“I do think about them, but I’m too poor to do anything about it,” Ben said. “Every extra penny I have goes for Dani.”

“It’s not just that, and you know it. You shouldn’t feel so damned guilty.”

Ben silenced him with a look. “I’m content as I am. And if I were inclined to seek female companionship, I sure as hell wouldn’t go after a reporter.”

“She’s got a thing for you,” Mahoney said as the car slowed. “Betcha a beer.”

“You’re wrong.”

“I know you hate the press, with good reason, but they’re not all like Ceci Walker.”

“They’re all a bunch of jackals,” Ben replied.

Mahoney grinned and spread his hands. “Okay. But you research her while I talk to U.S. Attorney Ames. He likes me better than you. We’ll compare notes tonight. Over a beer.”

“Your wife approves?”

“She understands,” Mahoney corrected.

“Don’t ever believe that, pal. You think they do. They think they do. Then one day you wake up and realize it’s all been a myth.”

After the meeting with Wade and the other reporters, Robin went into the restroom and splashed cold water on her face.

The combativeness was gone. The adrenaline had faded. Mason had made it clear what she faced. And Ben Taylor’s anger left its mark. She resented the contempt in his voice, but it struck home. Was she really doing the right thing?

She’d just defied the FBI. That was a big thing for the daughter of a man who lived for duty, honor, country. She didn’t think he would approve.

Jack Ross would. She used her cell phone to call him.

He picked up immediately.

“Jack, this is Robin.”

“Great stuff, kid,” he said.

Some of the uncertainty left her. Jack Ross had been her mentor, a Pulitzer Prize winner, when she’d first joined the paper. He’d been the political editor and had taken her under his wing. It was one reason she’d moved up so quickly. It had been friendship only. She became part of his family, as close to his wife as she was to Jack.

She’d learned writing, and reporting, and regret from him. Years earlier, he’d authored a series on prisons, using a number of anonymous sources. He gave one up, and that person was killed in prison. He’d never completely recovered from it, and he’d started drinking heavily, a habit that eventually forced him from the paper.

“Whatever you do, kid,” he told her over and over again, “never give up your source. In this business, if you don’t have trust, you don’t have anything.”

“They say they’re going to subpoena me,” she said.

“They won’t keep you long. Public pressure’s too strong. Hang in there, Robin.”

The words were a balm, an affirmation.

“Another thing,” he said. “Make sure your notes are safe. That’s what got me.”

After she ended the call, she weighed how to protect and preserve her notes and the tape she had. She considered destroying them, but if the paper were sued or she needed proof of the conversation for some reason …

She couldn’t use a safe-deposit box. If she refused to answer questions, they might try to subpoena her notes. She couldn’t send them to one of her sisters, not without drawing them into this. Same thing, friends. She could try to bury them somewhere, but she didn’t like that idea, either.

She compromised. She left the office and stopped at a pay phone in a convenience store. She called information and found the number of a former classmate and friend. A mutual acquaintance had told her he had a law practice in Santa Rosa, California.

In minutes, she’d found him and even got him on the line.

“Shelby, this is Robin Stuart.”

“Robin—God, it’s been years. Where are you?”

“Atlanta. The Observer.”

“What you always wanted.”

So he remembered. “Yes.”

“Is this a hello call or something else?”

“Something else. I would like to hire you.”

“In California?”

“Particularly in California.”

“Okay,” he said softly. “Am I to ask any questions?”

“No. But it’s nothing illegal. What would you suggest as a retainer?” A retainer would establish the attorney-client relationship.

“What services do you need?” he replied cautiously.

“To hold on to a package.”

“That’s it?”

“Yep.”

“Then five dollars will do. A bargain-basement price for you.”

“Thanks. I’ll send the package along with a five-dollar bill.”

“I’ll need your signature. I can e-mail you the document.”

She thought about that for a moment. “Not here.”

“Where?”

She thought a moment. “I’ll call you back as to where to send it. What’s your address?”

He gave it to her.

“Keep it safe,” she said. “It could be important.”

“It’s a pleasure serving you,” he said with mock humility. “When are you going to be in town?”

“I don’t know.”

“Robin, it’s good to hear from you.” His voice turned serious. “I don’t know what you’re involved with, but be careful.”

She drove home, gathered her tapes and written notes, and put them into a large, padded envelope, adding a five-dollar bill. She carefully wrote Shelby Mann’s address on it. Then she erased every address from her computer address book, as well as most on her cell phone.

On her way to the office, she slipped the envelope into a post office collection box. Once back at the office she started calling all her sources for the next day’s story. She quickly learned her earlier story had made an impression. The sheriff refused to take her call, as did every other source she tried. Some just hung up on her. Others explained they could no longer talk to her.

Bob Greene was working all his police sources. The investigative reporter, Cleve Andrews, was trying to trace down the ownership of the land where the officers were killed.

She wrapped up the report at six after being on the phone for four hours. She led with the blanket denial from the sheriff’s office that it had any connection to the shooting, or that any deputy was told not to go by the crime scene the night of the murders.

Much of the rest was a retelling of facts.

Her phone rang.

“Hi, it’s Michael. We met a few nights ago at Charlie’s.”

“I remember.”

“I was hoping I could take you to dinner tonight. To celebrate the story.”

Surprised, she considered the offer. She hadn’t had a real date in two years. Since she’d returned, she tired much too quickly at night.

Michael Caldwell. She’d liked him. He hadn’t made her heart jump or raised the temperature when he was in close proximity, but she was comfortable with him.

“Sorry,” she said with real regret. “I’m really beat.”

“Tomorrow?” he asked hopefully.

“I’m not sure. Depends on the story.”

“I’ll check with you again soon.”

She hung up. Part of her regretted the refusal. It would be nice to be normal. But she desperately needed some sleep. Perhaps tonight she wouldn’t see the bodies in her dreams, or nightmares.

Bob Greene approached her desk. “Great job. What about a beer?”

She stretched. “I’m heading home.”

“This source,” he said, “you’re sure of him?”

“Or her,” she corrected. “Yes, I am.”

He waited, obviously hoping she would share more information. She wanted to. She didn’t want to keep this to herself. It was becoming a far greater burden than she’d envisioned when Sandy had extracted his promise.

“Be careful,” he said. “If your source is right and it is Hydra, they’ll want to eliminate anyone who might know something about them. They thrive in the dark.”

“Tell me more about Hydra.” She’d researched it on the computer, but there was very little of substance.

“Nobody knows much. Neither the locals nor the feds have been able to penetrate the organization. At least that’s what I’ve heard. No one really knows how big it is. The rumors are out there. Fear’s out there.”

“Then every crime could be attributed to it,” she said. “The myth grows.”

“Could be. Could also be it’s all true.”

“It could corrupt a whole sheriff’s department?”

“Corrupt some members. Scare others.”

“What do you think?”

“I think three dead policemen say someone is real serious about concealing something.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s an important story. I’m glad to be working with you.”

She didn’t believe a syllable of it. His eyes said he wanted the story himself.

She wasn’t going to let go of any of it.

Ben turned off the computer. He looked outside. It was nearly seven and daylight still streamed in through the windows.

Mahoney had already left. He had received a “maybe” on a subpoena from U.S. Attorney Ames in Atlanta after explaining what breaking the Hydra would do for his career. But Ames wanted to talk to the woman himself before making a decision.

Ben had spent the last several hours finding out everything he could about Robin Stuart. He’d brought up all the articles she’d written for the paper, finding an astounding cross section. The one that interested him most was a story about an autistic child. There was compassion in every word. Then there was a series on autism and lack of facilities for its victims. She’d parlayed a story into a front-page series.

There were some investigative stories: an organization that bilked the blind; a driver education firm that basically sold driver’s licenses with the assistance of several state licensing officers.

He saw a passion in each of the stories. Some were the basic who, what, when stories, but most went far beyond that with the why. He partly envied that passion. His own had died years ago …

Then he came across the story of her accident. Nearly eighteen months passed before the next byline. That explained the brace.

He stood, glanced at his jacket with disgust. It was hot as hell outside, and he hated the suit-and-tie culture that was still expected at the FBI. He pulled the knot of his tie down.

Home. He should go home. But that was so damnably empty. It was a roof over his head. Little more.

Instead, he decided to ride by Robin Stuart’s house. He knew he couldn’t ask her any questions, but maybe, just maybe, she would hear him out. It was worth a try.

Her house was an even more welcome sight than usual.

Robin felt her moral compass was going awry, the needle swinging back and forth without any clear direction.

Protect Sandy? Protect the law? And herself? She didn’t like the fear that both Ben Taylor and then Bob Greene had planted inside her. They both had reasons to do it. Taylor wanted a name. Greene wanted the story.

She drove into the driveway, picked up the groceries she’d just purchased, and sprinted for the door with her keys in her hand. Another car drove in behind her.

She immediately recognized Ben Taylor, as he unwound his long body from the front seat of the dark sedan. Still angry at his words during the meeting, she turned back to the door, unlocked it, and stepped inside.

“Ms. Stuart?” His voice was soft but compelling.

She turned around. “I thought our attorney told you everything had to go through him.”

“I’m not going to ask you any questions. But I thought you might like to know more about Hydra.”

That stopped her. She had done some research on the Internet, but he would know much more.

“No questions?”

“No. I swear. I might try to persuade, though.” Charm oozed through the last words.

“A few moments,” she conceded. “And no persuasion. Just Hydra.” As angry as she was with him, she wanted to know as much as she could about the mysterious organization.

He gave her a wry smile. “Fair enough.”

She opened the door and went inside, leaving him to follow.

She expected Daisy to run to her, then to the kitchen. No Daisy.

“Daisy,” she called out.

Still no cat.

Her heart started thumping. It was unlike Daisy not to greet her, not to be sitting in the window looking out, not to be meowing for her treats. She couldn’t remember when it had happened before.

She started looking through rooms, even awkwardly mounted the stairs, though she lived mostly downstairs. She planned to change that once her leg was fully operational again.

“Ms. Stuart?”

She spun around. She’d almost forgotten about Agent Taylor.

“Who’s Daisy?”

“My cat. She’s usually perched on the window seat and runs to the door when I come home. I didn’t see her at the window but I thought she’d already jumped down …”

Robin went into the kitchen. Everything looked the same except for the absence of Daisy, meowing for her supper. She checked every room. Then, her heart beating faster with every second, she went into the small laundry room and looked behind the washing machine. She’d found Daisy there before, once when the cat was ill, and another time when she was recuperating from a dispute with another cat. It was her “cave.”

Daisy was lying there now, on an old towel Robin kept there, first for leaks, then for Daisy’s occasional foray.

“Daisy?”

Daisy didn’t move. Didn’t respond in any way. Robin squeezed next to the washer and balanced herself as she tried to lean down. Damn brace! She inched down and, finally, her finger touched the soft fur at Daisy’s neck. She was alive, thank God. Then she saw Daisy’s front paws. They were bloody.

What had happened?

She looked around but nothing seemed to be disturbed.

She picked Daisy up and wrapped the old towel around her. The cat still didn’t respond. Her breathing was barely audible. Robin bolted toward the front door and slammed into Ben Taylor.

Once more his hands kept her from falling. His eyes slid over the cat, the blood on her claws.

“I have to get her to the vet,” she said.

“I’ll drive you,” he said.

She hesitated, then nodded. She wanted to keep Daisy in her lap, and calm if she woke.

“The name of the vet?” he asked.

“The phone number is on the fridge.”

Faster than she could blink, he had the clinic on the phone and told them they had an emergency on the way.

Gratitude erased any misgivings she had about him. She didn’t care who he was or what he wanted or his motives. She wanted the “juice” he had as a federal officer and, for Daisy, she wasn’t above accepting it.

In seconds, he shepherded her out to his car and opened the passenger-side door so she could slide in with Daisy.

She held Daisy close to her as he ignored the speed limit and drove fast, and expertly. She glanced at the set expression on his face. Somehow, he hadn’t seemed the animal type. But at the moment she was accepting any help she could get.

Seven minutes later, they arrived at the emergency clinic. In seconds, they were ushered into an examining room. A woman who identified herself as Dr. Lori Hammer entered immediately and took Daisy.

“What happened?”

“I came home and found her unconscious. There was blood on her claws but I didn’t see any open wound,” Robin said.

Daisy moved slightly, mewing softly, as the vet gently probed. “She’s hurting. She seems to be bruised. It doesn’t look like anything is broken but I should take some X-rays to be sure.” Robin nodded, gratitude pooling inside.

“Can you save a sample of the blood on her claws?” Taylor said. From his pocket he took what she recognized, from the Meredith County crime scene, as an evidence bag. “Mark and sign it with your name and date, and return it to me?”

The vet looked startled.

“Ben Taylor. FBI.” He took out his credentials and flashed them, then added, “The cat may have attacked someone who was in Ms. Stuart’s house.”

The vet glanced at Robin.

Robin nodded. “It’s … it could be a possibility.”

“All right,” the vet said. “I’ll get some blood off those claws, then take the X-rays. Shouldn’t take long.” She turned to Ben. “You probably want to go with me.”

Robin started to follow, but the vet shook her head. “It’s better if you stay here.”

Robin thought about protesting, but she wanted all the vet’s attention on Daisy. Instead she paced the small examination room.

Had someone come into her house? She hadn’t added an alarm system, mainly because she simply hadn’t had time, and it was a rental house, not hers. She made a vow to herself she would contact the owner the next day and have one installed.

In the meantime, a chill ran through her. Just thinking of someone prowling through her house.

Maybe not. Maybe Daisy had been hurt in some innocent way.

Please don’t let anything happen to Daisy.

Taylor returned to the room then, the evidence bag in his hand.

“Do you always carry those around?”

“Yeah, usually.”

“How’s Daisy?”

“Complaining loudly.” He smiled slightly. “If her meowing is any sign, she should be fine.”

The rare smile reassured her.

“I misnamed her,” Robin admitted. “When I got her, she was thin as a rail and mean as Satan. I hoped the name would help her personality.”

He chuckled. It came from deep in his throat and rumbled through her. She was aware he was trying to distract her. Her mind told her to resist, but an undeniable magnetism was building between them. She felt it in every fiber of her body. Bad. Very bad.

“Did it work?”

“Well, she’s no longer as thin as a rail.”

“What about mean as Satan?”

“Depends on whether she likes you.”

“I’ll remember to stay on her good side.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You think you’ll be around?”

“Ouch.”

“You can go,” she said, disgruntled by her growing awareness, by the sparks she felt every time she looked at him. “I’ll wait until I know more.”

“You don’t have a car.”

“I have friends.”

His gaze didn’t leave her face. “I want to be there when you get home.”

“You really think someone was in my house?”

“I think it’s a distinct possibility.”

She didn’t protest more. He was doing his job. And if he was right, she didn’t want to go home alone. Now, though, she wasn’t sure what was the most dangerous. Going home alone, or going with him.

She moved away from him. Proximity was far too dangerous.

He moved away, too, and leaned against the wall, that energy she always felt in him radiating in the room. His was not a peaceful presence. She wondered whether it ever was.

“How long have you been with the FBI?” she asked.

“About fifteen years.” His eyes met hers and they were as dark and enigmatic as they had been before. Yet in the moments after she’d found Daisy, she’d experienced the same protectiveness she had when he’d helped her at the funeral. It was a warmth he evidently took pains to hide.

“Have you ever had a cat?” Inane chatter, but better than a silence that heavy with tension.

“No.”

“A dog?”

“No.”

“Why? You seem to care for them.”

He hesitated, then said in a flat, inflectionless voice, “Not practical in my profession. I’m gone most of the time.”

“Your wife?” There. She’d asked it.

His eyes shuttered then. “There isn’t one.”

There isn’t one. She wondered whether that meant he’d never been married or was divorced. But his tone this time didn’t invite any additional questions. Yet an invisible web of attraction was enveloping them. She knew from the dismay in his eyes she wasn’t imagining it.

“When you were a kid? You didn’t have a pet then?” she persisted.

“No,” he said simply. “I moved a lot.” But she knew voices. She suspected it wasn’t simple at all.

She had a habitual disease of asking questions. Couldn’t seem to stop them. She always wanted to know everything about everyone. But Ben Taylor didn’t seem like a man who revealed much.

“I didn’t have one as a kid, either,” she said. “My dad was a sergeant major in the army. We moved from one post to another and we couldn’t take pets overseas. He said it wasn’t fair to get attached to one. Daisy is my first. And dear to me. Thank you.”

She was talking too much. He wasn’t talking at all. For her, it was part anxiety. The thought of someone having been in her house and hurting a helpless being was becoming a huge weight in her stomach.

The door opened, and the vet reappeared.

“The X-rays looked fine. No broken bones, but there might be internal injuries. I would like to keep her here overnight. I’ll call you if there’s any change. Otherwise you can pick her up in the morning.”

“Thank you,” Robin said.

Taylor opened the front door for her and guided her to his car, opening the passenger’s door for her. She watched as he strode around to his side and got inside. The interior suddenly felt even warmer than the temperature justified.

Business. Concentrate. “Were you really at my house to talk about Hydra?”

He shrugged. “That was the intent.”

“Nothing more?”

“Perhaps I had hoped … a little persuasion might help.” He made the admission with an odd quirk to his mouth that was more self-mockery than smile. It was unsettling. He didn’t seem a man to show any vulnerability.

She glanced over at him. He’d left his jacket somewhere and his tie was gone. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and raw masculinity radiated from him.

He wants something from me.

But at the moment she wanted something from him as well. She wanted to know about Hydra. And she certainly didn’t want to go into her house alone.

He glanced at her, then down at her hands, which were pressed into her lap. She quickly moved them.

“Daisy will be all right,” he reassured her.

“An empathetic FBI agent?” she asked with more bite than she intended.

“I don’t think anyone has mentioned that word in connection with me before.”

She ignored that comment, along with that damn warmth that started to creep up her spine again.

She tried to shake it off. “So you had only persuasion in mind?”

“Yep. For now.” He paused, then added, “But we have asked the U.S. Attorney to subpoena you. Then you’ll have to testify.”

“I won’t, not without permission.”

“Ms. Stuart … these people don’t fool around. You wrote something that leads both the perps and us to believe you know something we need to know. Besides being downright stupid, it’s also irresponsible.”

Her spine went rigid. She wanted to attack back, then she realized he was probably baiting her for a purpose. Instead, she tried to swallow her anger, only to discover that her breath was already trapped in her throat.

“Was there anything in your house identifying your source?” he asked suddenly.

“No,” she said.

He turned and looked at her. “Nothing?”

“No.”

“Damn it, you’re playing with a life. You’re not doing your source any favor. They will find him, and he’ll die. It’s as simple as that. If we get to him first, he’ll get protection.”

“I didn’t say it was a him.”

He ignored that. “Don’t you care about anything but your damned story?” If he’d been kind and cajoling just a moment earlier, his voice was pure, icy anger now.

“I care about justice. I care about the person who trusted me.”

“As long as you get a headline.”

“That’s unfair.”

“Is it? God save me from reporters and their righteous stupidity.”

Her back stiffened. “You’re an arrogant ass.”

“Been said. At least I concede my shortcomings.”

Her mouth clamped down before she said something she would regret.

“We’re talking about murder, Ms. Stuart,” he continued. “Capital murder of three police officers. You think these people would stop at searching a reporter’s house? Hell, you’re lucky they didn’t burn it down with you and that cat in it.”

He drove up and parked in front of her house. She looked around. The lights in Mrs. Jeffers’s house next door were still on. No one occupied the house on the other side.

She stepped out of the car, her keys in her hand. His fingers brushed hers as he took them from her, and once again anger and attraction warred with each other. She had to wrench herself away from her ridiculous preoccupation with him.

He took the keys from her as she reached the top of the stairs and steered her to his side. He took out his gun before turning the key in the lock. Then stepped in as he opened it.

“Wait out here,” he ordered.

He was back in several minutes and opened the door wide. Then he inspected the lock. “Doesn’t look tampered with.”

She went inside. Everything looked as she’d left it earlier today.

She went to her office first. Everything of value to her was in there. Her notebooks. Her computer. Her research ranging over several years. This was her life far more than the bedroom.

The desk looked the same. So did the computer. She looked at the top of the desk, and her heart skipped. Although her desk was always covered in piles, she knew exactly what was in those piles. She had gone through them hours ago to make sure she was erasing all traces of Sandy and the attorney to whom she was sending her package.

The notebooks were out of place. She’d stacked them, according to date, starting with the oldest on the bottom. Now they were reversed.

With increased panic, she checked her top drawer. She’d left her address book there along with a credit card, tucked inside the book next to the cover. She always kept it there because she did a lot of research and sometimes had to pay a fee for a certain article. The card was in the book, but not in its proper place.

She turned to the computer and turned it on. Then she saw a smear on the rug beneath. It looked as if someone had tried to clean something, but couldn’t quite do it. Blood from scratches? She turned to Ben Taylor, who was regarding her with intent interest, as if he realized she’d found something.

“Someone’s been in here,” she said.

His eyes asked the question.

“Notebooks are out of place. So is a credit card. And there’s a spot on the rug.”

“Do you have any valuables?”

“Not really.”

“Check the rest of the house. See if anything else is missing.”

It didn’t take her long. She didn’t have much. A few inexpensive pieces of jewelry. The computer. A large television set and VCR.

She reported back to him. “Nothing.”

“It looks like someone didn’t want you to know anyone was here. Your Daisy spoiled their plans. Once your intruder bled on the floor …” He pulled out a cell phone and called the local police.

“They’ll be here shortly,” he said.

She pictured an intruder snooping in her office.

And became sick to her stomach. She also realized in that moment that all her mother’s clichés had a root of truth. Don’t catch a tiger’s tail.

Curiosity killed the cat.

She’d just barely escaped killing the cat and now she feared she had the tiger by the tail.

Or was it the devil?