The Hero's Son

It was ironic, Valerie thought, because with his blond hair and movie-star good looks, Julian hardly looked the part of gossipmonger. And he certainly didn’t have that kind of background. He was from a very wealthy, old-money Nashville family who had bought him the Journal as a graduation present when he’d left Harvard, expecting him to turn it into a daily that would compete with the Press Scimitar and the Commercial Appeal.

Julian, however, had had other ideas, and while his family might not agree with his methods, they could hardly argue with his success.

He grinned at Valerie, not bothering to conceal his relish for what she had just told him. “Well, well, well. I’d say your little article has hit a nerve, Val.”

“To say the least,” she agreed. “And I’m fine, thank you. The bus didn’t touch me.”

“Oh, sorry.” Julian waved an impatient hand. “But that’s obvious, isn’t it? You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“I did go to the emergency room,” she reminded him. “Where I was interrogated by Judd Colter’s son, I might add.”

Julian’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding. What was he doing there?”

“That’s what I’d like to know. He says he was going to his cousin’s press conference, but I’m not so sure. I mean, he was right there. His was the first face I saw when I came to.” Valerie shivered in spite of herself, thinking about those black eyes staring down at her.

She’d even dreamed about him last night, a disturbing turn of events. The nightmares she’d had about his father were one thing, but the dream she’d had about Brant Colter was something else entirely.

The erotic images swept through her mind now, causing her face to heat unexpectedly. She fervently hoped Julian wouldn’t notice, but she needn’t have worried. His mind was off on a different tangent altogether. “You think he could have been the one to push you in front of that bus? You know…acting on his father’s behalf, or something? I hear Judd Colter’s been ill recently.”

“He had a stroke,” Valerie said.

“Whatever. In any case, you’ve got the makings of a real headliner here. Distraught Son Tries to Protect Dying Father’s Reputation. Cop’s Outrage Turns Deadly. Something like that. You get my drift.”

Loud and clear, Valerie thought. She rubbed her throbbing temples with her fingertips. Julian always gave her a headache.

He snapped his fingers suddenly and rummaged through the pile of papers on his desk. “I almost forgot,” he said, handing her a pink message slip. “Blackman called.”

Harry Blackman was a local P.I. Julian had suggested she use. Valerie had been skeptical at first, wondering if anyone Julian recommended could be trusted, but so far, Harry Blackman had proved to be reliable as well as resourceful.

“What did he say?” Valerie asked, glancing down at the paper.

“He’s got something for you. He wants to meet with you tonight in his office.”

Valerie’s initial excitement vanished. “Tonight? Why not sooner? I’m not exactly crazy about going into his neighborhood after dark.”

“Has to be tonight. He’s out of the office all day, on some Motel Eight surveillance job or something. His associate doesn’t spell him until seven.”

“All right,” Valerie said. “If that’s the way it has to be.”

“Look, I’d go with you,” Julian said, “but I’ve already made plans for tonight. Tomorrow night, however, I’m free as a bird, and I’d like for you to accompany me to Austin Colter’s fund-raiser at the Kingsley mansion.” He dangled two tickets in front of her, and Valerie reached across the desk to snatch them out of his hand.

“How did you get these? The Journal is definitely persona non grata in his campaign camp right now.”

Julian shrugged. “My family still has some pretty important contacts in the state. I had my old man call in a few favors. Besides, at five thousand bucks a ticket, they can’t afford to be choosy. I’ll pick you up at eight. It’s black tie, by the way.”

“Should be a night to remember,” she said, wondering if Brant would be there. Somehow a black-tie fund-raiser hardly seemed his scene, but then, what did she really know about Judd Colter’s son?

AT SEVEN O’CLOCK that evening, Valerie left the Journal’s offices, climbed into her dark blue Ford Explorer and headed toward the river.

Brant pulled into traffic behind her, keeping enough distance between her Explorer and his city vehicle—a beige, nondescript sedan—so he wouldn’t be detected. He had no idea what her destination might be, but he knew that, one way or another, she was headed for trouble.

It was ironic. She’d written an article trying to destroy his father’s reputation, and now he’d been put in the precarious position of trying to protect her.

Fate, he reflected, could sure as hell play some bad jokes.

She was a good driver, he noted as she wove in and out of traffic like a pro. On first glance, he would have pegged her as the sports-car type, in something sleek and red, something fast and dangerous; but then, when he’d seen her climb into the Explorer, he’d decided that maybe she had a practical side after all.

He hoped to hell he could appeal to that practical side now, make her see reason. If someone was trying to kill her, she didn’t appear to be taking any precautions.

Instead, she turned toward the river, heading for a section of downtown that no one, least of all a woman, should be going to alone. It would be dark soon. She should be home, safe and sound, watching television or reading a good book. Not traipsing about in a dangerous part of town.

But then, he had to admit, a part of him was glad that she was. A part of him was as intrigued as hell by Valerie Snow’s daring.

She pulled into a parking lot, paid the attendant, then headed across the street to a dingy office building that had once been a cotton warehouse. Some of the warehouses along the river had been turned into posh professional buildings and studio apartments, but no one had bothered to renovate the ones in this area. They didn’t have views of the river, but were bordered by alleys that led to more warehouses at the back.

She entered the building, and Brant quickly parked and followed her inside. The elevator door was closing as he walked into the dim, unattended lobby. A bank of mailboxes lined a wall across from a wooden stairway that led to the upper floors. Brant checked the boxes, looking for a name he might recognize. Blackman Security, on the fifth floor, caught his attention.

Harry Blackman was a security expert who used to work for his uncle Raymond. According to Raymond, Harry Blackman had once been the best in the business, but a drinking problem had led to his downfall, and Raymond had had to fire him. Their relationship had ended with bad feelings all around, and since then, Harry had become a small-time P.I., sometimes con man, hustling work wherever he could get it. He’d had run-ins with the police department more than once.

Brant checked the other businesses in the building, but none of them—independent insurance agents and accountants, for the most part—seemed likely prospects. If Valerie was mixed up with the likes of Harry Blackman, she didn’t know what she was getting herself into.

Brant started up the stairs, but a shadow moved by one of the grimy windows, drawing his attention. Probably a vagrant, he decided, or someone who worked in one of the warehouses at the back, but still, it wouldn’t hurt to check it out. Valerie was upstairs and would likely be there for several more minutes.

Brant hurried outside and entered the alley. Though darkness fell late in July, the street was full of shadows. Most of the evening traffic had long since disappeared from this part of town. Only the homeless and druggies looking for a fix would be caught out after dark down here.

And cops following beautiful women, Brant thought, hugging the warehouse as he made his way to the back of the building.

He stood still for a moment, listening to the darkness. A faint clanging sound came to him, drawing his attention upward. A metal fire escape led to the upper floors, and he thought he detected a movement on one of the landings.

Without a second thought, Brant started climbing.

HARRY BLACKMAN was probably the most formidable-looking man Valerie had ever met. It wasn’t just the fact that he was huge—well over six feet and at least two hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle—nor the fact that his head was completely bald with a dagger tattooed at the back.

What Valerie found so intimidating was the fact that he always wore a weapon, a .357 Colt Python strapped to his side, in plain view. She had no idea if he carried the weapon on the street or not, or whether he even had a permit for it. She’d never met him any place other than his office, and the gun was always there, like a crucial appendage he couldn’t live without.

Valerie supposed it was the nature of his occupation, or perhaps the location of his office, that made Harry overly cautious, but whatever the case, she found it hard to keep her mind—and her eyes—off that gun.

“All right, here’s the deal,” he said, in a voice that sounded like two sheets of sandpaper being rubbed together. “I’ve located the woman you’re after. She’s in New Orleans.”

Valerie’s heart quickened. “Is? That means she’s still alive?”

He nodded. “She’s going by the name Marie LaPierre. Has been for over twenty-five years. She owns a voodoo shop in the Quarter.”

A voodoo shop? Somehow that seemed appropriate to Valerie. There were so many strange things about her father’s case.

“Here’s the address.” Harry shoved a crumpled piece of paper across the desk toward her. Valerie noticed, as she had before, the tiny tattoos on each of his knuckles, but she’d never been able to tell what the images were.

“The guy you’re looking for. This Odell Campbell. He’s in a nursing home in Madison, a small town fifty miles north of here. He’s suffering from Alzheimer’s, the advanced stages, so I doubt he’ll be able to tell you much.”