No, he wouldn’t. He was as guilty as Mitchell. And if Mitchell went down, Clive would go down harder.
His phone rang and he wanted to ignore it, but caller ID told him this wasn’t a call he could ignore.
“Hello, Jeanne. Just today I was finalizing the menu with the caterer for your fundraiser,” he said, putting fake enthusiasm into his tone. “This is going to be your best event yet.”
“I’ve heard,” she said. He noticed she was losing her Texas drawl, at least when she wasn’t speaking publicly in the district. Five short years in DC was already stripping away her roots. “Perry says we’ve already brought in eighty thousand, and we’re getting more RSVPs each day. I’m thrilled.”
“You should be, last year we only raised fifty thousand.”
“Thank you for all you’ve done,” she said. “But I wasn’t calling about the fundraiser. I trust you and your people. But Davis told me the land hasn’t been notarized yet. I can’t hold up the bidding on the project anymore. The proposal has to be complete by Monday.”
“It’s in the process. My proposal stands as I wrote it.”
“But the paperwork isn’t in order. We’re friends, Mitchell, I’ve really gone all out for you this time, but as I told you last week, I can’t ask for another extension.”
“I’m not asking for one,” he said, his voice calm and cool, but he was seething inside. “I’m not pulling out, the land is mine, I just have to cross the t’s and whatnot.”
She sighed, spoke to someone on the other end of the phone, which irritated him. If it weren’t for him, Jeanne Culvers would never have been elected. She thought running on her grandfather’s name was enough to give her the win! Hardly. He cleared the field for her. He raised money for her. He owned her, and she damn well knew it.
But he didn’t say that. Instead, he said, “Trust me, Jeanne. You really don’t have a choice, do you?”
She didn’t say anything.
He smiled without humor. She thought she was the politician? She was nothing but a prop.
“I’ll talk to you later. Have a nice weekend,” he said and ended the call.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Friday Night
By the time Avery and Ryan reached Greg Baldwin’s house, they were so exhausted, drenched, and hungry they could barely think straight. Avery was severely chafed from walking in wet jeans for miles, and she didn’t think that Ryan had fared better, though he didn’t complain.
At the beginning of their walk, she’d told Ryan everything that happened; he told her that Bobby had reached out to him because he didn’t want to use the family radio channel in case the people who held the Mendozas captive could hear him. Avery was so proud of her little brother, and grateful that Ryan had immediately called Jake to tell him where Bobby was hiding.
But after she finished sharing what happened, they walked in silence. No one passed them on the road, the ditches were filled with water and rising, and by the time they reached Baldwin’s long driveway, it was near dark and they couldn’t see where they were going. They had no flashlights and no streetlights illuminated the road. But Avery knew this country as well as anyone, andshe recognized the straight row of cedar elms that lined Baldwin’s driveway.
They turned and headed down toward Baldwin’s dark house, careful with each step because of the potholes and deep water. Both of them had sore ankles, and Avery’s head still pounded from where Rena had hit her with the gun.
But she was alive, and Bobby was safe, and she was so, so grateful.
“No one’s here,” she said when they came up to the house. Not even the security lights were on, which told her the power had gone out in the entire area and no one turned on the generator.
“Greg’s still in the hospital,” Ryan said. “I’m sure his daughters went there, not here. And they won’t be able to get through tonight anyway.”
Parts of conversations she’d overheard clicked in her head. “Brock, Rena, Sam—they did it. They shot Greg.”
“Why would they stay around? They should have left after it happened.”
“Because of the storm last night, they couldn’t get out, and…” Avery thought, trying to pull together all the conversations she’d overheard. “I don’t know specifics, but they talked about having one more job. When Brock left the Mendozas, he talked about being back in an hour or two and they’d leave. They promised not to hurt anyone, but…”
Ryan gripped her hand. “But you saw them.”
A chill went down her spine. “Yeah. They aren’t from Texas. Maybe they thought they could leave and hide and no one will know who they are. But they didn’t wear gloves, their prints will be everywhere, and the younger guy, Sam, was injured. His blood is all over the guest room.”
“My dad always said criminals aren’t the sharpest tacks in the box.” Ryan tried the door; it was locked. “You wouldn’t by any chance know if Greg Baldwin leaves a key lying around?”
She shook her head. “Would your dad be very mad if we broke in?”
