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“What really happened to Jack Songbird.”
Weston shifted, then reached into the inside pocket of his suit coat for a pack of Marlboros. “Jack got drunk and fell off the cliffs.” With a flick of a gold lighter, he lit up, drawing hard on the cigarette and sending a plume of smoke to the ceiling.
“Maybe. Some people think he jumped. Others suspect he was murdered.”
“Let me guess—Crystal Songbird, her folks, and some of the elders from the tribe are pushing the murder theory. Hell, they’ve been whining about it for years, but the fact of the matter was Jack was just another screwed-up Indian who drank too much firewater and paid the price.”
The muscles of Kane’s back tightened, and it was all he could do not to clench his fists and pound Weston’s perfect face. But there was no reason to let Weston know what he was thinking.
Weston studied the tip of his cigarette. “You know, Moran, if you write anything that libels my family, I’ll sue your ass up one side and down the other.”
“I’d think you’d want the truth to come out and have a chance to get a little back at Dutch Holland at the same time.”
“The truth doesn’t interest me. As I said, it’s water under the bridge—ancient history. As for Dutch; he’ll get his. One way or another. He doesn’t need any help from you.”
“Mr. Taggert?” The receptionist’s voice broke into the room. “It’s your wife on line one. I told her you were busy but—”
Irritation yanked Weston’s brows together as he punched a button for the intercom. “I’ll take the call.” Then, to Kane, “If you’ll excuse me.”
Kane didn’t need an excuse to leave. He’d gotten what he’d come for—a little insight into the Taggert family and Weston in particular. He would have thought the entire clan would have been jumping for joy at the thought of an exposé written about the family’s old nemesis, but no, Weston had an aversion to his project. As if he were guilty. But of what?
As he jaywalked across the street to his car, Kane felt a little thrill of victory. Already he was stepping on toes, important toes. Surely something would break.
He jumped into his Jeep and threw it into gear. He was feeling better by the minute. Yep, old Wes was jumpy, but why? Kane had a couple of more interviews this afternoon. He wanted to talk with reporters who had covered Harley Taggert’s and Jack Songbird’s deaths. He’d read their articles, of course, had most of them memorized, but he hoped that picking the reporters’ brains would give him more clues. Next, he wanted to talk to the first people on the scene of Miranda Holland’s accident—the Good Samaritans who had seen firsthand how the girls had reacted. Maybe they could give him a little insight, a new angle on the tragedy. Only then would he visit Claire again.
“I want you to find out everything you can about a guy named Denver Styles.” Miranda faced Frank Petrillo across the scarred Formica table of Francone’s, the only Italian restaurant in town that Petrillo thought was worth the price of a slice of pizza.
“He givin’ you a rough time?” Frank asked, wadding a stick of gum into his mouth despite the fact that he’d just ordered a pint of beer. “He the guy who’s been hangin’ around?”
“Not a rough time. He’s on my dad’s payroll.”
One graying eyebrow lifted as a buxom waitress left their drinks on the table. Petrillo took a sip and squinted over the top of the glass. “What’s the problem?”
“Dutch hired him to snoop into our—my sisters’ and my—lives, and I don’t trust him.” She gave Frank an abbreviated version of her meeting with Styles, careful not to mention too much about the night Harley Taggert died. “He’s supposed to be a private investigator, some guy from out of town, I think, but I get the feeling I’ve met him before.” She took a sip of her chardonnay and turned the wineglass in her fingers. “I’d just like to know who he really is.”
Petrillo rubbed his jaw and the stubble scraped as he thought. “Styles, eh?”
“Denver Styles. Other than his name, I don’t know anything about him.”
“You will.” Petrillo snapped his Juicy Fruit and took another long swallow of beer. His dark eyes twinkled at the prospect of a new challenge, and Miranda felt a little better. Frank would dig until his fingers bled, but he’d find out what there was to know about Dutch’s newest employee.
She only hoped it was in time. Before Denver Styles or Kane Moran found out the truth. She sipped her wine as the pizza, some concoction of shrimp, green pepper, and olives that Petrillo favored, was deposited on the table.
Frank joked with her as he pulled out a stringy slice and tried to put her at ease, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was
being backed into a corner, a dank, black corner that had been always one step away and was now looming closer.
She sensed that she was being watched, but a quick glance around the restaurant convinced her that her imagination was running away with her. Denver Styles wasn’t lurking near the video machines or seated in a smoky corner of the bar. No, it was just her mind toying with her again, her guilt rising from the watery grave in which she’d buried it years before. Hold on, she silently told herself as she reached for a slice of pizza that she didn’t want. Forcing a smile, she took a bite.
“Relax, kid,” Petrillo said. “Everything’s gonna be all right.”
“You’re sure?”
Petrillo’s brown eyes twinkled. “Abso-fucking-lutely.”
Miranda smiled and wished to heaven that she could believe him. But, damn it, she couldn’t. Even in this cozy little pizza parlor with people laughing and talking, the bartender wiping down the brass on the bar, and Frank Petrillo winking at her from across the table, she felt the cold breath of doom against the back of her neck. And she was scared. More scared than she’d been in sixteen years.
“Tell me about Dad.” Samantha hopped onto the counter in the kitchen where Claire was unpacking the last of the moving cartons. They’d been in Chinook nearly a week, and yet they hadn’t completely settled in.
