Greg Iles 3-Book Thriller Collection: The Quiet Game, Turning Angel, The Devil’s Punchbowl. Greg Iles
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Caitlin with you?”
An ironic smile, there and gone. “She’s back at the paper, writing the story. She’s a tough lady, man.”
Coming from Daniel Kelly, this is high praise indeed. “Thanks for looking out for her. And thanks again for the levee thing.”
He nods, but there’s a curious hesitancy in his face.
“What is it, Kelly?”
“Well, I thought maybe you and Caitlin were … you know.” He looks past me, through the crack in the door. “I guess not, huh?”
“I guess not,” I reply, feeling hollowness in my chest.
He makes a clicking sound with his tongue. “I’m gonna get some eggs over at Shoney’s. One of the other guys’ll be watching this door.”
“Thanks.”
“Oh, and your little girl is fine. No worries.”
His words hit me like a blow. Maybe he meant for them to. My cheeks burn with self-disgust.
“’Night, boss,” he says, and disappears from the crack.
I shut the door and bolt it.
Livy is sitting on the bed, her face composed, the gun nowhere in evidence. Only her tousled hair hints at our brief encounter at the door.
“Why are you carrying a gun?”
She shrugs. “The town’s gone crazy, hasn’t it? And Daddy insisted.”
Leo would.
Livy’s shoes, hose, and panties lie on the floor beside her bare feet. She looks at me like she can’t understand why I’m still standing where I am. Like what happened against the door was the opening movement of a symphony.
I glance at my watch. Twelve-twenty. Annie is almost certainly asleep, but Kelly’s words have left me with a guilty longing, like an unresolved chord. I need to see my daughter sleeping.
“I need to check on Annie.”
Livy stands and takes my hand, pulls me toward her. “I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.” She puts her arm around my waist and pulls me against her.
“Livy—”
She kisses my nipple through my shirt. The sharp edges of her teeth pull at flesh and wet cloth, sending a delicious current of pain through me.
“It’ll only take a minute,” I tell her. “I’ll be right—”
With three or four quick movements she unbuckles my pants and pushes them far enough down to free me, then entwines her fingers behind my neck. When I try to speak, she takes my right hand and lifts it to my mouth, cutting off my words. Her scent on my fingers is overpowering.
“Me first,” she whispers.
Even as I despise myself for it, in one violent motion I reach beneath her dress, lift her into the air, and set her down upon me.
I am parked in the alley between Wall and Pearl Streets, the legal center of the city. It’s nearly dark and raining steadily, a drizzle with a breath of fall in it. The courthouse towers above me on its pedestal of earth, grayish-white and imposing amid the windblown oaks that surround it. Across the street, running down the block in a line, stand the offices of various law firms, all of them small, most very profitable. The most prestigious among them is Marston, Sims. Founded in 1887 by Ambrose Marston, Leo’s great grandfather, the firm has handled everything from high-profile criminal cases to corporate litigation involving tens of millions of dollars. And I am parked in this alley to see whether the senior partner of the firm will commit a felony tonight.
I filed my requests for production this morning, and if Leo plans to hide or destroy any documentary evidence, the sooner he does it the better, at least from his point of view. I would like to be there when he tries. I’ve staked out his office because Tuscany—his fenced estate—does not lend itself to surveillance, Daniel Kelly is covering the back entrance for me, and we’re in contact via handheld radios, which were among the toys he and his associates brought from Houston. Also among those toys was a Hi-8 video camera with a night-vision lens, which rests on the seat beside me. The rear entrance of the office is well lighted by a security lamp, so Kelly is using a standard camcorder borrowed from Caitlin Masters. The pistol he lent me last night lies on the seat beside the Hi-8 camera, its safety off.
“One-Adam-twelve, one-Adam-twelve.” Kelly’s voice crackles out of the radio. “Sitrep, please.”
I laugh and press Send on my walkie-talkie. “Nothing out here but rain.”
“It’s like fishing. That’s what my butt’s telling me, anyway.”
“Yeah. Maybe we’ll catch something.”
As I set the radio back on the passenger seat, something bangs against my window, nearly stopping my heart. I grab for the gun, knowing I’ll never bring it up in time to save myself if the person outside the car means me harm.
When my eyes focus through the rivulets of water on the window, I see Caitlin Masters, her hair soaked from the rain. I let out my breath with a sigh of relief and motion for her to come around to the passenger side.
“I’m glad I wasn’t trying to kill you,” she says, sliding into the passenger seat. “You’d be dead.”
She’s wearing a windbreaker with Los Angeles Times stenciled on the chest. From the pocket she takes a barrette and puts the end in her mouth, then flips down the visor mirror above her seat. “Nothing yet?” she asks through her teeth.
“Nope.”
She gathers her fine black hair and pins it in a loose bun behind her head. “There. I should have done that before I left.”
She turns and gives me a dazzling smile. “Well, are you up on the day’s events?”
“I’m up on my events. The rest of the world I know nothing about.”
“Four TV vans covered the Whitestone suspects’ walk to their arraignment. Jackson, Baton Rouge, Alexandria, and a Gulf Coast station. The courthouse looked like it was under siege. The wire services picked up all three of my stories, and they’re being rerun in dozens of papers.”
“That Pulitzer’s getting closer every day. Which judge did the kids get?” Natchez has two criminal court judges, a white woman and a black man.
“The black one. And he gave them bail.”
“On first-degree murder?”
“With a confession, no less. He set it at a million apiece, which is like a billion to those kids’ families. But I heard the NAACP may put up the cash bond. Two hundred thousand.”
“They might as well paint targets on the kids’ backs.”
Caitlin picks up the video camera, switches it on, and trains it on the polished mahogany door of Marston, Sims. It’s set deep in a deep brick alcove; a brass plate on the street announces the presence of the office to the public.
“Night vision,” she murmurs. “Nice. Where’s Kelly?”
“Watching the back door.”
She zooms in on the door, then pans the rain-slickened street. “How much are those bodyguards costing you?”
“Let’s just say I’m going to have to hurry up and finish another book.”
She laughs. “It’s money well spent. That Kelly’s been all over and done some wild things. He’s cute too.”
An