Night Fever. Diana Palmer
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One of the kids’ mothers called to report it. Her son saw one of the marijuana dealers having an argument with Bubba Harris at recess. It’s just been marijuana, so far—until now.”
Kilpatrick stopped dead, his dark eyes intent. “Are the Harrises trying to cut in on that territory with crack?”
“We think so,” Berry replied. “We don’t have anything, yet. But I’m going to work on some of the students and see what I can turn up. We’re organizing a locker search with the help of the local police, too. If we find crack, we’ll know who’s involved.”
“That will go over big with the parents,” he murmured.
“Yes, I know. But we’ll muddle through.” He glanced at Kilpatrick as they began to walk again. “That Cullen boy was seen with Son Harris at one of the dives in midtown Atlanta. They’re real thick.”
Kilpatrick’s face stiffened. “So I’ve heard.”
“I know you didn’t have enough evidence to go to trial,” Berry said. “But if I were you, I’d keep a close eye on that boy. He could lead us right to the Harrises, if we play our cards right.”
Kilpatrick was thinking about that. His dark eyes narrowed. If he got close to Becky, he could keep Clay Cullen in sight with ease. Was that it, he wondered, or was he rationalizing ways to see Becky? He had to think this through carefully before he made a decision.
“There’s another complication, too,” Berry went on, his hands in his pockets as he glanced up at Kilpatrick. “Your sparring partner’s getting ready to announce.”
“Davis?” he asked, because he’d heard rumors, too. Davis hadn’t said anything in court to him about it. That was like the big man, to pull rabbits out of hats at the most unexpected time. He grinned. “He’ll win, unless I miss my guess. There are plenty of contenders for my job, but Davis is pure shark.”
“He’ll be after your professional throat.”
“Only to make news,” Kilpatrick assured him. “I haven’t decided yet about running for a third term.” He stretched and yawned. “Let him do his worst. I don’t give a damn.”
“Want to round off your day?” Berry murmured with a dry glance. “One last tidbit of gossip. They’re releasing Harvey Blair on Monday.”
“Blair.” He scowled. “Yes, I remember. I sent him up for armed robbery six years ago. What the hell’s he doing out?”
“His lawyer got him a full pardon from the governor.” He held up his hand. “Don’t blame me. I don’t hide your mail. Your secretary is guilty as hell. She told me she forgot to mention it and you were too busy in court to read it.”
He bit off a curse. “Blair. Dammit. If ever a man deserved a pardon less...he was guilty as hell!”
“Of course he was.” Berry stopped walking, looking uncomfortable. “He threatened to kill you if he ever got out. You might keep your doors locked, just in case.”
“I’m not afraid of Blair,” Kilpatrick said, and his eyes narrowed. “Let him try, if he feels lucky. He won’t be the first.”
That was a fact. The D.A. had been the target of assassins twice, once from a gun by an angry defendant who’d been convicted by Kilpatrick’s expertise, and another time from a crazed defendant with a knife, right in court. Nobody present in the courtroom that day would ever forget the way Kilpatrick had met the knife attack. He had effortlessly parried the thrust and thrown his attacker over a table. Kilpatrick was ex-Special Forces, and as tough as they came. Berry secretly thought that his Indian ancestry didn’t hurt, either. Indians were formidable fighters. It was in the blood.
Kilpatrick waved Dan off and he and Gus continued on their daily one-mile walk. He was fit enough, physically. He worked out at the gym weekly and played racquetball. The walk was more for Gus’s sake than his own. Gus was ten years old and he had a sedentary lifestyle. With Kilpatrick away at the office six days out of seven—and occasionally, when the calendar was loaded in court, seven out of seven—he didn’t get a lot of exercise in his fenced-in enclosure out back.
He thought about what Dan had told him and grimaced. Blair was going to be back on the streets and gunning for him. That wasn’t surprising. Neither was the information about the Harris boys. A war over drug turf was just what he needed right now, with the Cullen boy in the middle. He remembered Cullen’s father—a surly, uncooperative man with cold eyes. Incredible, that he could have fathered a woman like Rebecca, with her warm heart and soft eyes. Even more incredible that he could have deserted her like that. He shook his dark head. One way or another, her life stood to get worse before it got better—especially with a brother like hers. He tugged at Gus’s lead and they turned back toward home.
* * *
It was midnight on Sunday, and Clay Cullen still wasn’t home. He and the Harris boys were talking money, big money, and he was in the clouds over how much he was going to make.
“It’s easy,” Son told him carelessly. “All you have to do is give a little away to some of the wealthier kids. They’ll get a taste of it and then they’ll pay anything for it. Simple.”
“Yeah, but how do I find the right ones? How do I pick kids who won’t turn me in?” Clay asked.
“You’ve got a kid brother in school at Curry Station Elementary. Ask him. We might even give him a cut,” Son said, grinning.
Clay felt uneasy about that, but he didn’t say so. The thought of all that easy money made him giddy. Francine had started paying attention to him since he’d become friendly with her cousins the Harrises. Francine, with her pretty black hair and sultry blue eyes, who could have her pick of the seniors. Clay liked her a lot—enough to do anything to get her to notice him. Drugs weren’t that bad, he told himself. After all, people who used would get the stuff from somebody else if not from him. If only he didn’t feel so guilty....
“I’ll ask Mack tomorrow,” Clay promised.
Son’s small eyes narrowed. “Just one thing. Make sure your sister doesn’t find out. She works for a bunch of lawyers, and the D.A.’s in the same building.”
“Becky won’t find out,” Clay assured him.
“Okay. See you tomorrow.”
Clay got out of the car. He’d kept his nose clean tonight so Becky wouldn’t get suspicious. He had to keep her in the dark. That shouldn’t be too hard, he reasoned. She loved him. That made her vulnerable.
The next morning, while Becky was upstairs dressing for work, Clay cornered Mack.
“You want to make some spending money?” he asked the younger boy with a calculating look.
“How?” Mack asked.
“Any of your friends do drugs?” Clay asked.
Mack hesitated. “Not really.”
“Oh.” Clay wondered if he should pursue it, but he heard Becky’s footsteps and clammed up. “We’ll talk about it some other time. Don’t mention this to Becky.”
Becky came in to find Mack glum and quiet and Clay looking nervous. She’d put on her blue jersey dress and her one pair of black patent leather high heels. She didn’t have a lot of clothes, but nobody at work mentioned that. They were a kind bunch of people, and she was neat and clean, even if she didn’t have the clothing budget that Maggie and Tess had.
She touched her tidy bun and finished fixing Mack’s lunch just in time to get him on the bus, frowning a little when Clay didn’t join him.
“How are you getting to school?” she asked Clay.
“Francine’s coming for me,” he said carelessly. “She drives a Corvette. Neat car—brand-new.”
She stared at him suspiciously. “Are you staying away from those Harris boys like I told you