The Hero's Son. Amanda Stevens
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begin with.”
Valerie nodded grudgingly. “He was arrested for petty theft a few months before the kidnapping. He stole ten dollars from the cash register in a gas station to buy his daughter a birthday present. He’d gone in trying to find work. He was desperate.”
“Desperation doesn’t justify theft, Ms. Snow.”
“I didn’t say it did,” she snapped. “I’m just trying to explain his motivation.”
“Why does this case mean so much to you?” Brant asked suddenly. “You’re obviously very emotional about it. But a thirty-year-old kidnapping is hardly newsworthy.”
Valerie cursed herself for her lack of control. What was it about Brant Colter that made her want to lash out at him? Made her want to scream at him who she really was and then watch his face register the revelation?
Would he be surprised? Undoubtedly. Stunned, would be more like it. They would all be shocked, and not a little horrified, to learn that Cletus Brown’s daughter was living among them.
She took a long breath, giving herself a moment to regain her composure. “Anything involving the Kingsleys is always news, and besides, the kidnapping never goes away. Just like the Lindbergh case, people are still fascinated by the story, and everyone has his or her own theory as to what happened back then. Me, I think an innocent man was sent to prison. I think Cletus Brown was framed.”
“You’re forgetting one little thing, aren’t you?” Brant asked impatiently. “Where was the motive? What did my father and the others have to gain by framing Cletus Brown?”
Valerie shrugged. “I explained all that in the article. They’d been humiliated by the press and by the FBI. They’d already botched the ransom drop, and the local media crucified them. The only way to redeem themselves was to make an arrest. And don’t forget,” she added. “Whoever solved that case would become an instant hero. His career and reputation would be made.”
“So where and when did Cletus Brown come into the picture? Did they just pull his name from a hat?” Brant asked facetiously.
“He fit the profile,” Valerie said. “He’d been out of work for months. His family was practically destitute, and he and his wife were having problems. And he had a record. But most important of all, he had a tie to the Kingsleys through his brother-in-law, who was more than willing to testify against him.”
“Well, I have to say,” Brant said with something that might have been grudging admiration, “you appear to have thought this out fairly well. There’s only one problem with your theory. You have no proof.”
Valerie looked up at him. “Not yet.”
“Meaning?”
“That article is just the beginning. I won’t give up until I get that proof.”
Brant’s gaze hardened on her. “And in the meantime, you’re perfectly willing to ruin three good men’s reputations for the sake of a headline.”
“Those three good men once craved headlines.”
“The Constitution says a man is innocent until proven guilty. Cletus Brown was found guilty in a court of law. You’re trying my father in the pages of a sleazy tabloid,” Brant accused.
“If your father is innocent, he has nothing to worry about from me,” Valerie said. “And neither do you.”
“Who says I’m worried?” But the edge in his voice betrayed him. He was as angry as she was—maybe more so. Valerie shivered, wondering if she had awakened the proverbial sleeping giant. She had a feeling she didn’t want to be around if and when Brant Colter ever lost his temper completely. He was cold on the outside, but she’d glimpsed a fire inside.
He rose to leave. “I’ll get a statement typed up for you to sign as soon as possible. In the meantime, if you think of anything else, give me a call at headquarters.”
“Sergeant Colter?”
He paused at the door and glanced back at her.
“If you’re not worried, why don’t you ask your father about Naomi Gillum?”
His gaze narrowed on her. “What?”
“Ask him about Naomi Gillum. Ask him what happened to her.”
THE PRESS CONFERENCE, which had started late, was winding up by the time Brant got to city hall. He stopped at the edge of the crowd, watching his cousin at a podium that had been moved outside, to the top of the building’s steps.
“So you’re saying there is absolutely no truth to the allegations that appeared in yesterday’s Journal?” a reporter shouted.
Brant watched as his cousin fielded the question with expert aplomb. “That’s exactly what I’ve been saying since the start of this press conference. I think we’re all familiar with the Journal’s reputation, gentlemen. And ladies,” he added with a smile for the three women reporters in the group. Then his expression turned earnest again. “Just as we’re familiar with the reputations of the three men targeted in that article. My father, Raymond Colter, was a policeman for nearly ten years before a bullet in the leg took him off active duty. But did he sit around feeling sorry for himself? He did not. He started a security business, parlaying his expertise in law enforcement into a thriving, successful concern, and he has shared his success with the less fortunate among us, funding community centers and midnight basketball for our inner-city kids.
“Captain Hugh Rawlins, a very close friend of my family’s and one of our city’s finest and most decorated police officers, has devoted more than forty years of his life to law enforcement.
“And is there anyone among us who hasn’t heard of my uncle, Judd Colter, one of the most famous policemen this city, indeed this country, has ever produced? Judd Colter’s name is legendary in the ranks of law enforcement everywhere.
“He, along with my father and Hugh Rawlins, has done more to fight crime in this city, more to prevent crime, than any three men I can think of, and I have been proud to continue their tradition in the district attorney’s office, garnering the highest conviction rate of any prosecutor in the state.”
His cousin was a consummate politician, Brant had to admit. Austin had managed to turn what could have been a hostile press conference into a rousing campaign speech.
Contrary to what he’d implied earlier, Brant hadn’t even known about the press conference until Valerie Snow had mentioned it. He’d tried not to act surprised because he didn’t want her to think the Colters were anything less than unified. But the truth was, he and Austin hadn’t been close for a long time. They’d been friends as kids, had gone to Memphis State together, and had graduated from law school the same year. But then a woman had come between them, and they’d never reconciled. They’d gone in completely different directions, both professionally and personally.
Austin had married the woman and gone to work in the D.A.’s office, refining his skills for the political career he’d always dreamed of. And Brant had entered the police academy, much to the chagrin of his father.
Brant grimaced, thinking about the arguments he and his father had had over Brant’s decision to become a police officer. Though he hadn’t come right out and said it, Brant knew the reason his father hadn’t wanted him on the force was because he’d thought Brant didn’t have what it took to become a cop.
But Hugh Rawlins had. Hugh was the one who had had faith in Brant. Hugh was the one who had taken him under his wing in the department, shown him the ropes and made sure Brant was eventually welcomed into the Brotherhood. The fact was, Hugh Rawlins had been more of a father to Brant than Judd Colter ever was.
But in spite of everything, Brant knew his father had been a good cop—the best—and he couldn’t believe the things Valerie Snow had written about him. Or about any of them.
The problem was she seemed convinced of her own story.
And