for his words to sink in. As they did, a flicker of fear burst to life inside her. She tamped it down. He couldn’t mean what she thought he did—she was jumping to conclusions, overreacting. After all, they had been divorced three years, and in that time Stan had seemed more than satisfied to be an every-other-weekend father.
“The best?” she countered. “By whose standards? The schools in my district are highly rated. Not as fancy, maybe, but—”
“Come on, Melanie,” he said softly and patiently, as if he were speaking to a willful child, “don’t you think it’s time for us to set our personal needs aside and ask ourselves what’s best for Casey.”
“You mean who’s best for him, don’t you?” “Maybe I do.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and counted to ten. She was living the nightmare that had dogged her the entire first year of her divorce—that Stan was going to try to take custody away from her.
She gripped the receiver so tightly her fingers went numb. “I already know who’s best for him. Me. I’m his mother, Stan.”
“And I’m his father. I can offer him a stable, two-parent home in one of Charlotte’s finest communities. Which, by the way, is gated for security.”
“Let’s not forget a swimming pool, tennis lessons and lunches at the club,” she said sarcastically. “And maybe while you’re at it, you should sweeten the pot with a yearly trip to Europe?”
“Those things are important.”
“What’s more important than love, Stan? Than constancy? He’s been with me since the beginning, a change now would confuse him. Besides, all his friends from preschool—”
“Kids adjust.”
He said it so casually, so carelessly. This was Casey’s life they were talking about. His feelings. That the man could blow them off so easily made her blood boil. “You son-of-a-bitch,” she whispered, voice shaking. “All you care about is yourself.”
“That’s your opinion.” “I won’t let you do this.” “You can’t stop me.” “Mom?”
She looked over to find Casey in the doorway, eyes wide with alarm. The phone must have awakened him—if he’d ever fallen asleep. She pulled herself together and smiled reassuringly at him. “I’ll be off in just a second, honey. Crawl back into bed and I’ll come snuggle with you. Okay?”
Casey hesitated a moment, then did as she asked. She returned her attention to her ex-husband. “It’s inappropriate for us to have this conversation right now. I’ll have to get back to you.”
“This isn’t going to go away, Melanie. I intend to sue you for custody of our son. And I intend to win.”
7
The conference room in the Law Enforcement Center was too hot. The personalities around the long, oval table too strong. Each person accustomed to having their way. Melanie moved her gaze from one face to another. Charlotte’s mayor, Ed Pinkston, and Chief Lyons of the CMPD, her own chief, the district attorney. Representatives from all their offices, as well as the SBI—the State Bureau of Investigation. Connor Parks. A man with him, also FBI, she guessed. Whistlestop’s mayor was not in attendance, a fact Melanie found curious. Or ominous, she amended, shifting her gaze to her chief’s set face.
They had been called together that morning because the daughter of Charlotte’s most prominent citizen had been dead a week now and that citizen was demanding answers. So was the press.
And they were no closer to an answer than they had been the day after her murder.
There would be no glad-handing here today. No give-and-take, no backslapping and mutual support. Instead, a head or two might roll—Melanie’s included. Even the CMPD guys looked apprehensive.
The Charlotte mayor stood to bring the meeting to order. Before he could, the conference-room door opened. Cleve Andersen and another man walked through. An uncomfortable hush fell over the room.
“Sorry I’m late,” Andersen said briskly, moving to the head of the table, taking a place beside Mayor Pinkston.
The mayor cleared his throat. “Cleve, we didn’t expect—”
“I thought it best,” the man interrupted. “The decisions made here today affect me. My family.” He smiled, the curving of his lips automatic, the consummate player doing his thing. “As you know, I’m not one to let others lead.”
He indicated the man who had entered with him. “My attorney, Bob Braxton. Now—” he settled into his seat and turned his gaze to the room’s other occupants “—shall we begin?”
Mayor Pinkston looked as helpless as a fish flopping on a dock, hook still embedded in its mouth. Clearly, the politician didn’t have the guts to oppose the more powerful man.
Apparently, Connor Parks did. “Excuse me,” he said, standing, facing the businessman. “With all due respect, Mr. Andersen, you don’t belong here.”
The room fell quiet. All eyes focused on Andersen. He stood stiffly, his chiseled features tight with restraint. Or dislike. “Young man, my daughter is the topic of this meeting.”
“Exactly the reason you shouldn’t be here. We don’t have the time to tiptoe around your feelings. Go home to your grieving family, Mr. Andersen. That’s where you belong. It’s where you can do some good.”
An ugly flush climbed up Cleve Andersen’s pale face. Melanie held her breath. Parks had verbalized what each person at the table had certainly been thinking. Although Melanie applauded his courage, she wondered at his sanity. He hadn’t exactly soft-pedaled his opinion or couched it in deferential terms.
“I don’t recognize you,” Andersen said. “What’s your name?”
“Agent Connor Parks, FBI.”
“Well, then, Agent Parks, let me tell you something. I didn’t get where I am today by sitting on the sidelines and waiting for others to make things happen. I take charge. I make things happen.”
“Again, with all due respect, this isn’t big business. This is law enforcement. Something you know nothing about. I’m afraid this time you’re going to have to take that seat on the sidelines. Please, let us do our jobs.”
“Cleve,” the mayor said gently, laying a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Agent Parks is right. No father should hear the things we must discuss in this room today. It would be better if you left.”
The man swayed slightly on his feet. His mask of confidence and determination slipped, giving all a glimpse of the man underneath, one in great pain, one hanging on by an emotional thread.
Andersen looked at Ed Pinkston. “I’ve already endured the worst a father could,” he said softly, the slightest quaver in his voice. “I was told my daughter was dead. That she had been murdered.”
He moved his gaze around the table, from one face to the next, stopping, finally, on Connor Parks’s. “I want her killer caught. I want justice. And I’ll have it, no matter the cost. Is that understood?”
Without
