“Do you know who any of these people in high places were?”
“She was careful never to mention names. They were all men, of course.”
“Marais Grand was an opportunist?”
Benedetti smiled again and nodded. Whether it was approval or simply an uncontrollable muscle twitch, Jo couldn’t say. “A lot of people would have said tramp, but I never thought of her that way. She was a very talented woman in a business full of very talented people. She used all of her assets to ensure her success. I never faulted her for that.” He dabbed at his lips with the handkerchief and studied the crumpled linen with interest. “Men are most vulnerable when you inflate both their egos and their dicks. A hard truth, but she accepted it.”
Under other circumstances, Jo would have nailed him on that one, but their business was about something else. “You’re saying you believe one of these… friends… murdered her.”
“Or had her murdered.”
“And paid off the police who investigated.”
“That’s what I’m saying, yes.”
“Who, exactly?”
The old man’s eyes closed a moment. His son leaned to him. “You okay, Pop?”
“Just tired.”
A light tap came at the door, and Fran entered carrying a tray with a coffee server and several cups. She put them on a small table near the desk.
“Thanks a lot, Fran.”
“You’re welcome, Jo. Anything else?”
“Not at the moment.”
After Fran had gone, Jo offered coffee, but only Angelo Benedetti took her up on it. As she handed him the cup, his hand brushed hers and he smiled pleasantly. Perfect teeth. Of course.
“I have a theory about who’s guilty, Mrs. O’Connor, but I don’t want to go into it. All I want is to get your husband some help so he can bring my daughter out safely.”
“I’d rather you go into it,” Jo said, stirring cream into her own coffee. “I’d rather have all the facts. Or whatever.”
“My father’s tired, Ms. O’Connor,” Angelo Benedetti began.
Vincent Benedetti held up his hand. “No, no it’s all right. A fair request. I only ask that you keep an open mind.”
Jo sat back down. “It’s wide open and waiting.”
“The FBI agent-Booker T. Harris-has a brother. I didn’t know this when Marais was murdered. The information didn’t come to me until we knew Harris was out here and I had him looked into thoroughly. His brother is Nathan Jackson. You know the name?”
Jo knew it. Attorney general for the state of California. Nationally known crusader for civil rights. Jo had heard him talk at an ABA conference in Chicago. Splendid speaker. Inspiring. A handsome man, too. And if the national press was correct, he was the top choice for the Democratic nomination in the next gubernatorial election.
“Why different last names?” she asked.
“Their mother was widowed and remarried. They have different fathers.”
“Okay. Go on.”
“When Marais was first negotiating with the television people, she was subpoenaed to appear before the Williams Commission. You remember it?”
“Vaguely. Investigated corruption in the entertainment industry, I believe.”
“Exactly. Marais was called to testify because of her rumored connection with me. Rumored.” He seemed to find that funny and gave a wheezy laugh before he went on. “She was afraid that if she appeared, the television people would back off. She got to somebody inside. Her name was dropped from the witness list. You have any idea who the chief counsel for the Williams Commission was?”
“Nathan Jackson?”
“Bright girl.”
Jo sipped her coffee. The caffeine didn’t seem as necessary as it had when she’d first arrived. She felt wide awake. “You’re trying to tell me that Nathan Jackson had Marais Grand killed to keep her quiet about that?”
“No, I think Marais was trying to squeeze him again for something else. Just before she died, she borrowed a substantial sum of money from me to set up a recording company. Ozark Records. She swore she could get a sweet deal-tax breaks, business incentives-because she was Indian and she had this connection inside that would make sure things happened for her. Jackson was in his first term as attorney general. I think something went sour, Marais made threats, and Jackson had her killed.”
“Do you have anything to back up these accusations?”
“I didn’t even have these accusations until a day ago. The different last names-Harris and Jackson-threw me off. I never saw the connection before. But look at it. Same men who investigated the murder are here now. And not officially. Tell me that doesn’t smell rotten to you.”
Jo turned away from them in her chair and quietly studied the gray morning beyond her window. Cars drove past on the street. She could hear the swish of their tires on the wet cement.
“What do you want from me exactly?” she asked.
“Whoever the law is in these parts, talk to them,” the white-haired man said. “Get somebody out there to cover your husband’s ass while he finds Shiloh.”
“Why don’t you tell them yourself?”
“Booker T. Harris looks good. People believe him. Me,” and he gestured toward his wobbling body, “I’m just a crooked old jellyfish. But people who know you here, they’d listen to you. Angelo tells me you have a reputation for integrity. That’s a rare thing anywhere.”
She looked at Angelo Benedetti, who gave her the slightest of nods.
“Mrs. O’Connor,” Vincent Benedetti continued, “if a lot of people find out Shiloh’s out here-especially those rags-it’ll be open season on my girl. There’ll be a stampede and your little town will be right in the middle of it. You need to act quickly. I’m leaving you a card. Angelo.” He snapped his fingers, and Angelo Benedetti pulled a business card from his coat, wrote a number on the back, and handed it to her. “Call me and let me know what’s going on.”
She looked at the card. A purple parrot on the front with Angelo Benedetti’s name embossed below in gold. On the back, a telephone number.
“Where are you staying?” she asked.
“Just call,” Benedetti said. “Do we have a deal?”
“I’ll check it out. If I think you’re telling me the truth, I’ll be in touch. If not, I’ll have the authorities looking for you. Deal?”
Vincent Benedetti offered her a hand that quaked like an aspen leaf. “Deal.”
24
Cork heard the tent flap quietly lifted, and he was instantly awake.
“It’s light,” Sloane said through the mesh of the tent door. “Time to move.”
From behind Sloane came the crackle of a fire. The smell of wood smoke and fresh coffee drifted through the opened flap.
“Louis built a fire at first light,” Sloane explained. “I figured there wasn’t any reason not to at this point. The coffee’s ready. And water for oatmeal. Let’s move it, gentlemen. We’ve got a long way to go.”
The drizzle had ended, but thick clouds lay against the treetops and ragged gray wisps drifted among the trunks and along the riverbank like lost souls. Except for the crackle of the burning wood and an occasional word that passed between Stormy and Louis Two Knives as they stood by the fire, the forest was quite still.
Raye crawled out of the tent after Cork. He arched his back and stretched his arms. “You know, Louis,” he said with a little grin, “I dreamed all night long I was being chased by a majimanidoo.”
Louis had been sipping hot chocolate. He lowered the cup from his mouth and a serious darkness entered his
