Cold Hearted. Beverly Barton
teenage stepbrother, who at the age of fourteen, smoked, cursed, drank beer and claimed he was screwing their 17-year-old neighbor.
Meeting Robby Joe her sophomore year of college had changed her life. He was such a dreamboat: good looking, smart, kind and caring. And he came from a good family. They dated on and off for over a year, falling in love slowly. Their junior year, he had invited her home with him for Thanksgiving. Since Robby Joe was an only child, Jordan had been afraid his widowed mother would resent her, perhaps even dislike her. But nothing could have been further from the truth. As it turned out, Darlene Wright and Jordan’s mother had been sorority sisters at Ole Miss. And Darlene’s genteel, cultured persona reminded Jordan of her mother. By the time she and Robby Joe had become engaged, she thought of his mother as her second mom. They had far more in common than Jordan would ever have with her stepmother.
Everything had been so perfect, perhaps too perfect.
If only Robby Joe hadn’t died. How different her life would have been if—
Damn it, don’t do this to yourself!
She had stopped playing the “what if” game years ago. She had given up all her foolish young dreams of passionate love, of children born from that love, of a happily-ever-after. Harsh reality had slapped her in the face repeatedly, knocking all romantic notions out of her head.
She had cared for Dan and had respected him. But she had not been in love with him. She had lost a dear friend and she would miss him terribly. But her heart wasn’t shattered. She didn’t feel as if she, too, had died. It wasn’t the same as it had been when she lost Robby Joe.
Jordan laid her open palms on her still flat belly. She was barely six weeks pregnant. Only her family and closest friends knew, but sometime soon, she would have to share her news with the world. She wanted this baby, who would be raised as Dan Price’s child and would be Dan’s heir. But she wouldn’t have to raise her son or daughter alone. Devon would be a father to the child, loving it for so many reasons.
Rick parked his Jeep Wrangler down the street from the Dade County Courthouse. After getting out, locking up, and stuffing his keys into the pocket of his jeans, he jaywalked across Case Avenue. He located the sheriff’s department without any trouble since he’d called ahead this morning and asked for exact directions. Trenton, the county seat, with a population of less than 2000, was located south of Priceville, so after he finished his business here, he’d have to backtrack a few miles.
Although the Powell Agency would do in-depth research during the course of this case, an agent always began an assignment with basic info. While compiling barebones information about Priceville and the Price family, Rick had looked up Sheriff Steve Corbett. The guy had been sheriff since the late nineties and had worked as a Trenton policeman for a number of years before running for elected office. He had a spotless reputation, was known as a straight arrow kind of man with a wife and two kids, and he taught Sunday school.
Rick had spoken to Sheriff Corbett personally on his drive from Knoxville. He had set up an appointment for 11:30 to meet with the sheriff and the two officers in charge of the investigation into Dan Price’s death: Lt. Nolan Trumbo and Lt. Haley McLain.
The minute he announced himself, he was shown into the sheriff’s office. A broad-shouldered, heavy-set man with a thick, dark mustache and military-short graying hair came from around the desk and offered Rick his hand. In his peripheral vision, Rick noticed a female officer immediately stand at attention.
Sheriff Corbett pumped Rick’s hand in a cordial, good old boy way. “Come on in, Mr. Carson, and meet Lt. McLain. I’m afraid Nolan Trumbo had a family emergency this morning. You’ll meet him later.”
They exchanged a strong cordial handshake; then Rick turned to the lieutenant. “Ma’am.”
She nodded and offered him a hint of a smile, responding in a friendly manner without being flirty. The deputy, probably in her mid-to-late thirties, filled out her uniform quite nicely, with curves in all the right places. She wore her light brown hair cut short with wispy curls framing her heart-shaped face.
“Take a seat.” Sheriff Corbett indicated a chair to the right of his desk as he sat down in his leather swivel chair behind the desk. “I’ve spoken to Ryan and assured him that this office will cooperate with the Powell Agency’s independent investigation.”
“We appreciate that,” Rick said as he lowered himself onto the metal folding chair.
“You understand that the Georgia Bureau of Investigation took over and it was their medical examiner who did the autopsy on Dan, so, in a way, my hands have been tied,” Corbett explained. “Officially, Dan’s death has been ruled a suicide, but with Ryan’s doubts and Haley here not a hundred percent convinced, I’m glad Ryan hired your outfit to dig around and see what y’all can find.”
“I’m working for Jordan Price, too,” Rick said. “She and her brother-in-law hired Powell’s.”
“Yeah, that’s what Ryan told me. He sure hated to upset Jordan so soon after the funeral.” Corbett made a clicking sound with his tongue as he shook his head. “It was hard enough for her to have to accept that Dan killed himself, but if Ryan’s right, it’s going to be even more difficult for her to know somebody murdered her husband. She’s been a pillar of strength for Ryan and Claire. I don’t know what they’d have done without her to step in and handle all the details. She’s a mighty fine lady and Dan was as lucky as a man could be to have had her for his wife.”
How could he reply to that comment? Obviously Sheriff Corbett had fallen under the Jordan Price spell. Rick glanced up at the deputy, who stood rigid and silent. “Do you agree with Ryan Price that his brother didn’t kill himself?”
She looked to the sheriff for permission to speak, and answered only after he nodded. “I have my doubts.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“The evidence points to suicide,” Lt. McLain said. “Senator Price’s right hand showed evidence of firearms residue and trace metal indicating he was holding the gun when it was fired. Also, the skin around the wound showed a powder tattoo, which indicates—”
“That the weapon was fired from no more than two feet away,” Rick completed her statement.
“That’s right.” She nodded. “The GBI ballistics lab did a test firing, and their findings, along with one other fact—that there was a contact wound and an impression of the muzzle on the senator’s head, indicating the weapon came in direct contact—suggest suicide.”
“What makes you think it wasn’t suicide?” Rick looked her right in the eye. “Nothing you’ve told me indicates that the senator’s death wasn’t—”
“You’re right,” she replied. “On the surface, the evidence points to suicide. But since this was my case, I made a point of thoroughly studying the autopsy report—even reading between the lines, if you want to call it that. A few things seemed a bit off to me, but I dismissed them as nothing but my investigator’s curiosity and possibly my imagination. But the more I thought about it, the more I knew I couldn’t let it go. So, I told Steve…uh, Sheriff Corbett and he agreed with me.”
“Exactly what seemed ‘off’ to you?” Rick asked.
“For one thing, the autopsy report showed arthritis in the senator’s hands, including the fingers of his right hand, which might have made pulling the trigger painful.”
“Painful but not impossible,” Rick said. “The evidence clearly showed that his finger pulled the trigger, right?”
“Right. He could have pulled the trigger. But there was something else—the senator’s trigger finger was broken and there was bruising on the top of his hand.”
Son of a bitch!
“You think that somebody grabbed the senator’s hand, forced the gun into it, and squeezed their hand over his hard enough to bruise his hand. And this person pressed down so hard when they forced his finger against