Tempting the Devil by Patricia; Potter Page B

cousin works for the department. Both me and my wife have family all over the county. I need this job, and if anyone thinks I might be talking to the press without the sheriff’s okay …”
    His voice trailed off. She was losing him. She took a wild stab, hoping it would cause some reaction. “Some people say the officers must have known whoever killed them. Others say it must have been committed by professionals. Do you think it could be a member or members of either department?”
    Something flickered in his eyes before he uttered an oath. “Hell, no,” he said.
    â€œThen …”
    â€œDoesn’t have to be cops,” he said. “There’s gangs around here,” he said, his eyes not quite meeting hers. “You don’t want to rile them.”
    She was just about to ask who the gangs were when he turned almost violently and went to his car. He turned toward her again. “Do me a favor. Do yourself a favor. Just go with the press conferences. Don’t poke your nose around, and I haven’t talked to you. Not about anything.”
    Then he was in the car and tires squealed as he tore out of the parking lot.
    She leaned against the car and took a deep breath. He’d obviously said much more than he’d meant to say, or wanted to say, and she was sure he wouldn’t talk to her again.
    She took the recorder from her pocket and balanced it in her hand for a moment, then kept it there as she opened the car door. She was more convinced than ever that he knew more about the murders than he was saying. And he didn’t like what he knew.
    She started the car. It was a long drive home, and she would listen to the conversation on the way.
    Was there anything really there?
    Or was it just the way he looked, moved, spoke? The way his eyes couldn’t quite meet hers, the paleness of his face, the palpable fear as he spoke of his family? She couldn’t get over the feeling that he knew something that frightened him.
    Something that haunted him.
    Or was it her imagination?
    As she steered the car onto a main highway, she looked around. Perhaps some of Sandy’s caution was infecting her as well. There was a steady stream of cars but none that looked as if they had any purpose other than getting to where they were going.
    In minutes, she was on the interstate. She switched the recorder on and heard the conversation again. Nothing could be interpreted as definite. Just vague comments that could be construed in different ways.
    She thought about sharing it with her editor, but he would want to know the source, and that wouldn’t be fair to Sandy. He had been speaking to her as a friend, not a news source.
    But she would find the owner of the property tomorrow, right after the funeral.
    And perhaps tomorrow she could get another source to discuss the possibility of some kind of gang, or an internal connection. Two sources—even protected, anonymous ones—would allow her to explore possibilities in print.
    She pressed her foot down on the gas pedal. A disgruntled Daisy would be waiting in front of the fridge. She would hear about her tardiness tonight. She smiled at the thought. Daisy made the cottage home.
    And tonight, she had a story to write in her mind. One that, if she could confirm her suspicions, would put her back in the big time of journalism. No more endless city hall meetings of a rural town. No one then would think her bad leg an impediment.
    Her mind wandered briefly to the intense man she’d seen at the press conference the day earlier, even as she wondered why. Reporter? Sightseer? Good guy? Bad guy? The very intensity that radiated from him had alerted her. So had the way he’d swept her with his eyes, as if he was searching the crowd whereas she’d merely been glancing around in frustration at the repeated questions.
    It was said that sometimes criminals attended such events, that they took pleasure in the fact that they’d