Page 4 of Deception

Evidently, he hadn’t recognized her or her name, and she wasn’t going to remind him. Why was the speed limit only fifty miles an hour anyway? She’d met so few cars they weren’t worth counting. And now she was going to be late. Madison closed her ears to the little voice that reminded her she’d been breaking the law, something she wouldn’t have been doing if she’d left Jackson a little earlier.

When he finished, he looked up with a smile that was evenmore forced than hers. He handed her the license, along with the ticket. “What are you doing in Natchez?”

She stuffed her license and the ticket in her bag. Since it wasn’t known how far the possible corruption had spread, Madison and the two agents she had met with yesterday decided that only people with a need to know would be informed about her assignment. And Clayton Bradshaw wasn’t one of them. Madison went with her cover story. “Visiting my grandfather.”

“I hope you have a nice visit. Just keep your speed down.” He started to walk away, then turned back. “There’s a reason the speed limit is only fifty.”

“And I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

The grim smile didn’t falter. “I am. The Trace is narrow and winding, and cyclists use it all the time, which you’ll discover in about two miles.”

“What do you mean?” A thought niggled in the back of her mind.

“There are ten bicycle riders up ahead and several curves. At your speed, you would have been on them before you realized it. Someone could have died.”

Blood drained from her face, leaving her lightheaded. Too late, she remembered that Hugh Cortland, the FBI agent she was meeting in Natchez, had warned her about the bicyclists if she drove the Trace.

He’d even advised her to take Highway 61, a route she’d had no intention of taking. The last time Madison had been on the River Road, it had been two lanes that went through the heart of every town between Memphis and Natchez. She ought to know—it’d been the route her type-A father had driven every summer when she was a kid for her yearly month-long visit with her grandfather. All the little towns must have driven Gregory Thorn crazy.

What if I’d killed one of the cyclists?

“I, ah...” She swallowed down the nausea coming up into her throat. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“No problem.” His face suddenly softened, and he tipped his flat hat. “I hope you make your meeting on time.”

She sucked in a fortifying breath of air and managed a true smile this time. “Thank you. For everything.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He saluted her before he turned and walked to his SUV.

There was thatma’amagain, but this time it didn’t hold censure. After checking to make sure there were no approaching cars, Madison pulled out onto the Trace again and this time kept her speed at fifty. Sure enough, a few miles down the road, the cyclists Clayton had mentioned pedaled two-by-two in the southbound lane.

With a northbound car speeding toward them, Madison decelerated and then flashed her lights, hoping to slow the motorist down. The universal signal that a cop was in the area did the trick, and the motorist slowed. Once it passed, she pulled around the cyclists, feeling she’d done her good deed for the day. And tonight she would send Clayton a note of apology for her rudeness.

3

The rich smell of freshly ground coffee beans wrapped around Clayton as he pocketed his change from the barista. “Thanks, Chrissy,” he said and accepted the cup of freshly brewed Kona she held out.

“Your croissant should be ready in five,” she said. “And your table is available.”

Ignoring her grin, he nodded and checked out the back wall. Yep, the table was empty, and he strode to it. All the employees knew about his habit of sitting where he could see who came into the café. Clayton set the cup on the table and flipped off the lid. He hated drinking coffee through a lid.

After settling in the chair, he sipped the hot liquid, glad he’d made the time for a stop off. Coffee and More made the best coffee in town—almost as good as the diner the coffee shop had replaced. Clayton still missed the home cooking that had been served up in the building.

True to her word, in five minutes, Chrissy brought his croissant.Whoa.He’d forgotten how big the breakfast croissant was—bacon, cheese, avocado, and eggs. But since it was already after ten, it should hold him over until tonight when he had dinner with his sister and six-year-old niece.

As the southern district supervisor on the Natchez Trace, he rarely worked patrol, but it’d been a productive morning,changing a flat tire for an older woman and giving two warning tickets—one for a driver doing sixty on the posted fifty-mile-an-hour Trace and Madison Thorn’s. He cut the croissant in half, thinking of the pretty ISB special agent. At first he’d thought she was full of herself, but once she learned of the cyclists, her attitude completely changed. And that parting smile she’d given him. It was still wowing him, and since she was going to be in Natchez a while, maybe he’d see her again.

Clayton hadn’t bought her reason for being in Natchez, so he called his district supervisor, but he was unavailable. Since ISB agents often worked with the FBI, he’d called his friend in the Jackson office. Hugh Cortland confirmed he and Madison were working a case for the National Park Service, but hadn’t offered any details. It kind of stung that Clayton hadn’t been informed. He handled everything from traffic violations to murder investigations.

He sipped his coffee. Why did Madison Thorn’s name ring a bell? Clayton didn’t recall ever meeting her, something he definitely would have remembered.

It wasn’t like him to give someone driving sixty-five on the Trace a warning, and he hoped she was pleasantly surprised when she finally looked at the ticket. He took a bite of the croissant as the door opened and Judge William Anderson entered the coffee shop.

The judge scanned the room, briefly nodding when his gaze landed on Clayton, then he took a seat that was almost out of Clayton’s line of sight. He checked his watch. Too early for a break in court; then he remembered court wasn’t in session this week.

Growing up, Clayton had been friends with the judge’s grandsons, who’d long since left the area. This was years before Anderson’s judicial appointment. The image of a girl with blond pigtails a couple of years younger than the boys popped into his mind. The judge’s granddaughter. Back then she’d visited every summer, but he couldn’t recall her name. Spunkylittle thing. He did remember the grandsons picking on her until he’d made them stop, at least when Clayton was around. A memory tried to surface ... something about the girl taking martial arts training.

Another customer entered the coffee shop, a woman probably in her fifties. Clayton had never seen her before and probably wouldn’t have paid her any attention, except she held herself erect, like someone in the service. He judged her to be half a foot shorter than he was, so about five six. Then she purposefully strode to the judge’s table and sat opposite him without waiting for an invitation. Even though dressed casually in jeans and a pullover, she was definitely military of some sort.

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