Confessions (7 page)

“Kinky,” Jessica repeated, even as she did as instructed. “Shalimar,” she murmured. She rewarded him with another smile. “I knew you had a clever head on those wide, manly shoulders.”

He stuffed the silk nightgown into an evidence bag. “The question is, why did she take it off?”

“Why, Callahan,” the attorney said with mock shock, “surely it hasn't been that long since you've bedded a woman. Why the hell do you think she took it off?”

Although he wasn't about to admit it, it had been a long time since he'd gotten laid. Too long, if the way just looking at Mariah Swann's jean-clad ass sashaying across the parking lot had made him hot was any indication.

Remembering the raunchy sex he and Jessica had shared, he considered that perhaps there might be some advantages to this case, after all. While what he and the winsome prosecutor had was admittedly a long way from love, there'd also been a lot more involved than casual fucking.

What it had been, Trace decided, was affectionate lust.

“My guess would be that she wasn't alone all night.”

“And I'd guess that you're right.” She shook her head with regret as she took in the bloodstained mattress. “You know, as good as sex can be, it sure as hell isn't worth dying for.”

“Amen.” He pulled a ballpoint pen from his pocket and tagged the evidence.

Smiling, she patted his cheek. “But if any man could make the choice a close one, Sheriff, it'd definitely be you.”

The contrast between her cool looks and uninhibited attitude had been one of the things that had attracted Trace to Jessica Ingersoll in the first place. “Thanks. I think.”

“Any time.” Her voice was throaty and every bit as seductive as the rest of her. “And I mean that literally.”

For the first time since Cora Mae had called him with the one-eighty-seven code, Trace found something to laugh about, just as she'd intended. Relaxing slightly, he shared what he'd learned so far.

“I think I might have an idea who your writer is,” she said when he got to the letters. “You may want to go talk to Clint Garvey.”

The name rang a bell. Trace knew Garvey to be the Fletchers' nearest neighbor.

“The woman who does my hair used to have a thing going with Garvey,” Jessica elaborated. “Last time I was in, a couple of weeks ago, she was waving the scissors around like she wished she could be hacking away at something else besides my hair, if you know what I mean.”

“I think I have the picture. So she was mad at Garvey?”

“Livid. But actually, now that I think about it, she seemed angrier at your victim. Kept muttering about the lady already having one man and how she had no right taking someone else's.”

“Want to give me her name?”

“Not really. Since she's the only decent hairdresser I've managed to find in this part of the state and if she ends up in the state pen for murder I'm going to be really pissed.” She scowled. “It's Patti. With an
i.
Patti Greene. She runs The Shear Delight on Pinewood Drive.”

Trace wrote the name in his notebook.

“There's something else,” she said. “Patti said something about telling Matthew Swann about his daughter's affair.”

“Not the husband?”

“If she had that in mind, she didn't mention it. Apparently Swann broke the couple up once before. Patti was hoping he'd have the clout to do it again.”

Trace thought about the message left on the phone recorder and decided that he had a pretty good idea exactly what Swann had been so angry about. He also thought about the fact that Cora Mae still hadn't managed to track the rancher down in Santa Fe.

“You know,” Jessica said thoughtfully, “this is going to generate a lot of heat. We'd better start the paperwork for obtaining a search warrant.”

Trace had already decided to do just that. “Worried the senator might withdraw permission?”

“Cases like this, the killer is usually a family member.” She told Trace nothing he didn't already know. “If Fletcher is involved, and he gets spooked, he could do just that.”

“Wouldn't want to step on any murderer's constitutional rights,” Trace agreed dryly.

She laughed. “Spoken like a true cop. That's the difference between you and me, Callahan. All you have to do is put on your blue body stocking with the big red
S
sewn on the front of it, outrun a few locomotives while dodging speeding bullets and apprehend the bad guys.

“While I, on the other hand, have to make certain they make it through the convoluted maze of our judicial system without escaping through some legal loophole.”

He thought of Laura Swann lying all alone in the morgue and vowed that would not happen.

“I think I'll stop by the Garvey place on the way back to town,” Trace said. “And I'm calling a press conference for noon. Doc Potter should be done with the autopsy by then and we'll know more.”

“You realize there's a good chance most of the national media won't be able to make it here by then?”

“One can only hope.”

“You're incorrigible, Callahan.” She shook her head
and gave him a saucy grin. “That's probably why I like you. Along with the fact that you're not bad in bed.”

There were a lot of reasons Trace liked her. And for more than terrific sex.

“I assume you want to be there?”

“You ever known a politician who wouldn't jump stark naked through flaming hoops at a chance for national publicity? I'll be there.”

Jessica Ingersoll might be a politician, Trace thought. But she was also, as they would have said in the Dallas PD locker room, “a stand-up guy.”

“Stop by my office about eleven-thirty,” he suggested. “The doc should be done by then.”

She stepped over the lingerie and walked over to the bed. “It's a date.”

“Well, I've got an autopsy to attend. And some paperwork to get started on. Later.”

“Later.” She was frowning at the bloodstained headboard and didn't bother to look up at him.

Trace was unlocking the Suburban when a voice called out to him. “Hey, Callahan!”

He looked up and saw Jessica leaning out the bedroom window. “Yeah?”

“You are going to shower and shave and change your clothes before the press conference, aren't you?”

“Sure,” he said, not wanting to admit he'd been too busy to give any thought to the matter.

“Good. Because you look like roadkill.” She wiggled her perfect patrician nose. “And no offense, Sheriff, but you kinda smell like one, too.”

He waved off her accusation, but as he drove back to town, he lifted his arm and sniffed.

As usual, she was right.

T
he Lakeside Lodge had begun its existence as the family home of a millionaire lumber baron. Built at the turn of the century, the stately mansion could have inspired, in its day, a year's worth of sermons on conspicuous consumption. It had also been a startling contrast to the sawmills and saloons of the lusty, booming community of Whiskey River.

The mansion had changed hands several times, eventually falling into disrepair. Five years ago it had been lovingly restored by its current owners, who'd decorated it with an eclectic, but attractive mix of antique and western furniture, and established it as a landmark lodge and conference center.

As a girl, Mariah, along with the rest of Whiskey River's kids, had prowled the decaying, boarded-up mansion, scaring themselves silly telling ghost stories they swore were true.

Now, while she admired the transformation, the golden oak columns and paneling of the lobby—which had been the original entry hall—represented yet another sign of
change in a hometown she'd always believed to have been frozen in time.

Although the desk clerk informed Mariah there were no rooms—the lodge was booked months in advance for the holiday, the young man sniffed—all she had to do was mention the Swann name and
presto,
a suite just happened to open up.

“You're right down the hall from Ms. Martin,” the clerk volunteered as he handed Mariah the coded card.

“Ms. Martin?”

“The senator's aide. She checked in late last night.”

“Was she alone?”

“Actually—” he leaned over the counter “—the senator was with her when she arrived. He also went upstairs with her.” He'd lowered his voice, but Mariah couldn't miss the implication in his tone. The man liked to gossip. Terrific.

“Tell me, Kevin,” she said, reading his name tag and smiling conspiratorially as she leaned toward him, “would you happen to know how long the senator was upstairs with Ms. Martin?”

“Well.” He raked a hand through his hair and looked around, as if to ensure the manager wasn't hovering anywhere nearby to observe his indiscretion. “Although I'm not one to spread gossip….”

After having successfully pumped the desk clerk, Mariah was headed across the plant-filled lobby when she heard a voice call out her name. She turned and saw a vaguely familiar face headed toward her.

“I thought that was you,” the woman exclaimed with a warm, welcoming smile. She embraced Mariah with an enthusiastic air kiss on both cheeks. “Lord, it's been absolutely ages!”

“Ages,” Mariah agreed. She managed a wan smile. “How are you, Freddi? You're certainly looking well.”

That was an understatement. Fredericka Palmer definitely did not look like a woman who'd spent her entire life in a small mountain town. Her jet hair curved stylishly beneath her chin in a sleek smooth line as shiny as a raven's wings. Mariah could not see a single strand out of place.

Her makeup, like her hair, was flawless. Her turquoise silk blouse, short black leather skirt and buttery soft Italian high heels suggested Neiman Marcus chic.

“Aren't you sweet.” Fredericka's smile was as bright as the diamonds adorning her earlobes. “Of course I'm just a small-town Realtor. I'll never be a glamorous television star like you were.” She visibly preened as her dark eyes took a quick, judicial tour of Mariah's own disheveled state. “But all a girl can do is try her best, right?”

“Right.” Mariah was reminded of the days when Fredericka Palmer had been elected homecoming queen. She hadn't changed in all these intervening years. All that was missing, Mariah considered, was the rhinestone tiara.

For not the first time, Mariah wondered what it was that Fredericka and Laura could have in common to have allowed them to stay friends since kindergarten days. It must simply be a case of opposites attracting.

As for being a small-town Realtor, Mariah knew from Laura that Fredericka had made a fortune subdividing ranch and timber land into recreational developments. Laura had also told her that in addition to the family ranch, the thrice divorced and recently widowed Freddi owned a sprawling home situated on the ninth hole of a prestigious Scottsdale golf course, a beach house in La Jolla and a penthouse apartment on Chicago's Gold Coast.

“Are you staying here?” Fredericka asked.

“For now.”

“I'd have thought you might stay at the ranch.” Her
voice went up on the end of the comment, turning it into a question.

Mariah shrugged. “The senator and I tend to get on each other's nerves.”

“You know,” Fredericka lowered her voice as she leaned toward Mariah, “you could have bowled me over with a feather when you called my office out of the blue that way the other day.”

After the events of the past few hours, Mariah had completely forgotten about that phone call. “I'm afraid I'm going to have to postpone our meeting.”

“Oh?” An ebony brow climbed a forehead free of worry lines or wrinkles. “Postpone? Or cancel?”

“I don't know.” At the time, the impulse to return to Whiskey River had seemed like a good idea. Now, with Laura gone, Mariah realized that there was no longer anything—or anyone—to come home to.

Laura.

Pain clawed at Mariah's heart. She debated breaking the news to Freddi, then decided she wasn't up to answering the inevitable questions. “I'll call you,” she hedged.

“I'll be looking forward to your call.” Freddi's eyes narrowed as if a thought had suddenly occurred to her. “Did you tell Laura you were returning to Whiskey River?”

The question caused another of those painful little heart clenches. “Yes.” It was not exactly a lie. She had, after all, left the message on the recorder. “Why?”

“I spoke with her recently and she didn't mention you. So, naturally I didn't mention our appointment. Since you said you wanted to keep it confidential.”

“That was very considerate of you,” Mariah allowed.

“Well, I certainly wouldn't want to cause any more trouble between you and your sister. After all that's happened in the past.”

Mariah murmured something vague that could have been taken as agreement.

Fredericka glanced down at her trendy black Movado museum watch. “Well, as much as I'd love to stay and chat, I have to dash. The Cow Belles are sponsoring the Fourth of July barbecue, as always, and there's still tons of last minute detail work to do.

“For instance, the bunting for the grandstand,” she elaborated on a huff of frustrated breath. “You'd think finding red, white, and blue crepe paper, especially this time of year would be easy, wouldn't you?”

Mariah found it uncomfortably surrealistic to be talking about crepe paper bunting while her sister's body was lying in a locker across town. “Well, now that you mention it—”

“But it isn't simple.” Fredericka shook her head, sending her hair flying in a glossy dark arc. “Not at all. There's navy blue and royal blue, not to mention cobalt. And, Lord, I don't even want to get into the reds.”

She expelled another dramatic breath through her pursed vermillion lips, then brightened. “Oh, well. I'm sure you have more important things to do than to listen to me going on about my petty problems.”

“Actually—”

Mariah was cut off by another brief air kiss to the cheek. “I'm off to my meeting. Give my love to Laura and tell her that if she's not returning to Washington immediately after Alan's rally, I insist we get together for lunch next week.

“To tell you the truth,” Freddi divulged, “I've been a little worried about your sister. Whenever she's come back to town these past months, she's seemed a bit distracted.”

When Mariah didn't immediately answer, Fredericka shrugged her silk clad shoulders and said, “But knowing Laura, I'm sure whatever is bothering her will work out.
She's always been disgustingly capable. I swear, if she wasn't my very dearest friend I'd be pea green with envy.”

The grandfather clock across the room tolled the hour on a musical peal of Westminster chimes.

“I really must run.” Freddi waggled her manicured fingers and said, “'Bye, Mariah, dear. I'll look forward to your call.”

Mariah felt her shoulders sag as she watched the chic Realtor dash back across the lobby, headed in the direction of the meeting rooms.

“You should have told her,” she said out loud.

Reminding herself that Freddi had always been Laura's friend, not hers, Mariah took the old-fashioned gilt cage elevator to her suite on the third floor.

She had to call her mother. Mariah definitely didn't want Maggie to learn the tragic news from some reporter. But first she had something even more important to do.

As soon as she entered the spacious room loaded with what appeared to be genuine antique furnishings, she placed a call to the sheriff's office, gave her name and was frustrated to learn he wasn't there.

“Do you know when he'll be back?”

“Well, he's got a press conference scheduled at noon. So I guess he'll be back by then.” The voice sounded young. And vaguely bored. Mariah heard the unmistakable snap of bubble gum.

“It's urgent that I speak with him.”

“I can try to radio him and have him call you,” the dispatcher said obligingly.

Mariah bit back her frustration and raked her hand through her hair. “I suppose that'll have to do.”

“When I do track Trace down, want me to give him a message?”

Mariah's mind was still reeling from her earlier con
versation with the desk clerk. “Tell him I have evidence that will prove who killed my sister.”

 

Jessica had definitely called this one right. Trace leaned both hands against the porcelain rim of the bathroom sink, grimly studied his reflection in the mirror and decided that the hollow-eyed face looking back at him was not a pretty sight.

He looked like the head doorman at the Whiskey River drunk tank. He ran his tongue over his fuzzy teeth. Coffee and not enough sleep had left him feeling as if the Persian Gulf war had been fought inside his mouth.

After brushing, he gargled with cinnamon-flavored mouthwash. While waiting for the water to warm in the shower, he stripped, leaving his clothes in a heap on the floor.

When clouds of steam began fogging the glass door, he stepped into the stall, soaped down, shaved, then leaned his head against the brown-and-cream tiled wall. He thought back on the autopsy which had left him with more questions than answers and fell asleep. Standing up.

A sudden jolt of icy water woke him. Trace cursed, twisted the faucets shut, then shook himself off like a dog who'd just had a hose turned on him. Making a few halfhearted swipes at his wet body with a towel, he went into the bedroom and surveyed his closet.

The uniform he'd been given the first day on the job was still in its plastic dry cleaner's bag. Trace had never worn it, knowing that the khaki symbol of authority J.D. so obviously relished would make him feel like he was six years old again, playing cops and robbers on south Dallas's mean streets.

Back in his old neighborhood, there'd admittedly been a lot more kids who'd wanted to be the robbers. Trace decided things hadn't changed all that much. The only
difference was that these days, instead of cap pistols, kids were packing real guns.

The blue suit he used to wear to testify in court hung in a similar plastic bag beside the uniform. Though it looked presentable on TV, it was definitely overkill for Whiskey River.

Opting for the middle ground, jeans and a sport coat, he'd just finished dressing when the phone rang. “Callahan.”

“Hasn't your office gotten hold of you yet?”

Trace dragged a hand down his face. All he needed was an amateur sleuth trying to solve his crime. “Yes, Ms. Swann.”

“You haven't called back.”

“I've been a little busy. I spent the last two hours attending an autopsy.” He did not mention stopping by the Garvey ranch and learning from a hired hand that the rancher had ridden off into the hills around dawn.

“What time did Alan say he arrived home?”

“Why?”

“Because Heather Martin checked into the Lakeside Lodge at ten o'clock last night.” Her tone was smug.

He rubbed his hands over his face again. “Okay. I'll bite.” His words were muffled by his palms. “Who's Heather Martin?”

“His so-called chief of staff. Although
mistress
is probably a better job description. Room service sent up a bottle of Chivas and two glasses at ten-oh-five. Alan was seen leaving the lodge at midnight. So what time did he tell you he got to the ranch?”

“I can't answer that. Not while—”

“There's an ongoing investigation,” she finished up for him. “Shit. I've probably written that line myself a hundred times.”

“Then you should know it by heart.”

“Are you always this sarcastic, Sheriff? Or do I just bring out the worst in you?”

He silently admitted he wasn't going to win the Mr. Congeniality award. But the clock was ticking down and he still had to get to the hospital in Payson and interview Fletcher again before the press conference. And then there was the scorned beautician with the scissors.

“Neither. Is there a third choice?”

Her curse was short and imaginative. He wondered if she could get away with using it in her TV shows.

“Look, I'll bet my last Emmy that Alan's sleeping with his assistant. That gives you the motive.”

“Motive's for trial lawyers, crime novelists and you Hollywood writers. To tell you the truth, Ms. Swann, in real life cops don't spend a helluva lot of time looking for motive.”

“You don't?”

Trace could tell he'd momentarily sidetracked her. “Sometimes the motive behind a crime can be interesting. Sometimes it's even helpful. But it's usually beside the point.