Confession (19 page)

Deep, gut-­busting waves of hilarity followed, and she grabbed her knees, gasping for air. “A Nobel Peace Prize. I'm next in line for the good ol' Nobel Peace Prize.”

She slapped her knees and sat up, throwing her arms in the air. “Shove over, Jimmy Carter, because here comes Faith Clancy.”

She turned to Luke. He pulled her against him, and she pressed her cheek to his chest, loving the feel of his heart beating against her ear. He stroked her hair, and soon the shaking waves of hilarity turned to sobs, dampening his white T-­shirt. “I've lost her forever, Luke. She's never coming back.”

“The rest of us are still here, baby. Maybe you could stop beating yourself up long enough not to miss out on that. Please don't let history repeat itself. I'd hate to see you wake up one day and realize you'd turned away the ­people who genuinely care about you.” He kissed one eyelid, then the other, then the tip of her nose. His voice was low and rough in her ear, “I need you, Clancy. So please, don't push me away.”

T
hey'd made it to Amarillo. Luke estimated the odds of getting any useful information out of a witness after four years was close to zero, but that didn't mean he was going to pass up the opportunity to question one. After all, if you knew exactly where your big break was going to come from, you'd just dial in the location on your GPS and sit back on your haunches and wait. Absent those magic coordinates, the only thing to do was hit the pavement. So here they were in Amarillo, Texas, on Jeremy Jacobs's front stoop. Projecting confidence, he smiled at Faith and rang the bell.

“I'll make the introductions,” Faith offered. “A female may seem less intimidating.”

“Nothing wrong with a little intimidation. In my book, it's okay if this kid knows we mean business.”

Faith gave him a look, “Knock yourself out. I'm only an expert in human behavior, which, as I recall, is why you brought me along. But hey, that's no reason to let me take the lead in interviewing the witness.”

“I brought you along 'cause you've got great legs—­that and you've got a few other skills.”

“Like my ability to enhance memory via hypnosis?”

“Exactly. But I never said anything about your taking the lead. I fully intend to impress upon this witness . . .”

At the sound of footsteps inside the home, he shut his mouth and straightened his shoulders, used the tail of his T-­shirt to buff his championship buckle. He'd dressed to impress. These ­people ought to know who they were dealing with. A slender woman, midforties answered the door. Brittle blond hair tinged with orange framed her round face. She raised her eyebrows expectantly. “Hullo.”

“Mrs. Jacobs, I presume?”

Her eyes darted appreciatively to Luke's waist, and her mouth tipped into a welcoming smile. “How can I help y'all?”

He'd been right to wear the buckle. Like his mother always said, no use hiding your light under a bushel.

He stuck out his hand. “Luke Jericho. And that's Dr. Faith Clancy. I was wondering if we might have a word with your son if he's home.”

Her smile faded as quickly as it had appeared, but at least she didn't shut the door in their faces. “What about?”

“I understand your son Jeremy was a friend of Kenny Stoddard.”

Closing the door halfway, she stepped back. “Sorry. Jeremy's not home.”

“Sure I am. What's up?” A lanky young man appeared behind her just before she slammed the door.

Beside him, Faith started to hum. He gave her the stink eye, then knocked on the door, first gently, then harder.

No dice.

“Jeremy.” He stopped knocking and cupped his hands around his mouth to make a megaphone. “I need to talk to you about your friend Kenny.”

The muffled sound of raised voices came through the door. Luke checked his watch. Four minutes later, Faith was still humming, and the voices still argued behind the door. Luke raised his hand to knock again.

Grabbing his wrist, Faith shook her head at him. “Take it easy. He obviously wants to talk to us. We just need to give him time. Let
him
convince his mother.”

Luke dragged a palm over his face, put his hands on his hip. Made a ­couple of 360s. Three minutes later, the door cracked open. Mrs. Jacobs tried to body block her son, who, at nineteen, was a half foot taller than her. His head wagged over her shoulder, revealing intelligent brown eyes and a guarded expression. He poked his mother's arm.

“What exactly is this about, please?” Mrs. Jacobs voice held a faint tremor. “Jeremy talked to the police four years ago. Told the detectives everything he knows. I shouldn't have let it happen, but I didn't know better at the time. After what they put him through, you can bet I won't make that mistake again. Kept my poor son holed up in that little room twenty-­three hours with four cops taking turns on him. You want to talk to my boy, Mister, you gotta charge him or subpoena him first. Jeremy's not saying a word without an attorney.”

Jeremy gently shoved her arm aside and stepped forward. “Mom, I'm not a suspect anymore. They got the guy who did it already. I read it in the papers.”

Her face paled. “Not one more word, Jeremy. I mean it.”

“Mrs. Jacobs, I'm Faith Clancy.” Faith's voice was softer than cotton candy and just about as sticky-­sweet, making Luke wonder if she had some buckle bunny in her after all. “Mr. Jericho and I are not detectives—­we're not any kind of law enforcement—­and we know that your son played absolutely no role in Kenny Stoddard's death.”

“Then why do you need to talk with him?”

“Because we believe he may have information that can lead us to the man who killed his friend, information that's been overlooked but may be important in solving the cold case. For all the interrogating the police put Jeremy through, no one ever listened to him. Mr. Jericho and I
want
to hear what your son has to say. I promise, if Jeremy talks to us, we'll listen.”

Mrs. Jacobs brushed her hands together and shook her head. “No. You got the guy already.”

“He confessed,” Jeremy interjected.

“You don't need my boy to testify against a man who's already confessed.” She pushed the door, but Jeremy caught it with his foot before it shut, then swung it wide open.

“I never saw the man who confessed. I wish I
could
testify against him. I wish I could see him fry. But I didn't see him, so I can't say I did.”

Luke's fists tightened at his sides. He clamped his jaw shut and nodded at Faith. Let her keep the reins. She'd gotten a helluva lot further than he had to this point.

“Jeremy”—­Faith held up one finger to signal this wouldn't take long—­ “do you mind if I record this?”

“Yes. We mind.” The mother came up on her tiptoes.

Faith put her recorder back in her pocket. “Jeremy, have you seen pictures of the man in police custody, the man claiming to be the Saint?”

“Everyone's seen his picture. His face is all over the news in Amarillo.” He looked away. “Don't forget, we lost one of our own.”

“I haven't forgotten, Jeremy. I don't want to forget. That's why we're here. We want to be sure the
real
Santa Fe Saint gets what's coming to him. We want justice for Kenny as much as you do. I just need to ask you a few questions.”

Jeremy nodded.

“So let me make sure I understand what you're saying: You do not recognize the man the police have in custody. The man who claims to be the Santa Fe Saint?”

“Never saw the bastard before in my life.”

Luke couldn't stay silent any longer. “You're absolutely certain the man on the news is
not
the man you saw with Kenny on the day he disappeared.”

“Positive. I told the police then, and I'm telling you now. The guy I saw was a freaky little dude, a shrimp. I even met him once at Kenny's place. If I saw that creep again, I'd know him in a heartbeat.”

“You actually met him?” Luke rushed forward, and Faith put her arm out, body blocking him in much the same way Mrs. Jacobs had curtailed her son.

“That's enough.” Mrs. Jacobs clasped her hands in front of her. “My boy doesn't know this Saint person, he's said so, and that's the end of it.”

“That's because the man in custody is not the Saint.” Luke strained to keep his voice level. “He's innocent!” So much for level.

“I don't understand. He confessed, didn't he?” Jeremy stepped out onto the stoop, but his mother yanked him back inside by the collar.

“My brother, Dante Jericho, is the man the police have in custody. The
real
Saint, who is
not
in police custody, is the man who killed your friend.”

Mrs. Jacobs's eyes bulged. She shook her fist at him. “You're his
brother
! If you don't get off this property right now, I'm going to call 911.”

He ignored the pressure of Faith's hand tugging at his shirtsleeve. “And tell them what? That a man and a woman are standing on your porch asking you polite questions? We're not breaking any laws here, ma'am. All we're doing is trying to get to the truth. Something I'd think you and your son would be interested in.”

“You're trespassing on private property.” She fumbled in her pocket and came up with a cell. “Get off my porch!”

The boy put his arm around his mother. “Look. I'd like to help you. But my mom's upset. And I can't talk about this anymore.” He patted his mother's hand. “I'm asking you nicely, Mr. Jericho, Dr. Clancy. Please leave. My mom and I have been through enough. Someone killed my best friend, then the police accused me. They said I murdered the best friend I ever had. My mom lost her job at the bank. Not one girl in town will go out with me. Even after all this time.”

“Look.” Luke modulated his voice and bit back his anger. “I admit I don't know what it's like to be accused of a crime I didn't commit. But I
do
know what it's like to have family falsely accused.” He looked pointedly at Mrs. Jacobs. “And it stinks. You wake up with a knot in your gut in the mornings, and you fall asleep with that same knot in your gut at night. Half the time you can't eat, and when you do, your food tastes like sawdust in your mouth. When you finally fall asleep at night, you dream of falling off a cliff or drowning in the ocean. Then you wake up in a cold sweat . . . and there's the knot again.”

Her eyes glistened, but she made no reply.

“Mrs. Jacobs, my brother is innocent. There's talk of extradition to Texas. I know you don't want an innocent man to die.”

“G-­go away, and don't come back here again. We want nothing more to do with this matter.”

He squeezed his eyes and gritted his teeth, knowing what he was about to do would likely get him reincarnated as a sidewinder. “Mrs. Jacobs, your son says he never saw my brother, but he did see some
other
man with Kenny.”

Her eyes widened, and her hands began to tremble.

He told himself the end justified the means in a situation like this, and why shouldn't he warn the woman? “Think about what that means, Mrs. Jacobs. If Dr. Clancy and I . . .” Hesitating, he looked at Faith, who refused to meet his eyes. “If Dr. Clancy and I, who are just regular ­people, not detectives or anyone special like that, if
we
found out your son has seen the real Saint up close and personal, don't you think
the Saint
knows about Jeremy, too? Mark my words, someday the real killer is going to come looking for your son. Only question is why he hasn't come for him already.”

She drew back her shoulders and spit in his face.

He wiped his cheek and said nothing.

“You're trying to scare me, but it won't work. It's been four years, and we haven't had any trouble. They have the real Saint in custody. He
confessed.
”

“But what if they don't?” Faith asked softly.

Luke spun toward her and put his hand on his heart. He knew what that must've cost her—­to join with him in frightening this poor woman, a mother who only wanted to protect her son.

“What if they don't have the real Saint behind bars? What if he's still on the loose?” Faith held out her hand. “Here's my card. You can call me on my cell if you and your son change your minds. We're staying at the Starlight Motel, room six. Mr. Jericho and I will be in town until tomorrow afternoon.” Then she shrugged. “After that, I'm afraid we can't help you.”

 

TWENTY-­FOUR

Thursday, August 15, 1:00
P.M.

L
uke and Faith had just checked into the Starlight Motel, and after what they'd done to Jeremy Jacobs and his mom, Faith wanted to jump in the shower and scrub herself clean. Too bad dirty tactics didn't wash off with soap and water.

Luke clicked the dead bolt on the motel-­room door and gave her a look that made her regret agreeing to rent only one room. Hopefully, they wouldn't need to stay overnight, but that all depended on Jeremy Jacobs.

Luke moved slowly toward her, circling her like a wrangler aiming to coax a skittish mare. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

“For joining in the scare tactics? No problem.” She touched her nose like she always did when she told a lie. The knowledge that she'd added to Jeremy's pain—­and to his mother's fears—­was currently burning through her stomach lining like a hot coal. Maybe she could pick up some Tums in the motel gift shop.

Still, she'd do it again. The truth might be hard and cold and scary as hell, but running from it never gets you anywhere. She thought of that corny refrigerator magnet Grace had proudly displayed.

embrace the truth.

Not always an easy thing to do. The Saint was out there; she was certain of it. The menacing photos sent to her cell, a fresh body found with a rosary—­those things had to be the work of the Saint, and the Saint had to know Jeremy Jacobs could identify him. The boy's life was absolutely in danger. Her fingers clenched the hem of her blouse. She and Luke had been right to use whatever tactics necessary to get Jeremy to talk. With Dante in custody, the police had simply stopped investigating other leads. Dante's life was not the only one at stake. The Saint could have another victim in his crosshairs right this minute.

Luke pulled a foil packet from his pocket and popped something into his mouth.

“Tums?” she asked hopefully.

“Breath mint.” He waggled his brows, and she backed up until her knees bumped the edge of the bed.

He closed the distance between them and swept his hand down the side of her cheek. Her body leaned forward as if he'd yanked a string that connected them at the heart. Like every time he touched her, she wanted more. More fingers, more lips, more skin.

More Luke.

It was not only getting harder to keep the man at arm's length, it was getting harder to remember why she should. He slid his mouth up against her ear, and while he nibbled, she caught the faintest whiff of his minty breath. Her mouth already open and hungry, she tried to turn in for a kiss, but he relocated, nipping his way down her neck, across her collarbone, and over the hollow of her throat. He dragged his palms down her sides, molding them to the shape of her body. Her skin burned beneath her blouse, and, longing to shed it, she unbuttoned her top button. His hand came over hers. His lips retraced their path, and finally,
finally,
thank the Lord in heaven, landed on top of hers.

This particular kiss was born of more than physical need though there was certainly that—­every scrap of skin she owned clamored for Luke's attention. But this kiss was hard and rough, fueled by adrenaline and fear and at the very bottom of it . . . trust. A kiss this deep demanded complete faith in the other person. She didn't know why or how, but she'd come to trust Luke to tell the truth even when it suited his purpose better to lie.

Integrity.

Yes, that's what Luke had—­and she'd never been this wet in her life.

Her hands found his hips and pulled him against her body, savoring the feel of his erection pressing into her stomach.

He broke the kiss. “Don't push me away, Faith.”

She trailed her fingers over the hard muscles of his arms. “Did that feel like pushing you away? My bad. Because all I want right now is to get as physically close to you as possible, and if some parts of your body happen to get tangled up with some parts of mine, then, hey, that's just the way it goes.”

He put his hand on the small of her back and jerked her even closer, grinding into her through her clothes. “I'm not talking about sex, and you know it.”

Panic welled in her throat as she fought for control of the situation. She lifted her right knee and draped it over his hip. “But I
am
talking about sex. And whether you like it or not, you can't hide the fact that you want that, too. You see, I'm a licensed physician, and I recognize a hard-­on when I feel one.” She rubbed her pelvis against his as tightly as she could and rolled her head to the side, exposing her neck to him.

He bent backward, lifting her off the ground, and she wound her legs around him. One hand came up to her nape, and he laced his fingers through her hair. His other hand was under her bottom, supporting her, and crushing her into him at the same time. His mouth slammed down on hers, and she let out a soft cry, both unable and unwilling to conceal her desire for him. She was aching and scared and desperate to feel him inside her—­that quickly.

He dropped her on the bed, straddled her, still fully clothed. Grabbing her wrists, he pushed her arms up over her head. Her breath was coming in soft gasps. “Yes,” she moaned.

“No way.” His voice was low and raspy. She blinked hard, confused, tying to read the expression on his face, but her body kept overriding her brain. Finally, her eyes focused. The fast twitch of the muscle in his jaw, the thin hard line of his lips told her he was serious.

“Luke.” He'd reduced her to begging, but she didn't care, couldn't care about her pride in this moment. “Please.”

“No way,” he repeated. “I can't think of any other way to tell you, so I'll say again, I don't play games.”

“I'm not playing games.” Not games. This was war. A battle with herself, and every instinct she had was screaming at her to surrender. Surrender not just to his touch but to his need. He'd said he
needed
her.

“Like hell you're not.” Pressing her into the mattress with the weight of his body, he used his knee to separate her legs, and she writhed harder beneath him. “You're a grown woman, with all kinds of skills—­a fucking Yale-­educated psychiatrist no less, and you're so afraid of your own feelings, you won't let anyone get close to you. Sorry you lost your sister, and good for you for channeling that pain into helping others, but just because your sister's dead, and you're an orphan doesn't mean you get a free pass to skip the rest of your life.”

His cold words were a stark contrast to the heat that poured from his body to hers and back again. This was not the moment to examine her past. Her past was what she was trying to escape, right here, right now with him. She wanted the amnesic bliss his body could provide, and if he wasn't going to cooperate, then to hell with it. She tried to roll out from under him, but his weight completely trapped her. Lifting her head off the bed, she said, “Then just let me go.”

“No way.”

“Would you please stop saying that?”

“Sure. Just as soon as you own up to how you really feel about me—­about us.” He narrowed his eyes at her. His erection, like hot steel between her legs, taunted her. “I can stay here all day, sweetheart. So if I were you, I'd start talking.”

Her heart hammered in her chest so fast she couldn't catch her breath. She should just surrender. “C'mon, Luke.” She controlled her voice to hide the wave of doubt washing over her. “Don't try to tell me that what we have is any different than what you have with other women, or what I have with other men. You'll get tired of me soon enough, just like I'll get tired of you.”

The sound that came out of his mouth this time was feral, aggressive, and underneath it all, wounded.

She wanted to cradle his head in her arms, and if he hadn't had her wrists pinned mercilessly over her head, she might've.

“You're goddamn right what we have is different. And the only thing I'm tired of is your bullshit.”

Something in her chest turned over and squeezed. Pain and hope simultaneously jetted through her veins, and for one crazy second, she thought she could love this man. Her neck strained as she lifted her head, her pulse pounding in her throat. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, but I just can't.”

His eyes were cold blue agate.

“I've lost everyone I've ever loved. So maybe you could cut me some slack if I don't feel like getting overly attached to you.” She forced herself to hold his gaze, willed herself not to let him see her cry.

“I'm not cutting you an inch of slack. Not one single inch.” Keeping her pinned between his thighs, he released her hands. “But hell if I'm walking away without a fight.”

Her body started to shake, and despite her will, moisture slicked her cheeks. His heart was beating against her heart, the rhythm hard and fast and demanding. Something inside her tore open, and need swamped her. She
needed
him. She
trusted
him. “Don't. Please don't,” she begged.

He froze, but didn't take his eyes from her face. His rasping breath told her how difficult it was for him to stay so silent, so still. Even now, he was protecting her.

Lifting her hand to touch his cheek, she whispered, “Please don't walk away without a fight.”

F
aith gave her hair one last stroke of the brush and frowned at her reflection in the mirror. No more stalling. She'd showered and changed and even blown out her hair, and she couldn't stay in here forever. Sooner or later, she had to face Luke, or face herself, or face whatever this thing was between them. Little shivers of excitement rushed over her at the thought of seeing Luke again even though they'd just spent the past hour making love.

Making love.

Yes, that was the correct term for what she'd done with Luke. To steady herself, she hauled in a deep breath and stepped out of the bathroom, flashing Luke a shaky smile.

He came to her, turned her palm up, and stroked the underside of her wrist. “You okay? I'm afraid I might've been a little rough.”

“Oh no. It was wonderful.” Her face heated. “I mean
you
were wonderful. And you're right, it's time I stopped feeling sorry for myself—­”

“That's not what I meant, sweetheart. I meant . . .”

There was a fast rap on the door. Luke stopped midsentence. They exchanged a glance.

Jeremy.

“We'll finish this later.” Luke's voice was low and gravelly and full of a sexy promise that made her insides melt.

“Damn right, we will.” She'd been acting a fool, and she knew it, but she wasn't sure where to go from there. “I'll get it.”

She tugged her blouse to be sure it was in place, slipped back into her shoes, and opened the door, and just as she'd hoped, there stood Jeremy Jacobs.

Hands fidgeting at his sides, he said, “Is this a good time? I guess I should've called.”

“Your timing is perfect.” He didn't know
how
perfect.

She ushered Jeremy inside. “Look who's here,” she said lamely to Luke, then shrugged one shoulder. Luke had swept her clean off her feet, and she needed a minute to regain her professional demeanor.

“I came here to talk about Kenny.” Jeremy got straight to the point.

“This okay with your mom?” she asked.

He clenched his teeth. “I'm nineteen. I don't need her permission, and anyway, I got a right to protect myself
and
my mom—­whether she likes it or not. That man I saw with Kenny, I know he's the one who killed him. Way too creepy. You can't tell me this weirdo's showing up in Kenny's life, then Kenny's winding up dead is all a big coincidence.”

“It might be. Coincidence can be very convincing sometimes.” Luke crossed to Jeremy and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Just so we're clear, we're not here to get you to say what you think we want to hear.”

“You mean that your brother's innocent.”

“Right. How would you even know a thing like that? We're here to find out from you only things you actually saw, only things you actually know. We want the truth, Jeremy. Nothing more and nothing less.”

“I want the truth, too. I
need
to know who murdered my best friend . . . and I don't want anyone else to die. What he did to Kenny . . .” Jeremy cast his eyes nervously around the room, started to cough.

Faith pressed a bottle of water into his hands and led him to a chair. A few minutes later, his coughing subsided, and the color came back to his lips.

Good. For a second she'd thought their witness was going to faint. “We've got snacks, too.” Faith opened the minifridge and swept her hand across the contents. “Peanut M&Ms and Chips Ahoy . . .”

“Pringles.” He straightened in his seat. “I like Pringles.”

“Pringles it is.”

The tension in the air had just begun to dissipate when Jeremy fixed his eyes on the video equipment in the corner of the room.

Luke tracked his gaze, and offered, “We hoped you'd agree to talk on camera.”

“Fine by me.” Jeremy shoved a handful of Pringles in his mouth and chased it with bottled water. “Only I don't remember too much anymore. It's been four years, and I told the cops everything I knew at the time. Don't they have what you need? They interviewed me for hours.”

“Unfortunately, those tapes are nowhere to be found. All that's left of your interview is a pad of paper with mostly illegibly scribbled notes.”

“I guess I can see that. The cops weren't too interested in my description of the guy I saw with Jeremy. They thought I was making him up because I did it.” His voice rose an octave. “They thought I killed my best friend.”

“We know you didn't do it, Jeremy. No need to worry about that anymore, not now, not after three other murders the police tried and failed to tie you to.” Faith sat beside Jeremy and made her voice reassuring. “I guess what I'm trying to get across is this: You have nothing to fear anymore from the police and nothing to gain by lying. If there was no other man, just say so, and we'll be on our way.”